Montana Mail-Order Wife

by Charlotte Douglas

  “We’re not married yet, Rachel girl.” He stopped and faced her. A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth in an insinuation of a grin. “It’s a little early for you to start bossing me around.”

  “Bossing…?” She held her breath and counted silently to ten while he stared with a provocative half smile on his too-darned-handsome face. She exhaled, calmer, and broached the reason for her confrontation. “Jordan’s terrified you’ll punish him for starting the fire.”

  A rock-hard grimness replaced the half smile. “He should be punished.”

  Her stomach churned with frustration. “Punished for trying to get his daddy’s attention by doing something you’d be proud of?”

  The harsh line of his mouth remained taut. “I don’t recall anybody handing out prizes to firebugs. The boy’s got to learn the difference between right and wrong.”

  “He knows the difference. What Jordan needs to learn is that his father loves him.” If Wade hadn’t been so huge, with a build like a boulder, she’d have jostled him till his teeth rattled. “He didn’t set that fire on purpose. You should know him better than that.”

  Wade lifted one dark eyebrow in question, but his mouth remained stern.

  Undeterred, Rachel plowed ahead. “From the short time I’ve been around him, I can tell Jordan’s not a troublemaker.”

  “He could’ve fooled me.” Wade lowered his face to within inches of hers and heaved a frustrated sigh. “I could make a list as long as my arm of the trouble that kid’s been in, just in the last month.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “And it never occurred to you to wonder why?”

  “Because he doesn’t have a mother to keep him in line, that’s why. That’s where you come in.” His slow grin sent shivers of delight coursing down her back.

  But she refused to be distracted. “Jordan wants you to notice him.”

  Wade regarded her with a look half quizzical, half amused. “What are you, a psychologist?”

  She gritted her teeth. “It doesn’t take a psychologist, or a rocket scientist, to see Jordan needs your attention. Today he was trying, all by himself, to fulfill the requirements for a camping award.”

  “What?” At least Wade had the grace to look bewildered.

  “You didn’t know he was working on the project?”

  He flung his arms wide and rolled his eyes. “That’s Ursula’s job.”

  Her temper rising, Rachel scowled. “Your attitude explains why the poor kid’s been struggling on his own to master camping skills.”

  “A camping award isn’t worth burning down my timber,” Wade said, but he sounded less sure of himself than before.

  “He didn’t intend to burn your timber! He was teaching himself to start a fire without matches.”

  Wade massaged the back of his neck as if he had a pain. “Judging from ten acres of ashes, I’d say he’s mastered the technique.”

  Rachel rammed her fists on her hips and lifted her chin to meet Wade’s mellow gaze. “The wind picked up and blew sparks into dry grass. Jordan tried to stomp it out. When that didn’t work, he attempted to beat it out with his shirt. You’re lucky your son wasn’t burned alive trying to save your precious timber.”

  Wade shook his head in disbelief. “All over a camping award?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said? Your son could have been burned to a crisp, a part of those ashes you’re complaining about.”

  For a moment, when his assured expression slipped and doubt glinted in his eyes, she thought she’d made her point.

  Then he broke into a grin. “Now that you’re here, you can keep him safe.”

  “Aargh!”

  Rachel wheeled and hurried toward the house, leaving him alone in the driveway. She shouldn’t have bothered explaining. Despite the compassion Wade had shown her after the train wreck, he was as ignorant as a mule where Jordan was concerned.

  Recalling the boy’s tear-streaked face, Rachel whirled and returned to Wade.

  “Why can’t you get it through your thick head it’s his father’s approval, not some award, that’s important to Jordan?” She poked her finger against the hard muscles of his chest. “The poor kid believes he has to win a medal, just so his own father will love him.”

  She snatched her finger away and clenched her trembling hands at her side, astonished by the strong maternal urge that had overwhelmed her, infusing her with an unfamiliar courage. Either some repressed memory had activated her response, or the skinny little kid had worked some kind of spell on her.

  A glance at Wade made her rethink her last assumption. His eyes, alight with growing awareness, gleamed in the twilight like polished stones. She squirmed beneath his rapt gaze.

  Maybe it wasn’t Jordan who had cast a spell.

  Horrified at her boldness, she raced across the dew-wet grass toward the house, fleeing Wade’s probing scrutiny and the corresponding quiver in her heart.

  WADE WATCHED HER GO. He’d wanted a mother for Jordan, so why wasn’t he delighted when Rachel acted like one?

  Because she’s pointing out your faults.

  He ignored the twinge of conscience. He’d done his best with Jordan, raising the boy as his own dad had raised him, with an iron hand, strict rules and swift and speedy punishment for misbehavior. And he, Wade, had turned out all right, hadn’t he? True, he’d always had more fear than fondness for his father, but the ornery old cuss had taught him right from wrong and how to run a ranch. Passing on those values was more important than love, wasn’t it?

  Besides, Wade had to instill in Jordan a strong moral fiber, so he wouldn’t grow up to be like his mother.

  The memory of Rachel’s green eyes reproached him, and he attempted to relieve his guilty conscience with more excuses, but he was too bone-tired to argue, even with himself. He’d spent hours helping the firefighters hose down hot spots. All he wanted now was a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.

  If that blur of dust coming up the drive from the highway was what he suspected, he wouldn’t enjoy either anytime soon. With regret, he ambled to the front of the house and waited on the porch as the vehicle approached.

  A midnight-blue Mercedes halted in the circular drive behind the line of green Forest Service vehicles with their distinctive yellow shields.

  A tall, blond man, about his own age and dressed in an expensive dark suit with silk tie, French cuffs and tasseled loafers, climbed out and advanced toward the porch.

  “I’m looking for Wade Garrett,” he said.

  Another blasted real estate agent. This one hadn’t even waited for the smoke to clear before swooping down like a vulture after roadkill.

  Wade reined in his temper. “That’s me. Who are you?”

  The stranger offered his hand. His lips smiled, but his blue eyes were cold. “Larry Crutchfield. Dr. Sinclair told me where to reach you.”

  When he realized Crutchfield was no Realtor, Wade squinted in confusion. “What’s this all about?”

  “Rachel O’Riley. I’ve followed her all the way from Atlanta.”

  A black cloud of foreboding settled over Wade, but he invited the man inside. As they crossed the porch, voices drifted from the side yard, where the firefighters lingered after supper.

  “I’m not interrupting a party or something?” Crutchfield asked.

  “Not exactly.” Wade preceded his guest into the hall and opened the door to the living room. “Have a seat.”

  Crutchfield sat on the sofa, looking ready to bolt. Something was making his guest mighty antsy, and Wade, guessing that something had to do with Rachel, felt his own nerves tighten. “You’re here about Rachel?”

  “Is she here? Is she all right?”

  “Why don’t you answer my questions first, seeing as how you’re sitting in my house.”

  Crutchfield nodded. “I’m an attorney.”

  Wade’s eyebrows rose. “Rachel isn’t in trouble with the law?”

  “No.” Crutchfield’s smile was warmer this
time, but the pleasant expression did little to ease Wade’s wariness. “She was a paralegal with my firm before she quit a few weeks ago.”

  “Maybe you could get to the point,” Wade said. “I take it you’re not here to deliver severance pay.”

  Crutchfield cleared his throat with a nervous cough. “I’m here to take Rachel home with me.”

  Crutchfield’s announcement caught Wade by surprise. He narrowed his eyes, considering his visitor in a new light, and a fierce protectiveness toward Rachel swelled inside him. “Why should Rachel go home with you?”

  The lawyer smiled with disturbing self-assurance. “Rachel is my fiancée. We’re supposed to be married next month.”

  Wade sank into the nearest chair. Rachel had never mentioned Crutchfield in her letters. If she really was engaged to someone else, that fact grieved him more than he was willing to admit. But the inconvenience of finding another wife wasn’t what distressed him. Since she’d regained consciousness after the accident, she’d made his life a lot more interesting. In those few short days, he’d taken for granted her sunny smile and pleasant laugh.

  He was reluctant to lose her now, and vowed silently not to let her go. Not unless her memories returned and she convinced him she wanted to. Maybe a breakup with Crutchfield had prompted Rachel to answer Wade’s ad. If she’d agreed to marry Wade because Crutchfield had rejected her, or she’d decided to leave him, Wade would be damned if he’d just hand her over to the attorney.

  And what about Jordan? Who else would care so much so quickly about his son?

  Maybe you should let her go, an inner voice warned. You once loved Maggie, and she brought you nothing but grief.

  But this was different. He didn’t love Rachel, he argued with himself. He just liked having her around. For Jordan’s sake.

  “Dr. Sinclair explained about Rachel’s amnesia,” Crutchfield was saying. “She suggested I not tell Rachel who I am unless she recognizes me.”

  Wade clung to a small hope. “And if she doesn’t?”

  “I’ll take it a day at a time, like the doctor suggested. I can find a place nearby so I’ll be here when her memory returns.”

  With a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, Wade pushed himself to his feet. “There’s only one way to find out if she remembers you. Come with me.”

  Wade led Crutchfield out the front door and around the side of the house. Someone had turned on the outdoor floodlights and lit citronella candles against insects. At the table nearest the kitchen, Rachel sat with Jordan, her head bowed, listening as he read from a book.

  Crutchfield grabbed Wade’s arm, and they paused in the shadows.

  “What is it?” Wade asked.

  Crutchfield nodded toward the crowd. “Where is she?”

  “Don’t you see her? She’s at the back table with my son.”

  Wade’s heart pounded in his throat. Jordan had taken to Rachel immediately. Wade was discovering he himself was more taken with her than he’d been willing to admit. And now they both might lose her to some legal eagle from Atlanta.

  Crutchfield’s gaze scanned the yard. “I see a woman in jeans and a T-shirt, but I don’t see Rachel.”

  Exasperated, Wade called, “Rachel, someone’s here to meet you.”

  She lifted her head and graced him with a smile that pierced him with its sweetness. Or was she looking at Crutchfield? She tousled Jordan’s hair, scooted away from the table and sauntered across the yard toward them.

  “Now do you see her?” Wade asked, angry at Crutchfield’s intrusion and the questions he raised.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Crutchfield said. “I’ve never seen that woman before. She’s not Rachel O’Riley.”

  Chapter Five

  Wade’s first reaction was relief. Rachel wasn’t Crutchfield’s fiancée, and the attorney wouldn’t be taking her back to Atlanta, even if her memories returned.

  Then the ramifications hit him. If the woman who could make his heart stutter like he’d been kicked in the chest wasn’t the Rachel O’Riley who’d answered his ad, who was she?

  Worry gripped him in a choke hold. Maybe she was already married. His face must have mirrored his emotions. Rachel was watching him as she strode across the grass, and her welcoming smile wavered.

  He leaned toward Crutchfield and whispered, “Let me handle this. Just follow my lead.”

  Wade threw his arm around her shoulder when she reached them. “Rachel, this is Larry Crutchfield.”

  Rachel’s appraisal of Crutchfield took in his expensive suit and tie, which stuck out from the jeans and work shirts of Wade and the volunteers like a mule in a horse show. She offered her hand with a quizzical smile. “Are you from the insurance company?”

  Crutchfield’s expression would have been funny under different circumstances, but Wade wasn’t laughing. He latched on to Rachel’s assumption. “Right. He’s a claims adjuster, here about the fire. We’ve got business to discuss.”

  “But Jordan’s waiting for you,” Rachel said.

  Feistiness heightened the color in her cheeks, reminding Wade of her spirited championing of his boy earlier. Obviously, she wasn’t going to let him off the hook tonight without resolving Jordan’s problem, but he could deal with only one crisis at a time.

  “I won’t be long.” He grabbed Crutchfield’s elbow, swung him back toward the house and lowered his voice. “We need to talk, Crutchfield, but not here.”

  He hurried the attorney toward the front of the house, while Rachel returned to Jordan.

  “Where is my Rachel?” Crutchfield demanded.

  Wade took the porch steps three at a time and opened the screen door. “Rachel O’Riley is your problem. That woman—” he jerked his head toward the yard “—is mine. She was brought into the county hospital after a train wreck, with Rachel O’Riley’s identification card in her wallet. Because her memory’s gone, she thinks she’s Rachel. I did, too, until now.”

  The lawyer resumed the seat he’d occupied earlier. “How did she end up with you?”

  “Wait here.” Wade wheeled out of the room and sprinted upstairs, hoping the evidence he sought would prove Crutchfield wrong. He had only Crutchfield’s word that the woman wasn’t Rachel O’Riley. In the guest room, he retrieved Rachel’s ID card with its dark undecipherable photograph before gathering her letters from his own room.

  Crutchfield was pacing in front of the stone fireplace when Wade returned and handed him the ID. “Is this the Rachel O’Riley you’re looking for?”

  Crutchfield studied it, then removed a slim alligator wallet from his suit jacket and pulled out a picture. “This is Rachel.”

  Wade took the color studio portrait and crumpled into his chair. The female smiling up at him, although she had green eyes, held no other resemblance to the Rachel he knew, but the signature on the back of the picture was identical to the handwriting of his letters.

  “That’s Rachel O’Riley,” Crutchfield said. “Not the woman outside.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “My fiancée doesn’t even resemble this other woman,” Crutchfield pointed out.

  Wade agreed.

  “Now will you tell me your connection with Rachel O’Riley?” Crutchfield said.

  Wade felt a pang of sympathy for the attorney as he handed over Rachel’s letters. Crutchfield scanned them hurriedly, then tossed them on the coffee table in disgust.

  “This is all Aunt Myra’s fault. She tried to convince me not to marry Rachel, said Rachel wasn’t from a socially acceptable background. Her family were farmers, you know,” he said with a hint of condescension. “But I was willing to marry her in spite of that.”

  Wade nodded, annoyed by Crutchfield’s pretentious tone. “Does your fiancée know you’re following her?”

  “She spotted me in Chicago from the train window. I arrived just as it was leaving the station.”

  Wade wondered if the real Rachel O’Riley had fled because of Aunt Myra, or if she’d finally realized what a
jerk her fiancée was.

  “The real Rachel must have changed her mind about marrying me,” Wade said, “and switched identities when…my Rachel lost consciousness in the accident.”

  Crutchfield’s expression brightened. “So if I stay until your Rachel remembers who she is, I can track my fiancée using that name.”

  Wade drew himself to his full height, three inches taller than the lawyer. “Except you won’t be hanging around here. That woman has suffered a terrible trauma. She believes she’s Rachel O’Riley. If she discovers she’s not before her memories start to return, her recovery could be set back, maybe forever. I can’t risk having you around.”

  The lawyer regarded him with a dark glint of menace in his eyes. “You can’t stop me.”

  Wade hooked his thumbs in his pockets and drilled his visitor with a frigid stare. “But the law can. I’ll post No Trespassing signs, and if you come within a foot of that woman, I’ll have you charged with harassment. Better yet, stalking.”

  “You forget you’re dealing with a lawyer.”

  Wade’s expression hardened. “And you’ll be dealing with me and Dan Howard, the sheriff of this county and my best friend. He and my ranch hands will make sure you leave us alone.”

  Crutchfield’s menacing look faded. “I was planning to follow up on the train wreck anyway. Trace the whereabouts of the other female passengers.”

  Wade shook his head at the attorney’s failure to grasp the significance of his fiancée’s disappearance. “Why don’t you go back to Atlanta? Rachel O’Riley doesn’t want you. Why else would she have gone to so much trouble to disappear?”

  Crutchfield’s cocky expression returned. “How could she not want to marry me? She just needed time to get her head straight.”

  Wade held his temper and his tongue. Arguing with the arrogant Crutchfield was a waste of breath.

  The attorney snatched up the color portrait, pivoted and left. Wade followed him to the front porch and watched him climb into his Mercedes and roar down the drive.

  Larry Crutchfield was a sidewinder, for sure, and Wade would make certain the oily lawyer wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of Rachel.