The Man From Montana. Mary Forbes J.

of the iceberg with him.”

      No, she thought, sitting in the car, waiting for Charlie to exit Lewis-Clark Elementary. Marty was wrong. What you saw with Ash McKee was exactly what you got. No secrets there. Portraits of his wife proved the point. He’d loved her. As he loved his daughter and father.

      When she arrived in an hour with the U-Haul, would he be at the house protecting his inside flock rather than outside with his cows? At the thought of seeing him again, her heart hastened. She leaned a little to the right and checked her hair in the rearview mirror. Good grief. What was she doing, preening for a taciturn man with a snarky disposition?

      You need a life, Rachel. Well, the minute Charlie was finished second grade, she was out of here. Leaving town on a jet plane at the speed of light. His next school year would be in Richmond, Virginia, and they would be living in a little house with a backyard and she would work for American Pie. She hoped.

      Charlie ran down the steps of the school, parka flapping open to the wind, book pack swaying from an arm. After hopping onto the backseat, he tugged the door closed.

      “Hey, baby.” Rachel smiled between the front seats. Her little guy, her pride and joy. “How was your day?”

      “Okay.”

      Perpetual kid answer. “Any homework?”

      “Have to do some math problems.”

      Second grade and already homework was arriving two or three times a week. Rachel needed to schedule an appointment with the teacher who continually wrote in her son’s agenda: Charlie read a novel again during lessons today. Class work not completed.

      From the day she brought home Barbara Park’s book Junie B. Jones Has a Peep in Her Pocket for his fifth birthday, he’d loved reading. But the ability hampered his progress in emotional and social areas. Fantasy offered comfort amidst the angst of new schools and new friends for a lonely little boy.

      And she was to blame. Restless Rachel.

      Disillusioned, she pulled onto the main road.

      “Can I play first, Mom?”

      He always asked, no matter that her response was the same, that she was a stickler about getting homework out of the way.

      “You won’t have time for playing tonight, Charlie. We’re moving out to the ranch right away.”

      “We are? Yippee! I get to see the horses now.”

      Rachel chuckled. “Not so fast, partner. First we buy groceries for supper, then we pick up the trailer, and then…” She paused. “You’ll do homework while I unload our stuff.”

      “I want to help.”

      In the mirror, his bottom lip pouted.

      “Homework first, Charlie. And push up your glasses.”

      He did. “Will Mr. Ash be there all the time?”

      “Yes. He runs the ranch.”

      “But will he show me the horses?”

      “Let’s not bother him about the horses just yet.” Or any part of the ranch. She did not need those dark looks boring into her soul.

      “I wanna see the horses,” Charlie persisted.

      Thrusting horses and Ashford McKee from her mind, Rachel pulled into the grocery lot and centered on what she and Charlie needed to eat.

      What’s on your supper table tonight, Mr. Rancher?

      Most of all, why did she care?

      He saw her the instant he rounded the juice aisle. She stood in the first checkout line with her son, her dark head bent to the kid’s wheat-colored one. At twenty feet, Ash studied her face. She had those clean, fine Uma Thurman lines. Sophisticated with a mixture of sweetness.

      He debated. Go back up the aisle, or head for the checkout?

      His feet chose for him and he walked past the second cash register with its two customers to stand behind Rachel. Like him, she carried a basket and was busy unloading items onto the counter. Potatoes, lettuce, a quart of milk, steaks. A grin tugged his mouth. “Steaks, huh? Good choice.”

      She snapped around. “Ash.”

      “Rachel.” He reached for the separation bar, set his own filets behind hers on the counter. He couldn’t think of another word to say, not with her eyes glued to his face.

      Charlie stared up at him behind round-rimmed glasses. Kid had her nose. Small and straight and slightly freckled. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

      “Hey, Charlie.”

      “Hey.” The boy moved timidly behind his mother; she set a protective arm around his shoulders.

      Had Susie given Daisy the same sense of support at that age? He couldn’t recall. Susie had been guiding guest riders up ridges and across ranch woodlands when Daisy was seven.

      Rachel looked at his purchases. “I thought ranchers ate their own beef.”

      “Where do you think stores get their beef, if not from ranchers?” he teased, setting his empty basket on the rack.

      A smile lifted the corners of her lips. If he bent his head, he figured his mouth would fit there just fine.

      Hold on. Where had that come from?

      “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, suddenly spellbound by the cashier’s scanner.

      He dug out his wallet. “You don’t expect me to eat?”

      “That’s not what I meant. I thought maybe you’d be—”

      She looked so flustered, he couldn’t help chide, “Where? Home on the range? Down on the south forty?”

      Suddenly, he liked teasing her, liked the sound of her little gust of laughter. Liked a lot of things about her. Things he hadn’t thought of in years. Things he hadn’t experienced in years. She made him feel. He wasn’t sure if he liked that.

      “You should laugh more often,” he remarked suddenly. “Does something to your eyes. Makes them bluer.”

      This time she flushed pink. “Are you flirting, Ash McKee?”

      His teasing died. “No,” he said curtly, thinking of the last woman he’d joshed around with—Susie, the night before she died.

      “Don’t worry,” Rachel said, but the sparkle in her eyes dimmed. “I’m not interested, anyway.” Pulling money from her purse, she guided Charlie forward, then paid the cashier. “Bye.” She flung the word over her shoulder and left the store carrying two bags.

      Ash watched through the store’s wide windows as she walked Charlie through the dark parking lot, then climbed into her car.

      He wanted to hurry after them, tell her he had been flirting, that he liked the way her laugh lit her eyes and, oh yeah, he was glad she’d be living ninety feet from his house.

      Grabbing up his meat package, he strode through the electronic doors. Hell. Next he’d be admitting he fancied Rachel Brant, reporter for the Rocky Times, as a potential date.

      She wasn’t interested in flirting, dammit. Not in the least. And certainly not with Ash McKee with his frost-lined attitude.

      She understood his abrupt mood change, understood it as if he’d lectured an hour. Flirting meant he thought of her as a woman. He did not want to think of her as a woman. He did not want her living in his dead wife’s dollhouse. Well, tough. He’d made his decision and she was moving in.

      Snow fell again. Confetti flakes that came out of a nowhere night and zeroed in on the headlights and windshield in long, gossamer needles.

      She drove with care and caution on the road out of town. One slip and they could wind up in a ditch, miles from help, impotent against