Kristine Rolofson - The Husband Project

Between the children, whom he liked, and the mother-in-law, who had a right to be suspicious, Sam was definitely out of his element.

The beautiful Lucia Swallow, with all that silky black hair and laughing eyes and a body that a goddess would envy, had tempted him. Loneliness had made him stupid. Boredom had made him reckless.

Lucia needed a man like Jerry Thompson, a guy with roots. Sam had walked past Jerry’s house on his way to buy the flowers. It was an impressive home, easily the grandest in town. Sam shuddered at the thought of living in a home like that. He’d spent much of his childhood dreaming of escaping the house with the wide staircase and the gleaming floors.

He’d been crazy to invite himself to go with Lucia to the concert, but he didn’t know how to get out of it without lying to her.

Dear Reader,

Last autumn, after spending three months without television, the first show I watched in a Montana motel room was something I’d never seen before: River Monsters , on the Animal Planet channel. I have never pretended to be the least bit outdoorsy, but there was something about the combination of myth, mystery, dangerous locations and fishing for “the big one” that entranced me. I was, if you’ll forgive the expression, hooked. The show’s host, handsome and articulate adventurer Jeremy Wade, had his own appeal, so I gave The Husband Project’s hero some of Mr. Wade’s adventurous attributes.

I so hope you love the townspeople of Willing, Montana, as much as I do. I’ve spent so many months with them and want them all to live happily ever after. I’d love to hear from you and promise to answer any and all emails. Thank you so much for spending time in Willing with me.

Love,

Kristine Rolofson

kristinerolofson@hotmail.com

www.kristinerolofson.wordpress.com

www.welcometowillingmontana.wordpress.com

The Husband Project

Kristine Rolofson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Author of more than forty novels for Harlequin, Kristine Rolofson (along with her husband of forty-two years) divides her time between Rhode Island, Idaho and Texas, where her handsome and brilliant grandson entertains her with drum solos. When not writing, she quilts, bakes peach pies, plays the fiddle and sings in a country blues band. She collects vintage cowboy boots and will not tell you how many are in her closet.

To Glen, who watched endless hours of River Monsters with me and did everything he could to be quiet while I wrote this book.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

SAM HOVE TOLD three people where he was going.

His agent was thrilled at the news. Surely in a place without temptations Sam would finish writing his book at last. The manuscript was long overdue and, according to Robert, was certain to be well received. At least by fellow anglers and zoologists.

His doctor took note of the location. Willing, Montana? Where the heck was that? He then reminded Sam to call if he had any questions and wished him luck. He also asked Sam to autograph a photo for his kids.

His best friend and cameraman— Well, who knew what he thought, since he’d been much harder to contact directly. Russ was in the Amazon again. Sam had left a message in Belize with Russ’s latest unstable girlfriend. Russ preferred women “on the edge,” he’d once explained. Sam kept his opinions to himself. Women—“on the edge” or otherwise—were either a luxury or an irritation that Sam couldn’t afford.

Not that it mattered to a man with a damaged heart and three cracked ribs.

A surprisingly easy flight dropped him and his two battered leather bags in Billings, where he’d arranged, via the internet, for transportation to Willing. Finding a way to make getting to Willing work hadn’t been easy, but Sam had tracked down someone online who knew someone who knew someone. Samuel Barlow Hove was accustomed to getting wherever he wanted to go. In fact, he’d made a living out of it.

A tall young man standing next to a black Cadillac SUV the size of a tank waved at him. He’d parked along the curb and seemed oblivious to the swirling snow.

“Mr. Hove?”

“Theo Porterman?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied, and walked swiftly over to shake Sam’s hand. He looked about twenty-five, with a large square face, an easy smile and hands like a wrestler’s. Theo happened to be an auto mechanic who lived in Willing and he supplemented his income by chauffeuring when a trip happened to coincide with picking up auto parts.

“You visiting someone in town, Mr. Hove?” Theo, wearing a flannel shirt, thick vest and jeans, hefted Sam’s two bags into the backseat, then settled himself behind the wheel. He kept his leather gloves on. “Cold day,” he said, adjusting the heater knobs.

“Sam. And no, I’m working,” he replied, climbing awkwardly into the passenger seat. He’d known Montana would be cold, but the wind and the snow surprised him. He was grateful for his new wool shirt and down jacket, not to mention the waterproof boots, all compliments of Cabela’s online catalog.

He shivered and made a mental note to order more wool socks. The landlord had promised internet service, along with other amenities.

“So you’re working in Willing? You must be from California.” Theo headed west on the interstate and turned on the windshield wipers to bat away the splats of snow hitting the glass.

“Why is that?”

“We’ve had some Hollywood people visiting here lately.” Theo turned the defroster knob.

“No, I’m from—” He hesitated, thinking over his reply. He leased a room in Florida when he wasn’t working in the Amazon and had avoided his home state of New York for almost twenty years. “I’ve recently been working in South America.”

“Really? I’ve never been there. What do you do?”

“I work on documentaries. And I’m a writer,” he admitted. “Sometimes.”

“Like now?”

“Yeah. Like now.” Sam looked out the window and saw nothing green. Just gray and white and flat, which was pretty much what he’d expected. How long had it been since he’d seen snow? And why had he thought he wanted to live in it for the next three months? He ignored the renewed aching in his side and attempted to make conversation. “I hear Willing is a pretty small town.”

“You’ve never been there?”

“Not yet.”

“Huh?”

Clearly, that baffled the driver, so Sam tried to explain.

“A guy I met told me about it. I needed a quiet place to write for a few months. Someplace the opposite of a jungle.”

“It’s quiet in Willing all right. Most of the time. You can’t tell now,” Theo said, fiddling with the defroster. “But there’s no town prettier in the spring or summer or fall. Too bad you won’t be here longer so you could see for yourself.”

“I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it,” Sam said. “I’ll be out of here before April.”

“You’re staying at Meg’s?”

“Meg’s?”

“She has some cabins for rent at the Willing Café,” Theo explained. “They’re small, but okay for one person long-term, I imagine.”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.” He pulled a worn notebook from his jacket pocket and thumbed through it until he found the address. “I’m renting a house from Willing Properties. Two eighty Janet Street. An executive rental.”