The Man From Montana. Mary J. Forbes

      The man scowled at her car. The woman—no, teenager—smiled. Rachel recognized the girl from their meet last Monday. Eager to write a weekly high school column for the Rocky Times, Daisy McKee had come to the newspaper during the girl’s forty-minute lunch break. A few words about her proposed column and she was out the door, rushing back to school.

      A nice kid and Ashford McKee’s daughter.

      Rachel looked back at the man astride a mammoth horse the color of dense fog. Ash McKee. Big and commanding as the far-reaching, pristine landscape on which he lived. Four days after her arrival, she had noticed him at the feed and seed, intent on getting whatever it was he was buying into the bed of his truck.

      Darby at the coffee shop had pointed him out. A coup for Rachel, who, as a reporter, needed to know her town, and right now Sweet Creek was that town. Most essentially, she needed to ferret out details about the McKees; they were her reason for securing the position at the Rocky Times, a twenty-page weekly aptly named during the Depression Years, and now reaching conservative ruralists throughout Park County.

      The herd trotted toward the ranch’s wide-spanning iron gates, neither McKee nor Daisy making an effort to move the cattle aside. Rachel rolled down the window. “Excuse me,” she called to the man.

      He whistled between his teeth at one of the dogs.

      “Excuse me,” she called again. “Mr. McKee? Could I get by?”

      Cold, dark eyes turned her way. “Can you wait? We’re a hundred yards from the pasture gate.”

      Yes, she could wait. If he’d ask nicely.

      “I’m looking for Tom McKee,” she said to the broad rump and ground-reaching charcoal tail of his horse. “Would you know if he’s home?”

      The man reined the beast around on its hind legs, its tail swinging like a banner on a battle field. Two leaps and the animal danced beside her car.

      “Who wants to know?” McKee demanded.

      He was cowboy through and through, down to the scuffed, worn brown boots he wore. She shivered. A modern-day Clint Eastwood in Pale Rider. All he needed was the six-shooter.

      “Rachel Brant. I’d like to talk to him.”

      The horse was magnificently male and powerful, crowding her spot on the road. Safety inside her vehicle seemed trivial in lieu of those commanding legs, that mighty chest. And she wasn’t just thinking of the horse.

      “What about?” McKee snapped.

      “That would be between me and Mr. Tom McKee, sir,” she said, her tone friendly but firm.

      “Not when it comes to reporters.”

      Surprise struck. “How did—” Had he recognized her in Sweet Creek on a given moment, watched her as she’d watched him?

      “Entire town knows,” he said, reading her perplexity.

      Of course. She’d experienced enough of small-town America to know how the grapevine worked with six-hundred-and-ninety-two souls. New face arrives, phone lines hum, coffee klatchers drain buckets of dark roast—and tongues waggle.

      From her position in the car, she had a clear view under his low-brimmed Stetson. Down a smooth, elegant nose the man’s aloof eyes bored into hers.

      Perhaps if she got out of the car.

      She looked at the powerhouse horse shifting its lethal hooves. Come on, Rachel. You’ve dealt with difficult situations all your life.

      Opening the door, she climbed out. The wind blew her short hair into her eyes, flapped her coat hem around her tall boots. The scent of horse, cow and leather rivered across her nose.

      McKee’s willful jaw was dark with overnight stubble. His scowl deepened. “Go report somewhere else, Ms. Brant. You’re not welcome here.”

      Beneath its rider the huge stallion pranced, the saddle creaking with the man’s weight, the animal’s energy. Frothy clouds gusted from red nostrils and long white teeth champed the bit. Headgear metal jingled. A knight’s horse. A rogue knight’s horse.

      Along with her fanciful imagination a thrill traced Rachel’s skin. “I’ll let Tom make that decision.”

      “His decision’s no different than mine.”

      She clutched the panels of her coat. “According to you, maybe. But I’d like to hear him say it.”

      “Tom doesn’t like reporters.”

      No, you don’t like reporters. So she had heard in town. Could she blame him? She knew about his wife dying in a car accident five years ago. A reporter chasing a mad-cow story in the community. A Rocky Times reporter. Driving too hard, too fast, taking a curve like the reckless kid he was. The impact had killed McKee’s wife instantly. The reporter walked away.

      McKee’s eyes were tough, remote and held her in a vice.

      Hugging herself against the cold, she looked up at him, a man of dominion in an expanse of blue. Somehow, she had to win over this warden of the Flying Bar T.

      “Please. I’m looking for a temporary place to live until I can find something in town. I understand your ranch has a guesthouse for rent. I’m willing to pay summer rates.” Anything to get Charlie out of that seedy Dream On Motel.

      McKee leaned forward, arm on the saddle horn, and her skin flushed under his stern survey of her body. “The cottage is closed,” he said, then slowly straightened in the saddle. Under him, the big horse spot-danced like a Lipizzan, its mane swaying a foot below its neck while McKee controlled the reins with one large, gloved hand.

      Rachel kept her stance, swallowed hard. Instinctively, she knew he would not let the animal step on her. Squinting into the bright Montana sky, she offered, “I’ll pay peak season rates.” For the story, but mostly for Charlie. Two birds with one stone.

      McKee studied the herd trotting ahead of them; several cows lowed. The Stetson’s brim shadowed his eyes, and that obscurity sent a tingle across her arms.

      “Go back where you came from, Ms. Brant.” His voice was low and without mercy. Spurring his mount forward, he left her staring after the cattle now rushing through the pasture’s gates.

      An animal broke free and the black-and-white dogs darted out, piloting it back to the herd in seconds. Daisy jumped from her chocolate-colored horse—half the size of the gray—to close the gate. When her eyes caught Rachel’s across fifty feet of road, she sent a two-fingered wave, then climbed into the saddle before following McKee to the barns.

      Go back where you came from.

      He hadn’t meant Sweet Creek.

      Ash led Northwind, his prize Andalusian stallion, into the big box stall at the rear of the horse stable.

      She had nerve, that woman.

      Last time newshounds swarmed the ranch was five years ago, chasing that goddamn stupid mad-cow story. A bunch of bull that cost Susie her life.

      But this one didn’t want a story, just a roof over her pretty head.

      Pretty. No damn way would he think a hack pretty.

      Except she was. That bob of hair the color of his mother’s antique cherrywood sideboard, those eyes that tilted slightly at the outer corners. Cat eyes in Siamese-blue.

      They always sent the pretty ones on a story hunt.

      Did you not hear what she said? She wants to rent a room.

      Right. That he would believe in another life.

      He yanked the saddle off Northwind hard enough to make the horse sidestep. “Easy, boy. Don’t mean to take it out on you.” Hauling the gear into the tack room across the corridor, Ash clamped his teeth. Yeah, that was all he needed, a word wizard living on his ranch. A word wizard with media broadcasting power.