Montana Rose Read online

  “Whew.” His breath came out in a whoosh. “Rose Bush, you are one stinking sight.”

  “Couldn’t keep her outta the pig pen,” Elmer said. “She was right taken with them pigs. Gotta head back, pert near feedin’ time. I’ll be bringing the p—”

  “Picnic.” Rose threw out the word, cutting him off. “You were about to say picnic.” Could it get any worse? Now all that she needed was for Elmer to blurt out the real reason for this charade.

  “Huh?” He squinted at her then shook his head. Rose Bush was one confounding woman. Good thing she wasn’t husband hunting after all.

  He snapped the reins, nodded to Rose, still in Jesse’s outstretched arms, and said, as the wagon lumbered out of the yard, “Happy Birthday, Rivers. See you tomorrow, Miss Rose.”

  “Like hell you will,” Jesse muttered, then focused his eyes on the woman standing so forlornly in front of him.

  “What’s he mean, Happy Birthday? And what’s this about a picnic?” he growled.

  “How would I know?” Rose snapped, trying to break his hold.

  “There will be no picnic tomorrow. Elmer Wattle isn’t worth your dainty”—he peered down at her boots, covered with excrement—“I was going to say foot, but changed my mind. He’s worth every bit what you have on your boots, your dress, your face, and probably even in your hair. You need a bath, lady.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Rivers. I would never have guessed.”

  “Tory, bring out a couple towels, soap, shampoo, and a blanket. Our pig farmer here is too smelly to enter the house.” He dropped her arms. “I’ll go around the shed and bring over the tub. You can bathe out here. Good thing the sun’s out.”

  Rose started to protest only to be cut off by a curt order from Jesse, a smile playing around his lips.

  “Don’t you run off, Rose. I’ve got some things I want to say to you.” He paused, smiling into her eyes. “You really are a stinking mess, my love.” Then, holding his breath, he leaned forward to search for a clean spot on her forehead. He placed a tender kiss there. “I’ll hurry,” he said, hating to leave her. She was even more special now that he’d admitted his love.

  Rose couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. My love. The words sang in her heart. He’d called her ‘my love’ and, moreover, he’d kissed her. The plan had worked. Thank you, Elmer Wattle, for making Jesse jealous. She started to hug herself, saw her hands, and thought better of it.

  Tory ran to the house and Jesse, the only thought in his mind the woman waiting, tore around the side of the shed.

  He was barely out of sight when Rose heard a loud shout. On the wings of the shout drifted an eye-watering odor.

  “What the . . .? Aaugh . . . Get out of here, go on, get,” Jesse shouted. “Damn and double damn!” Angry words and ear-splitting expletives smoked the air.

  “Jesse,” Rose called. “What is it?” Her feet couldn’t move fast enough as fear gripped her.

  Jesse was in trouble.

  “Rose, don’t come around the corner of the shed. Stay away,” Jesse barked.

  “You need help.”

  “No, I don’t. What’s done is done. Can’t you smell it? Now stay there. The last thing we need is skunk spray mixed with pig manure.”

  “Skunk spray?” Rose poked her head around the corner of the shed.

  There stood Jesse, an arm over his face, fingers pinching his nose. Across from him, tail still raised, stood a very angry skunk. Front legs planted, his black eyes were daring the reeking man to even twitch. Any excuse would do and he’d flip around, lift his tail, and shower Jesse with more of the noxious spray.

  “Don’t move,” Jesse said from between clenched teeth.

  “Did-Did he spray you?” Rose asked.

  “Can’t you smell it? Hell yes, he sprayed me. Thankfully, my pants legs caught most of it.”

  The skunk stood its ground, raking them with his eyes. The minutes passed in a silence so great they could hear the insects buzzing. Finally, the animal dismissed the two humans as unworthy of further attention and he sauntered into the tall grass and out of sight.

  Jesse relaxed, and Rose came running to him.

  “You scared me, Jesse Rivers. I thought you’d been attacked.”

  “Well,” he said with a grin, “I was.”

  “You make my eyes water,” Rose said, trying to hide her smile.

  “Don’t want to hurt your feelings, Rose, but you sure don’t smell like your namesake, either.” Jesse pulled her into his arms and, laying a finger under her chin, raised her face to his.

  “Rose, I have something to say.”

  “Uh, could it wait until we—”

  “No, it can’t,” he interrupted forcefully. “I have to say it while I have the courage.” He cleared his throat. “I swore I’d never love a woman.”

  “I thought as much,” she said forlornly.

  “Then you came charging into my life.”

  Rose opened her mouth.

  Hush.” He placed a finger across her lips, silencing her. “I’ve got to get this out, and I don’t want interruptions.”

  Rose blinked back her tears. “I want to hear what you have to say, but I already know what it is.”

  “You do?” he asked, surprised.

  “Yes. You are trying to say as kindly as possible you will never care for me.” Rose blinked back the tears. “It’s okay, Jesse. That’s why I need to leave and that’s why . . .”

  “Why you decided to entice Elmer Wattle,” he finished, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “I knew you were desperate for your own ranch, but I didn’t think for one minute you’d settle for a . . .”

  “Pig farmer?”

  “Well, yes. We’ll discuss that later. Right now, I have more important things on my mind.” He took a breath and started again. “I told myself I couldn’t love a woman because . . .” He paused, gaining courage to go on. “Because I was worried I’d be like my father. I’ve been afraid of my temper. Afraid I couldn’t control my anger. It would kill me to strike a person I loved.”

  “But you wouldn’t,” Rose interrupted. “You are nothing like what I understand your father was.”

  “No, I’m not, but I didn’t realize that until today. Until”—he took her face between his large hands—“until I realized I could lose you. I love you, Rose. I love you with every fiber of my being. With every breath I take. I can’t live without you. I need you in my life, here beside me, milking your cow, gathering your eggs, baking in your kitchen.”

  He took his thumb and wiped the trail of tears now freely running through the dirt on her face.

  “I can’t promise you we won’t fight. We will. We’re both independent, strong-willed people. But I can promise I’ll never hurt you. And I can promise I’ll cherish you until the day I die.” He held his breath, his gaze searching her face.

  “Jesse, my sweet Jesse. I’ve loved you forever. I didn’t want to. I’ve been afraid to hope. You can be pig-headed and stubborn. Oh my.” She winced. “Did I say pig?”

  “You did, right after you said you loved me,” he said in a rough voice.

  “Well, I do. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you. It was breaking my heart.” She ran a grimy hand down his jaw, her eyes tender, filled with radiant love.

  “Then will you marry me? I can’t give you a whole ranch, but I can give you half of my share.”

  “Heck,” a voice called from behind them. “She can have half of my share, too,” Tory said, grinning.

  “All I want is you.” She laid her head against Jesse’s shoulder, snuggling into his arms, knowing she’d come home. His gentle strength cradling her.

  “No pig farm or farmer?” Jesse asked.

  “No pig farm or farmer. However, you will be getting two pigs
tomorrow. For your birthday.” She giggled.

  Jesse gave her a perplexed look.

  “Well, I had to have some reason for luring the poor man into spending time with me.”

  “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  “Because, I thought if you saw me with Elmer Wattle you might be jealous.” Rose gave him an imploring look.

  “You mean you went with that-that man, gave him some of my chocolate cake, then came home smelling like a pig wallow, just to make me jealous?”

  She nodded. “It was my last hope. Worked, didn’t it?”

  “Rose, I ought to turn you over my knee.”

  “You can’t. Your knee smells worse than my dress. Neither one of us can go in the house until Tory pours buckets of water over us.”

  “Then there’s only one thing I can do.”

  “Yes?”

  Jesse’s mouth found hers and he rained sweet kisses over it and her waiting face. In-between each kiss, he whispered tenderly, “Love you, love you, and love you.”

  “Hey, you two,” Tory called. “The water’s waiting. And”—he sniffed—“plenty of soap. It’ll take some doing, but if you get to smelling better, I’ll allow you in the house. You can sit on the sofa, hold hands, cuddle, and say all those mushy words to each other you want to. Heck, I’ll even bring you cookies.”

  And that’s just what they did, far into the night.

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  WYOMING HEATHER

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  TEARS IN THE WIND

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  ONE SHINGLE TO HANG

  A woman with too much knowledge was at risk for insanity. Her fragile mind couldn’t handle it. That’s what Lil had been told when she went against convention and became an attorney. The 1800’s had fewer women lawyers than women doctors. Her pride knew no bounds when she hung her shingle—L.M. Wentfield, Attorney At Law.

  Drew was a struggling cattle rancher, building a fledgling Hereford empire. He was working toward that goal when he was accused of rustling and faced possible hanging. He needed a lawyer—a good one—a man. Chesterfield had one lawyer—a new one—L.M. Wentfield. He wasn’t prepared for a beautiful blonde with a sharp tongue and fiercely won independence.

  Lil had no homemaking abilities. Her love was the law. And if the thoughts of the gray-eyed cowboy, who had the audacity to refuse her legal help, stayed in her mind, she’d push them aside. She had nothing to offer a rancher . Even her wealth wouldn’t be considered an asset to a prideful man. And Drew Jackson was proud. So proud, he knew he couldn’t ask a woman of Lil’s stature to share his life—but he wanted to—from the moment he’d stolen that first kiss.

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  MONTANA MAN

  Ben McCabe has only one thing on his mind when he’s released from the Yuma Territorial Prison for a crime he didn’t commit: Revenge. Four years of his life gone, spent in a torturous hellhole. He wants the man responsible brought to justice, regardless of the cost.

  When Wisteria Bush finds an unconscious man next to the Colorado River, she knows she has to help him, no matter how dangerous he may be. She nurses him back to health to find he is a threat to her, but not in a way she’d ever imagined. When her brother takes up cattle rustling and intends to marry her to his boss, the handsome stranger has other ideas.

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  Writing as D.M. Woods:

  DEATH CROSSES THE FINISH LINE

  Carrie Preston has a puzzling gift for sensing the motivation and direction of a killer, and homicide Detective Tom Watts is not beyond exploiting her ability. In a pre-dawn phone call, he begins his familiar plea, asking Carrie to join an investigative team stumped by a string of recent murders in the Denver area. Someone is stabbing women to death. Always in health clubs. What is the link between the murdered women? Outwardly fighting against Tom’s request, Carrie can’t help but feel the inevitable draw—to find the killer, yes, but also to work with Tom Watts again.

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  DEATH IS A HABIT

  Carrie and Tom join together again to track a serial killer bent on eliminating selected petite blondes. Death comes in a takeout cup of deliciously brewed latte. The clues are meager—a cup of latte, a missing lock of hair, and an unidentifiable poison. What is the link between the murdered women? Carrie and Tom fight against a timetable known only to the killer.

  Homicide detective Tom Watts isn’t beyond exploiting Carrie’s particular talent as he lures her back into helping him, needing her gift of perceiving what isn’t there, feeling what others refuse to see or acknowledge, and his desire to have her back in his life. He senses Carrie is ready to do combat again after her last brush with a serial killer dubbed The Jock, a harrowing brush with death that left her healing in a hospital bed.
Carrie stops fighting Tom’s request and joins this man who holds a piece of her heart. What will stop the Latte Lover from deciding that although neither Tom nor Carrie meets his criteria, they could be the next victims?

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  DeAnn Smallwood:

  DeAnn Smallwood lives in Colorado with her husband and their two Yorkies, Stormy and Eli. She is a native of Colorado but has lived in Montana and Wyoming. Her greatest pleasure next to writing is having her books read and enjoyed. Be sure to check out books written under her pen name: D.M. Woods. There you’ll find her first two novels in the “Death” series of romantic/thrillers: Death Crosses The Finish Line & Death Is A Habit. She currently has seven western historical romances published, and many more just waiting to be written and shared.