After a few steps, Katrina felt the heels of her shoes suddenly go down into the mud.
“What’s wrong?” Conrad stepped over and steadied her arm.
“I think I’m stuck,” Katrina confessed. When he’d taken her arm, she’d realized how tall he was. Of course, she’d shrunk an inch when her heels slid down in the mud.
Conrad frowned. “Hold on to your hat,” he said as he scooped her up and settled her into his arms. “There. I’ll get you to the asphalt, at least.”
“You don’t need to—” Katrina started, but he was already walking with her. “Being swept off my feet like this is really quite romantic. You know, like those old movie stars.” She was very close to him and it gave her a dizzy feeling in her stomach. His eyes were dancing with laughter.
“If you want movie-star romance, here it is.”
And with that, he kissed her.
JANET TRONSTAD
would never presume to tell anyone who they should marry. But she does admit to a little matchmaking between the pages of her twenty-some books. She has a series of contemporary and historical books set in Dry Creek, Montana (based loosely on the small Montana town where she grew up). Another four-book series, sharing the lives of four young women in the Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches, is set in Old Town Pasadena, California, where she currently lives. Janet is a full-time writer and, when she’s not at her computer, she enjoys spending time with friends and family.
Wife Wanted in Dry Creek
Janet Tronstad
MILLS & BOON
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He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the Lord.
—Proverbs 18:22
For my nephew, Orion MacDonald, with love and prayers that, in due time, he will find exactly the right wife. Meanwhile, of course, he’s more concerned with his puppy. And getting through the second grade.
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
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Katrina Britton stood looking out the window of the only gas station in Dry Creek, Montana. The handful of houses she saw had their curtains drawn. It was supposed to be spring, but winter still had a grip on this tiny town. The ground was sprinkled with frost and dried mud was splattered on everything from parked cars to that little garden gnome sticking up in someone’s dead lawn.
In all her thirty-two years, Katrina had always liked winter. But seeing how lonely the gnome looked surrounded by all that withered grass made her eyes tear up so she blinked and concentrated on the window in front of her. The ground wasn’t all that was frozen. Twenty minutes ago, she’d pulled off the I-90 freeway outside this town to take a call on her cell phone. When she finished the conversation, she knew her new photography business was as cold and lifeless as anything she could see out this window. In the past couple of months, she’d fought against everything—her unsupportive boyfriend, her dwindling savings and her own doubts—all in hopes of landing this one big client that would jump-start her career as a freelance photographer. She wanted this more than anything she’d ever wanted. And just when she thought it was hers, the client had said they couldn’t use her photos because, although they were technically good, they lacked heart.
Lacked heart? How could they lack heart? She’d spent almost everything she had getting the perfect models to portray that illusive thing called heart.
Not knowing what to do after that call, she started the car again, only to have the muffler make a horrid noise and begin spewing out black smoke. She was forced to take the first exit she could find to get help. So, here she was. Her day was miserable and it was only eight-thirty in the morning.
She hiccupped and saw the man at the desk look up at her. In an effort to stop the tears from falling, she turned back and focused on the window. Eventually, she’d need to decide what to do next in her life, but for now she just needed to breathe. Of course, a distraction would help her get through the next few minutes, but there was nothing more to see outside. That’s when she noticed that the large glass pane itself was amazingly clean.
“Who does the windows?” she turned to ask the man who was watching her instead of tallying up a repair estimate for her muffler.
“I do them,” he answered a little tentatively. “Why, do you see a spot?”
She’d grown up in a muddy town like this so she knew how hard it was to keep windows clean during the winter. “I just think that whatever they’re paying you to keep them looking like this, it’s not enough. You’re doing a great job.” She peered at his name tag. “Conrad.”
She would love to have someone tell her she was doing a good job—at anything. It would certainly make her feelings of failure a lot less right now. But he didn’t seem to care if anyone appreciated his efforts. He grunted and turned back to the repair estimate he was filling out.
Well, Mr. Congeniality he was not. She studied him anyway because she needed to focus on something right now. His brown hair was cropped close, but not styled. His beige uniform had his name, Conrad Nelson, embroidered on the top pocket in orange thread. She’d guess he was in his late thirties. He was fit, but not buff. The shirt of his uniform was neatly tucked in and his shoulders were military straight as he sat in his wooden chair.
Something about him steadied her, though. His demeanor said he was a rock. She guessed he was a man who always quietly did his duty.
He pointed to the small sign by the door. “This is my place. I take care of it all. Top to bottom, including windows.”
“You’re fortunate.” She envied him; there’d been pride in his voice.
“I do okay. Moved everything here from Miles City a few months ago.” Conrad paused to look at her some more. “You need a job or something? Washing those windows wouldn’t pay much, but—”
She