Man From Montana. Brenda Mott

a spray of dust and gravel, the Torino skidded onto the shoulder of the road, missing the bull by inches. The car fishtailed, and Derrick cranked the wheel in a desperate attempt to regain control. The right rear tire slid, then the front end whipped around—too far. And everything seemed to move in slow motion.

      Grass and rock scraped the undercarriage. The fender struck a wooden post as the Torino rocketed across the shallow ditch, through a barbed wire fence. And rolled down the incline of the cow pasture.

      Derrick couldn’t get his bearings. Couldn’t even tell which end was up. His head smacked the steering wheel, and his vision swam, then went black.

      He awoke to silence. Disoriented.

      Where was he? He blinked, then looked around as he remembered.

      Nick’s Chevelle was nowhere in sight. He and Jason had taken off, leaving Derrick in the middle of a pasture? Amazingly, the Torino had landed upright after rolling.

      His prized possession—the car—had meant so much to him. But suddenly it meant nothing at all as the significance of the silence hit him.

      “Connor?”

      His heart leapt in his chest as he twisted around to look into the back.

      Connor sat slumped in the twisted safety seat, a streak of blood darkening his brown curls. Glass from the shattered windshield lay everywhere. It covered Connor’s T-shirt, his jeans….

      Dear God! Derrick fumbled with his seat belt. How could he have been so stupid? The buckle gave, and he clambered over the seat to reach his little boy.

      “Connor? Hey, buddy.” Hands shaking, he touched his son’s neck and felt the faint flutter of a pulse. “Conner, wake up. Please?” He muttered a prayer.

      What had he done?

      He wanted to pull his son into his lap. But should he move him? Why the hell wasn’t anybody coming down the road?

      Frantically, he looked up. He thought he heard an approaching car…. Relief coursed through him when he saw the minivan. Derrick pushed against the door of the car, but it was caved in—jammed shut.

      “Help me!” He beat it with his fist, glass shards cutting his hand. “Somebody help me—help my son!”

      It took him a moment to hear the man. The Good Samaritan who’d rushed from the minivan. “Are you okay, kid?”

      “Yeah—I—” He looked at Connor.

      “I called 911.”

      Three numbers that had meant little to Derrick before now.

      Three numbers that held his only hope that Connor would be all right.

      He stared at Connor and prayed.

      CHAPTER ONE

      May 2005

      KARA WOKE UP IN THE GRIP of a nightmare. Heart racing, she sat up in bed, covered in sweat. She switched on the bedside lamp as she looked at the clock. 3:00 a.m. She pushed her damp hair away from her eyes and swung her feet to the floor. Ever watchful, Lady looked up at Kara with intelligent brown eyes.

      “Hey, Lady. Good girl.” She stroked the collie’s ruff, taking comfort in her presence. In the kitchen, she poured a glass of water and leaned against the sink while she drank. Would the nightmares never stop?

      In her wildest imagination, Kara never would have seen herself as a widow at thirty. In her nightmares, she relived over and over again the knock on her door.

      Every night it was the same. Evan’s best friend and construction partner stood on the porch. Tom looked at her with such agony, she knew something awful had happened before he even spoke. Evan was never coming home again.

      Kara forced herself to go back to bed. But she left the lamp on and tuned the radio to her favorite country station. Grateful it was Saturday, which meant the bank was closed and she didn’t have to work, she slept fitfully. Sunlight woke her the second time. Streaming through the window, it gave the false impression everything was right and wonderful. Like a thousand other times in the past eight months, Kara only wanted to pull the drapes, crawl back in bed and sleep.

      But she got up. She had to. Having Lady helped. The dog depended on her for everything. Kara let her out, then fed her.

      She had quickly learned that exercise was one of the best ways to help lift herself out of depression. So after a shower and a light breakfast, she phoned Danita. No answer. Odd. Weather permitting, Danita rode with her almost every Saturday, even when it wasn’t a Ride Away weekend. No matter; she’d stop at her house on her way to the stable. It was the warmest day this May so far, and she wasn’t about to waste a moment of it.

      From the spare bedroom that served as her tack room, Kara retrieved her saddle and carried it outside. She swung it into the back of the ’78 Ford pickup that had been Evan’s pride and joy, feeling his presence the way she always did…in everything he’d touched…. Lady tagged at her heels, waiting eagerly for Kara to open the passenger door.

      “You wanna ride shotgun, hey, girl?” Kara laughed and let the collie in.

      As she neared Danita’s house on the corner, Kara spotted her best friend in the backyard, by the barbecue grill. She waved, but Danita didn’t respond; didn’t even seem to see her. Kara rounded the corner and parked in the driveway.

      “Hey, you,” she called as she opened the backyard gate. “What’s up?” Then Danita turned and Kara realized her eyes were red-rimmed, her expression furious.

      “I’m having a ritual burning, that’s what.” She flung lighter fluid in a wild arc, soaking a pile of photographs and the torn remains of an album, then lit a match. Flames shot up with a whoosh.

      Kara gasped. “Danita—my God, those are your wedding photos! What are you doing?” She laid a hand on her friend’s arm.

      “I’m burning every last trace of that cheating bastard out of my life, that’s what,” Danita said with a sniff. She tossed another stack of photos onto the fire.

      “What?” She couldn’t have heard right. Childhood sweethearts, Danita and Phillip had been happily married for twenty-two years. They had a grown daughter…a beautiful home. But then, she knew all too well that change and tragedy struck without warning. Kara tugged on Danita’s arm. “Come sit down and tell me what happened.”

      The older woman allowed herself to be led to the patio table, where the two sat on her cushioned, wrought-iron chairs. “I caught him red-handed,” Danita said without preamble. “I came home from work early last night because I wasn’t feeling well. And there he was—in our bed, damn it! With one of his clients. Guess he took the massage therapy thing to a whole new level.” Danita’s dark eyes flooded and she blinked back tears, then blew her nose into a tissue. “Happy frickin’ anniversary to me, huh?” She sniffed loudly. “We were supposed to go out to dinner this weekend to celebrate. How could that bastard do this?” She slammed her fist onto the table, causing the terra-cotta flowerpot to jump on its plate.

      Kara tried not to let her mouth gape. “I don’t even know what to say. My God! You should have called me. You could’ve stayed the night at my place.” She shook her head. “I never, ever would’ve thought Phillip would cheat on you.”

      “That makes two of us.” Danita honked into the tissue again. “What a fool I was. All those late evenings at work and the hang-up calls…I didn’t think a thing about them. How stupid could I be?”

      “You’re not stupid.” Kara squeezed Danita’s hand. “You’re a loving, trusting wife, and Phillip ought to be horsewhipped. As a matter of fact, I’ll do it for you. Where is the slimeball?”

      Danita managed a small laugh. “I kicked his ass to the curb. He’s probably with the bimbo as we speak. The puta!”

      Kara opened her mouth to add a snappy comment, but froze. “Oh, hell! Your