The Husband Project

“I left a message with Jerry,” Lucia admitted. “I asked if he’d done a background check on the guy.”

“I’m going to do a Google search on him. If I find anything I’ll call you back.”

“You’re not coming over?” Lucia tried not to sound disappointed, but winter nights were long and she’d looked forward to the company.

“There’s another foot of snow on the ground,” Meg said. “I think I’ll stay home, look at bridal magazines and admire my gifts.”

“Pick out a cake,” Lucia said. “I need design ideas.”

The next time the phone rang, Lucia was washing cupcake pans. She dried her hands and checked the caller ID. “Hi, Mama.”

“Who is this man in the snow?” Marie didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“What man?” When in trouble, feign innocence. Her kids had taught her that.

“On Facebook. I’m friends with Kim.”

“You’ve friended everyone in town.”

“It’s nice. All my friends in Rhode Island do it. It’s how we keep in touch.”

“The man in the snow is renting Mrs. Kelly’s house,” Lucia explained.

“She was a nice woman,” Mama went on. “But no family. I always thought that was strange—not that I would say anything. But she was good to the boys, letting them come over and eat candy—not that I approve of too much candy. But it was good of her to be kind to them.”

“She was a lovely person,” Lucia agreed.

“Unlike the witch on the other side of you.”

“Mama!”

“Even her cat didn’t want to live with her. First her husband leaves and then the cat.”

“I think she’s a very unhappy person.” Lucia didn’t know why she was defending the woman. There wasn’t a meaner person in town than Paula Beckett. No one knew if she was seventy or ninety; she’d moved to Willing years before Lucia and Tony had bought their house. They’d attempted to befriend her, but she’d told them to stay on their side of the fence and not to have any wild parties, wild dogs or wild children. Lucia, holding her first adorable infant, had been shocked into silence at such rudeness. Her husband, a dangerous glint in his eye, had replied, “Yes, ma’am, and I’ll expect you’ll do the same.”

“I won’t waste any prayers on her,” Mama sniffed.

It was the ultimate rejection.

“The party was wonderful,” Lucia said, attempting to distract her mother-in-law from worrying about the neighbors. “Meg was thrilled.”

“She’s a good girl. And that Owen? A good man. He reminds me of Tony, big and strong.”

“He does a little.” Although her husband had been five-ten, a burly wrestler type and solid muscle. Owen, a rancher now, was taller. More basketball player than wrestler. And Sam Hove? Six-two, at least, and definitely in shape. She suspected he had spent a lot of time outdoors. His skin was tanned, his large hands calloused and scarred.

A boxer, she thought. He had hands like a fighter. What had he said about being hit by a fish?

“Stay away from that man, and keep the boys away until we find out more about him.”

Lucia promised and ended the call. Good thing she hadn’t told Mama about making the poor man take a shower.

CHAPTER THREE

CONTRARY TO THE MESSAGES he was receiving on Twitter, the posts on Facebook and the texts on his cell phone, Jerry Thompson was not harboring an escaped criminal inside his rental property.

Jerry fumed as he drove down Main Street late Saturday night. The lengths his constituents would go to avoid minding their own business never ceased to amaze him. He wasn’t in the habit of renting homes to questionable tenants, and he was as committed to keeping peace in his town as the county sheriff. So why was he getting those messages? What had happened to privacy? To benefit of the doubt? To the right to do business?

And what happened to the guy who was supposed to plow out his driveway?

Two words, George Martin had typed. Witness Protection.

Myth, he’d texted back. He’d heard that old story twenty times since he’d moved here. A mobster with a big mouth sent by the Feds to Willing to hide out until some supposed trial. But the guy had been too aggressive about his privacy and tried to run over a neighbor with his snowmobile. He’d disappeared after a brief court date in Lewistown and was never seen again. That was back when Gary Petersen still worked at the co-op and had sworn the stranger had no credit record and must have been living here under an assumed name.

Psychopath? Background? another text said.

All okay, had been his response. When had Meg Ripley turned into such a worrier?

Who is Hove? Aurora had sent that.

Writer! had been his reply. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Mean to Mrs. Swallow, Kim Petersen, one of Gary’s twin granddaughters, texted. With pictures of the guy in the snow surrounded by firewood.

Jerry replied with a Don’t worry text and knew he’d have more messages on his home phone. Marie Swallow had most likely called him ten times.

So his renter, if not dead of hypothermia or a victim of Neighborhood Watch, had gone from being a perfectly sane travel writer—if writers of any kind could be considered perfectly sane—to a psychopath thief with a possible head injury. He hoped the guy wouldn’t sue him.

Jerry was no stranger to drama and excitement, having activated the desire to gain publicity for Willing by attracting reality television to the town. More drama and excitement were coming. The last thing he needed were distractions, especially now that the bachelors were ready for dating and, he’d just learned yesterday in Los Angeles that Sweetheart Productions was primed for making a TV show.

He had to park in the street. It was dark, close to midnight and really, really cold. Bone-chilling and windy. The snow had stopped falling, but what looked like two feet of it lay piled up in front of his house, a huge Victorian that faced the small public park and boasted the only stained-glass windows in town. Built by a prospector who’d left South Dakota a rich man, the house had been intended for a fiancée who’d died of influenza before arriving in Willing for the wedding. Jerry bought it from its fourth owners, a gay couple from Oregon who loved the house but not the winters. Jerry loved everything about the beautifully restored home except that he lived there by himself.

He grabbed his suitcase and his laptop case, trudged across the lawn, up three wide steps and stopped in front of his door. A few minutes later he was inside, his boots kicked off onto a thick mat, his coat hung on one of the hooks placed near the door. He switched on a light, boosted the thermostat and welcomed himself home with two sips of single malt Scotch and a peanut butter sandwich.

Tomorrow he’d have to come up with some way to introduce his renter to the general population, which meant a breakfast at Meg’s. Sam Hove was a bit of a mystery. He’d said he was a writer who required a quiet place to work. He’d listed his occupation as a producer and director of travel films. How the heck could that be remotely suspicious? Jerry was looking forward to meeting the guy and hearing some interesting stories. Come to think of it, Sam Hove might be an attractive bachelor for the show. He could add a little international class that was missing in Willing.

No, bad idea. He’d likely overshadow the local men, and the show was all about Montana men looking for love. Sam Hove wasn’t looking for anything but big fish to catch and weird animals to film.

Mike could do an interview with him. That was easy enough to arrange. The rumors would stop, the holidays would keep everyone occupied, and then Jerry could go back to the really important matter of saving the town.

* * *

SAM DIDN’T HAVE the slightest idea where he was. He thought about opening his eyes, but even that small movement seemed like too much work. He thought he’d simply lie there in the queen-size bed and enjoy the warm blankets weighing him down. He was warm and out of the weather, two very good things.

Sam knew enough not to move. The ache banding his chest was a constant reminder to be careful. His head throbbed and his nose was cold.

Nose cold? Ah. Montana. The old lady’s house with the woodstove.

The wild kids. The barking dog.