A Husband in Wyoming

by Lynnette Kent

  “Please don’t think me forward for bringing this up,” Helen said after they’d had a few moments to finish their cake, “but my son’s a different person around you and Wesley. Better, in every conceivable way.”

  Rachel was so caught off guard by the woman’s random statement that she darned near choked on her last bite of dessert. “Oh?”

  “He loves you, you know. Has loved you ever since you first met all those years ago. Bless his heart...” She paused for a sip of coffee. “He was always the strong, silent type. His father and I urged him to tell you how he felt before you and Wes grew close, but he missed his window of opportunity and seeing how he and Wes were always such good friends, he did the gentlemanly thing and bowed out.”

  Not knowing what to say, her head and heart reeling, Rachel was hard-pressed to say much else but another “Oh.”

  “He’d kill me if he knew I was telling you all of this, it’s just that—” she peeked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone “—I’m not getting any younger and the thought of having an instant grandson, as well as a daughter-in-law whose company I’m very much enjoying, fills me with indescribable joy.”

  * * *

  CHANCE LOVES ME.

  Lying in bed that night, listening to Wesley softly snore from the beautiful crib Chance had bought for him on a wondrously hectic shopping trip Tuesday afternoon, Rachel wasn’t sure what to do with this knowledge.

  Part of her wished Chance’s mother had kept her nose out of her son’s affairs. Another part, the part of Rachel increasingly craving Chance’s touch, was secretly thrilled. But if she was falling for Chance, what did that say about her love for her poor husband? What kind of wife was she to so soon be falling head over heels for Wes’s best friend?

  Finding sleep impossible, she tossed back the covers and padded barefoot downstairs. Cookies and milk. That’s all she needed to get this ridiculous notion from her head.

  She wasn’t falling for Chance. He was like her brother.

  She was grateful to him.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said from in front of the open fridge, the dim light washing over the muscles of his bare chest. “Fancy meeting you here.” He winked.

  Her mouth went dry. That gratitude she was supposedly feeling for him? One sight of his rock-hard pecs and abs and there was no denying it. She wanted the guy—bad. Not in a friendly way, but in a way she had no business even thinking about, let alone aching to act upon.

  “Um, hi,” she mumbled, biting her lower lip.

  “Want milk?” he asked, wagging the gallon jug.

  “Yes, please.”

  While he poured, she grabbed the foil-wrapped plate of cookies from the kitchen’s center island.

  They reunited at the kitchen table.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” he asked.

  For a long time, she stayed silent, toying with her cookie. “Truth? You.”

  Gracing her with a slow, sexy grin that turned her resolve to think of him as a brother to mush, he said, “I’m flattered. At least, I hope I have reason to be.”

  Swallowing hard, she nodded. Everything about him was good. So why, then, did the realization that she was falling for him hurt so bad?

  “Rachel?” Setting his milk glass on the table, he asked, “You okay?”

  In a last ditch effort to prove to herself—to both of them—that the two of them as a couple would never work, she blurted, “Kiss me.”

  Per Rachel’s request, Chance did kiss her. At first, softly, reverently. But then, the closer she melded to him, the more he increased his pressure, dizzying her with fervent strokes of his tongue.

  And then, just as abruptly as their kiss had begun, it ended with Chance pulling away.

  Fingers sliding into the hair at his temples, breathing ragged, he said, “Sorry.”

  “For what?” she asked, eyes welling with emotion. “That was beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything but pain. Your kiss...it was as if somewhere deep inside me, the wall of grief I’ve been hiding behind has been shattered.”

  “That’s all well and good,” he said with a sharp laugh. “But what about Wes? Don’t you feel guilty? As if our being attracted to each other is a betrayal of his trust?”

  Eyes closed, she took a deep breath. “Honestly,” she said, eyes open, facing Chance straight on, “I know how awful it must sound, but from the moment your lips touched mine, all I could think about was you.”

  * * *

  TWO DAYS LATER, with Wes’s life insurance check safely in the bank and her bills paid, Rachel should’ve been on top of the world. But as she finished wrapping the last of the presents she’d purchased for Chance and his family, all she really felt was sad. He’d invited her to stay with him through New Year’s—longer if she liked—but after their kiss, she was more convinced than ever that maybe what would be best for them both was for her and Wesley to move on.

  She’d already caused Chance so much trouble. Why stick around if their attraction would only bring him—not to mention, her—pain?

  “You look pretty,” he said from the living room door, hands behind his back.

  “When’s the last time you had your eyes checked? I’m a mess.” From the oriental rug where she’d parked herself in front of the fire with a mess of bows, boxes and ribbons, she grinned up at him. Dressed in comfy, but hardly flattering sweats, her short hair sticking out at crazy angles and no makeup, she was sure she’d never looked worse.

  “My eyes are fine,” he said, wading his way through the mess. “Seeing you like this, so at ease in my home...it’s my heart I’m worried about.”

  “Have you always been such a charmer?” she asked, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly.

  “I don’t know, you tell me...” From behind his back, he withdrew a perfect cluster of mistletoe.

  With him kneeling beside her, holding the sprig over her head, it would’ve been rude not to follow through with tradition. Seeing how she’d long since put Wesley to bed, Rachel had no qualms about reaching Chance halfway for a mesmerizing kiss.

  * * *

  “YOU KNOW,” CHANCE said the next afternoon, Wesley gurgling high on his shoulders as they crunched their way through freshly fallen snow in the neighborhood’s park, “at work this afternoon, I had some downtime while the jury was deliberating. I did some thinking.”

  “‘Bout time,” Rachel quipped.

  Her sassy comment earned her a snowball fight. And like the day at the tree farm, the guys once again got the better of her. Laughing so hard her lungs burned from the cold, she cried, “Stop! I give up!”

  “Oh, no,” Chance said, setting a bundled Wesley beside him so he could tackle her with both hands. “You don’t get to surrender until you apologize.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” she laughingly cried, her foggy breath mingling with his.

  He kissed her, and despite the fact they were lying in the snow, she felt warmed inside. Which was wrong. She shouldn’t be on fire for this man who was her husband’s best friend.

  “You’re forgiven,” he said a few minutes later, when her every defense had been shattered. “Now, back to what I was saying before you so rudely interrupted... I’ve been thinking about how you said you felt like you should find a place of your own. And then I got to thinking how much I enjoy having you both here. And how big this rambling old house of mine is for just me. And how Wes made me promise to look after you if anything should ever happen to him...”

  Heart galloping like a herd of runaway reindeer, Rachel alternately dreaded, yet prayed for what she knew Chance would say next.

  “And so, anyway, what would you think of the two of us getting hitched? You could still keep your own room, if that’s what you wanted, but at least then it’d be official. Me watching out for you and Wesley, I mean.”

  Tears of joy and sadness stung her eyes.

  “Well?” he asked while she blinked.

  “Oh, Chance...” Holding her fingers to her mouth, she tugged off her fuzzy
mittens with her teeth, then cupped her hand to his cold, whiskered cheek. “I would love nothing more than to marry you. If only there wasn’t so much history between us...”

  “Say no more,” he said, pushing himself off her. “I understand.” Snatching up Wesley, he trudged toward the house, telling her without a single word that he didn’t truly understand—at all.

  * * *

  AFTER TURNING DOWN Chance’s proposal, to say there was tension between them would’ve been a major understatement—which was why Rachel sat alone in the kitchen that quiet Christmas Eve morning, scanning apartment ads while Chance had gone off to work.

  Sipping cocoa while Wesley crumbled a cookie in his high chair, she was startled when the doorbell rang.

  “Chance?” she said, running for the front door, hoping now that he’d had time to think about it, he was okay with her suggestion that they remain just friends.

  “Sorry,” a well-dressed older man said, clearing his throat. “Are you Rachel Finch?”

  “Y-yes.” She fingered the pearls Helen had given her at her throat.

  After introducing himself as Wes’s old boss, he said, “Forgive me for dropping by, especially today of all days, but...there’s no easy way to say this...we’ve, well...your husband’s body has been identified. I thought you’d like to have his few personal effects.”

  * * *

  WITHIN FIFTEEN MINUTES of Rachel’s call, Chance roared his Jeep up his normally quiet street. Yes, he’d been deeply wounded by her turning down his proposal, but that didn’t mean he was now going to let her down.

  He heard the news through the office grapevine—and he also found out Franks had dropped by to pass the news along to Rachel. Chance fully planned to be by her side as she dealt with it all.

  “You okay?” he asked, finding her alone at the kitchen table. She had opened the watertight pouch Wes had been using as a wallet the day he’d been shot. His gold watch, wedding band and the navy wallet all lay in front of her.

  Wes had been the consummate Boy Scout, and he’d also hated boats. Back when they were kids, Chance kept a rowboat on his paternal grandparents’ farm pond. One sunny afternoon when they’d been about ten, he and Wes had been out rowing when the boat capsized.

  Wes didn’t get upset often, but when his prized baseball cards fell in the water, he’d freaked—kind of like when he’d learned he was the only guy from the Portland marshal’s office assigned to that unconventional-as-hell mission, trying to protect a witness who’d refused to leave his private island.

  Had Wes known there was a chance he wouldn’t be coming home?

  “Rachel?” She still hadn’t answered his question.

  Looking shell-shocked, she nodded. “Yeah. I’m all right.”

  “Where’s Wesley?”

  “Down for his nap.”

  Pulling out the chair beside her, he asked, “You sure you don’t want to be alone for this?”

  She shook her head, and off they went on a journey down memory lane. Wes’s driver’s license and credit cards, photos and fast-food coupons—all of it was in pristine condition.

  In the last pocket was a folded slip of yellow legal paper.

  Hands trembling, Rachel opened it. “Oh, God,” she said. “It’s a note.”

  “‘If you’re reading this,’” she read aloud, “‘then I’m so sorry, sweetie, but...’” She broke down. “I c-can’t do this,” she said. “Please, Chance. You read it.”

  He cleared his throat, continuing where she’d left off.

  “‘...but I’ve apparently croaked. I know, I know, right about now you’re probably wanting to smack me for trying to find humor in this, but I suppose everybody’s gotta go eventually, and unfortunately, it seems my time’s up.

  That said, you’re not allowed to be sad—well, maybe you could mope a little for the first week, or two, but after that, I want to be staring down from Heaven at your beautiful smile. I want you having babies and good times and toasting me whenever the top’s popped on a beer.’”

  “You do this next part,” Chance said, closing stinging eyes. “It’s too personal.”

  She took the letter and read on.

  “‘By now, Chance has no doubt told you about the promise he made me to always watch over you. But what he probably didn’t tell you is how he’s always had a secret thing for you. Back when we first started dating, he was too much of a gentleman and friend to stand in the way of me marrying you. If I have died, Rachel, he’d be a good man for you. The best—second only to me. Wink, wink. Be sure and give him a shot at...’”

  She paused to catch her breath. “‘...winning your heart.’”

  Sobbing, Rachel clung to Chance, drinking in his goodness and kindness and strength.

  “Shh...” Chance crooned, stroking her short hair.

  “Even in death, he put my needs before his own,” she said softly, gently setting the letter on the table. “And the timing...of all times for me to have finally gotten his letter, on Christmas Eve. What a gift. Makes you wonder if he’s up there, watching over us.”

  “You doubted it?” Chance teased, sliding Rachel off her chair and onto his lap.

  “After the rocky months I’ve had, I doubted not only Wes, but God.”

  “Gotta admit,” he said, thumb brushing her lower lip. “Having you disappear on me like that—I’ve had my doubts, too.”

  “Yet look at us now,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “Maybe Wes knew that without time and space between us, we’d have both been too loyal to his memory to give each other a try?”

  “Whatever the reason,” Chance said, “we don’t have to feel guilty or pained anymore.” He smiled at her, gently. “Now, with Wes’s blessing, will you marry me, so that you, me and Wesley can start a family all our own?”

  “What do you mean, start? I thought we already were a family?”

  “Right,” he said before a spellbinding kiss. “How could I forget?”

  * * *

  CHRISTMAS MORNING, WESLEY snug between them on the living room sofa, a fire crackling in the hearth and the scent of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls flavoring the air, Rachel opened gift after gift that Chance had secretly stashed in nooks and crannies all over the house.

  Later, they’d go to his parents’ for Christmas dinner with his sisters and extended family, but for now, it was just the three of them, opening sweaters and perfume and books and china figurines and fishing lures and hats and for Wesley, toys, toys and more toys—most of which Rachel guessed he wouldn’t be able to play with until he was three!

  Once they’d finished their gift extravaganza and all the wrappings had been cleared, Chance stood beside the Christmas tree and said, “Look, honey, here’s another package in this bird’s nest, and it’s tagged for you.”

  “Chance,” Rachel complained, heading his direction. “You’ve already given me too much.”

  “Look here, the label says it’s from Santa,” he said, holding out a tiny, robin’s-egg blue box that screamed Tiffany.

  Heart racing, hands trembling, Rachel lifted the lid to peek inside. “Chance...” Tearing at the sight of the glowing, pear-shaped diamond solitaire, she crushed him in a hug. “It’s gorgeous. Yes, I’ll marry you!”

  “Whoa,” he said with a sexy grin, pushing her back and shaking his head. “I don’t recall asking anything. This was all Santa’s doing.”

  “Well, then, Santa,” she said, tilting her head back to talk to the high ceiling, “I accept your proposal.”

  “Now, wait a minute...” Chance pulled her back into his arms. “Not so fast. I thought the two of us had reached an understanding. Those kisses you gave me last night implied a certain level of intimacy and trust. You can’t just make out with me, then leave me for a big jolly guy in a red suit.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” she asked, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his delicious, cinnamon-flavored lips.

  “Just to be safe, you’d better marry me right away.”


  “Yeah, but do I get to keep the ring?”

  He winked. “Why not? With any luck, Mr. Ho Ho Ho will go back to his wife...leaving me plenty of time under the mistletoe with mine.”

  * * * * *

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  ISBN-13: 9781460388419

  A Husband in Wyoming

  Copyright © 2015 by Cheryl B. Bacon

  The publisher acknowledges the copyright holder of the additional work:

  A Home for Christmas

  Copyright © 2005 Laura Marie Altom

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.