A Match Made in Alaska
Hunter Jacobson wants no part of his grandfatherâs matchmaking. The lone cowboy is certain thatâs what the old man is doing when he trades part of their Montana ranch for Scarlett Murphyâs claim to an old Alaska gold mine. Or is he running one of his legendary scams on the sweet single mom? A trip to Dry Creek, Alaska, reveals the truthâand brings Hunter and Scarlett face-to-face with a past family feud and a vulnerable present. But surprisingly itâs the future that intrigues Hunter mostâ¦if he can get Scarlett to make him her groom.
âWhatâs your game now?â
Scarlett shot Hunter a look as she added, âFirst you wanted me to go, now you want me to stay. Why?â
âIâm just seeing more possibilities,â Hunter said.
She had a thought. âYou do know that kiss didnât mean anything.â She saw the way his eyes flashed.
âA kiss always means something. Promise. Betrayal. Something.â
âBut a kiss doesnât mean you have to take care of me,â she said. âWe donât need charity.â
âItâs not charity to receive whatâs due you.â His voice gentled. âI always take care of myââ He stopped. âFriends.â
His eyes softened and Scarlett wasnât sure she was ready for that. She couldnât care about himâ¦not until she could trust him.
She needed to get back to Alaska. Once she was on her own turf, her feelings for Hunter would subside.⦠Wouldnât they?
JANET TRONSTAD
grew up on her familyâs farm in central Montana and now lives in Pasadena, California, where she is always at work on her next book. She has written more than thirty books, many of them set in the fictitious town of Dry Creek, Montana, where the men spend the winters gathered around the potbellied stove in the hardware store and the women make jelly in the fall.
Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right. Honour thy father and mother; (which is the first commandment with promise;) That it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth.
âEphesians 6:1â3
This book is dedicated, with love,
to my younger sister, Doris Tronstadâa true Alaskan.
Chapter One
Thick clouds gathered overhead as Hunter Jacobson pressed down on the gas pedal of his pickup, determined to reach the café in Dry Creek, Montana, before his grandfather talked Scarlett Murphy out of whatever money she had in her purse. He had the windows open and leaned forward, feeling the sweat on his back. Heâd never seen this Scarlett woman, but he pictured her carrying one of those worn black clutches that widows used for their grocery money. He gritted his teeth and stepped on the gas pedal harder.
âOf course, sheâs not going to thank me for saving her,â he muttered, glancing down at his sole passenger, a calico barn cat who was sitting on the other side of the pickup floor licking one of her front paws. Sheâd gone with him to feed the cattle and he hadnât taken time to shoo her away when heâd gotten back into the pickup moments ago. She ignored him now.
Hunter eyed the country road more closely, squinting as dust billowed up. The sky ahead was gray and the wheat fields beside the road were nothing but a blur of early fall stubble as he sped by.
He had seen the womanâs letter lying open on the table when heâd gone inside the house to get a drink of water before heading back to the fields. His grandfatherâs pickup wasnât parked in its usual spot and, since they were the only ones living on the ranch, heâd picked up the note thinking it was for him. Instead heâd read that Scarlett Murphy was to meet his grandfather this morning at the café to sign some papers he had for her. Her signature was ladylike, spiderweb thin and elegant. Nobody under seventy years of age wrote that way anymore.
Not that age was proof against his grandfatherâs schemes. Hunter was thirty-three years old, but he probably wouldnât know what to do about the old manâs mischief if he lived to be a hundred.
Hunter pulled up close to the café, then braked and turned his vehicle onto the strip of barren dirt that everyone used for parking. He pulled the keys from the ignition and opened the door all in the same smooth motion. The heat hit him as he reached back and grabbed the envelope that held the letter. He was surprised when the cat jumped out of the pickup. Heâd thought her paw would still be bothering her since heâd pulled a prickly cocklebur out of it only hours ago.
He bent to pick up the feline, but she dodged his hands. The family of cats who had ruled the ranchâs barns for generations was tough. They were survivors, all of them. He decided that if this one wanted to run loose for a few minutes among the dozen or so buildings that made up the small town of Dry Creek, she wouldnât come to any harm.