The Husband School Read online

  “What kind of reality show? Like Survivor, only in the winter?”

  “Uh-uh. Like The Dating Game, only with city girls and country guys.”

  Lucia’s brow furrowed. “I don’t get it.”

  “They’d use local men,” Meg explained. “Our bachelors, from around here. The idea is to bring city women to date, well, Western men. You know, like the Marlboro Man from a zillion years ago. Clint Eastwood, only lots younger.”

  “The guys around here aren’t exactly movie stars.”

  “No.”

  They both giggled.

  “Stop that.” Mama broke into their conversation. “We could use some movie stars, some people other than the ones we already know. I’m thinking I’d like to open up a pizza shop. Everyone likes pizza, especially movie stars.”

  Meg couldn’t help smiling. “You’re going to give me some competition in the restaurant business?”

  “You don’t sell pizza,” Mama said. “But I’ll always make your meatballs for you, don’t worry.”

  “That’s a load off my mind,” Meg answered, still smiling. “But there won’t be any real movie stars coming here, just normal people who want to be on television.”

  “Normal people,” Lucia said, reaching for her coffee, “don’t want to be on television.”

  “Normal people come to Montana,” Meg pointed out. “You did.”

  Lucia smiled. “I did, all the way from Wyoming. And so did you.”

  “When I was sixteen,” she reminded her. “Because my mother fell in love with a man in Billings who ended up inheriting this place.”

  “Husband number two?”

  “Five.”

  “That,” Mama said, frowning at them, “is too many husbands. Your mother was a very busy lady.”

  “And very optimistic.”

  Mama looked across the room at Shelly. “Maybe I can find a job for her. In my pizza business.”

  “If she sticks around,” Lucia said. “I thought you said she was looking for her boyfriend.”

  “That’s what she said. She seems to think she’ll find him and live happily ever after.”

  “And where is he, this boyfriend?” Mama wanted to know. “And what kind of a boyfriend is this, who gets a girl pregnant and can’t be found? Who would want a boyfriend like that?”

  “Mama, shh. She’ll hear you.”

  They were an odd pair, the two Mrs. Swallows. Both women were short and dark haired, but there the resemblance ended. Lucia, one-quarter Lakota Sioux, was fine-boned with delicate features and hazel eyes. She looked younger than her thirty-four years, and too slim to have had three children. Quiet, kind and dependable, Lucia hid the pain of widowhood and buried her heartache under the enormous love she had for her sons.

  Mama was the last person anyone would expect to move from her Italian neighborhood in Rhode Island and settle in a remote Montana town, but the death of her son and her daughter-in-law’s third pregnancy had meant Mama was needed. And Mama went where she was needed. She’d stayed, so here she was almost five years later. In her own little home one block around the corner from Lucia and the boys, she cooked and babysat and watched over her son’s family.

  “I hope hundreds of women come here,” Lucia said. She leaned over and lifted her sleepy son from his grandmother’s lap.

  “Why?” Meg and Mama asked at the same time.

  “Because I don’t want to date. I don’t want to marry. And I’m tired of saying that, over and over again. I mean,” she said to Meg, “if you or I were going to fall in love with someone in Willing, it would have happened by now, wouldn’t it?”

  * * *

  “SO, LUCIA’S LIKE your best friend, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s nice.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  Shelly didn’t add that she thought Lucia’s mother-in-law, that Mama person, was scarier than Judge Czercic, who had sent her to foster care when she was thirteen. She was sure—pretty sure—Sonny’s mother would be really nice. But then again, she guessed that in-laws were a “you get what you get” deal. His family would be her family, the baby’s family. It would all work out. She’d make it work out.

  Shelly, her bags in hand, followed Meg across the parking lot to the L-shaped group of cabins. “Did you ever think about putting in a pool?”

  “A pool?” Meg was fumbling with keys.

  “Yeah, don’t all these old motels have pools in the middle?”

  “Not here,” Meg said, stopping in front of the end unit with rose flowered curtains in the window. “We go for the rustic-parking-lot look.”

  Shelly wondered if that was a joke, but Meg was fiddling with the doorknob and Shelly couldn’t tell. This one looked larger than the other five buildings.

  “This is my mother’s,” she said once again, finally opening the door. “She’s out of town, so it’s going to be a little dusty.”

  Shelly didn’t care about dust. What she cared about was sleeping in a real bed. She worried that Meg would call the sheriff. She was scared she’d lose the baby and she’d never find Sonny. She might have nightmares about that strange old woman who glared at her from across the café, but she didn’t care about dust.

  Meg switched on a set of lights to the left of the door, revealing a pine-paneled room that held a small combination kitchen and living area. A square table butted against the wall with two white chairs on either side. Across the room sat a rose velvet sofa, a tall lamp, a coffee table and a surprisingly new flat-screen television.

  “Wow,” Shelly said. “It’s really pink.”

  “My mother’s favorite color. After she divorced her last husband, she bought as much pink stuff as she could fit in here.”

  “Why?”

  “To remind herself to stay single.”

  “Really?” The pink was a little weird, but Shelly had lived in some pretty ugly places in the past years, and this cabin was nothing to complain about.

  “Really. There’s a bathroom in there.” Meg pointed toward the other side of the room where two doors were closed. “And a bedroom. I’ll find sheets and get you fixed up.”

  “I can do that,” she said. “You don’t have to go to any more trouble.... Where is she?”

  “Who?” Meg had rounded a corner and opened a closet.

  “Your mother.”

  “Visiting her sister.”

  “She’s not going to be mad if I stay here?”

  “Not at all.” She handed Shelly a stack of sheets with pink daisies scattered on them. “How are you feeling? Tell the truth.”

  Shelly gulped. “I’m okay. Just really tired. Lucia said it was normal to be tired like this.”

  “You’re not feeling sick again, are you?” Meg led her into a small bedroom, most of the space taken up by a double bed—with a pink comforter, of course—and a long narrow dresser painted white. The carpet was also white, and the one window was covered in long panels of white lace. Shelly thought it was the prettiest room she’d ever seen, but she tried not to look impressed.

  “No.” Not that she’d admit feeling sick even if she was, having caused a big scene this morning with everyone staring at her as if she was a corpse on CSI.

  “I have to get back to the café, but Mondays are slow. Come over later if you want a burger or something.” Meg frowned at the bed. “Are you sure you don’t want help with the sheets?”

  “It’s okay, honest.” She set them carefully on the fluffy comforter. “How late do you work?”

  “Oh, maybe eight o’clock. Now that it’s getting dark so early, I think we’ll close early. Especially if it starts to snow. But I’ll check on you before I go home.”

  “You live here, too?”

  “In the cabin closest to the café, on the othe
r end.” She smiled. “And there isn’t one pink thing in it.”

  “I like pink,” was the only thing Shelly could think to say. She didn’t understand why this stranger was being so nice. Why she’d given her a place to sleep tonight and free milk and bacon this morning. It was because she was pregnant, Shelly decided. Everything had been different since she got pregnant.

  “Are you going to be okay here by yourself? It’s pretty quiet, but you’ll probably hear cars coming and going. Turn up the heat, use the television and make yourself at home. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” Shelly didn’t know what else to say. For the first time in months, she felt as if everything was going to be okay. At least for a little while.

  * * *

  HE HAD DONE it.

  In fact, he’d accomplished a heck of a lot more this morning than he’d ever dreamed of. Momentum, Jerry realized. He was now experiencing the momentum of a good idea turning into a great undertaking. And Owen MacGregor, of all people, had sat right there in the café, eaten his breakfast and studied Jerry’s information as if he was interested, just as if he spent every Monday morning catching up with town business.

  He couldn’t wait to call Tracy. She’d eat up the whole “historic ranch” angle. She’d hinted about cowboys and horseback riding all along. And if anyone could come up with a ranch to impress the producers, it would be a MacGregor, descendant of the first cattle rancher in the county, old Angus, who’d come from Scotland with a plan. Jerry had done his research into town history when he’d first decided to run for mayor, and his own plans for a prosperous town—and luring Tracy back into his life—would have made Angus proud. Jerry had never been out there to the Triple M, but he intended to wrangle an invitation from Owen very soon. He’d take pictures so Tracy wouldn’t waste any time getting out here.

  Getting out to MacGregor’s had been on his list for weeks, but he’d been told the uncle was unfriendly, remote and rarely concerned himself with county business, never mind small-town concerns. But then along came Owen, and he’d been open to hearing the issues; he’d listened to the ideas and joined in the conversation.

  Jerry leaned back in his office chair and admired the big glass windows that showcased Main Street. Owen MacGregor had been polite, agreeable and friendly. Sure, he hadn’t completely agreed to serve on the location committee, but Tracy wouldn’t let a setting like that go to waste, not when she wanted atmosphere. Montana atmosphere.

  She’d get it, and more.

  To top it all off, Meg Ripley, as outspoken and stubborn as she was, had sensibly agreed to back a project that would mean money in her bank account. At first she might have thought the idea of a dating show was amusing, but she’d recognized the importance of good publicity and an influx of people into town. The numbers didn’t lie; all those visitors would need food. And when the other people in town saw Meg supporting this, there wouldn’t be many who would argue with the formidable café owner. He had no doubt she was scribbling down menus and fancy catering ideas right this minute.

  His illustrious town council had voted yes to presenting this at the town meeting. Unanimously...if reluctantly. The posters were being printed, the announcement of a special emergency meeting would be in the paper Wednesday morning and at seven o’clock Thursday night he would explain to his constituents his plan to keep Willing from sliding into oblivion.

  Jerry could almost hear the applause now.

  Heady stuff, this momentum.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I’VE BEEN THINKING about what your grandfather would say about this,” Ben Fargus drawled. “I’m not sure he would have liked all of this hoopla. The old man wasn’t much for crowds, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well—” Owen began to say into the phone.

  “He preferred horses. Always did, right up until the accident.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Your father, on the other hand, was a more social type. He believed in community involvement, I will say that.”

  “Yes, he did,” Owen said, giving up trying to get a word in. He promised himself to never answer the ranch’s phone again.

  “A finer man never was born, least not in Montana. The town still misses him. Shame him going so young.” The elderly man, whom Owen remembered as one of his father’s acquaintances, sighed. “Now, Jerry has some interestin’ ideas, which you heard all about the other morning, over breakfast, he said, and he says you’re on board. He’s told you about all this publicity stuff, right?”

  “Yes, but—” Before he could explain, once again, that he’d only listened to the mayor and hadn’t committed his money, ranch or hot tub to the cause, Mr. Fargus interrupted with a monologue on the hardships of marriage.

  “I can’t claim to know everything about women, but after living with the same one for more than sixty years...”

  Owen stopped listening. He stared at the thick plastic phone stuck to the wall, its once-white coiled cord stretched from years of use at its station to the right of the stove. Uncle Ed hadn’t been much for renovations or updates, as the interior of the house illustrated. Uncle Ed had kept to himself, spent more time outdoors than inside and, as Mr. Fargus had said, had liked horses more than people. Owen guessed it ran in the family, which explained his own solitary lifestyle.

  Ed hadn’t spent much time talking on the telephone, either. As far as Owen knew, Ed had visited a cousin in Missoula whenever he’d felt like socializing, and he only called his nephew when there was business to discuss. The silent rancher hadn’t believed in wasting time with “chitchat nonsense,” which explained his hermit-like behavior.

  Or caused it.

  “Your father would sure be pleased,” the old man on the other end of the phone was saying.

  “Yes,” was all Owen could manage to say. He wasn’t sure what Mr. Fargus meant.

  “This town needs a MacGregor, sure enough. Hello? Hello? Are you there, Owen? These cell phones, always cutting out.” With that, the connection ended and Owen listened to the blissful sound of a dial tone. In the past seventy-two hours, he’d been contacted by various town residents—all male, of course—and all six members of the town council. Their conversations had ranged from stressed to enthusiastic, depending on their ages and opinions about blind dates, California women and bachelorhood. Each one had wanted to know if, how and why Owen was getting involved.

  No, he’d said. I’m not on the location committee.

  No, I’m not on the welcoming committee, either.

  No, the hot tub isn’t functional. Really, it’s not. Hasn’t been used in years.

  No, the ranch is not about to become a golf course.

  And no, I am not attending the town meeting.

  Jerry Thompson, who had called three times, never accepted the “not attending the town meeting” statement. He refused to believe that Owen could ignore the opportunity to solve the town’s financial problems.

  “You’ve seen the figures with your own eyes,” he’d cried. “Your great-great-great-whatever grandfather founded this town!”

  “Not exactly.” Owen had tried to explain that his famous ancestor had founded a cattle business, not a town. He didn’t go into detail about the family’s rumored connection to the first brothel or the legendary train robber in Kansas who might or might not have been the black sheep of the family. The original Angus MacGregor had been a decent man with a dream, and he’d proudly seen it come true.

  “We need you. You’re supposed to be on the location committee, remember?”

  “Sorry, but—”

  “You have a historic ranch, Owen. I heard your folks used to open it in the summer and let tourists see the place. I saw some great old postcards framed at the library. When we had a library.”

  “What happened to the library?” He was afraid to hear th
e answer.

  “We couldn’t keep it up. Now we get the bookmobile on Thursdays.”

  “Look, Jerry, the ranch used to be a showplace, but that was a long time ago. The house—the entire place—is old. It needs work.” He didn’t add what the real-estate agent had said about a bulldozer. “My uncle didn’t—”

  “I’m sure it has atmosphere,” the mayor insisted. “Tracy will be able to get some great shots of the ranch exteriors and views of the cattle. They call it B-roll, you know.”

  “There are no cattle right now,” Owen said. “We’ve leased out—”

  “We’ll get some. What about horses? If you don’t have any, we’ll get those, too.”

  Mayor Thompson, Owen decided, was a real pain in the butt. And if one more person called to ask his opinion about the emergency town meeting and the “mayor’s dating show,” Owen thought he might just move out to the barn. God knew he’d spent enough weeks cleaning it out.

  Getting caller ID would help, once he bought a phone that displayed the numbers. He could buy a new cell phone to replace the one that had died shortly after he moved back here. Voice mail might be less annoying than he remembered, too. But he would need to go somewhere other than town to buy these necessities, or order them online and have them delivered here to the ranch. Fortunately the internet connection was more or less reliable.

  He didn’t want to go to Willing. Meg was there. He could avoid the café easily, but he had no doubt that if he set foot into the grocery/liquor/hardware store—or anywhere else, for that matter—he’d have the bad luck to run into her and she’d smile politely and act as if they hardly knew each other. Again.

  She’d broken his heart all those years ago, when he was twenty and in love and desperate to be with her for the rest of their lives. And now there’d been the revelation that eighteen other men had proposed marriage to her. While he could understand a few drunken pleas on Valentine’s Day, eighteen seemed a little...excessive. Had shy Margaret Ripley taken after her mother after all?