Trent Baker? Here in Whitefish?
Nothing could have prepared Libby for the onslaught of emotions she felt at seeing him again—everything from shock, grief and anger to joy, hope and regret. Somehow Libby pulled herself together enough to get Trent’s daughter settled for recess.
On the playground the girls headed for the swings, while the boys clustered around a soccer ball, dividing into teams. Kylie, however, stood just outside the door, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her parka.
Libby approached the little girl. “It’s hard being new, isn’t it? Everything seems unfamiliar. We all want to help you, though. Will you let us?”
The answer was a sniffle. Digging out a tissue, Libby helped dry her tears. When Kylie shyly slipped her hand into Libby’s, a satisfying warmth traveled through her. This little girl was so desperate for love. But she was Trent’s daughter. Libby mustn’t get too involved.
Throughout recess Kylie remained by her side. Libby learned a lot about her. But it was the girl’s answer to her final question that lanced the scar Libby had thought forever sealed. “Why did you move to Whitefish, Kylie?”
The wistfulness of the whispered reply explained everything. “So my daddy could be happy.”
Of course. Wasn’t that just like the Trent she’d been married to? His happiness, his comfort. That was all that mattered.
Dear Reader,
Timing is everything! My husband and I have often reflected that had we met in our early twenties, neither of us would have given the other a second glance. But how differently we saw ourselves and each other in our mid-thirties. Sparks! Fireworks! A whirlwind courtship! Huh? What happened?
Change, that’s what, and a huge dose of the kind of wisdom one learns only through experience, some of it painful. One of those lessons is that a relationship, if it is to last, requires attention and work every single day! Love at first sight may just “happen,” but successful marriages require commitment, compromise and effort.
In The Wrong Man, Libby Cameron and Trent Baker marry young, full of unrealistic expectations and burdened by pasts neither is willing to share. They have a great deal to learn about the importance of communication and trust, but before those lessons can be learned, they divorce.
Fast forward to the time when Trent moves back to northwest Montana and meets Libby again. As I said before, timing is everything. Sparks! Fireworks! A whirlwind courtship! But far more important is the fact that they see each other more clearly and recognize what it means to love and cherish one another.
I would be remiss not to thank the wonderful people we encountered during our stay in the Flathead Valley of Montana. Being from Arkansas I understand Southern hospitality, but the folks we met in Montana really know how to make a person feel welcome! And the scenery? Breathtaking!
Enjoy,
Laura Abbot
P.S. I love to hear from readers. Write me at P.O. Box 373, Eureka Springs, AR, 72632-0373, or check the Superromance Web site at www.superromance.com.
The Wrong Man
Laura Abbot
For Marcia, my “forever” friend, and Steve,
who has always been the “right man,”
with love and appreciation for a lifetime
of rare and enduring friendship
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHURNING WHITE-WATER rapids, treacherous black slopes, amateur bronc riding. Until recently, Trent Baker had dared much, accustomed to triumphing over obstacles. Nothing, however, had prepared him for the reality of being a single father.
“Kylie, honey, you’ll be late for school.”
“I’ve got to find it, Daddy. Mommy said it looks pretty.”
Curbing his impatience, Trent slumped against the wall of the pink-and-white bedroom while his seven-year-old daughter emptied the contents of her musical jewelry box, hunting for the elusive barrette she insisted was the only one that matched her outfit—pink leotards and a purple-and-pink flowered turtleneck. They’d already searched her dresser drawers, the floor of her closet and the bathroom cabinet.
“Here it is!” She pirouetted to face him, her corn-flower-blue eyes alight. She handed him her hair-brush, then plopped onto her bed. “Fix me.”
Her innocent words stabbed him. Doing his daughter’s hair was challenge enough. Other things, regretfully, went far beyond “fixable.”
Kylie sat quietly as he drew the brush through her straight, silky blond hair, so like her mother’s. Fumbling with the barrette clasp, Trent wished for the umpteenth time that little girls came with instruction manuals. His clumsy fingers could scarcely wrap around the purple plastic bow. “How’s that?” he said at last.
She jumped up to inspect herself in the mirror. “It’s crooked.”
Trent sighed. Ashley would have done it perfectly. “Get your coat, honey.”
Her look let him know he’d failed as a hairdresser, but to his relief, she walked to the hall closet, where he helped her into her parka, careful not to disturb the all-important barrette.
Dragging her book bag behind her, she followed him from their first-floor condominium to his extended-cab pickup, engine and defroster already running. After settling Kylie in the back seat, Trent scraped the remaining ice and snow from the windshield. “Warm enough?” he asked as he climbed behind the wheel.
Kylie merely shrugged, folding her arms around her body and ducking her head, her lower lip thrust out.
With slight variations, the same thing happened each morning. Today the delaying tactic was the lost barrette. Other times she complained of a stomachache, refused to eat breakfast or gave him the silent treatment, as she was doing now. He fought the familiar panic. He had no idea what to do for her—with her.
Ashley had always known. But Ashley wasn’t here. Would never be here. And back then… Kylie had been a model child.
Her behavior was natural, the school counselor had told him. Children handled grief in different ways, an aversion to school being one of them. Or withdrawal. Controlling behavior. Acting out.
Trent glanced in the rearview mirror. Eyes downcast, Kylie stared at her clasped hands. She looked fragile, defenseless, lonely.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel. It wasn’t fair. Vibrant, beautiful Ashley wasting away, ravaged by the relentless leukemia he’d been powerless to stop. Nearly a year had passed, and still their condo echoed with her absence. The leukemia had sent a message loud and clear. Trent Baker no longer controlled his life. Hell, he couldn’t even find a way to help Kylie. Some kind of father he was.
A sullen