Almost a Hometown Bride. Helen R. Myers

you run over the chief of police himself. They’re sure not going to bother you in deteriorated weather conditions—or give you a ticket for coming to work. They know where you belong.” Alvie shook her head. “I don’t see why after all this time you won’t get a driver’s license.”

      Having a license meant she could be traced. But Merritt wasn’t going to share that bit of information unless she was forced to hit the road again. With a negligent shrug, she said, “I’ll see you by four-thirty, okay?”

      “Might be a slow night if things get bad really fast. If you had a phone, I could tell you to save yourself the trip and stay home.”

      People living sparely could do without such luxuries as a phone, especially someone not anticipating a call from anyone any more than she desired one. Giving up on arguing with the woman she owed her job and home to, Merritt waved and detoured to the back room where she changed from sneakers into boots, slipped on her jacket and retrieved her big insulated tote that she’d carried her baked goods in.

      Two other waitresses with school-age children handled the lunch crowd. Leroy took over the grill, while Alvie went upstairs to rest her feet or run errands. Then Alvie returned while Leroy took off, since the dinner crowd usually left the counter empty enough for Merritt and Nikki to manage on their own.

      Almost—its name origins in dispute forever—began perhaps by survivors of an Indian attack, almost making it through the Rockies on their way to Idaho, then Washington. Another claim was that a wagon train had almost been wiped out by a deadly winter and disease. However it was christened, the town had remained the same size building-wise as it was at its peak prior to World War II. It was a two-traffic-light community, six blocks in all, which included one bank, two pharmacies, five churches and a school that still housed kindergarten through grade twelve. The only difference was that half the stores on back streets were vacant now. A few were collapsing from neglect, having been tied up in estate disagreements. There was a good deal of talk about what to do to sustain what economic stability there was and encourage tourism from the interstate only two miles south. Merritt felt she had no right to get involved with any of that, but hoped things worked out for the residents, particularly the business-people.

      Living in Alvie’s house was a rent-free agreement since she provided all of the baked goods for the eatery. Merritt paid half of the electric bill, which remained in Alvie’s name, so funds were just taken out of her pay. She was thinking about that bill which she expected to arrive today or tomorrow, as she started around the bend that hid the cabin from downtown’s view. That compromised view made it susceptible to vandalism, which was another reason why Alvie was eager to have it lived in.

      The wood-frame cottage with the peeling gray paint consisted of a combination kitchen-dining area and a living room with just enough room for the sofa and chair in it, as well as the wood-burning stove. The kitchen stove was propane, but Merritt had gotten the hang of it quickly enough. The bathroom was off the back door, by the washroom, and the bedroom was on the other side of the dining area. The full-size bed was perfect for someone of her size, but she couldn’t imagine a couple even Alvie and Leroy’s size trying to sleep comfortably on there for long.

      With no central air or heat, the wood-burning stove required careful tending in cold weather. While Alvie kept the place in a good supply of wood, it had taken Merritt most of her first winter in Montana to learn how to finesse its operation.

      Merritt lifted her face to the sky and felt the first flurries sting her nose and cheeks. Not only did the damp cold seep through her bark-brown, thrift-shop jacket and thin frame, every step cost her extra energy due to the pain now spreading across her back because of the strain on her muscles. She would need to lie down for a few minutes with a hot compress once she reached the cabin, and that would only make her busier the rest of the day if she was to get her baking done in time. Thank goodness she’d already completed her weekly washing and cleaning. She definitely wouldn’t have to worry about anyone coming to visit her and taking up her time because, while she was polite to anyone who spoke to her, she had no friends to spend her off-hours with. That was the price she paid to ensure she could continue to live here safely. From her perspective it was an acceptable cost.

      But as she rounded the curve that gave her the first view of the cottage, she immediately saw something that triggered concern. There was a black truck parked on the street in front of the property. Had someone experienced engine trouble or a flat? No one had passed her as she’d walked, and she didn’t recognized the old, paint-worn pickup. Yet the vehicle was facing away from her, suggesting that’s what must have happened.

      What if someone was casing the place? If they had a good reason to be there, they would have pulled into the driveway, wouldn’t they? And yet she didn’t see anyone, just the truck. Could they already have broken in?

      Running wasn’t an option unless she wanted to end up flat on her face for sure this time, but Merritt increased her pace, which had her breathless and her face strained with pain by the time she got to the driveway. There she saw a man climb the far steps of the porch and return to the front window where, with his hands framing his eyes, he tried to look inside the front window.

      “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted.

      He turned immediately and Merritt’s breath caught in her throat. It was Cain Paxton! In a heartbeat, her indignation vanished, only to be replaced by anxiety. She self-consciously limped up the short drive, and was panting when she reached the base of the porch stairs.

      “How did you know where I live?” she demanded as wind whipped at her jacket and hair.

      He shoved his hands deep into the denim jacket pockets and tucked his neck into his shoulders. His black hair, though not overly long, whipped wildly around his face. “I didn’t. I stopped thinking the cabin might still be empty. Thought I’d ask Alvie how much she wanted for rent.”

      “It’s taken—by me.”

      He gave her a slower head-to-toe inspection than he had before, and then looked over her shoulder. “Heckuva day to be without your car.”

      “I don’t have one.”

      That earned her a frown that made him appear tougher and angrier. Add that to the wind and cold’s effect on his hair and square-jawed face, and she thought it gave him an otherworldly air—an unholy one. How on earth could Leroy think she could be taken by such a force of nature, even without knowing her past?

      “You walked the whole way?” he asked, his tone as scornful as his expression. “What kind of glutton for punishment are you?”

      That was just what she needed at this point, a warrior god with a vegetable for a brain. “A poor one,” she snapped back.

      Cain fell silent again, but he continued to study her. Merritt wanted badly to get inside and out of the wind, but she wasn’t budging while he was blocking her way.

      “How long have you been in Almost?” he finally asked. “Not long enough to learn that it’s dangerous to walk outside town by yourself.”

      “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve been doing just fine. From what I’ve been told, I guess I arrived not long after you left.”

      The right corner of his hard mouth twitched and a timeless sensuality lit in his black eyes. “So you’ve been asking about me?”

      “What I asked was why some of our regulars are so uptight over your return. Alvie gave me a quick recap.’”

      Cain snorted. “No wonder you looked like a lamb ready to bolt when you saw me walk in. Relax. Having just arrived, I’m not about to get myself a one-way ticket back into prison. Besides,” he added with another cursory glance over her shivering body, “there’s not enough to you to make an appetizer for someone with my tastes.”

      “Rape isn’t about desire,” she said without thinking. “It’s about anger and control.”

      “Is that so?”

      Merritt all but lost the rest of her courage under his narrow-eyed stare. She felt as