Charlotte Douglas - Montana Mail-Order Wife

“We call this God’s country,” he said. “Bet you’ve never seen this part of Montana before.”

She laughed with bittersweet humor. “That’s a safe bet. Even if I had, I wouldn’t remember.”

On the narrow, two-lane road, they traveled past broad pastures where cattle grazed, and sped through intermittent stands of cedars and pines. A cloudless sky of vivid blue arched above the endless miles.

She rolled down her window and inhaled the fragrance of warm grasses and invigorating pine. “It’s good to breathe fresh air instead of the smell of antiseptic.”

“You’re an outdoor girl. Maybe,” he said with rough gentleness as he slowed the truck, “living on the ranch will jar your memories loose.”

“Maybe.”

Wade lifted his hand from the wheel and gave hers an encouraging squeeze. “You mustn’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

His touch cheered her. With hope, she clung to the expectation that her past would soon be restored, and rejected the possibility of her memory loss being permanent. Dr. Sinclair had advised her not to worry about her amnesia, but to take one day at a time.

Wade turned off the blacktop and drove beneath an arched sign of rough-hewn timber with Longhorn Valley Ranch burned into the wood in tall, rustic letters.

His face lit with pride as he pointed west across a wide pasture edged on the far side by a curving line of trees. “The river runs through our property there. The Garretts have owned these grazing lands and forests for over a century.”

She envied his heritage, stretching back a hundred years. He belonged to the land. She could hear the attachment in his voice, see it in his eyes.

She belonged nowhere.

The truck had proceeded only a hundred yards between the ancient cedars that lined the drive when the acrid stench of smoke filled the cab.

She wrinkled her nose. “What’s burning?”

Wade slammed on the brakes, swung out of the truck and lifted his face to the wind. Blowing out of the east, the breeze reeked of burning wood.

“There.” He indicated smoke rising from a stand of mature trees.

“A forest fire. On your land?”

He nodded and his mouth hardened into a grim line. “My best timber, ready for harvest.”

He leaped back into the truck and, with a grinding of gears, floored the accelerator. She braced against the door as the truck bounced along the miles of dirt track beneath the trees. Within a few minutes, the road ended in a circular drive in front of a large house, and the pickup screeched to a halt.

Two sprawling stories made of weathered logs, with a wide porch shaded by rambler roses heavy with crimson blooms, the century-old house sat between two gigantic ponderosa pines. Although Wade had said she’d never visited his ranch before, she experienced an illogical sensation of coming home.

Her rush of pleasure at the sight of the stalwart but gracious house was interrupted by the shout of a tiny woman, white haired and frail, who waited on the front porch, her hands wrapped in her apron. “Wade Garrett, you came up that drive like a bat outta hell. Ain’t no sense in getting yourself killed over a little fire.”

Wade wrenched open the door and jumped from the truck. “A little fire! It’s dry season, Ursula, and the wind’s blowing! The whole mountain could go up in flames.”

“No need to panic.” Ursula appeared unruffled by Wade’s outburst. “The Forest Service and volunteers already have everything under control. I’m fixing to feed ’em supper soon as they finish mopping up.”

Rachel climbed down from the cab. “If you’re expecting a crowd, may I help?”

She’d taken a chance, asking. She didn’t remember if she could cook, but memories weren’t required to wash dishes.

Ursula’s smile subtracted years from her weathered face, and she extended a gnarled hand. “You must be Rachel. Thanks for offering.”

The old woman’s demeanor conveyed not only welcome but acceptance, and as Rachel shook her hand, she experienced again an impression of homecoming.

Wade pivoted and headed back to his truck. “I’d better see if they need help.”

“You got more important work—” Ursula jerked her thumb toward the house “—upstairs.”

Wade turned. “Jordan? Is he hurt?”

Rachel registered a shock of empathy at the fear and concern on Wade’s face.

“No,” Ursula said, “but he’s in his room, crying his eyes out, afraid you’ll tan his hide good this time.”

“You know I’ve never laid a hand on…” He glanced toward the smoking pines. “Jordan started the fire?”

Feeling like an intruder, Rachel retreated into the shade of the porch, but she couldn’t avoid the argument between Wade and his housekeeper.

“Don’t be too hard on the boy,” Ursula said. “He was just trying to please you.”

“By burning down my best timber? I’ll—”

“Wade Garrett!” Ursula drilled him with a scowl. “For the past twenty years, you’ve been like a son to me, but if you don’t start giving that boy what he needs, I swear, I’ll disown you.”

Wade yanked off his hat, slapped it against his thigh and pointed at Rachel. “I’ve brought him what he needs. A mother.”

Rachel flinched as the full impact of mail-order bride status hit her. Wade had treated her with no more respect than some fourth-class package.

Ursula stepped toward Wade and shook her finger at him. “Sometimes I think you couldn’t pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel—”

“Tell Jordan I’ll talk to him at supper.” Wade crushed his hat back on and strode to the truck. With a ferocious grinding of gears, he peeled off in a flurry of dust.

Ursula climbed the porch steps as if her arthritis pained her, and approached Rachel. “Thank God, you’re here, girl. Don’t mind Wade’s rough ways. He’s all heart underneath his bluster. But both Wade and Jordan, they need you more than you could ever imagine.”

Rachel watched the haze of dust that marked Wade’s progress toward the fire. She didn’t doubt his love for Jordan. In the surprising outburst from the man who had impressed her with his even-tempered nature, she had recognized his frustration over Jordan’s mischief.

Most telling of all, Wade obviously believed all his boy needed to cure his troubles was a mother.

Rachel wasn’t so sure. After all, she wasn’t the boy’s mother, but a total stranger. Not the woman his father loved, only someone who had responded to a personal ad. And any skills or experience she might once have used to benefit a troubled boy lay buried deep in her damaged psyche.

With a sinking sensation that she’d stumbled into more than she could handle, Rachel followed Ursula into the house.

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