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Chapter One
Del Foster punched the #1 button on the radio to change the Big Sky country music station to the more mellow classic rock channel he preferred. He’d lent his truck to Gus a couple of days ago, and that old cowboy always switched up Del’s music. Old fart probably wasn’t even a country music fan, he just liked to needle Del. It was all good-natured, so Del wasn’t mad, not about that at least.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his aging Chevy Silverado in time to Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop.” That’s music. He was a throwback, no doubt about it, at least in his appreciation of classic rock ’n’ roll. And likely in other areas, too. He’d never lived like a lot of his bronc-riding buddies—hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-living guys who loved the buckle bunnies and stompin’ to country music. Most of the guys he knew from the circuit were also hardworking cowboys, but the younger they were, the more willing they were to take risks—in life as well as in the arena.
He hummed along with the lyrics as he looked for a parking spot in the busy airport garage, growling low in his throat that he was even there. He was always happy to do whatever was needed at Aspen Springs Ranch—Noel and Marie Nichols had been generous and kind since he’d come to Montana seventeen-odd years ago, and Marietta felt more like home than Boston now. But picking up guests wasn’t in his plan this morning. Ginger, his favorite mare, was due to foal, and he’d figured on being there for the big event. However, Carlos’s youngest kid was down with Covid and the whole family, including Carlos’s two sons who worked at the ranch, too, was in quarantine. So Noel was down three hands.
Damn schools were petri dishes. Noel’s words had made him smile when his boss had asked him to pick up a guest at the airport. Del finally found a spot and pulled in, realizing as he got out of the truck that he had no idea what this person looked like, and that he’d forgotten to nab Carlos’s whiteboard. Chewing his lower lip for a second, he got out and went to his truck bed, searching. The cardboard box holding old bits, broken halters, and other tack detritus would have to do, and he tore off one of the top panels.
Now, something to write with?
He opened the toolbox behind the back window, certain he had a black permanent marker in there—the one he used to mark ear tags. Yup, there it was. Leaning against the side of the truck, he felt in his shirt pockets for the slip of paper Noel had handed him in the barn, unfolded it, and stared at it for a moment, memorizing the order of letters. As he debated whether to put the first name or the last name or both, his phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. He yanked it out to silence the alarm that told him the plane had landed, and he’d damn well better get his butt to the baggage claim area. Quickly, he wrote just the last name in bold black caps across the cardboard, shut his truck bed, and hurried to the airport entrance.
He squinted at the flight information board hanging in the baggage area for several minutes, concentrating on the shifting letters of the city names and the numbers—damn dyslexia—but finally focused on the flight from Denver. It had landed and bags would be on carousel #3. Great. He stopped at the bottom of the escalator coming down from the main terminal, got jostled and prodded by hurrying passengers and other drivers with signs, and so stepped to the back of the crowd. He gnashed his teeth and tugged the brim of his dusty black Resistol lower on his brow. A woman bumped into him and glared, like he was the one who’d stomped on her foot instead of the other way around. Thank God, his boots were sturdy enough to protect his toes. Good lord, he hated airports.
Tipping his head back, he eyed the people riding down the escalator. The woman’s name was Beth Dyke . . . something. He figured she’d be either one of those fluffy blonde sorority types or a slim, athletic young woman dressed in denim, ready to ride trail. So far, no one fitting either description had come down the stairs. A couple of young women in sundresses, carrying huge purses and hats, laughed together as they got on at the top. Ah-ha. Maybe there were two of them, but the Dyke . . . something chick made the reservations.
He held the sign up higher and caught the blonde’s eye. She smiled and raked her gaze over his denim jacket, plaid pearl-button shirt, and jeans, right down to his worn cowboy boots and back up again. She elbowed her friend and lifted her chin toward him. This had to be her, so he pushed his hat back and smiled with as much welcome as he could muster.
The girls stepped off the escalator and sidled toward him, as he dropped his sign to his side and moved between two other drivers.
“You’re a cutie pie, cowboy,” the blonde said in a breathy voice. “Too bad I’m not”—she tilted her head and looking down, trying to read his sign, while at the same time clearly checking out his . . . whatever—“Dyk-a-mine?” She met his eyes again. “’Cause I’d sure like to take a ride with you.”
He frowned. “You’re not here for Aspen Springs Ranch?”
“Nope, we’re headed to Big Bear Lodge for a bachelorette party this weekend.” The other girl—a bosomy brunette—gave him a sunny smile.
“Okay, sorry,” he mumbled, glanced behind him, and went to the back of the pack again. Ordinarily, he might’ve hung around, flirted a little, maybe even tried for a phone number. A couple of cute girls clearly looking for a little fun in a town where available women were at a premium. Not this weekend, though—the rodeo brought them in, so he’d have no problem hooking up if he wanted to. But Del wasn’t looking for a hookup. With a sigh, he held the sign up high again and watched the escalator. “Come on, Beth Dyke-whatever. Show yourself,” he muttered under his breath.
Once upon a time . . . Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman who stood in an orchard and promised to love each other forever, to have a family . . .
Beth Dykeman closed her eyes, rested her head against the straight back of the airplane seat, and almost let her mind drift back . . . No! The past was gone and so was the fairy tale. She’d had a year to mourn her broken marriage, and worse, the fact that she would never be a mother. It was time to woman up and—
The plane bumped. Her eyes flew open, and she grabbed the armrest, knocking her seat neighbor’s hand away.
The older woman, who had boarded in Denver, Beth’s layover airport, patted her arm. “It’s only a little turbulence, sweetie.”
“I know.” Beth sucked in a breath as the plane jolted again. Thank heaven for Dramamine, or the sandwich she’d eaten in Denver would be in the barf bag tucked in the seat pocket in front of her.
And because the woman raised one brow expectantly, she added, “I’m really not great on airplanes.” Only a small untruth. She wasn’t overly fond of flying. However, it wasn’t the plane or flying, it was her life. And this trip. “This is my first vacation in years, though, and I didn’t want to spend days on the road to get to it.”
“I like to think of flying as being just a little closer to God.” The woman’s expression was warm and friendly.
Beth offered the woman a wan smile. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.” She closed her eyes again. Despite the woman’s kindness, Beth didn’t want to engage. She didn’t have the energy, emotional or otherwise, to make small talk with a stranger.
She’d booked this spa week to rethink herself, her life. Divorced a year, she wasn’t floundering—not exactly. She’d left Doug and her job in Nashville behind, returned to River’s Edge, Indiana, went back to her maiden name, and took on the management of the event venue at her family’s orchard and cidery. In a way, it had been the safe choice, going home to all that was familiar and loving after Doug’s betrayal. But she’d jumped into the job without giving herself time to grieve her marriage or come to grips with the fact that she was never going to be a mother—something her friend Anna had said was going to bite her in the ass one day.
She’d mostly healed, but one day it did come back to bite her. She’d moved past the end of her twenty-year marriage, past the sense of failure at being unable to conceive, past the unholy aching sadness that stooped her shoulders and bore down on her at the most inconvenient moments. But then, a few weeks ago, she was working in the orchard market and suddenly burst into tears at the sight of Jo Weaver Briggs’s baby bump. There was no coming back from that one—she’d merely rushed to the backroom to gulp back the heaving sobs while her mom and sister took over the register. Her emotions had been simmering so near the surface all summer, and the tight rein she’d kept was fraying.
Saving face was part of the impetus for booking this trip, but now, she wished she could simply blink herself back to River’s Edge and the studio apartment above the orchard store. How lovely it would be to lie in the narrow twin bed as the warm September air filled her room with the scent of apples. From her window, she could see the apple and pear trees growing up the hill to the row of pines that created a natural property line between the orchard and the land beyond. If she leaned slightly to the left, she could see the barn that used to be Walkers’s party barn but now belonged to her family and was the newest addition to Dykeman Family Orchard, Cidery, and Events Center.
She sighed. How she wished she were there now, going over the event bookings and helping Anna with arrangements for her December wedding. When she’d left, the orchard was redolent with ripening fruit, and soon, the whole family would be helping the migrant workers who came each fall to pick apples and pears. Mom and Vanessa would be in the market, baking apple dumplings and pies, and canning jars of pear- and applesauce.
They’d all encouraged her to take the trip before the mid-to-late September busy season began, and she had a week where nothing was scheduled in the party barn. So she’d gone online and booked a long spa weekend at a resort in Montana that her friend Maddie recommended. Far from Nashville and her divorce. Far from River’s Edge and her new job. Far from IVF and fertility treatments that hadn’t worked. But now she was wondering what the hell was she doing all alone on a plane to a strange city—a strange state? Maybe she simply should have booked a weekend at the state park or even simply a couple of extra sessions with the therapist.
“Is Montana home?” the woman beside her asked, apparently determined to have a conversation, which was kind, but unnecessary.
It wasn’t in Beth to be rude, but she wished she’d put in her earbuds when she’d gotten settled in the seat. That usually deterred seatmates from trying to make friends. “No. Vacation.”
The lady in the next seat tapped her wrist. “Where are you going on your vacation?”
“To a spa in the mountains called Aspen Springs Resort. It’s outside of Bozeman.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it, but that’s no surprise. I’m not exactly a spa person or even a Montanan. I’m visiting my sister in Three Forks.” She grinned and held out her hands, which were tanned, the nails very short and square. “I’m from Fresno. My husband and I have an almond orchard. We just finished harvest, so I’m taking a break to spend some time with my sister.”
Beth’s interest was piqued. “That’s cool. I didn’t know almond farms were called orchards.” Then, because, obviously, they were going to have a conversation, she continued, “My family has an orchard back in Indiana.”
“Really? Apples?”
“And pears.” Beth warmed up to the lady’s sweet smile. “My brother has a cidery there, too, and they just bought the barn on the property behind us so they can host events again. Their—our—last pavilion burned down a few years ago.”
It was still odd to think of the family business as part hers, despite her mom and dad being so delighted to welcome her back into the fold. But she’d needed to stay busy. The party barn was a good use of her skills and provided the distraction she needed to begin to heal. If she thought about him, about the years of infertility that ended with her marriage dissolving, she went down a rabbit hole of despair. She refused to succumb.
Here and now, Beth. Here and now.
She refocused on the lady next to her. “I’m Beth.”
“Deb.” The woman extended her hand and they shook. “Where’s the orchard?”
“A little town in southern Indiana called River’s Edge. My family’s orchard has been there for four generations.”
“Like our almond orchard. My husband’s grandfather planted the trees in 1927. California provides 100 percent of the almonds used in the US.” Pride showed in Deb’s expression as well as in her words.
“Any trash, ladies?” The flight attendant, a handsome young man with striking blue eyes, paused with a white sack.
“Oh, here.” Deb pulled a plastic cup and a couple of napkins out of the seat pocket in front of her.
The next few minutes were taken up with pre-landing instructions, so Beth had time to think about the spa, to try to get her mind around the idea of several days of nothing but self-care—massages, mud baths, hot springs, and facials. Long days of relaxing with her Kindle, assuming she could focus long enough to actually read a book. Time to clear her brain and her soul of the sticky cobwebs of the past year. It was time. Her parents had said so. Her brothers and sister agreed. Her friends were adamant. So she’d booked the trip.
The plane’s wheels touched the tarmac, and with that bump, Beth took a deep breath. It was time to recharge and release the last of the anguish. Time to rest and breathe and figure out her next steps.
Del kept his attention focused on the escalator. A couple more women appeared at the top of the moving staircase, one who was older, perhaps in her sixties—a pretty woman who reminded him a little bit of Marie, Noel’s wife, with her salt-and-pepper hair styled in a neat cap. Maybe it was her, but the younger woman behind her felt more likely.
Right off, she was tall—like, really tall. Maybe five ten or so and built like an athlete. She was dressed in a tank top that showed off her toned arms and was half-tucked into a pair of loose pants that made her legs look like they went on forever. The woman wasn’t pretty, like the blonde flirt. Rather, she was interesting—high cheekbones and a noble brow that made him wonder if she had indigenous ancestry. She wore little or no makeup and she appeared . . . lost. He wasn’t sure why that word popped into his head as he watched her slow progress down the escalator. She wasn’t taking the steps two at a time, like the other travelers, but instead hugged the right side of the stairs, allowing more eager folks to pass her.
She was too far away to see the color of her eyes; they were downcast, anyway, as if she was focused on the heads of the people in front of her. Her light-brown hair was caught up in a messy bun on top of her head, with stray strands falling down on her cheeks, which were not rosy, but pale, almost ashen. He wondered for a moment if she’d been airsick because she had one hand on her flat belly, while the other clutched the handle of her carry-on.
He squinted in the bright airport lights. His gut was telling him this had to be her, so he shouldered his way forward and held the sign up to his chest. She was almost to the bottom and she hadn’t noticed him or even looked up, but he wasn’t about to shout or wave his arms. When she stepped off the escalator, he moved toward her.
She tilted her head. “Are you from Aspen Springs?”
Relieved, he nodded, then remembered to smile. “Yes. Ms. Dyke—” Oh, crap. What’s her name . . . Dykeson? Dykeland? He didn’t want to look at the sign—that would be rude, wouldn’t it?
She reversed the tilt of her head. “You’re upside down.”
He dropped his gaze to the shredded cardboard and heat rose up his neck and into his cheeks. “Oh, sorry, Ms.”—he flipped the sign, glancing quickly—“Dyk . . . Dykment . . .” That didn’t sound right.
One corner of her mouth twitched up for a second. “Dykeman,” she corrected, then extended her hand. “I’m Beth.”
He took her fingers in his. Her hand was wide with short tidy nails—no polish—and her grip was firm and sure. “Del Foster. Welcome to Montana.” He reached for the rolling carry-on. “Is this all you have, or do we need to wait for the carousel?”
“This is it.” She shifted her shoulder bag and purse from one side to the other. “I’m hoping to spend the whole time in a swimsuit,” she said as they walked toward the exit to the garage. “Or one of those luxurious, fluffy robes I saw on the website.”
Del frowned behind her back. Luxurious, fluffy robes? Had Marie added something to the guesthouse that he’d missed? And her swimsuit? Seems like the lake down below the south meadow would be mighty chilly this time of year. It was warm and sunny during the day, but nights were getting cool. Unless she was into the polar bear thing, she wasn’t going to be swimming. Hell, in that little tank top, she was going to get cold walking through the airport garage. Hopefully, she had a sweater in that big old tote of hers. He glanced down at the wheeled carry-on he pushed along beside him and wondered if she had jeans and sturdy boots.
He slowed to allow her to pass through the automatic doors before him. He had no idea where she thought she was going, but that wasn’t his problem.
She stopped at the top of the ramp. “Which car?”
He inclined his head toward the last row of vehicles. “Down there.”
She squared her shoulders and walked briskly in the direction he indicated. Straight-backed and purposeful, her stride completely belying the lost and timid woman he’d seen coming down the escalator.
He shrugged. His only job was to deliver her to Aspen Springs, then he could get back to Ginger. Hopefully, the foal hadn’t been born yet.
End of Excerpt
