Montana Dreaming: Their Unexpected Family / Cabin Fever / Million-Dollar Makeover

Okay, so he’d been right. It wasn’t her business. And her efforts had backfired. She knew better than to push him any more than she had.

But she cared for Mark, more than she dared admit—even to herself.

A lot more.

Oh, Dios mio.

Was it possible? Was she falling in love with the tortured, cynical reporter who had stepped in when she needed a friend the most?

It sure felt that way.

Great. Just what she needed. Another absent loved one.

Juliet put away her groceries—all but the items she needed for dinner—then soaked the pinto beans in a pot of water. Before she could do anything more, Marissa began to cry, announcing it was chow-time again and causing Juliet to prioritize.

Her baby needed her, and their mother-daughter relationship was the only one that mattered.

For the past twenty-five years, Juliet had gotten along fine without Mark Anderson in her life. She could certainly survive the loss of his friendship, even if that meant never seeing him again, never seeing that teasing, flirtatious glimmer in his eyes, the way his lips quirked in a rebellious grin. Never hearing his graveled voice, his baritone laugh.

Grief and regret tore deep in her heart.

But she wouldn’t let it mar her future or that of her daughter.

After feeding Marissa and getting an extraloud burp, Juliet laid the baby in the cradle she’d purchased at Second Chances, the thrift store down the street, and covered her with the light green covijita.

She marveled at the precious miracle that grew bigger each day and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. Then she caressed her daughter’s head, felt the downy fine hair. Duerme bien, mi angelita.

After leaving the bedroom and entering the kitchen, she put the beans on to cook, and lost herself in the sounds and aromas of a meal meant to be therapeutic. All the while she hummed a medley of mariachi tunes that Abuelita used to sing.

She prepared several chicken breasts, soaking them in a sauce of tomatoes and chilies, taking care to make the salsa especially mild. The lactation expert at the hospital said that if a food made Juliet gassy, it would probably do the same to the baby. Of course, the spices in this dish had never bothered her.

While the pollo marinated, she chopped additional chilies and tomatoes, along with onions and cilantro. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a meal she’d most likely eat alone, but it didn’t matter. She felt at home in the kitchen, and the scent of beans and fresh salsa reminded her of her grandmother. Of love and laughter on Sunday afternoons at home in the barrio.

Juliet might be the only one seated at the table, but she would prepare a meal that would make Abuelita proud. A meal that would heal her frazzled emotions and fortify her heart. After all, she was creating a new home in Thunder Canyon, one based on love, family values and a hint of Old World culture.

And she darn sure didn’t need a stubborn, globetrotting reporter to turn her life upside down.

Even if he already had.

An hour later, Mark stretched out on the king-size bed in his room at the Wander-On Inn. Using the remote control, he turned on the television set and surfed the channels, looking for something to take his mind off his work and the argument he’d had with Juliet. But he’d be damned if there was anything on that even came close to handing him an easy escape.

Watching the evening news made him long for another assignment, one that would allow him to make a difference in people’s lives. One that would enable him to ride off in the sunset and leave Thunder Canyon in the dust.

A Gunsmoke rerun triggered thoughts of Old Town and of Juliet’s love of the Wild West.

Bowling For Dollars reminded him of her silly urge to visit Buckhorn Lanes and watch the Gutter Busters do their thing. Or—God forbid—join the league his parents belonged to.

Trading Spaces merely made him think about how badly Juliet’s apartment needed a remodel.

Dammit. He turned off the TV and stood. There wasn’t anything worth watching, anything that didn’t remind him of Juliet in one way or another.

He didn’t like fighting with her. Didn’t like stomping off and leaving things unresolved—a defense mechanism that had always worked well for him in the past.

And he damn sure didn’t like thinking that their relationship—or whatever the hell it was—had been irrevocably damaged.

He probably ought to go to her place and tell her he was sorry. Not about being stubborn and refusing to socialize with his parents, but about snapping at her.

She’d only meant to be helpful.

But apologies didn’t come easy for Mark.

He strode into the small bathroom and turned on the spigot, setting the shower in motion. Then he stripped off his clothes and climbed under the steaming spray.

The steady pulse of water helped some, but not enough. As he toweled himself dry, his thoughts remained on the argument they’d had, on the way Juliet’s eyes had flashed in anger. And on the pain he’d spotted in her gaze when he’d taken her home. That last, sorrow-filled glance that had nearly torn him apart.

He blew out a ragged sigh. Damn. He didn’t want her angry. Or her feelings to be hurt.

Against his principles, he threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his hair. He didn’t see any need to shave.

Five minutes later, he stood at Juliet’s door, feeling like a kid who’d hit a baseball through his neighbor’s window, asking for the ball and promising to replace the glass with a hard-earned allowance.

He knocked, and several moments later, she answered, wearing a pair of black slacks and a pink blouse, its buttons pulled taut by her breasts.

A shy but pretty smile made him momentarily forget why he’d come, so he just stood there. Their gazes locked. Caught up in something he couldn’t explain.

The scent of peach blossoms and spice taunted his senses, making him take a second whiff.

And a third.

She ran her tongue across her bottom lip, and sexual awareness slammed into his chest, taking his breath away, along with the words he’d intended to speak.

She swung open the door, allowing him inside.

A part of him wanted to rewind, to start over. To head back to the Wander-On Inn and pretend he hadn’t come to talk to her.

But he had. And he realized how much he’d missed their easy banter, their camaraderie. How much he’d missed her.

“I…uh…came to…” Oh, for cripes sake. Why couldn’t he just spit it out? Why this awkward, adolescent reaction to the sight of her?

Her hair was loose and hung like a veil of silk past her shoulders, the glossy strands begging to be touched.

She didn’t speak and merely stared at him in the same way he looked at her. Why wasn’t she making this easier on him?

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice coming out soft and hoarse at the same time. “I didn’t mean to be so hard on you.”

“I’m sorry, too. My brother used to get mad at me when I didn’t mind my own business. It’s tough to keep quiet, though, when I care about someone and want to help.”

He raked a hand through his hair, realizing now wasn’t the time to tell her he didn’t need anyone’s help. He was ready to put this argument behind them. For good.