The Fake Bride Loophole - A Mountain Man Romance

by Layla Valentine

  The Fake Bride Loophole

  Layla Valentine

  Contents

  1. Daley

  2. Michelle

  3. Daley

  4. Michelle

  5. Michelle

  6. Michelle

  7. Daley

  8. Michelle

  9. Michelle

  10. Daley

  11. Daley

  12. Michelle

  13. Daley

  14. Michelle

  15. Michelle

  16. Daley

  17. Daley

  18. Michelle

  19. Daley

  20. Michelle

  21. Michelle

  22. Michelle

  23. Daley

  24. Michelle

  25. Michelle

  Epilogue

  Also by Layla Valentine

  Copyright 2021 by Layla Valentine

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Daley

  Twigs crackle beneath my boots and nearly startle the wolfdog as I make my way down the mountain ridge. It’s a nice afternoon, crisp but dry. A smoky scent lingers in the air. Somewhere on the other side of this old giant rock, people are burning dry leaves. I’m always wary of these controlled fires, though I find comfort in the southern winds that would likely push a blaze away, not toward me.

  “Jax, go ahead,” I tell the wolfdog. He’s got a way of smiling at me that only dogs can pull off. It’s like a savage grin but full of love and unconditional devotion. Feels like yesterday that I found him, a bundle of scraggy gray fur abandoned by his momma in the underbrush. “Go ahead, boy. Scout for me.”

  I’ve got a significant load to carry. Today’s catch is a decent-sized deer. For all the work I do out here in these woods, sometimes I feel like the mountain sort of pays me back with what it’s got. Some venison here, a couple of rabbits there—particularly in the autumn, just as September begins to settle.

  Jax goes ahead, trotting proudly down the stony ridge. I prefer this route because it’s clear of trees. Just jagged black rocks jutting out like a lace hem along the mountain side. Behind me, colossal pine trees rise proudly with dark green gowns and trunks as wide as a sixteen-wheeler, though some are even bigger and protected by the federal government. Somewhere to my right, deep in the woods that seem to accompany me all the way down to the cabin, there’s a creek, a thick stream of crystalline water that tastes as though God himself drank from it.

  I’m thirsty, and the load I’m carrying is starting to weigh down on me.

  But it’s fine. Now I’ll have more time to tend to my garden. I might even finish that rocking chair for ol’ Mr. Maguire. He’s been patiently waiting for weeks, now. I gotta come through for the guy. Otherwise I’ll make a fool of myself. “Daley Fontaine is many things,” my friend Lauren used to say, “but a fool he ain’t.”

  By the time I reach the cabin, Jax is already slurping all the water left in his tin bowl, sloshing and splashing like he’s been running a marathon.

  “I did the hard work,” I mutter, relieved that we didn’t meet any grizzlies today. Felix and Spark, my two dumpster-loving cats, greet me with a meow.

  It feels like forever before I get to sit down for dinner, taking a moment to once again admire the newly refurbished dining area. “Refurbished” might be too much, considering that all I did was repaint the walls and put in a new dining table I made out of an old juniper tree I found a mile down from here, half-burnt by lightning.

  “I’m not one to toot my own horn, but you came out splendidly,” I mutter, mostly to myself, though I know Jax, Spark, and Felix might hear me. I never imagine they understand anything I say, but I certainly like to think so.

  There’s an old bottle of wine that’s been awaiting my attention. It goes great with the meat and roasted rosemary potatoes. Jax is full, yet he still lounges on the floor beside the table, giving me a beggar’s look.

  “For a hound your size, those puppy dog eyes are embarrassing,” I tell him, then groan with mild exasperation as Felix and Sparks curl around my ankles, purring like old engines. “Oh, come on… I just fed you!”

  They’re greedy like that, but I love them, nonetheless. Jax is the size of an adult pony. He scares the life out of anyone who comes to visit. The cats keep mice and other critters away. There’s sense and purpose in this little ecosystem I’ve managed to create here for myself.

  I pour a glass of red and prepare to dig in, then someone knocks on the front door.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Jax barks once. It booms through the house, sending shivers down my spine. Best guard dog I could hope for.

  “Stay,” I tell him, though his ears are pricked up, nose once again picking up on the visitor’s scent beyond the door.

  I get up and walk over, only to regret that decision altogether when I recognize the man standing on my porch. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Fontaine, or should I call you Daley?” he replies, voice slightly trembling.

  “Mr. Fontaine is fine.”

  Briefly, he glances over my shoulder and spots Jax all the way back in the dining area, past the open living room space. The man is wearing a dark gray suit, and his shoes are all muddied up. Visitors have to walk about fifty yards up to get here, and the path stays filthy throughout the year, somehow. Not that I mind. It keeps the hikers away.

  “Pardon the interruption, but we need to talk,” he says.

  “Where’s your car?” I know where his car is. It’s at the base of the mountain, parked next to mine. I just want to see that glimmer of misery as he reminisces over the walk up here.

  “I left it with yours, Mr. Fontaine. May I come in?”

  “How’d you know I’d be home?” Again, trick question. He doesn’t need to know that.

  “You’re living in the mountains by yourself. I didn’t concern myself with the possibility of a social life,” he replies briskly.

  I could laugh, but this guy has a knack for pissing me off in the span of mere seconds, and my stomach is growling for some food.

  “Mr. Fontaine, you have a problem.”

  “Yeah, it’s standing on my porch like it’s somehow supposed to be here.”

  “Mr. Fontaine, I have been instructed by Mr. Cline to bring this to your attention,” he says, relentless and a little intimidated—just enough to get a bead of sweat working down his pale temple. Nevertheless, he manages to produce a manila folder from his metallic briefcase.

  It’s not the first time he has served me with legal papers. This has been going on for almost a year. Yet there’s a sense of assurance coming off this guy that I’ve not picked up on before.

  I begin to fear an escalation in my war against Cline. That monumental a-hole.

  “What is this?” I ask, cautiously taking the folder.

  “State law. A rather obscure amendment, mind you. Article 492 of 1889.”

  “Okay. What am I supposed to do with it?” Something tells me I should read this, but I would hate to give him or Cline the satisfaction of a reaction. “Listen. Simeon Cline has been trying to take my land for almos
t a year now,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “I have repeatedly refused to sell. I have pushed back on all forceful attempts, too. Mr. What’s-Your-Name—”

  “Sykes. Marvin Sykes.”

  “Marvin. Okay. Mr. Sykes, your employer has gone to hell and beyond to try to get me off this land so he could build his ritzy mountain resort. How many times am I gonna have to tell y’all to just suck it?

  “I’m not selling. There’s not a single authority in the entire state that can legally take this away from me. My parents left me this property, and I intend to grow old and die here. And even then, I will make sure to keep every inch out of Cline’s reach. Have I not made myself clear before, or do I need to start welcoming you and yours with a rifle instead of an open door?”

  The message shoots across clearly. The lawyer blinks rapidly, trying to process the finer details of what could easily be construed as a threat.

  I may be a mountain man, but I’ve read the law and the federal statutes. I went to school. I got my degree. They keep taking me for some sort of backwoods hick because of my Midwestern drawl, I guess.

  “Please read the amendment, Mr. Fontaine,” Sykes insists, almost politely.

  I sigh heavily just to make sure he understands how annoyed I am, then flip open the folder and start scanning the xeroxed document. It looks legitimate enough, and it translates into something utterly insane if no one bothered to repeal it.

  My blood runs cold. My appetite leaves me. Even my pets seem to feel my dismay, eyeing us carefully from beneath the dinner table. I was hoping for a quiet night.

  “Are you trying to tell me that the state can kick me off my land unless I’m married?” I ask, my tone strained and ice cold.

  “Judge Durbin is ready to proceed with an order of eviction, Mr. Fontaine. The amendment clearly states that, as a landowner of this particular district of North Dakota, you must be married in order to retain full ownership. Otherwise, the state can take it away and sell it to the highest bidder.”

  “This is absurd.”

  “Maybe. Alas, it is the law, and Mr. Cline wants me to go full steam ahead with the legal proceedings. It may not be resolved quickly, but in the end, I promise you that Mr. Cline will get this land, one way or another.”

  I scoff, measuring him from head to toe. It’s probably not his fault. He’s just doing his job. It doesn’t stop me from despising him and his boss.

  “First of all, Mr. Sykes, I am married.” That’s a bald-faced lie, but I’m gonna have to sell it just in case they want to throw some other obscure amendment at me. “Have been for a while, now.”

  “That’s odd. We’ve never seen your wife.” His wry smile irks me. He’s hungry to catch me in a lie, and I’m less than a couple of feet away from my rifle.

  “She’s coming back from her parents’ farm in about a week or so. You’re free to come back and meet her then.”

  I could argue about the legality of this argument, but that would leave me open to other attacks. No, these bastards are coming at me from a marriage perspective. Whether or not they have any standing, I can’t let them think they’ve got me. Not right now. Not until I go over this with a lawyer of my own.

  “Mr. Fontaine, we both know you’re not married. You’ve been living here alone for quite a while. Our private investigators have built a rather compelling profile.”

  “Is that so?” I shoot him a dry grin and reach for my rifle.

  As soon as he sees it, Sykes’s eyes bulge, and he takes a few steps back, nearly falling off the creaky porch. “Mr. Fontaine, there’s no need to get violent here.”

  “I’m not getting violent. I’m just making my feelings known. Your visit here is over, and feel free to come back in a week to meet my wife. Tell Cline he’s free to come around, as well. She might even cook for him.”

  “What’s her name?”

  I load shells into my rifle with the same ease with which I tie my shoelaces. “Have a great evening, Mr. Sykes.”

  “Hold on.”

  “You’re going to become a trespasser in about ten, nine…” I raise the weapon and point it at him. “Eight, seven…”

  “Whoa!”

  Sykes abandons all hope and bolts away from my cabin.

  “Six, five!” I shout after him, trying not to laugh.

  “In a week!” he screams back, running and tripping and stumbling down the darkened path.

  I hear a thud and a squelching sound, but I can’t see him anymore.

  “Son of a…” His whimper is like music to my ears. “A week!” he yells again.

  It’s his promise of vengeance. I’ve scared and humiliated him.

  That’s all right. He and his boss are trying to kick me out of my own home. Bastards. Greedy, heartless bastards.

  I let Jax out for his evening run and go back to the chilled food on my plate. I empty the wine glass and pour myself another.

  It’s serious trouble.

  And unless I get a lawyer to help me fight this in court, I will have to find myself a wife.

  Chapter 2

  Michelle

  My family is loud. Unapologetically loud. I love them just the way they are, but sometimes… it’s too much.

  Minneapolis is big and loud, too. Cluttered and suffocating, even. I love my job and life here, yet just like with my family, sometimes… it’s too much. Which is why I love going away for days at a time, hiking through the heart of the woods and up mountains and as far away from people as possible.

  I love the constant buzz of my life, but I crave peace and quiet as well. Lately, I’ve been wishing for more of the latter than usual, and it has made me wonder—do I need a longer holiday, or do I need a complete change in how I’m living?

  The dinner table is set and loaded with a plethora of Mom’s delicious cookies. She made her legendary chicken quesadilla and Grand-Mama’s empanadas, while I handled the chili con carne and ceviche. I left Matteo and David in charge of the barbecue, with Dad overseeing them and Ralphie setting up the home cinema system for a later viewing. While I no longer live with my family, having moved out for law school some years back, I’ve made a habit of organizing dinner at my place once a month, usually on a Sunday evening.

  “Most of the food is ready, mija,” Mom says as she brings over two loaded bread baskets and sets them on the dinner table.

  I like seeing it so full when usually it’s just me and a microwave dinner, next to a glass of Pinot close to midnight.

  “Your father will open the wine,” Mom says.

  “We’re letting Ralphie have some, right?” I reply, holding back a smile. I’m already tired, mainly because everybody is always talking over everybody.

  I can hear my brothers outside, quarreling over the dumbest of things, while Dad tries to mediate the conflict. Ralphie is the youngest. He’s only eighteen but a handful, so I can see why Mom is skeptical about letting him have even a sip of wine. She’s more Catholic than the Pope, and Ralphie could easily audition for the part of the Antichrist if given the opportunity.

  “One glass. Maybe,” she replies, and it sounds like a concession to me. I’m pleased.

  Matteo is twenty-five and also living on his own now, though he could only afford a bachelor pad, too small for our entire family dinner-and-grill dance, but it’s fine. He’s at that age where there’s a different girl joining him for breakfast every morning, his heart racing all over the place while he tries to figure out where he belongs.

  “Papa, this isn’t fair. You put me in charge of turning the meat over!” Matteo is moaning from the patio, the sliding glass doors wide open to let some of the crisp autumn air in.

  “Let David do one or two patties, don’t be so selfish,” Dad replies. “You’re a grown man, Matteo, act like one.”

  That’s his favorite line, and he never hesitates to use it. David is twenty and a middle child like Matteo. It’s also made the two feel closer to one another, though, despite the age difference. I’d thought David would be more attached to Ra
lphie, but I was hilariously wrong.

  “I see they’re still bickering like little boys,” I say, looking at my mom as she finishes setting the table and lights the candles in the middle.

  “It’s their way of showing affection,” Mom replies. “I love having everyone back like this, as loud and annoying as you kids can get.”

  “Aw. Good to have you all over, and thankfully just once a month.”

  The sarcasm is a Perez women’s trait, apparently. My mother’s variant is a lot more delicate, though.

  Ralphie comes back into the kitchen, patting his flat belly. “When are we sitting down to eat? I’m hungry. I’ve done most of the work.”

  “Excuse me?” Mom replies, almost outraged.

  “‘Ralphie, get that barbecue fire burning so your brothers can bitch over turning the patties!’ ‘Ralphie, get the home system working so we can watch a movie later!’ ‘Ralphie, go to the store and get more bread ’cause your brothers eat a lot of bread!’” my littlest brother replies, mockingly imitating Dad’s gruff tone.

  It makes me laugh, but Mom isn’t impressed. “Go wash your hands.”

  Without hesitation, Ralphie spins on his heels and disappears inside my guest bathroom.

  I’m lucky with this place, though I’m only renting. It’s a nice townhouse close to downtown but with enough space to put down a bit of lawn and feel like I’m breathing. Summers here are all about barbecues and ice-cold lemonades, while winters have me shoveling the snow off the patio so I don’t get buried before the next snowstorm hits. I love it, though.