The Wrong Man

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 voice from the back seat jarred him. “I’m not going.”

He struggled for a neutral tone. “We’ve discussed this, Kylie. You are going. It’s the law.”

“I hate you!” He couldn’t bring himself to glimpse in the mirror once more and see the belligerence that he knew sparked in his daughter’s eyes.

“That’s too bad. I love you.” Pulling in to the driveway of the school, he noted that most of the children had already been dropped off. While Kylie unbuckled her seat belt, he spoke soothingly. “Try to enjoy yourself. Give school a chance. You just might like it.” He mustered a grin, which was met with the withering scorn of a pint-size cynic.

Kylie scrambled from the car, and without a backward glance trudged toward the school entrance. By afternoon, her teacher had told him, Kylie would be fine, but with a fatalism born of experience, he knew that the cycle would repeat itself tomorrow morning.

It didn’t help that after school she would be bussed to a day-care center and then picked up by her grandmother until he got off work. Or that the cold Montana winter kept her confined to the condominium much of the rest of the time. Or that his rental agreement prohibited pets.

But even if he could have addressed all those issues, he still wouldn’t be able to provide the one thing she needed most—her mother.

LIBBY CAMERON shrugged into her goose-down coat, gathered the tote bag loaded with graded papers, locked the door and carefully made her way down the ice-covered steps of her house toward the Suburban SUV waiting at the curb. “Brr,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Cold morning in Whitefish.”

Doug Travers grinned. “What’s a little bracing Montana air?” He picked up her gloved hand. “Especially when I’m with such a pretty woman.”

The scent of expensive after-shave and new-car leather mingled with the welcome warmth from the heater. “Thanks for taking me to work. One of the other teachers will drop me off at the garage after school to pick up my car.”

“Sure I can’t help?” The eagerness in Doug’s voice was unmistakable.

She studied his profile—firm chin, full lips, Roman nose, high forehead, prematurely receding hairline. Handsome in a successful-executive kind of way. A good man. Dependable. Family-oriented.

Libby had been surprised when Mary Travers, principal of the elementary school where she taught, had suggested the blind date with her son. Initially Libby had resisted, reluctant to consider dating after several dead-end relationships. And she most certainly did not want to entertain that ridiculous fantasy called romance. In fact, living alone was a bargain compared with hooking up with the wrong man. She was no fool, and experience had been a powerful teacher. Yet slowly but surely, Doug had ingratiated himself with her. He had been a total gentleman in the six months they’d been dating, and much as she hated to admit it, having an escort for movies, community functions and faculty parties was pleasant.

“Lib, I was able to get tickets to the symphony in Missoula this weekend. I thought we could run down there, have a fancy dinner, take in the concert, stay at the new bed-and-breakfast I heard about.”

Her palms moistened in her suddenly overwarm gloves. Was it her imagination or had he deftly slipped in that last part about the B and B? She found herself stammering, “I…the concert… Who’s the guest artist?”

He gave her a puzzled look before answering. “A cellist from Prague.”

“Oh.” Say something, she urged herself. “Which night?”

“Saturday,” he said evenly as he pulled into the faculty parking lot.

She scrambled to hook her arm through the handles of her tote. “Let me think about it.”

He stayed her departure with a hand on her forearm. “Lib, are you worried about the B and B?”

Her mouth went dry as week-old chalk dust. “I didn’t quite know what to think.” She must sound ridiculous. Any thirty-plus woman in northwest Montana would jump at the chance to spend a weekend with Doug Travers. By any standards, he was a catch. A successful insurance agent accustomed to nice things, generous with his money, a doting son and uncle. She wished…

“I’ll book separate rooms,” he said, his wistfulness implying he had hoped for something else.

Libby swallowed. “That would be nice.” She stepped from the car. “All right, then. I’ll look forward to it.”

As she stood in the overcast early morning watching him drive off, an unsettled feeling lodged in her stomach. Up to now their relationship had been…comfortable.

The cold December wind whipped the ends of her scarf, mocking the word. What normal, red-blooded man wanted to settle for comfortable?

Why couldn’t she offer more?

She knew the answer. Don’t go there, she muttered as she sought the sanctuary of her brightly decorated classroom, where the giggles, hugs and infectious enthusiasm of second-graders made her come alive in a way nothing else had since…

Idiot! Absolutely do not go there.

TRENT RESTED on his haunches, surveying the French doors he’d just installed in the monstrous family room. Through the glass he could see the city of Billings, then, across the Yellowstone River, the sweep of prairie shadowed by dark, heavy clouds. Behind him in the kitchen, his father-in-law conferred with the demanding home owners, who were belatedly requesting yet another change in the specifications. Trent groaned. He didn’t understand how Gus stood it, but as his father-in-law frequently reminded him, building a custom house meant exactly that—fulfilling the customer’s expectations, no matter how inconvenient or frivolous.

Tool chest in hand, Trent moved to the guest bedroom, out of earshot. Plugging in his sander, he worked on shelves for a built-in bookcase. Even before his friend Chad’s phone call last week, he’d wondered how much longer he could last as a home builder. Not that he hadn’t appreciated Gus Chisholm’s employment offer at the time. When Trent had met Ashley, he was coming off a series of jobs that included ski instructor, rafting guide, ranch hand and carpenter. He’d known he had to settle down if he wanted to marry her. Up to that point, though, he’d concentrated on fun and adventure, unwilling to commit to the hazy notion of “career.”

Soon after, it was no longer a question of wanting to marry Ashley. He needed to marry her. Her pregnancy had caught both of them off guard. So much for the infallibility of condoms.

Gus’s offer to have Trent join him in his business building luxury homes had been a godsend, and he didn’t want to think about what he and Ashley would’ve done without the company medical insurance when Ashley got sick. But more and more lately, Trent realized he didn’t have the patience for the construction business or the diplomacy to massage the egos of wealthy, demanding clients.

Was now the time to make a change? Chad Larraby, his best friend since boyhood, needed a partner in order to buy out Swan Mountain Adventures, an outfitter in their hometown of Whitefish that offered seasonal excursions—rafting, hunting, fishing, hiking, backpacking and mountain biking. It was the perfect job opportunity. He and Chad had always made a great team, whether it was pulling off a spectacular high-school prank or combining their scoring talents to win the league basketball championship. There was no one Trent trusted more.

He pinched his nose, permanently crooked from an opposing center’s elbow. Back then, he and Chad were convinced the world had been invented for pleasure, and they had taken every opportunity to test that belief. Now? Chad was married with a son and a daughter, and both men took fatherhood seriously. Although miles apart, they’d tried to stay in touch, but since Ashley’s death, Trent had especially missed his friend’s ready laugh and common sense. Chad’s was an offer he had to consider. The work would satisfy both his zest for adventure and his need to secure the future.

But what would a move back to Whitefish—or anywhere for that matter—do to Kylie? Was it fair to uproot her from her grandparents?

It wasn’t a question of finances. He and Ashley had set aside considerable savings, hoping to buy a house, and Gus had been generous with bonuses. There was also the money from Ashley’s life insurance policy, which he hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch. But if it bought him and Kylie a better future?

With the palm of his hand he tested the newly sanded shelf, then nodded with satisfaction. Chad’s offer seemed perfect for him.

Except for one thing.

If he moved back to the Glacier Park area of Montana, inevitably he would run into Lib. Why subject himself to a past he’d moved beyond?

Liar! You haven’t moved beyond anything.

Ever since Chad’s call, Trent could hold back neither his thoughts of Libby nor the powerful emotions those memories churned up. What did philosophers say about first love? You never quite get over it? Trent leaned against the wall, wishing life could be simple. Yet the mental pictures of Libby—her dark, thick ponytail flying behind her as she skimmed over a mogul, her warm body pressed against his, firelight turning her skin to flame—halted him in his tracks. Stop it, Baker. He ran his fingers through his hair. Why was he thinking of Lib? That was in the past and needed to stay there.

Yet despite his resolve, he had another sudden image of Libby, who nurtured every small creature she met, enfolding his daughter in her arms.

Jeez, when you lose it, you go all out.

From the hallway he heard Gus call his name.

“Coming,” he said, gathering up his tools. Even if he couldn’t picture himself as a career home builder, did he dare leave a secure job? Move Kylie? Bet on a future that held a great deal of promise but no guarantees? The alternative was spending a lifetime doing work he didn’t enjoy. The last thing Kylie needed was an unhappy father.

At Gus’s direction, he moved to the dining room to install wainscoting. Yet as he worked, his thoughts were a million miles away.

Chad needed an answer. Soon. Trent could rationalize all he wanted, but the truth reverberated with every blow of his hammer. His decision was a resounding “Yes!”

BY THE END OF THE DAY, Kirby Bell had mastered addition of two-digit numbers, Heather Amundsen had gum snarled in her hair, and Josh Jacobs had upchucked his lunch. Libby had a kink in her back from helping little feet into boots, but as the last second-grader left the room, throwing his chubby arms around her waist in a fleeting hug, she smiled with satisfaction and relief.

Straightening the rows of desks, she relished the smells of glue, markers and modeling clay that lingered in the classroom. Almost daily she thanked her lucky stars that she had found the work she was born to do and that it paid enough for her to live simply and comfortably in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

In preparation for the upcoming visit from master storyteller Louise Running Wolf McCann, Libby removed the photographs of plants of the Northwest from the bulletin board, replacing them with those of indigenous animals. “Weezer,” as the Blackfoot woman was known to generations of Whitefish children, would share Native American animal legends with the class.

Returning to her desk, Libby gathered the day’s worksheets. She frowned when she noticed that little Rory Polk had left half the answers on his reading sheet blank. Bless his heart, he tried so hard to hide, burrowing into his desk and making himself even smaller, hoping to escape observation. Libby couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that something might be wrong at home.

A glance at her watch told her it was time to meet Lois Jeter, her best friend and colleague, in the office if she wanted a ride to the garage.

She hurried down the hall, noting with pleasure the red and green links of construction paper making a merry border for various holiday art projects. Mary Travers stood outside the office, her hands resting on the shoulders of a scrawny fourth-grader. “Jeffrey, we’ve talked before about snowballs. Are we going to have to have another conversation?”

The boy hung his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. I know throwing snowballs is fun, but it can also be dangerous, especially with so many little ones in the area.”

Libby watched Mary turn the boy around, pat his back and send him on his way. The principal, a short, bouncy woman with youthful skin and salt-and-pepper hair drawn back into a simple chignon, ran a tight but loving ship and was universally respected.

Libby approached her. “That went well.”

Smiling, Mary shook her head. “Boys. It’s so hard for them to resist temptation.” She accompanied Libby to the office. “How was your day?”

“Almost perfect. Just like all of them.”

“You can say that even after the Josh Jacobs caper?”

“That goes with the territory. Poor little guy. He was so embarrassed.”

Mary’s voice lowered. “We couldn’t reach his mother until just before school was out.”

“Let me guess. She was irritated he was sick?”

“That would be an understatement. Some people should simply never have children.”

Libby winced. Why were people like Mrs. Jacobs given the gift of children when she wasn’t? Quickly, she controlled her emotions. “That’s one reason we’re here. To pick up the pieces.”

“Lib,” a voice rang from down the hallway. “I’ll be right there.” Redheaded Lois Jeter, the physical education teacher, scrambled into her all-weather coat and hurried toward them. “Sorry, the gym was a disaster area today. I just now got the mats hung up.”

“We really appreciate you,” Libby assured her with a grin. “On these wintry days, the kids need to work off all the steam they can.”

Mary turned toward Libby. “I understand you and Doug are going to work off some steam this weekend in Missoula.”

Hearing “steam” and “Doug” in the same sentence caused butterflies to converge in Libby’s stomach. It didn’t help that Mary was beaming approval that had nothing to do with Libby’s skillful handling of a second-grader’s intestinal upset.

“Missoula?” Lois cocked an eyebrow.

“We’re going to the symphony.”

Lois threw up her hands in playful despair. “And here I thought you were going to hit the wild club scene.”

Libby did her best to match the mood. “What? And miss Mozart? I’m looking forward to a bit of culture.”

“So is Doug, my dear.” Mary patted Libby’s shoulder. “So is Doug.”

On the ride to the garage, Libby was grateful that Lois’s chatter prevented her from dwelling on the expectant look in Mary Travers’s eyes. Worse yet, she didn’t want to consider why Mary’s approval bothered her.

TRENT SAT at the table in the kitchenette alcove, poring over figures. In front of him was Chad’s printout of estimated start-up costs, profit-and-loss statements from the last three years, and a breakdown of income generated by the various services Swan Mountain Adventures offered. Because of recent forest fires in the area, the current owners were making them a heck of a deal. Chad had the people skills and the business background to handle accounting and marketing, and Trent knew equipment and maintenance. They shared knowledge of the outdoors and expertise in guiding. With hard work and a bit of luck, the venture looked like a winner.

Setting down the pencil, he stared into the living room, where Kylie sat on the floor, Barbies positioned around her in a protective circle. She mumbled dialogue as she picked up first one and then another of the well-endowed dolls. “Mommy doesn’t want you to wear orange with red,” he heard her chide the platinum-blond figure. She shook her head disapprovingly. “They don’t match.”

He closed his eyes briefly. Ashley had been a clotheshorse, occasionally straining their finances with her need to look bandbox perfect, but he had to give it to her. Heads had turned when she walked into a room. Kylie’s prissiness, on the other hand, worried him. It was as if she’d seized on her appearance as a means to…what? Control her world? Keep Ashley’s memory alive?

“Daddy?”

Trent’s eyes snapped open. “What, baby?”

“Are you doing homework?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

She set down the doll and approached him, her forehead wrinkled. “You don’t go to school.”

“No, but I work.”

Sidling up to him, she put her thin arm around his neck. “With tools. You’re a carmpenter.”

Her mispronunciation of the word never failed to amuse him. “Car-pen-ter.” He ruffled her hair, then drew a deep breath before launching the subject he’d been avoiding. “What if I didn’t want to be a carpenter any longer?”