Judith Bowen Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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 Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Preview

  Copyright

  She was marrying a man she’d never even kissed.

  This wasn’t a dream. She was marrying Fraser McKenna, after all.

  The man who stood beside her tall and strong, dressed unfamiliarly in suit and tie—where were the jeans and sheepskin vest?—this man was about to become her husband.

  Martha’s heart beat so quickly she thought she’d faint She heard the girls—her daughters-to-be—giggle somewhere behind her and heard Birdie LeBlanc’s “Shh.” The LeBlancs, like Fraser’s other neighbors, had been shocked but at the same time delighted by the news. Probably half of them thought she was already pregnant.

  Pay attention, she told herself. You’re marrying this man beside you, a man you barely know, for better and for worse.

  But no matter where their marriage went in the future, even if it ended one day, every vow she uttered this hour, this minute, came straight from her heart.

  “Judith Bowen’s books are a treat. Her talent for spinning a powerful story gives wonderful dimension and depth to her characters. Add to this the clarity and quality of her writing and the end product is a smooth blending of insight and emotion that I envy.”

  —Catherine Spencer

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Like her heroine, Judith Bowen worked as a journalist; she turned to fiction when her children were born. Her own childhood was spent in an Alberta logging camp “in the bush.” She’s traveled throughout the world and held a number of fascinating jobs—which include working in a fishing lodge, farming on Prince Edward Island and raising sheep in British Columbia’s Fraser Valley. She’s adept at spinning wool and knitting, as well as exploring traditional ways of preparing food.

  Judith lives in a historic farming and fishing community in British Columbia with her husband—head of the journalism department at a nearby college—and their three children and assorted pets.

  The Man From Blue River is her first Superromance novel (an impressive debut!) but she’s published a number of previous romance novels and has won the National Readers’ Choice Award. She loves to write about “people living interesting lives in the outdoor landscapes I know best—ranch country, lumber country, the mountains and the sea.”

  The Man from Blue River

  Judith Bowen

  To my son, Christian. Kindred spirit. And to Christine David. Loyal friend.

  CHAPTER ONE

  AN UNDERDONE BURGER with a heap of greasy fries on the side, a limp pickle, maybe some half-cooked onions stuck to the top of the bun. That bright yellow ballpark mustard for sure. You’d expect something like that from a diner called Mom’s.

  But change a person’s life forever?

  Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have pulled off the interstate just then. It was early, not quite five o’clock. Maybe she should’ve gone on to Rock Springs, checked in at a Howard Johnson’s, found a Denny’s. At least she’d heard of Rock Springs.

  But she was hungry now. And her shoulders felt cramped from driving for so long and hanging on to the wheel so hard. She didn’t mean to; it was just that after a while, she’d notice her fingers were tight on the wheel, her knuckles white with the strain of it, her shoulders all hunched up and watchful. Then she’d let go. But pretty soon, it’d happen all over again.

  Still…what had she heard so many times? Never play poker with a man called Ace, never eat at a place called Mom’s—and what was that last piece of homely advice Uncle Nate used to drum into the cousins? She couldn’t remember. At least she could still smile. That was something.

  So she pulled into the parking lot of the diner called Mom’s and got out of the car and stretched. The air was country-clean and thick with the smell of desert and cold dried-up riverbeds and maybe, way, way in the distance, snow. Part of the Continental Divide wound through here, she knew. The Wind River Mountains. She’d driven through the Rattlesnakes and the Green Mountains already today. Tomorrow she’d tackle the Wind Rivers. Maybe.

  And the diner? Well, it was exactly what she expected. A little run-down, a little cramped, the typed menu blurred under its plastic cover. Most of the prices had been crossed out and updated with ballpoint pen. There was no sign of “Mom,” which Martha considered a good sign. A middle-aged man in a stained shirt, with a fairly clean white apron around his paunch, acknowledged her from behind the counter.

  “What can I get ya, hon?”

  She smiled, taking no offense at the familiarity, that was just how they talked out West. She’d already discovered that. “Grilled cheese on brown and a vanilla milk shake. Thanks.”

  What could go wrong with grilled cheese?

  Two men in baseball caps and cowboy boots drank beer from cans at the back of the diner. They looked as though they’d been there for a while. Both turned to give her long, level, mildly curious stares before settling onto their elbows again, bellies shoved up against the scarred Formica counter, full male attention centered on the television set in the corner. The Kings were playing the Sabres.

  Martha Thomas wasn’t used to being ignored. It took real effort sometimes to realize that part of her life was over. She didn’t have a column in a city daily twice a week anymore, she no longer co-hosted KBRT’s celebrity food show, she was no longer a busy woman with a solid professional past, a history, a reputation—a woman who commanded and received respect. All of it gone. Vanished. Because of the kind of bottom-line mentality she’d never thought they’d see on the Post. But then, she’d never thought the old man would sell out, either.

  At thirty-five, she was out of a job. No sense crying over what couldn’t be changed. That wasn’t the way the Thomases did things. Opportunity. She had to see this time in the wilderness as an opportunity, she told herself determinedly for the millionth time. Nothing but genuine gold-plated opportunity.

  She picked up the ink-smudged weekly someone had abandoned on the vinyl bench seat and spread it before her on the tabletop, scanning the headlines quickly, professionally: Water Table Record Low. Library Hosts Laramie Author.

  “Here ya go, miss.”

  She smiled up at the man who brought her meal. “Thanks.” He must be combination cook and waiter.

  “Passing through?”

  It was harmless enough, but she felt her insides tense. Why was she so jumpy these days? With an effort, she relaxed.

  “Yes.” She nodded and reached for her sandwich. “Hey, this looks good.” She decided to ignore the fact that it was on sliced white, not brown as she’d ordered. And the milk shake was served, old-fashion style, right in the stainless steel container in which it had been made. She took a sip. Mmm, thick and cold and creamy, just as she’d hoped. A place like Mom’s probably didn’t stock brown bread. No call for it.

  The man stood there, waiting for her to elaborate on her answer. Just friendly, that was all.

  “I thought I’d go on through to Tewson tonight. Do you know if there are any hotels there? Motels?” She was too tired to think of driving on to the next decentsize place on the map.
It was Thursday and she’d been on the road ten days already. No one expected her. No one expected her anywhere on God’s green earth. She chewed her sandwich slowly—pretty good, really, with the kind of sticky orange processed cheese she’d always secretly liked.

  The man nodded, then moved back behind the counter. “Older hotel there, but clean enough. The Tewson Arms. Ma Jamieson runs it. Just past the lights, you can’t miss it. And you won’t need no reservation.” He grinned, and she smiled back. “Least not until the rodeo comes to town, and that ain’t till the end of next July.”

  Martha took another bite. Even on sliced white, the sandwich tasted delicious. She hadn’t realized until now that, except for a handful of peanuts and some juice, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And that had been where? Sheridan? Gillette? Her mind was beginning to play games.

  Thirteen years at the Post and then—bam!—out the door. New owners, new bottom line, new management. New broom. Instead of the mid-career promotion she’d expected, they’d handed her a buyout. “Take a long holiday, you owe it to yourself,” her producer at the television station had said. “There’ll be work for you when you’re ready to come back.”

  Yes, she’d left town with her head held high, her apartment sublet. But maybe she’d been hasty. What was she going to do for the next couple of months? Wander around and see the West? Be a tourist? Head for Palm Springs for a long-overdue visit, as her mother had suggested when Martha called to give her the bad news about the Post?

  “Piece of pie, miss? Lemon, apple, blueberry, pumpkin?”

  “No, thanks.” Pumpkin? Gosh, she could just imagine. Sometimes the instinctive reactions of a food critic were a nuisance. “Too full. The sandwich is very good.”

  The man shrugged and swiped at the counter with his none-too-clean rag Martha glanced again at the weekly in front of her as she finished her shake. She turned a page, saw a story about some midnight vandal who’d let all the dogs out of the local pound. That made her smile. She noticed the recipe column, a syndicated piece she’d seen before, then let her gaze fall idly to the want ads. She ran her eye down them quickly—halfton for sale, low mileage, no rust; estate items, best offer; wanted, dry firewood…

  Then her throat seemed to close up, and she could hardly swallow the last bite of her sandwich. There it was, in bold black and white:

  WANTED: Lady companion for two girls. Remote location. No cooking/housekeeping required. Suitable applicants apply in own handwriting to Box G, c/o Tewson Times, Tewson, Wyoming, or see Mrs. Violet Jamieson…

  That would be Ma Jamieson. Lady companion. Martha felt the blood rush to her face, but she didn’t glance up at the man who ran Mom’s. She didn’t think she needed to draw attention to her sudden interest in the classified section of the Tewson Times. Interviews were Saturday, two days from now. Remote, a job anybody could do, even me, something to keep me occupied for a few months, while I lick my wounds, while I make plans… This was the kind of coincidence you couldn’t get away with in fiction, yet in real life it happened all the time.

  Martha paid for her meal and left, taking the newspaper with her. She didn’t realize until she got outside that her hands were shaking.

  She looked around. Not a living thing moved in the vast open landscape. Rolling hills, sagebrush, dark forbidding mountains in the distance. A deep blue sky shot with the gold of the lowering sun. Not a sound, either, beyond the tinny distant roar of the hockey crowd from the television set in Mom’s.

  And the wind. Wind that tugged at her hair, at her newspaper, at the edges of her jacket. Did it ever stop? The low moan made her bones ache. Martha hugged herself and shivered.

  Gorgeous, yes. Wyoming was gorgeous. But was it the sort of place anybody could call home? Even for a few short months?

  SATURDAY DAWNED bright and blue.

  Martha stopped at the door of the hotel room she’d been directed to and took a deep breath. How did she look? She’d tied her hair back neatly with a scarf. Glancing down, she bent to rub her palm over the stubborn wrinkles that had remained in her linen skirt even after hanging in the bathroom overnight. The matching cardigan and a turquoise silk shell, also slightly creased, would have to do.

  Modesty, that was the ticket, she’d decided Thursday night when she’d found the Tewson Arms and checked in. After all, anybody who’d place an ad for a “lady companion” in this day and age had to be a pretty old-fashioned kind of person.

  Man? Woman? She had no idea.

  She hadn’t dreamed she’d be applying for a job. Yet even casually dressed and somewhat rumpled as she was, she knew she was probably overdressed by local standards. Society events in Tewson apparently ran to the type of boisterous party that had echoed throughout the hotel the night before. A stag party, a proud Ma Jamieson had informed her, for Judd Barker’s oldest boy, who was getting married next month over in Rock Springs.

  Martha had smiled. Most hotel owners, she was sure, would have been ticked off to find such a rough-andtumble party in progress on their premises. Maybe would even have called the sheriff. Not Ma Jamieson. But then, this was Tewson, Wyoming. Heck, in Tewson, Wyoming, the sheriff was probably at the party.

  Martha straightened, took another deep calming breath, then rapped briskly. A small girl of perhaps eight opened the door.

  She stared at Martha.

  Martha smiled. “May I come in? I’ve got an appointment for ten o’clock.”

  “Oh!” The girl flung the door open wide. “Come right in, ma’am.” An even smaller pajama-clad girl sat on a sofa in front of a blaring television set, thumb in mouth, bedraggled toy kangaroo drawn up against her side. She held her thumb aloft for a couple of seconds, gave Martha a shy smile, then popped it back in and returned her attention to “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.” This child was blond. The girl who’d let her in had dark hair that stuck out wildly around her small, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were black as midnight.

  “I told you to turn off that TV, Daisy,” the older girl hissed suddenly. “And you better get dressed. See who’s here?” She sent her sister a deeply significant look.

  “Ma’am, please sit down.” Martha took the chair that the older girl rather grandly indicated, one of three drawn up to a wooden table in an alcove of the old-fashioned room. The girl hooked her thin legs around the rungs of the opposite chair and leaned forward on her elbows.

  The room was a little larger than the one she’d been assigned on the third floor, Martha noted, high-ceilinged and with a connecting door in one wall. Similar decor. Pre-Reno wild West. Old ceilings tin-stamped and painted. The door no doubt led to another room such as this, a common arrangement in older hotels. It was probably locked.

  Who was taking care of these children? There was no evidence of an adult’s presence in the room, not even a suitcase that looked like it might belong to some grown-up. Two soft-sided nylon bags, one bright red, one bright blue, sagged on the floor by the bed, spilling forth clothing and toys. The girl staring at her remained silent. It was most disconcerting.

  Martha cleared her throat. “I’m Martha Thomas,” she said, thinking she might as well take the bull by the horns. “Er, Mrs. Martha Thomas.” That was the lie she’d put on her application at the last moment, but Martha had thought it wouldn’t matter for the short while she’d have the job and the “Mrs.” might sound more mature and trustworthy to a prospective employer. Especially one looking for a “lady” companion.

  “What’s your name, dear?” The “dear” might have been a mistake. The girl’s eyes darkened ominously.

  “Anne. That’s Anne with an e.” Something rang faintly in Martha’s memory. What was it?

  “Is not,” came a small voice from the sofa. The thumb was again suspended. “Is not Anne—”

  “Is, too!” was the fierce response. The blond girl replaced the thumb and stared at the screen, apparently losing interest.

  “It’s Blossom Anne Langston.” The girl held Martha’s gaze defiantly, chin up, as if daring her to com
ment. “And that there’s my baby sister, Daisy Langston.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Anne. I suppose you know why I’m here?” The girl nodded. “Is your mommy or your daddy here to meet me? Or whoever’s taking care of you?” Perhaps they were orphans.

  “Our ma’s dead.”

  “Is not,” came the small voice again.

  “She is too dead, Daisy! Don’t say she ain’t.”

  “Just gone away. That’s what Fraser says.” The thumb disappeared, then emerged again, its owner apparently thinking of something to add. “She’s gonna come back and surprise us and bring us lotsa presents like she always does.”

  “Daisy, you don’t know nothin’!” Her sister scowled fiercely. “And Fraser don’t know nothin’, either. He just wants us to think that, that’s all. You better hurry and get dressed, before Fraser catches you or you’re gonna be in big trouble.”

  She turned back to Martha. “My ma’s dead,” she repeated. The flat hopelessness of the statement caught at Martha’s heart. Poor motherless child!

  Who—and where—was this Fraser person? She needed to change the subject. “How old are you, Anne?” In her experience, which she had to admit was pretty limited, kids never seemed to mind nosy questions.

  “Ten goin’ on ‘leven,” she said promptly, adding matter-of-factly, “I’m kinda small for my age.”

  Martha smiled. Anne leaned toward her and whispered loudly, “Daisy’s only just turned five. That’s why she don’t know nothin’.”

  “Do too! Do too!”

  Anne ignored her sister. She continued to stare at Martha, who was beginning to feel as Alice might have felt after she’d tumbled into Wonderland. Nothing quite made sense.