His Montana Homecoming

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Chapter One (#ulink_d907eb72-95ff-5b6a-82be-275b2f6c961b)

Dale Massey yawned. He was used to traveling, even overseas, but today’s flight to Bozeman, Montana, had wiped him out. During the layover in Denver, he’d managed to get some work done but not nearly enough to satisfy him.

Grabbing his suitcase in baggage claim, Dale headed for the rental-car counter. It didn’t take long. The airport was small. Wood-beamed ceilings were a novel touch as well as the stonework and robust-patterned carpet. He’d heard that Montana was rugged land, but he’d take Fifth Avenue any day.

In New York, he knew what to expect. And no one expected him to care. He hadn’t earned the nickname Dale the Coldheart by shying away from the hard calls in business. His ability to cut through the frills was the reason his father made him in charge of delivering the uncomfortable decisions made by Massey International.

Ten minutes later, Dale kept his voice low and controlled. No need to ever rant. Dale always got what he wanted. “Check again. I have a BMW reserved.”

“I’m sorry, but we have no record of that, sir.” The young woman’s face grew red.

With embarrassment or fear, Dale wasn’t sure. He knew his assistant, and Jeannie never let him down. Reserving the 528 Bimmer was a given. The mistake had to be on the rental service, one of only two in the airport.

“Then what do you have available?”

Now the girl looked scared. “An economy car, sir. We’re waiting for more vehicles to arrive, just like the other car rental store.”

He’d fare no better with their competitor, then. Shaking his head, he signed the paperwork. “How do you run out of cars?”

“It’s a big week at the ski resorts and there’s this homecoming in Jasper Gulch—”

“I get it.” Dale held up his hand to stop the service clerk’s overly chipper-sounding rattle.

The girl did her job.

It wasn’t her fault that Dale had to represent the Massey family in Jasper Gulch. In an economy rental, no less.

She gave him the keys with trembling fingers. “Right through those double doors. You can’t miss the car. It’s yellow but it has a turbo engine, no extra charge.”

“Thank you.”

Shifting his briefcase, Dale found the ugly little car bearing the same color as a lemon. The stupid thing wasn’t much bigger than a lemon, either.

He looked around the empty lot. Not much he could do. Only a few more of the nonturbo toy cars sat parked. Not even a minivan graced the spaces reserved for rentals. He’d rather be dead than caught in a minivan, but that’d be more comfortable than the subcompact before him. Turbo or not.

“Nice.” Gritting his teeth, Dale threw his baggage in the rear hatch and then folded his six-foot-two frame into the driver’s seat.

He had an hour’s drive yet to reach Jasper Gulch. He touched the GPS app on his phone. Jeannie had reserved him a room at the town’s one and only inn and downloaded the directions. He started the car and pulled out with a squeal of tires. He aimed to find out how fast this little turbo could go.

By the time Dale drove past the Jasper Gulch, Montana, Welcomes You sign on the one road into town, his spirits had recovered. He had to own that the view of snow-tipped mountains beyond the tiny town impressed him. There was a wide main street with diagonal parking on either side. Dale might as well have stepped back in time. Old pickup trucks and even a couple of horses stood parked by storefronts that looked straight out of an old Clint Eastwood Western.

Where on earth was he?

He found the hotel he’d been booked into and that’s when his good time ended. Leaning against the counter of the Fidler Inn, Dale tried to keep his voice even. “What do you mean my lodging has been changed?”

A gray-haired woman named Mamie Fidler, who owned the place, tapped her foot. “The mayor saw to it personally and has a room for you at Shaw Ranch.”

Dale scanned the hokey inn with its crackling fire and various aged people milling around near the warmth. Mamie wore hiking boots with tall woolen socks and a denim skirt. He ran his hand through his hair. He was a long way from Fifth Avenue.

“Well, Mr. Massey? We’re full up.” Mamie was running out of patience.

So was he. Nothing about this trip had gone as planned. Who changed a person’s reservation without asking? And what kind of lodging would he find at this Shaw Ranch—some kind of dude ranch?

He looked at Mamie and sighed. “How do I get there?”

She smiled and pushed a Jasper Gulch Chamber of Commerce illustrated map at him and drew a black marker line to where he needed to go. “See here. Not too far.”

Minutes later, Dale was back in the tiny car headed down a street that bore his last name. He turned north onto Shaw Boulevard and chuckled. Was this place for real? The Masseys had taken off for New York long ago, but the Shaws had stayed and grabbed a grand-sounding name for their street.

The town had been founded by his great-great-grandfather, Silas Massey, along with a man named Ezra Shaw. Dale knew that from what his father, Julian, had told him and from what he’d been able to dig up on internet sites specializing in genealogies. Julian owed him big time for this one.

The road ended outside town at an expanse of green lawn leading to a lavish-looking ranch. Dale followed the winding driveway to the front door under a log archway covered by a large metal roof. Okay, this was more like it. At least they had valet parking. Dale would have to thank the mayor for making the change first chance he got.

He unfolded his legs and stretched. Dale wanted a shower, dinner and sleep, not necessarily in that order. The November sun had set behind the distant mountains, casting a rosy haze across the valley. Talk about a wide-open space. Staring out at the vast land untouched by concrete or steel made him feel small and unworthy.

Dale knew those feelings well. He’d battled them since he was six years old when his father had walked out on him and his mother. But this landscape whispered a challenge, a call to adventure. A man could face himself out here and come up empty or victorious. Which would he be?

Dale shook his head. He wasn’t here to face who he was or wasn’t. He was here to represent the Massey name.

He opened one of the heavy wooden doors that was pretty hefty for a bed-and-breakfast. Didn’t they realize older folks might have trouble with such a door? Not wise for a commercial venture. Didn’t they have ordinances in Montana?

He stepped inside. There had to be a valet somewhere.

“Can I help you?”

“Ah, yes...” Dale whirled around at the feminine voice.

A small woman, young, dressed in jeans and a Western-style plaid shirt over a white tank top, cocked her head. Her hair was that reddish-brown color that was neither light nor dark but lush. Her eyes were huge and blue like a storybook princess he’d seen on a preview for a Disney movie.

Those pretty eyes widened as she took in his height. They also looked interested.

“Sort of casual for a valet, don’t you think?” He gave her a thorough once-over before tossing her his two keys. “My car’s outside.”

The keys slapped on the floor.

“Excuse me?” She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow.

Not a valet, then. “Are you the maid?”

The clothes she wore should have been a dead giveaway. Rugged Montana maids wouldn’t wear aprons or cleaning uniforms. Of course they’d dress in jeans. And this one looked amazing in them.