Montana Mail-Order Wife. Charlotte Douglas

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      “What I mean,” he chose his words carefully, “is that sometimes people do fall in love just by exchanging letters, but…”

      Her feathery eyebrows peaked, laughter sparked in her eyes and she blinked again. She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort.

      Her amusement goaded him to be more blunt than he’d planned. “Anyway, I don’t love you.”

      There, he’d said it.

      When he looked at her, he wished he’d cut out his tongue before uttering the words. Her lower lip trembled, tears filled her eyes and her shoulders shook. For a horrible instant, he feared she would break into sobs.

      Then, as if she could contain herself no longer, she burst out laughing.

      He shoved his chair away from the bed and stood, scratching his head at her reaction. Maybe the knock on her head had caused more problems than amnesia.

      “That,” she gasped, “is the most unromantic proposal I hope I’ll ever receive. If it was that awful the first time, I must have been crazy to accept. It’s probably best I can’t remember.”

      She wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet and stared at him, her lips twitching as if she wanted to laugh again.

      He stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and gazed out the window to avoid her ironic smile. He should be happy she wasn’t taking his proposal too seriously, but her amusement annoyed him. “Maybe talking about this should wait until your memory returns.”

      “No, please.”

      He whirled back toward her at the panic in her voice. “But without all the details, it sounds so…”

      “Cold?”

      He nodded. He hadn’t had a problem with their agreement before, but now, seeing her so fragile that a puff of wind could blow her away, staring at him from the hospital bed with those big eyes…

      “Maybe you’d better tell me all the details,” she suggested in a calmer voice.

      “The nurse wants you to rest.”

      He needed time to think, to figure out the best way to explain. Time to cool his simmering desire, brought about, he assured himself, only by the intimacy of the hospital room and her scanty attire. He barely knew the woman. How could he be attracted to her?

      “I’ll rest better once you’ve told me everything.” Her guileless expression pleaded with him. “If I know the facts, my imagination won’t exaggerate things.”

      He couldn’t understand his reluctance. She’d known all the particulars before her accident and had agreed to the arrangement. Why should stating them a second time make any difference?

      Because she’s not just words on a page anymore. She’s a real person, flesh and blood with feelings, who makes me feel alive again for the first time in years.

      “Okay,” he said with a sigh of resignation, “I’ll try to explain.”

      He opened his mouth, but again words failed him. He’d never felt this stupid before. If she’d been a lame horse or an ailing cow, a broken chainsaw or a clogged pump, he’d know exactly what to do, but she was a woman, a beautiful and charming female, and he had almost no experience to fall back on. What little know-how he’d once possessed was rusty from lack of practice.

      “Maybe,” she suggested gently, “you should start at the beginning.”

      In the beginning there was Maggie, he thought.

      “I was married before,” Wade said.

      Chapter Three

      Rachel tamped down her rising panic. What had she gotten herself into, agreeing to marry a man she didn’t know, a man whose first marriage had obviously ended in divorce?

      Out of nowhere, a visceral reluctance to commit herself to any man bore down, engulfed her, then vanished as quickly as mist on the river evaporated in the sunlight. The irrational sensation made her fear the wreck had affected more than her memory.

      Maybe she was losing her mind.

      Or maybe Wade Garrett’s faltering revelation had induced her fleeting dread of intimacy.

      He was taking his sweet time explaining their so-called engagement, but she wouldn’t pressure him. She wasn’t going anywhere, not anytime soon. And if his details were as disastrous as his proposal, maybe she had better absorb them slowly.

      Clearing her face of any reaction, she waited.

      “My wife, Maggie, died in childbirth six years ago.”

      “I’m sorry,” she said with sincerity, feeling stupid for jumping to conclusions about divorce.

      His face had hardened when he spoke his wife’s name. Rachel swallowed hard. She remembered nothing about herself or her past, but at that instant, more than anything in the world, she hoped Wade Garrett would never look like that at the mention of her name.

      His antagonism toward his wife, inscribed all over his handsome face, went a long way toward communicating why he had proposed to a woman he didn’t love. Maybe he’d married Maggie, expecting happily ever after, and when it hadn’t worked out that way, decided marriage wasn’t for him.

      But why had the-Rachel-she-couldn’t-remember agreed to a loveless marriage? She wouldn’t know the answer until her memories returned.

      Unless Wade could tell her.

      “My son, Jordan, is eight now.” Affection mixed with frustration glimmered in his deep brown eyes.

      An intriguing image of Wade as husband and father flitted through her mind. “It must have been tough, raising a child alone all those years.”

      He settled back on his chair. “Ursula did most of the raising.”

      “Ursula?”

      “Ursula’s my housekeeper,” he said, “and she’s done a good job with Jordan. But now her arthritis is so bad, she can’t keep up with the little rascal.”

      Comprehension flooded through her, leaving disappointment in its wake. “So that’s why you need a wife. To take care of Jordan.”

      He nodded and relaxed. “I knew you’d understand. You did before when we discussed this in our letters.”

      Letters. He’d already told her they’d never met. “Why did you choose me to write to?”

      He leaned forward and rested his strong chin with its charming cleft on his forearms, crossed on the back of the chair. His tanned face beamed with enthusiasm. “Your letter was hands down the best answer to my ad.”

      “I answered an ad?” She failed to keep the horror from her voice. What kind of woman was she to have answered a personal ad from a stranger?

      Desperate?

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