Montana Daddy. Charlotte Maclay

YOUNG ELK SCRAMBLED to the far side of the chain-link enclosure, his injured foreleg making his gait awkward. He turned to glare at Rory with his huge brown eyes and pawed the ground, kicking up dirt and the remnants of the last snow storm.

      “It’s all right, youngster.” Rory broke the skin of ice from the watering trough, then forked some hay into the feeding bin. “Another week or so, and you’ll be good to go again.”

      It had been lucky some local snowmobilers spotted the elk trapped in river ice or the animal would have died. Rory, as the area’s only veterinarian and a wild-life rehabilitator, got the call to rescue the animal. At the time, the elk hadn’t been too appreciative of Rory’s efforts.

      He still wasn’t being exactly friendly.

      Which was good. Rory had no intention of making the elk a pet. Just the opposite. He intended to return the elk to the wild as soon as the youngster was able to keep up with the herd. Rory didn’t want the animal to become dependent on humans for either food or comfort. Generally, elk and deer did well in confinement and returned to the wild without a problem.

      He stabbed the pitchfork into the pile of hay and let it rest there. April was always a tough month this far north, almost to the Canadian border. Winter had gone on too long; the warmth of spring was weeks off yet. Summer was only a vague promise.

      Only the sturdy—or obstinate—survived in this climate. He figured he was a little bit of both.

      Tugging the pitchfork free, he ambled back toward the clinic and outbuildings, which were adjacent to the small clapboard house where he lived. Grass Valley wasn’t a big town—a single main street boasting of a general store, a drugstore that sold more ice cream than antibiotics, a busy saloon and a garage surrounded by derelict cars—all of which Rory could see from his couple of acres of land a block away.

      Beyond the little town a pine-covered hill rose above a shallow river. The slash of dirt and rock left by a landslide last summer still scarred the hillside, and if it hadn’t been for Rory, his brothers and Joe Moore, the tumble of boulders would have blocked the river, flooding the town of Grass Valley. Instead they’d blown big rocks into little ones, allowing the flow of water to continue downstream. A pretty nerve-racking day, as Rory recalled.

      Pausing near the walkway to his house, he glanced across the street to the medical clinic and let his thoughts slip further back in time.

      When Kristi visited her grandmother nearly six years ago, Rory hadn’t anything to offer her for the long term. He’d been little more than a kid himself, about to enter veterinary medicine school and not all that confident he would be able to finish the rigorous course of study. His past included years in foster care, a few adolescent brushes with the law and finally adoption by Oliver Oakes, who had owned the Double O Ranch outside of town.

      He’d had no guaranteed future at all.

      Now he had a veterinary practice and a home that belonged to him and the Bank of Montana—in unequal shares. Plus, he was steadily wearing down the balance due on his student loans.

      But from the way Kristi had avoided his gaze and her less-than-eager greeting, he doubted she’d be interested to learn he was making a success of himself.

      He shoved his hands into his pockets and concentrated on the sounds of Mother Earth—the wind moving through the bare branches of the elm tree in his front yard, the crackling of dry grass as a rabbit dashed unseen through the vacant land nearby, the flight of a hawk’s wings through the air.

      Jimmy Deer Running, the chief of the Blackfeet tribe on the nearby reservation, had told Rory not to resent the past but to learn from it. That wasn’t always an easy thing to do. Hell, most of the time he wasn’t even sure what lesson he was supposed to be learning.

      Like why Kristi had never called or written to him after their summer together.

      Why the hell didn’t you call her?

      In retrospect, that seemed like a big mistake.

      Maybe that explained her standoffish reception today. Maybe she was mad at him. Or maybe she was having the proverbial morning-after regrets some five-plus years later. He supposed he couldn’t blame her in either case.

      Women were so darn hard to understand.

      Glancing up at the darkening sky, he wondered if the predicted storm front was still moving their way from Canada. Spring weather could be the pits. Just when you were ready to get rid of winter, bam! another wicked storm would come through, and you’d be ready to move to Arizona.

      Of course, as soon as the storm passed and the wildflowers bloomed, you’d remember Montana was God’s country.

      Until the next winter.

      Instead of going into his house to eat supper alone and watch reruns on TV, he decided to check in with his brother Eric. He could see the lights were still on in the sheriff’s office on Main Street.

      Maybe he could talk ol’ White Eyes into having a beer with him at the Grass Valley Saloon, which featured “good eats” according to the banner that had hung in the window for as long as Rory could remember.

      Tomorrow he’d start getting reacquainted with Kristi. She wouldn’t be around long. He intended to work as quickly as possible.

      Smiling to himself, he sauntered toward Main Street.

      Not many men get a second chance.

      AS SHE WAS TRYING to rearrange too many casserole dishes into too small a refrigerator, Kristi happened to glance out the kitchen window.

      Rory.

      Her breath caught at the sight of his easy stride as he headed toward the center of town. Long and lanky, strolling along as though he had no cares in the world.

      Meanwhile, her thoughts were a jumble.

      Soon—very soon—she’d have to tell Rory the truth about what happened after their summer together.

      Except, she had tried, more than once. And he hadn’t cared enough about her to return her phone calls when she’d desperately needed to talk to him nearly six years ago. His silence had added an exclamation point to their argument about maintaining a long-distance relationship.

      She’d lost that battle—in spades.

      But she’d won something more precious.

      Bless her grandmother’s heart. Kristi had sworn Justine to secrecy when the doctor had discovered her secret. Good as her word, Justine had kept her confidence all these years.

      Now the time had come—had nearly come, Kristi mentally corrected—when she had to face up to reality. But first she had to determine what kind of man Rory had become. There was more at stake than her own heart.

      Her eyes fluttered closed momentarily, and she tried to remember another time in her life when her emotions had been so volatile. Or when procrastination had seemed like a perfect solution to whatever dilemma she faced.

      Soon—very soon—she would have to tell Rory he had a five-year-old son, Adam, the true love of her life.

      Chapter Two

      The Grass Valley sheriff’s office boasted two cells, which mostly gathered dust, a potbellied wood stove capable of giving off enough heat for a volcano, and an assortment of chairs used mostly by the locals when they came in to visit with Eric.

      A police radio was located on a console to one side of the room, always set to both police and emergency frequencies. The doctor’s office was hooked up to the same system. A useful tool in an area where ranches were far apart, cell phones didn’t always work and emergencies were as unpredictable as spring weather.

      At the moment, the sheriff was sitting behind his desk talking on an ordinary phone. From his grim expression, Rory guessed Eric wasn’t having a social conversation.

      Giving his brother