Read Online for Free, Six Months in Montana

  Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author

DEBBIE MACOMBER

"Macomber offers a very human look at three women who uproot their lives to follow their true destiny."

—Booklist on Changing Habits

"Macomber is known for her honest portrayals of ordinary women in small-town America, and this tale cements her position equally an icon of the genre."

—Publishers Weekly on 16 Lighthouse Road

"Debbie Macomber is 1 of the well-nigh reliable, versatile romance authors around. Whether she's writing low-cal-hearted romps or more serious human relationship books, her novels are always engaging stories that accurately capture the foibles of existent-life men and women with warmth and humor."

—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

"Macomber's women serve as boulder for one another in this sometimes tearful, e'er uplifting tale that will brand readers wish they could join this charming breakfast club."

—Booklist on Thursdays at 8

"Debbie Macomber is one of the few true originals in women'south fiction…. Her books are touching and marvelous and not to exist missed!"

—Anne Stuart

"Every bit always, Macomber draws rich, engaging characters."

—Publishers Weekly on Thursdays at Eight

"Debbie Macomber shows why she is i of the nearly powerful, highly regarded authors on the stage today."

—Midwest Book Review

"Debbie Macomber's souvenir for understanding the souls of women—their relationships, their values, their lives—is at its peak."

—BookPage on Between Friends

"Macomber has a gift for evoking the emotions that are at the heart of the genre's popularity."

—Publishers Weekly

"Romance readers everywhere will cherish the books of Debbie Macomber."

—Susan Elizabeth Phillips

"A multifaceted tale of romance and deceit, the concluding installment of Macomber'due south Dakota trilogy oozes with country charm and a strong sense of community."

—Publishers Weekly on Ever Dakota

"Macomber…is no stranger to the New York Times bestseller list. She knows how to please her audience."

—Oregon Statesman Periodical

"Macomber closes volume 2 with a cliffhanger, leaving readers anxiously awaiting the final installment to this start-rate series."

—Publishers Weekly on Dakota Dwelling

"Sometimes the best things come in small packages. Such is the case hither…."

—Publishers Weekly on Return to Hope

"Ms. Macomber provides the top in entertaining relationship dramas."

—Reader to Reader

"Debbie Macomber whips up a delightful batter of zany Christmas magic equally delicious as chocolate steeped with peppermint…."

—BookPage on The Christmas Handbasket

"Macomber's storytelling sometimes yields a tear, at other times a grin."

—Newport News, VA Daily Press

"Well-developed emotions and appealing characters."

—Publishers Weekly on Montana

"Inundation with small-town temper, a warm sense of family, and engaging secondary characters, this story will resonate with many American fans."

—Library Journal on Return to Hope

"Debbie Macomber shines in this touching tale of four women who are able to share their strengths to overcome many trials and tribulations."

—Romantic Times on Thursdays at Eight

This Affair of Wedlock is "so much fun it may proceed you lot up till ii a.m."

—Atlanta Periodical

"Can This Be Christmas? volition enchant and entertain readers for generations to come…a beautifully told story."

—Harleysville, PA Bucks-Mont Courier

Likewise by DEBBIE MACOMBER

Irresolute HABITS

BETWEEN FRIENDS

THURSDAYS AT EIGHT

Promise, TEXAS

MOON OVER WATER

THIS MATTER OF Matrimony

The Cedar Cove series

xvi LIGHTHOUSE Road

204 ROSEWOOD LANE

311 PELICAN COURT

The Dakota trilogy

DAKOTA BORN

DAKOTA Abode

ALWAYS DAKOTA

The vacation books

THE CHRISTMAS Handbasket

A GIFT TO Terminal

BUFFALO VALLEY

RETURN TO PROMISE

SHIRLEY, GOODNESS AND MERCY

CAN THIS BE CHRISTMAS?

Watch for DEBBIE MACOMBER'south latest novel

THE Shop ON BLOSSOM STREET

DEBBIE MACOMBER

MONTANA

Dedicated to my

Thursday Morning time Breakfast Club:

Janelle Brothers, Lillian Schauer, Diana Letson,

Betty Wojcik and Stephanie Cordall.

Each one is a power adult female with a direct

connection to the source of all power.

And dedicated to Affront Dooley, with cheers for

blessing my life with her wisdom and friendship.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

My publishing path has taken many twists and turns over the years. It all started back in the late 1970s with a rented typewriter set up at the kitchen table. Between automobile pools, Cub Scouts, ballet lessons, education Sunday school and analyzing new math, I wrote. 24-hour interval after mean solar day, month after calendar month and year later twelvemonth. As soon every bit the kids walked out the door for schoolhouse, Supermom was magically transformed into the struggling young writer. I make a corking case written report on how to become an overnight success in twenty years or less!

In those early years all I had to sustain me was my dreams. And dream I did. I'd close my optics and pic my name on the embrace of a book. I could even see the artwork. For someone who had still to publish a discussion of fiction, this was heady stuff. But here I am, twenty years and dozens of books subsequently, with the publication of Montana—a story I've wanted to write for a very long time.

I have a lot of people to give thanks for this incredible opportunity, but no i more than my editor, Paula Eykelhof. She's supported this projection from inception with energy and enthusiasm. Her insights and editorial skills have helped shape this story from beginning to end. As always, I'm incredibly indebted to Irene Goodman, quite maybe the world's greatest agent. And to my best friend, Linda Lael Miller, who is always there for me. I have to give thanks Renate Roth, my secretary, for keeping my life organized and sane. Thank you, also, to Geri and Scott Bier, who generously permit me phone call on their ranching expertise. And of grade a big buss to my married man for encouraging me to alive my dream. He could complain a slap-up deal more than than he does! But mostly, thank you, my loyal readers, for your continued interest and back up. Your letters take touched my middle. Y'all can reach me at P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Affiliate Three

Chapter Iv

Chapter Five

Affiliate 6

Chapter Seven

Chapter 8

Chapter Nine

Chapter X

Affiliate Xi

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Xiv

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Xvi

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Xviii

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Ane

"I don't know how much longer your granddad's going to live."

The words hit Molly Cogan with the force of an unexpected accident. Sinking onto a stool beside the kitchen phone, she blocked out the blare of the idiot box and her sons' ongoing argument over whose plough it was to set the table for dinner.

>   Tom and Clay were at each other's throats, but Molly could only deal with one crisis at a time. "Who is this once more, delight?"

"Sam Dakota. Listen, I realize this isn't the best time, but I felt I should tell you." He paused, then added, "Walt wouldn't appreciate me calling you, but similar I said, you accept a right to know his health isn't skilful."

The unmistakable audio of shattering glass filtered through the television racket every bit the boys' skirmish escalated.

Placing her hand over the mouthpiece, Molly shouted. "Boys, delight! Non now." Something in her voice must have communicated the importance of the call, because both turned and stared at her. A moment later on, Tom reached for the broom.

Molly's mitt trembled as she lifted the receiver back to her ear. "How do you know my granddad, Mr. Dakota?"

"I'm his foreman. Been hither about six months."

The fact that Gramps had willingly surrendered control of his ranch to a hired hand—a stranger—told her a bully bargain. For the past few years, he'd sold off portions of the once-huge spread, until all that remained was a couple of grand acres, small by Montana standards. He'd managed the Broken Arrow Ranch himself as long as she could remember. Hired easily came and went, depending on the size of the herd, but as far every bit she knew, he'd always maintained tight control of the 24-hour interval-to-day operations. Over the years his messages had been infrequent, just in the last one—which she'd received later Christmas, four and a half months ago—Molly had sensed something wasn't right with Gramps. She'd put bated the feeling, however, consumed by her own issues.

"Tell me over again what happened," she said abruptly, struggling to regain her composure. The human's first words had been such a shock, much of what he'd said afterward had escaped her.

"Similar I told you, spring's our busy fourth dimension, and yesterday your granddaddy told me he'd exist out to help bank check on the new calves. When he didn't show, I returned to the house and establish him unconscious on the kitchen floor. Heart attack, I figured."

Molly pressed her fingers to her lips to hold in a gasp of dismay. Granddaddy…in hurting. Unable to breathe. Losing consciousness. It frightened her to retrieve of it.

With her female parent and half brother living in Australia, Granddad was her only family here. Her just connectedness with her long-dead begetter.

"I got him to the clinic in town and Md Shaver confirmed what I thought. It is his heart. Walt has a pacemaker, but the walls of his heart are old and brittle, and it isn't working also as Doc had hoped."

"Gramps has a pacemaker?" Molly cried. "When did this happen?" She raised her manus to the cameo hanging from a aureate chain around her neck and clenched it difficult. Information technology was the most precious piece of jewelry she owned. Grandfather had given it to her the day they buried her grandmother nine years before.

"More than than six months ago. First I'd heard of it, too."

"Why didn't he tell me?" Molly asked, although she realized Sam Dakota couldn't possibly know. She wished—not for the get-go fourth dimension—that San Francisco was closer to Montana. Right now, Sweetgrass seemed a one thousand thousand miles abroad.

"I can't answer that. I thought yous should know Walt's probably not going to live much longer. If you want to see him, I suggest you plan a visit out here before long."

"What exactly is incorrect with his heart?" It might take sounded as if she was fugitive the real event, but she needed to sympathize Gramps's status before she could even begin to think about anything else. Like her finances. And how she could possibly beget a trip to Montana at present.

"Practice you know anything about pacemakers?"

"A petty." Just enough to understand that they emit an electronic beep, which assists the center in beating at a steady pace.

"Well, equally I said earlier, the walls of your gramps'southward heart are brittle and it's difficult to go the pacemaker to function properly. Md Shaver worked on him a couple of hours, but he couldn't make any guarantees. Said there's naught more he tin can do. It's only a affair of fourth dimension before his middle gives out completely."

Molly clamped her teeth over her lower lip while she tried to take in what this human was telling her. "I…I capeesh the call. Thank y'all." With each word, she felt herself more overwhelmed by emotion. Not Gramps, please dear God, not Granddaddy. Not all the same.

"Sorry to call with such bad news."

"How…how is he now?" She glanced toward the living room and discovered Tom and Clay standing in the doorway, studying her intently. A smile would have reassured them, but even that was across her.

"Ameliorate. Will you be coming, then?" the foreman asked.

"I'm not sure." Molly didn't run into how she could manage information technology. With the child-support payments cutting off and the fiscal adjustments they'd already been forced to make in the by year, she couldn't imagine squeezing one more expense into her already stretched budget. Even a short trip would require at to the lowest degree a week away from her task—a contract position without paid holidays. Plus, she'd have the cost of airfare or, more than likely, gas and lodging for the drive. She'd take to take the boys; Gramps would want to see them, and they deserved to see him.

"When volition yous know whether you're coming?"

Information technology might have been her imagination, but she detected a notation of censure. This human knew null well-nigh her—knew nothing nigh her circumstances or her life. How dared he stand as judge and jury over her decisions?

"If I knew that, I'd have said something sooner!" Leaning the back of her head against the kitchen wall, Molly tried to think clearly, desperate to observe a way, a solution—anything that would lighten the burden of her fears. Never ane to weep openly, peculiarly with strangers, she fought the growing constriction in her throat.

"Then I won't go on y'all any longer," Sam said gruffly.

Molly wanted to shout that he should wait, that she had other questions, but he'd already answered the important ones. What she wanted even more was to hear this stranger tell her Grandad was on the mend.

But he wasn't going to say that.

"Thank y'all for phoning," she said, feeling guilty most the sharp retort she'd made a moment ago. No one enjoyed delivering bad news, and it was kind of Sam Dakota to make certain she learned of her grandad's condition. "I'll let you lot know if we're coming for a visit," she felt obliged to add.

"Fine. Your grandfather should be habitation in a day or two. I'd consider information technology a favor if y'all didn't mention I called."

"I won't. And thank you." Standing up, she replaced the phone receiver and looked at her sons. Both had their begetter'due south deep-set dark brown optics—and both had been born with the power to expect direct through her. At fourteen Tom was growing by leaps and bounds, a gangly youth with feet likewise large for his trunk. He hadn't grown into his pinnacle, and had become painfully self-conscious. This was an awkward stage filled with frustrations and raging hormones. They'd once been shut, but that had all changed in the by few months. Tom barely talked to her at present, no longer sharing confidences the way he used to. Often he was sullen and angry for no apparent reason. His attitude worried Molly; she sensed he was keeping something from her. She tried not to retrieve about it, only every at present and then the fright that he was experimenting with drugs or running with the wrong oversupply would enter her mind and refuse to go away.

Dirt, at eleven, was a younger version of his brother. Neither boy had inherited her auburn hair or articulate blue eyes. Both resembled their father'due south side of the family—dark-haired and dark-eyed. Not that Daniel'southward family unit had revealed much interest in her sons. Just then, neither had Daniel.

"That was about Dad, wasn't it?" Tom asked, his optics locked on hers. His shoulders stiffened as though he was bracing himself for her response. The situation with Daniel hadn't been easy on any of them. They'd seen his name in the newspapers and on television set night after night for weeks, that whole time the trial was taking place.

"The call wasn't nearly your father," Molly answered advisedly. The kids had been thr

ough enough because of Daniel. He'd never been a good father, any more than he'd been a skilful hubby; he had, in fact, left her for another woman. Merely she'd say one affair for him: until a year agone he'd faithfully paid child back up. The payments had stopped when Daniel's troubles had begun. His legal problems had eventually led to financial bug for her and the boys.

"What did Dad do this time?" Tom demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. It was a expect Molly recognized, a look that said Tom, with his newly developed teenage cynicism, wasn't about to believe whatsoever adult. Peculiarly his mother…

"I told y'all this has nothing to do with your begetter!" Information technology bothered Molly that her son would assume she'd prevarication to him. There was nothing she abhorred more than lying. Daniel had taught her and their children more enough on that field of study. "I wouldn't lie to yous."

"So what's wrong?" Clay moved into the kitchen and Molly held out her artillery to her youngest son. Dirt didn't object to an occasional hug, just Tom had let it be known he was much too old for that sort of thing—and much too cool to display affection toward his mother. She respected his wishes, and at the aforementioned time longed for the times when they could share a simple hug.

"It's Grandpa," she said. Her throat started to shut and she couldn't say more.

Dirt wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and pressed his caput to her shoulder. Molly sighed deeply.

"Is Gramps sick?" Tom asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. He paced restlessly, back and forth across the kitchen floor. It'd become a habit of his lately, a particularly irritating one. Oh, yes, Molly thought, sighing over again. The concluding twelve months had been difficult on all of them. Tom seemed to be having the toughest time coping with everything—the public humiliation of his father'southward trial for fraud, the lack of whatsoever actress coin and then the move from a spacious three-sleeping accommodation house to a cramped two-bedroom apartment. But this place was the best she could practice, and his dissatisfaction underscored her own feelings of inadequacy.

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