by Kara Lennox
Gwen’s paternal grandmother, Abigail Tanner, had taken in Gwen as an infant. Though she’d long ago turned her back on her no-account son, she’d willingly, lovingly, raised his daughter. One thing Grandmother had drilled into Gwen’s head was not to let any smooth-talking men talk her out of her better judgment—or her bloomers.
“What did I tell you?” Sylvia asked as she sat down to sip her beer, taking a break from the dance floor. “Wall-to-wall cowboys. Are you having fun?”
“Yeah, actually, I am.” She’d received more attention from men that night than she had in her whole life. It might have been the sexy clothes or the dark red lipstick. Or it might have been her attitude. For once in her life she felt strong, confident, powerful. She could do anything!
“You haven’t been dancing,” Sylvia pointed out.
“Dancing’s not really my thing. But I love watching. And I’ve got enough free booze to last a month.” Several eager bucks had sent drinks to Gwen’s table, but she was still nursing the same Shirley Temple she’d started with. She’d volunteered to be the evening’s designated driver.
Sylvia sighed. “What am I going to do with you? Listen, I’ve found a live one, and we want to get out of here. I’ll give you my keys, and you can drive my car home. I’ll get a room at the hotel later and find my way home in the morning.”
Gwen gasped. “You’re leaving with a complete stranger?”
“We aren’t strangers anymore.” Sylvia winked.
Far be it from Gwen to rain on Sylvia’s parade. “All right. But please, be careful.”
“I will. And you—try not being so careful for a change, huh? If you can’t find a guy in this smorgasbord, you’re doomed to a life of spinsterhood.”
That word echoed in Gwen’s mind for a long time. She wasn’t a spinster. That was a stupid word, anyway. She chose to be single.
Didn’t she?
Just then, she spotted a very good-looking man a few tables away. He wasn’t a cowboy, either. In fact, he might as well have been wearing a sign that said, “city boy.” His black hair was short, expertly cut. In his khaki slacks and tailored shirt, he looked more like a businessman of some sort. And, like her, he was on the sidelines, watching the action rather than participating. He appeared to be alone, too.
“Spinster,” Gwen muttered. “I’ll show her spinster.” With a determined toss of her head, she stood, picked up the watery Shirley Temple, and strode to his table.
He glanced over at her as she approached, and she could see that his eyes were blue, a deep, intense hue that seemed to see straight to her core. Her heart jumped unexpectedly.
No turning back now. “Hello. Mind if I sit here?” Her voice sounded like it could have been someone else’s. Where had that B-movie dialogue come from?
He stood and pulled out the chair next to him. “Please.”
She sat down, acutely aware of the man just a few inches from her now. She could feel his body heat, smell a faint whiff of his aftershave.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “You’re not comfortable here, are you?”
“It was my friend Sylvia’s idea. We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“A windfall.” She didn’t elaborate. People with money made easy targets. Her mother’s experience had taught her that. “This isn’t your favorite place, either.”
“I was just about to leave.”
“Oh.”
“But now I won’t. Want to dance?”
Adrenaline shot through her. This gorgeous guy was actually responding to her flirtation! “I’d love to.”
Gwen was a terrible dancer, so she was relieved when a slow country song came on as she and her new acquaintance hit the dance floor. Slow dancing didn’t require much skill. She just had to put her arms around the guy and rock slowly back and forth.
His muscles were hard beneath his crisp shirt, and he smelled of soap and starch and that alluring scent of expensive aftershave. Gwen was half in love with him before the song ended.
They kissed after the second slow dance. He tasted faintly of scotch, she remembered. Then he took her to his hotel. He had a suite at the Ramada, one of only two hotels in Roan.
Gwen had never behaved like this, but this night, it felt perfectly natural. They shared few words. Talking didn’t seem to be necessary. She’d connected with Garrett—that was his name—on some elemental level. She wasn’t at all embarrassed when he took her clothes off. Though she was slender, she’d always thought her breasts were too small. But the way Garrett kissed and caressed them, he made her feel they were the most perfect breasts in the world.
All of her felt perfect. She wasn’t a sophisticated lover, but with Garrett she’d felt skillful, confident, sexy. Everything she did was right. Everything he did was perfect.
Gwen wasn’t a virgin. She’d had a brief, secret relationship with a man staying at the boardinghouse one summer when she was nineteen. It was shortly after her grandmother had died, and she’d been struggling with the boardinghouse and desperate for an intimate connection. Instead the experience had turned out painful and awkward. Sex with Garrett, on the other hand, was like dancing a perfect ballet. And for the first time in her life, a man’s caresses had brought her to the pinnacle of pleasure.
They’d slept curled in each other’s arms. In the morning, he’d scrubbed her back in the shower and combed the tangles out of her hair with painstaking gentleness. Then he’d fed her a sumptuous room-service breakfast. But with daylight came harsh reality. She had to get home. Sylvia would want her car back, her boarders would want breakfast. Worst of all, there would be embarrassing questions to answer if she didn’t get home soon.
She’d used Garrett’s elegant fountain pen to scribble her name and phone number on a piece of hotel stationery. Then, with one final, searing kiss goodbye, she’d left him.
He hadn’t called. He’d promised. Then he’d forgotten her.
She’d cried on Sylvia’s shoulders for days. Then she’d found out she was pregnant, and she’d cried for another week. She’d tried to locate Garrett to tell him of his impending fatherhood. But all she had was a first name. He’d told her little about himself, so she had nothing to go on.
Gradually she’d pulled herself together and started planning her future. At least she had plenty of money to raise her child—children, she corrected herself. Two girls, according to the sonogram. She’d furnished the nursery with a fanatical eye for detail, started a trust fund for a college education, drawn up her will. She’d thought of everything.
Except the possibility of twins.
She wanted to share the news with Sylvia, the only person who knew the true circumstances of how she’d gotten pregnant. But Sylvia was in Billings, arranging for the delivery of some fancy new sinks—purple ones—for her salon. Gwen decided she would stop in The Brimming Cup and have some herbal tea. Shelly, who had recently married Dr. Connor O’Rourke, was pregnant, too, and the two mothers-to-be liked to compare notes.
As she made this decision, a vintage Jaguar passed on her left. Wow, nice car. Maybe she should have gotten one of those, instead of the more practical Mercedes.
She glanced down at her speedometer and realized she was only driving forty-five. No wonder the guy had passed her. All that reminiscing had distracted her from her driving. Vowing to be more alert, she pressed on the gas.
JESTER, MONTANA. Eli Garrett had never thought to look for Gwen here. And he’d definitely been looking. Though he was no monk, he’d never had a passionate night like the one he’d shared with delicate, auburn-haired Gwen. In that bar full of cheap perfume and teased hair, she’d seemed so fresh, like a daisy among overblown roses. The fact she couldn’t dance had endeared her to him. Her natural shyness, which she attempted to overcome, was the most charming quality he’d ever seen in a woman. He’d become almost obsessed with her. Any time his car restoration business took him to towns within a hundred miles of North Dakota, he asked around about her. But t
he woman had vanished like a wisp of smoke.
It would have been much simpler if he’d simply called the number she’d left for him. Unfortunately, he’d managed to spill his room-service coffee all over the sheet of stationery she’d written on. The blue ink had run in a hundred different directions, and no amount of blotting or cursing would bring it back. He’d even hired a documents expert to examine the paper—that was how desperate he was. But no luck.
Just when he’d begun to resign himself to the fact that the most intriguing woman he’d ever met was out of his reach forever, a stroke of luck had brought her to his attention. He’d been picking up a 1928 Nash Coupe some rancher had found in a barn, covered with hay, just outside of Denver where Eli lived. The rancher’s wife had insisted Eli come inside for some lemonade, since it was ninety degrees outside, almost unheard of high in the Rockies, even in mid-August. There, on her kitchen counter, a photo on the front page of a newspaper had jumped out at him.
It was Gwen. No doubt about it. Her face had invaded his dreams so many nights it was etched into his brain.
“Main Street Millionaires have a new reason to celebrate,” the photo caption read. The photo depicted an attractive couple, identified as Sam and Ruby Cade, who had apparently thrown a party when they’d reconciled their marriage. Gwen was off to the side of the photo, holding a huge cake.
And she was pregnant.
For a few moments, all Eli could do was stare. Was she married, then? Or…mentally he counted back the months. Was it possible the child was his?
“Can you believe that?” the rancher’s wife said when she noticed Eli’s interest in the photo. “Every time one of those Main Street Millionaires moves a muscle, somebody has to plaster the news on the front page. I mean, who cares?”
Apparently a lot of people did. When a small, hardscrabble town in Montana suddenly had more millionaires per capita than any town in the U.S., it was news, and the lottery win in Jester had captured the fancy of the whole country. Though Eli hadn’t followed the story, he’d still heard about it.
Now he wished he’d paid more attention. His search for Gwen could have been shortened considerably. No wonder she’d been celebrating the night they’d met.
“My cousin sent me that paper,” the rancher’s wife said. “It’s a few weeks old. He—my cousin, that is—invested in some hotel development scheme in Jester. Seems the mayor there is trying to turn the town into a tourist attraction. But they can’t find any land to build the hotel on, so the whole deal’s probably awash.”
Eli was hardly listening. He gulped down his lemonade, said his goodbyes, and jumped into his tow truck. Once he had the Nash safely tucked into one of his garage bays, he climbed into his silver 1960 Jaguar and headed for Jester, Montana. His GPS gave him the driving instructions.
Now that he was in Jester, he didn’t know quite where to start. It was certainly a quaint town. A bit rundown, but here and there were signs of economic recovery. A shiny new Cadillac was parked in front of a general store, called simply The Mercantile. The hardware store was getting a face-lift. And a bronze statue of a bucking horse, in front of the Jester Town Hall, gleamed with a recent polishing.
In a town this size, all he needed to do was ask anyone about Gwen, and someone would enlighten him. Where to ask—the barbershop? Several older men sat outside Kenning’s Barbershop, shooting the breeze.
Then Eli saw an inviting coffee shop, The Brimming Cup. Perfect. He hadn’t had lunch. And now that he was so close to finding Gwen, he was curiously hesitant. What would he do if she was married? Or what if he was about to become a father? He hadn’t thought through what he would say.
Or how he would feel.
A bell above the door announced Eli’s entrance into the large, airy diner. The place had a ’50s feel to it, with a long Formica, chrome-trimmed counter and stools topped with light blue vinyl. An old Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner appeared to be operational, though currently it was silent.
A pretty young woman with sleek, chin-length brown hair smiled at him from behind the counter. “Sit anywhere you like. You just missed the lunch rush, so the place is all yours.”
He was, indeed, the only customer. He chose one of the four booths that faced the front windows and perused a laminated menu that had been stuck behind the salt-and-pepper shakers.
As the waitress emerged from behind the counter, Eli could see that she was pregnant. Jeez, was it something in the Jester water supply? She set a glass of water, a napkin and some silverware on the table.
“Know what you want?”
“A hamburger, please, lettuce and tomato only. And a cup of decaf.” Normally he liked his caffeine, but he was already wired.
The waitress scribbled on her pad. “Be right up.”
He’d just taken his first sip of the coffee, which was surprisingly good, when the bell over the door rang. Eli looked up, curious to see who might be joining him, when he almost choked on his coffee.
It was Gwen! If this wasn’t fate stepping in, he didn’t know what was.
“Hi, Shelly,” she said with what could only be described as a weary smile. “I could sure use a lemonade and a slice of lemon meringue pie.” She sat at a table a short distance from him, but she didn’t seem to notice him there, which gave him the opportunity to study her more thoroughly.
She was still pregnant—even bigger than she’d been in the newspaper photo. But rather than detracting from her beauty, her swollen belly made her even prettier. She looked earthier, more womanly, less fragile than he remembered. Though it was a cliché, he couldn’t help thinking that she glowed.
She wore a simple, peach-colored maternity dress and leather sandals, and her magnificent hair was pulled back in a bun. Nothing about her screamed “millionaire.”
No jewelry—not even a wedding ring, he noted with interest. But he knew that sometimes women’s hands swelled when they were pregnant, so the absence of a ring didn’t mean anything.
He should go over to her table, talk to her. But suddenly he was scared. He didn’t want to find out she was married, or involved with some other man. But then, was the alternative any more palatable? Was he ready to discover the child she carried was his?
The waitress, whom Gwen had called Shelly, reappeared with a cold drink and a slice of pie for Gwen. “I wish I could eat like you do,” Shelley said wistfully. “I just found out I’m borderline diabetic, so no sugar.”
Gwen looked concerned. “Shelly, are you okay?”
“It’s not a big deal. Lots of women become diabetic during pregnancy. It just means I have to be careful. But one thing I was looking forward to was eating for two—with no penalty.”
“No penalty? I’m as big as a horse.”
“You’ll lose it all once you have the baby.”
Gwen glanced nervously in Eli’s direction. He quickly hid behind the menu, wanting to eavesdrop some more. He’d never thought women discussing their pregnancies was particularly interesting—until now.
Peeking over the menu, Eli watched as Gwen motioned for Shelly to sit down. The two women had a whispered conversation. Shelly gasped at whatever Gwen told her, then grinned with delight.
“That is so cool! Wait ’til everyone hears!”
“Don’t tell anyone yet, huh, Shelly? You know it’ll get to the media, and I’m so sick of reporters. Frankly, I can’t imagine why the press is still interested in the Main Street Millionaires.”
“At least they’re not staying at your boardinghouse anymore.”
“Thank goodness. That Harvey Brinkman from the Plain Talker was a real pig.”
“I sure wish I knew who it is that’s leaking private information to the press,” Shelly said. “I’d wring their neck.”
Eli decided he’d skulked behind his menu long enough. He still didn’t know what he would say to Gwen. He supposed he would just wing it.
“Order up!” a gruff voice called from the kitchen. Shelly hopped up to get it. At the same time, Eli stood and w
alked determinedly across the diner to Gwen’s table. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked, using the same exact line she’d used on him at The Wild Mustang.
Gwen looked up and promptly choked on her lemonade. “Garrett!”
“Eli,” he corrected her. “Eli Garrett. Are you okay?”
She gave one final cough. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Can I sit down?”
Gwen cast a worried glance toward Shelly, who was fast approaching with Eli’s burger, a questioning look on her face.
“Yes, sit.” Her face looked alarmingly pale. “Shelly, this is a…an old friend of mine, Eli Garrett. Eli, this is Shelly O’Rourke. She owns The Brimming Cup.”
Eli murmured a pleasantry, as did Shelly, who set his hamburger on Gwen’s table. “Shall I bring over your coffee?” she asked Eli.
Gwen looked uncomfortable with the situation, but Eli wasn’t about to back off. He had to talk to her. “Yes,” he answered Shelly. “Please.”
As soon as Shelly had brought his coffee mug and left them alone, Gwen wasted no time starting the conversation. “You pick a fine time to show up. Seven months and not a word.”
“I’m sorry about that. I tried to find you.”
“How hard could it have been? I left my phone number.”
“I spilled coffee on it. The ink ran everywhere, and when I was done cleaning up the mess, there was no sign of your number. I asked everybody in Roan if they knew you. You’d said something about a boardinghouse, so I looked up every boardinghouse in North Dakota trying to find you.”
“So is this just a happy coincidence?”
“Sort of. I saw your picture in a newspaper.”
“Ah. I see.” If her spring-green eyes had looked wary before, now they appeared downright hostile. Apparently she didn’t believe him.
