A Husband For Christmas: Snow Kisses / Lionhearted
Two classic Diana Palmer Christmas stories Who will find passion, redemption and happily-ever-after in their stocking this year…?SNOW KISSESWhen model Abby Shane returns home from New York, she can’t let any man touch her. But Cade McLaren isn’t just any man and in his powerful arms Abby slowly begins to heal.Soon Abby hungers for the blaze she’d sparked in him one summer night a lifetime ago…LIONHEARTED As Christmas approaches, starry-eyed debutante Janie Brewster is determined to prove to rancher Leo Hart that she’s perfect for him. However, attempting to dazzle the confirmed bachelor isn’t working. But wait…is it hot-blooded hunger in his eyes during those smouldering kisses beneath the mistletoe?
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WHITE CHRISTMAS
CHRISTMAS WITH A RANCHER NIGHT FEVER ONE NIGHT IN NEW YORK BEFORE SUNRISE OUTSIDER LAWMAN HARD TO HANDLE FEARLESS DIAMOND SPUR TRUE COLOURS HEARTLESS MERCILESS TRUE BLUE COURAGEOUS WYOMING FIERCE WYOMING BOLD INVINCIBLE
Coming soon WYOMING STRONG UNTAMED
The prolific author of more than a hundred books, DIANA PALMER got her start as a newspaper reporter. A multi–New York Times bestselling author and one of the top ten romance writers in America, she has a gift for telling the most sensual tales with charm and humour. Diana lives with her family in Cornelia, Georgia.
Visit her website at www.DianaPalmer.com
Table of Contents
Diana Palmer
To the state of Montana, whose greatest natural resource is her people
The road was little more than a pair of ruts making lazy brown paths through the lush spring grass of southern Montana, and Hank was handling the truck like a tank on maneuvers. But Abby gritted her teeth and didn’t say a word. Hank, in his fifty-plus years, had forgotten more about ranch work than she’d ever learn. And she wasn’t about to put him in a bad temper by asking him to slow down.
She stared out over the smooth rolling hills where Cade’s white-faced Herefords grazed on new spring grass. Montana. Big Sky country. Rolling grasslands that seemed to go on forever under a canopy of blue sky. And amid the grass, delicate yellow-and-blue wildflowers that Abby had gathered as a girl. Here, she could forget New York and the nightmare of the past two weeks. She could heal her wounds and hide away from the world.
She smiled faintly, a smile that didn’t quite reach her pale brown eyes, and she clenched her hands around the beige purse in the lap of her shapeless dress. She didn’t feel like a successful fashion model when she was on the McLaren ranch. She felt like the young girl who’d grown up in this part of rural southern Montana, on the ranch that had been absorbed by Cade’s growing empire after her father’s death three years earlier.
At least Melly was still there. Abby’s younger sister had an enviable job as Cade’s private secretary. It meant that she could be near her fiancé, Cade’s ranch foreman, while she supported herself. Cade had never approved of Jesse Shane’s decision to allow his eldest daughter to go to New York, and he had made no secret of it. Now Abby couldn’t help wishing she’d listened. Her brief taste of fame hadn’t been worth the cost.
She felt bitter. It was impossible to go back, to relive those innocent days of her youth when Cade McLaren had been the sun and moon. But she mourned for the teenager she’d been that long-ago night when he’d carried her to bed. It was a memory she’d treasured, but now it was a part of the nightmare she’d brought home from New York. She wondered with a mind numbed by pain if she’d ever be able to let any man touch her again.
She sighed, gripping the purse tighter as Hank took one rise a little fast and caused the pickup to lurch to one side. She clutched the edge of the seat as the vehicle all but rocked onto its side.
“Sorry about that,” Hank muttered, bending over the steering wheel with his thin face set into rigid lines. “Damned trucks—give me a horse any day.”
She laughed softly—once she would have thrown back her head and given out a roar of hearty laughter. She might have been a willowy ghost of the girl who left Painted Ridge at eighteen, come back to haunt old familiar surroundings. This poised, sophisticated woman of twenty-two was as out of place in the battered pickup as Cade would be in a tuxedo at the Met.
“I guess you’ve all got your hands full,” Abby remarked as they approached the sprawling ranch house.
“Damned straight,” Hank said without preamble as he slowed at a gate. “Storm warnings out and calving in full swing.”
“Snow?” she gasped, looking around at the lush greenery. But it was April, after all, and snow was still very possible in Montana. Worse—probable.
But Hank was already out of the truck, leaving the engine idling while he opened the gate.
“Drive the truck through!” he called for what seemed the tenth time in as many minutes, and Abby obediently climbed behind the wheel and put the truck in gear.
She couldn’t help smiling when she remembered her childhood. Ranch children learned to drive early, out of necessity. She’d been driving a truck since her eleventh birthday, and many was the time she’d done it for Cade while he opened the endless gates that enclosed the thousands of acres he ranched.
She drove through the gate and slid back into her seat while Hank secured it and ambled back to the truck. He’d been part of Cade’s outfit as long as she could remember, and there was no more experienced cowboy on the place.
“New York,” Hank scoffed, giving her a disapproving glance. He chewed on the wad of tobacco in his cheek and gave a gruff snort. “Should have stayed home where you belonged. Been married by now, with a passel of younguns.”
