Her Favorite Husband. Caron Todd

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      “You surprised me.”

      “Which I should never, never do.”

      Ian smiled, his old smile, the one Sarah had wanted to see.

      “One second I’m watching a football game and the next you’re standing in the doorway. You, of all people—”

      “Here, of all places. A ghost. A bad dream. Indigestion.”

      “More of a fold in time.”

      “Like being catapulted back ten years…”

      “Exactly. You came through the door and for a millisecond it was like we were back in that little apartment.”

      “I wish we were.” She let her knee bump his in case he missed her point.

      “Sarah,” Ian warned.

      “Don’t you wish we were?”

      Dear Reader,

      Have you heard of the two-year itch? The Globe and Mail ran a story about it quite a while ago, saying, as I remember, that a Scandinavian sociologist had noticed that an increasing number of people believed their relationships were over once the initial excitement of falling in love faded.

      That got my attention, because as wonderful as those early years can be, there’s a deep satisfaction in continuing to grow together. It seemed sad, if true, that more and more men and women were missing that experience.

      Sarah Bretton Kingsley Bennett Carr is in exactly that situation. She believes in marriage—fidelity, commitment and lasting happiness—and no matter how often it disappoints, she’s always willing to try again. I hope you’ll enjoy the story of her trip to the Northwest Territories to find a love that lasts.

      Caron Todd

      Her Favorite Husband

      Caron Todd

      TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

       AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

       STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

       PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

      MILLS & BOON

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      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Caron Todd began writing her first romance novel after the Alberta badlands caught her imagination during a family holiday. Her interest in writing goes back as long as she can remember—she was inspired by watching her father at his typewriter when he was a Winnipeg Tribune reporter and by her parents’ love of books and storytelling. She lives with her husband in Manitoba.

      To Laura

      CONTENTS

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      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

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      EPILOGUE

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      My thanks to Victoria Curran

       for her skilled and patient help tightening and

       focusing the story, to Megan Long for the perfect

       title, to the staff at Thompson Public Library, who

       were so helpful while I stayed in their city, and

       to my family, whose humor, encouragement and

       sound advice I so appreciate.

      CHAPTER ONE

      AS SOON AS SHE SAW HIM, she wanted to feel him inside her. Almost could. It took her breath away. She reminded herself where she was, fourteen hundred miles from home, in a dim cave of a cocktail lounge–frontier saloon, a place decorated with big screen TVs and dead animals. Restraint was called for here.

      A waitress walked by, balancing a loaded tray. “Want a table, hon? Help yourself. Anywhere’s good.”

      He turned then, with a disinterested glance at the door, and froze mid-sip of frothy beer. Finished the sip, put down the mug. She couldn’t tell if he was only surprised, or also angry. There was no reason to be angry, not after all this time.

      She chose the most direct path between the tables that separated them. No leaping up to greet her, she noticed, no sweeping her into his arms. He didn’t budge, other than to take a supercasual swig of beer as he watched her weave to his side. She’d come so far, a stone’s throw from the arctic circle, and he couldn’t even smile?

      “Sarah.”

      “Ian.”

      “What the hell are you doing here?”

      Not only surprised, then. Angry, still.

      She climbed onto the bar stool beside his and tried for light-hearted sparkle. “I’m exploring.”

      “In a skirt and heels?”

      “Wrinkle-free fabric.” She scrunched a handful of the soft wool-silk blend to demonstrate its Far North worthiness. It was her favorite travel suit, charcoal-gray to show she meant business, with a ruby-red camisole and a small, but real ruby pendant adding not all business. She lifted a foot, resting it on one of his. “Close-toed shoes.”

      “Ah. Practical.”

      “Always.”

      He moved his foot out from under hers.

      So far, the visit wasn’t going very well. What had she expected? Something more. A hug. A bit of delight to go with the surprise.

      He looked enticing, if excessively casual, in denims and a navy blue shirt, his hair forming those little curls over his collar the way it did when he put off getting it cut. He sounded enticing, too, his voice as deep as she remembered. All around him, though, was a wall of bristling, possibly