The Husband School
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Kristine Rolofson
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Turning bachelors into Casanovas, one cowboy at a time Meg Ripley may run the local diner, but she has never been one to get involved in the small-town craziness of Willing, Montana. Now suddenly she's entangled in it? In addition to harboring a pregnant runaway, she's been enlisted to transform scruffy bachelor cowboys into husband material for a reality dating show. Including her ex-boyfriend, and the only man she's ever allowed herself to love, Owen MacGregor. Owen is still devastatingly handsome, and the passion between them hasn't faded with time. Unfortunately, neither have the issues that drove them apart. But that doesn't mean Meg is ready to turn him into the perfect man for someone else! Because despite their past, Meg suspects that Owen is still the one.
Chapter One
ON A TYPICAL Monday, Owen MacGregor would have never set foot in Meg Ripleyâs restaurant. He would have done what he always did, which was drive up to the Java Hut, order a tall black coffee from dour Esther Grinnell and drive the final eighty miles home. But on this bleak October morning, when the sky looked as if it was about to unleash a wild storm on his corner of Montana, Estherâs coffee shack was inexplicably shuttered and Owen needed food. Boo nuzzled his collar and Owen reached up and scratched the dogâs chin.
âYou hungry, too?â That was a dumb question, since the little mutt was always ready to eat. When he wasnât sleeping. Or sprawled on the couch watching television. Owen had found the skinny stray hanging around the barn weeks ago. Heâd brought him inside, fed him and named him. Content with his new living arrangements, Boo now had little use for the outdoor life.
Owen hesitated at the flashing red light at the intersection of Highway 10 and Main. Two blocks to the right, at the north edge of town, was a hot breakfast with his name on it, along with bacon for the dog gazing out the window and wagging his tail. Boo was looking for McDonaldâs, his favorite place in the world, and expected a treat whenever he rode along in the truck. But Owen hadnât had an appetite two hours ago after his weekly trip to Hopewell Living Center, and had sped past the cluster of Great Fallâs fast food restaurants next to the highway. It had taken some time for his mood to lift and his hunger to set in.
And now the thought of breakfast was strong enough to make him consider stepping into the Dirty Shame CafĂŠ. Oh, the sign in front of the building read Willing CafĂŠ, but folks born and bred in the area knew the place as âThe Shameâ and probably would always call it by its original name. Heâd heard Meg had changed the name on the menus, but he also knew she couldnât fight history.
Boo whined and wagged and licked his ear, but Owen didnât smile. He rarely smiled these days.... His own fault. Heâd spent most of his adult life in an office, dealing with politicians and lawyers. He had a gift for dealing with difficult people, and heâd turned a law degree into one of the top environmental firms in the country.
And yet he rarely felt any degree of happiness.
Owen turned the steering wheel and stepped on the gas. The world wasnât going to come to an end if he walked into Meg Ripleyâs restaurant and ordered a couple of fried eggs.
With luck, she wouldnât be there.
With luck, sheâd ignore him.
With luck, heâd be able to ignore her.
Owen didnât imagine his luck, meager as it was this morning, would hold. For one thing, he assumed Meg would be working. He also assumed she still lived in one of the original cabins adjacent to the restaurant. And ignore him? Well, that was the best he could hope for.
She was thirty-two, unfortunately young enough to remember their disastrous summer together, unlike his irate mother, who this morning had demanded he apologize for sitting on her cat even though she hadnât owned a cat in two decades, and heâd made the mistake when he was nine. His motherâs memory had become increasingly faulty, her confusion more apparent this past year. He hadnât told her about his temporary move to the ranch; she assumed he was still working in DC and so far it hadnât occurred to her to question his weekly Sunday visits, though on the rare times she mentioned his work, heâd told her heâd taken some time off. She hadnât seemed to understand, which was just as well. Explaining heâd used the settlement of the ranch property as an excuse to leave an increasingly boring career would not have been easy. His mother had no love for the Triple M.
Boo whined again as Owen drove past the restaurant to find a parking spot in the lot next door. The dog believed âstopâ equaled âfood,â and he was usually right.
Owen took a couple of minutes to stretch while Boo trotted over to a half-dead bush and lifted his leg. Then the dog hurried back to jump in the front seat, knowing he would be rewarded with food after guarding the truck while his owner was inside the building doing whatever humans did before they brought food to their loyal canines.
âIâll be back,â Owen promised. He was talking to his dog a lot more often lately, which was the behavior of a man who had settled into a solitary lifestyle. No, he told himself, he wasnât going to turn into his late uncle, a grizzled loner who preferred dogs to people and rarely bathed. He didnât want to end up dying alone, freezing to death next to a barn, his body discovered a week later by a UPS driver. That was not a lifestyle Owen would willingly choose. Although lately heâd begun to wonder if heâd started down the âeccentric bachelorâ path without being aware of it.
Damn. Hungry and lonely was a tough way to start the day.
* * *
âDO YOU THINK sheâll marry me?â
âOf course not.â Meg placed a plate piled high with bacon, eggs and hash browns in front of the hopeful suitor. She had no intention of coddling Joey Peckham, who was at this moment looking depressed, despite the fact that sheâd just refilled his coffee and served him breakfast. âYou must be out of your mind. Sheâs not going to go out with you, so leave her alone.â
âYou serious?â
âDeadly serious,â she assured him.
âAw, youâre breaking my heart.â He picked up his fork and, ignoring the paper napkin sheâd slid next to his coffee cup, stabbed a chunk of fried egg. âAnd ruininâ my day, too, if you want to know.â
âIâm not ruining anything. She danced with you once, at Peteâs party,â she reminded him. âIt wasnât exactly a relationship.â
âIt could be. If sheâd let it. If youâd talk her into giving me a chance.â He spoke with his mouth full, so Meg turned away. Joey was six years younger than she was, but acted about fifteen instead of twenty-six. He needed to find himself a real, live girlfriend, the sooner the better, and stop imagining himself in love with every woman who two-stepped with him. Especially not with Lucia Swallow, who baked the restaurantâs pies and was single-handedly raising three children since her husband had died in Afghanistan.
âYouâre hallucinating. Lucia is too old for you,â she stated one more time over her shoulder, knowing as she said it that the only thing Joey wanted to hear was that she would support his romance.
Which she wouldnât. Lucia was a friend and Joey was an idiot.
âYou donât know what itâs like to be in love,â Joey muttered.
âMaybe, maybe not. But Iâm sure itâs overrated.â
âYou have no heart,â he said, looking down at his eggs again. âThatâs your problem.â
âOne of many,â Meg agreed, trying not to laugh. âReally, Joe. Luciaâs not the woman for you. And youâre too young to be a father to those boys of hers.â
He scowled down at his plate. âHow come you know so much and you donât even have a boyfriend?â
âTheyâre overrated, too.â She gave in and laughed, all too familiar with comments about her private life. There were few secrets in such a small town. âAnd if you donât stop griping, Iâll tell Lucia you have fourteen cats.â
âThatâs my uncle. Not me.â
Meg shrugged. âSheâll think that kind of crazy runs in the family.â
âWe have dogs,â Mr. Fargus interjected from his perch on the neighboring stool. âTwo poodles. Do you know my wife lets them dogs in the bed the minute she hears the back door slam shut? Every morning. None of them can wait for me to leave.â
Meg could understand that. Ben Fargus, at the age of eighty-six, was a man who liked the sound of his own voice. Meg was accustomed to his opinions; they piled up like dirty dishes all morning long. She often wondered how his wife put up with him, but theyâd been together for more than sixty years. By choice or habit, Meg had no idea, but poor Mrs. Fargus obviously had a lot of patience. Or was really good at pretending he didnât exist.
âWomen,â Joey said, shaking his head. âTheyâre difficult.â
âSo are poodles,â Fargus stated. âReal smart, though.â
âHuh,â Joey said, letting that information sink in. âMeg, do you think Lucia would like a dog?â
What Lucia liked or didnât like wasnât any of Joeyâs business, so Meg pretended she didnât hear the question and poured more coffee into the half-full mugs lined up in front of the five retired men seated in their usual places at the counter. For many of her customers, breakfast at Willingâs was a tradition only broken because of vacations, hospital stays or death. Despite such loyalty, Meg was always worried about making it through the winter.
âHowâs everyone doing? Martin, you need more half ânâ half?â
âIâm set, thanks.â
âGeorge?â
âPlease.â
It was a typical morning; the L-shaped room, as familiar to her as her own little house, was comfortably packed with the usual crowd. The mayor was holding his monthly meeting to discuss town business. The council members had pushed a couple of tables together in the back corner and from all appearances were involved in a serious discussion. Mondays were busy, but this morning had been almost hectic. There was something about the snow flurries and the gray sky that seemed to make folks want to get out and about while they still could, before a long, blizzard-filled winter began in earnest. And few seemed to be in any hurry to leave the snug warmth of the restaurant and head out into the wind.
Meg moved down the counter and dispersed coffee. The slender man on the last stool put his hand over his cup. âThanks, Margaret, but Iâve had enough. Should be getting home, I guess.â
âOkay.â She paused in front of Mr. Ferguson, her former algebra teacher, whoâd long since retired, and set his check on the counter. âHowâs Janet? I havenât seen her in a while.â
âSheâs been busy getting ready for the quilt show. Sheâs been in her sewing room for weeks.â He smiled the indulgent smile of a man who loves his wife. âShe says itâs going to be quite a show.â
âIâm looking forward to it,â Meg said, knowing the annual event would give business a boost. âI bought an ad in the program. Itâs on Saturday, right?â
âYes.â He frowned, trying to remember. âSunday, too, I think.â
âI hope I can get over there to see it.â Sheâd have to remember to ask one of the high school girls to fill in for her for a couple of hours after the noon rush. The quilt guild would be selling coffee and desserts during the show at the senior center, but Meg hoped a soup-and-sandwich special at the cafĂŠ would bring in a little extra business.
âWhat are they doing over there?â Fargus gestured toward members of the town council huddled around a large table at the far end of the room.
âPlanning to raise taxes, Iâll bet,â George grumbled. âIâm getting damn tired of taxes.â
âYou could move to Florida,â Martin said. Meg hid her smile. George, a creature of habit who had been born in Willing, didnât even like going to Billings.
âThereâs something going on,â Fargus declared. âWeâll hear about it soon enough. Jerryâs got some idea. I can tell by the look on his face.â
They all stared down at the far end of the room. Sure enough, the mayor seemed excited as one of the town elders read aloud from a sheet of paper.
âIf theyâre raising taxes, then theyâre trying to figure out how to get blood from a stone,â George grumbled. âIâve half a mind to go over there and tell them so.â
Fargus snorted. âLike that would do any good.â
âMaybe I should get on the town council,â Joey mused. âWomen like men with power, right?â
Meg noticed John Ferguson and Martin Smith exchanging an amused look before John grabbed his cap and stood to leave.
âThanks for breakfast, Margaret.â He set six dollars by the empty coffee mug. âGuess Iâll get home before the snow starts for real.â He turned as the door jangled to announce another customer.
And it wasnât just any customer, either, because the sight of this one made Megâs stomach tense and her mouth go dry.
Owen MacGregor, master of all he surveyed, was a tall, imposing man. A down vest, unzipped, covered most of his wide chest, and he wore the typical Montana outfit: jeans, boots and plaid shirt. He politely stomped his feet on the worn doormat and removed his hat, but before he could move toward a seat, a white-haired man called his name. Meg watched as he greeted the Burkharts, an elderly couple in the process of holding each other up as they made their way across the room. Owen MacGregor played the gentleman and opened the door for them, allowing another burst of cold air in. If she didnât know better, sheâd think he was the best thing to ever walk into the room. Even Mr. Ferguson looked pleased as the two men talked for a minute before the teacher disappeared out into the cold.
âWell, this is a surprise,â Martin declared quietly to his cronies at the counter. âDidnât think he remembered where he came from.â
âWith Eddie dead and gone, I donât think thereâs anyone to run things,â George said. âGuess that forced his hand.â
âIreneâs in a nursing home in Great Falls now,â one of the other men informed them. âI heard she gets confused easily. My daughter-in-law works there, says the boy visits her every week.â
Yes, Meg thought. He was always a devoted son. Sheâd assumed the old witch would live forever, queen of all she surveyed. She couldnât picture the regal Mrs. MacGregor incapacitated in any way. The last time Meg had seen her was after the funeral, and the widow hadnât let Meg in the house. Still, it was sad to think of Irene MacGregor in a nursing home.
She watched Owen slide into an empty booth and shrug off his jacket. He set his gloves on the table and picked up a menu. Which meant she was supposed to scurry over there with coffee and take his order, just as if they barely knew each other?
This was true, actually. He was a stranger now, far different from the young man whoâd told her he loved her and given her his grandmotherâs sapphire ring.
Meg still remembered the day she heard heâd left town. Sheâd cried in her motherâs arms for hours.
âYouâd better get on over there,â one of the men said. âMacGregor doesnât spend much time in town, so this is a special occasion.â
âYouâre right.â She managed a cheerful smile. âAnd I need all the customers I can get.â
Well, she could handle it. No problem. Sheâd give him a minute to read the menu, and then she would saunter over and pretend they were friends.
This morning Owen MacGregor looked a little the worse for wear. Oh, he was still handsome, with that lean, lined face and thick, dark hair. She knew he wore contacts, hated shrimp and had named his first horse Pumpkin, much to his fatherâs dismay. He was secretly afraid of heights, crazy about animals and had broken his nose twice in one summer, causing his mother to faint both times.
At the moment he and his nicely healed nose were absorbed in the menu.
âHey,â she said, approaching the table with a carafe of coffee.
âHey.â He tipped his mug right side up and Meg filled it for him. âThanks.â
âYouâre welcome. What can I get you?â She used her best cheerful-friendly-waitress voice, as if he was a tourist sheâd never seen before. He frowned just a little.
âIt all looks good,â he said, copying her tone. âHow about the Hungry Man Special, with scrambled eggs and bacon? And with an extra side of bacon to go, please.â
âSure.â This wasnât so hard. She could do this. Meg didnât write down the order for fear her fingers would shake. Silly, but she had her pride.
âSo howâve you been?â He took a cautious sip of coffee and looked at her with real interest. As if he actually wanted to know the answer.
âJust fine. And you?â
âIâm good.â He kept looking at her, studying her face until, still gripping the handle of the carafe, she backed up a step. She was conscious of how she must appear to him, dowdy Margaret Ripley in her apron, worn jeans and thick athletic shoes. âWell, Iâll go put your order in.â
âThanks.â
With that she turned and headed toward the kitchen. She returned the carafe to the coffee machine, wrote up the order before handing it to Al and, on the pretense of checking supplies, escaped to the back room. There wasnât much privacy in either the town or the restaurant, but there was a tiny alcove behind the walk-in freezer that provided the perfect place to hide for a few minutes. Meg leaned against the gray wall, took a deep breath and eyed the calendar tacked to the wall. October was here already, with a long winter ahead.
She should be over it. She was over it. She was a grown woman, capable of running a business and running her life. She had friends. And a home. She dated when she wanted to, though she seldom wanted to, and rarely ever thought of the eighteen-year-old girl who had fallen foolishly in love with a young man she could never have. His presence here couldnât upset her if she didnât allow it to, but she hoped he wouldnât make breakfast at Willingâs a habit. Theyâd each become so good at pretending the other didnât exist, so why stop now?
* * *
âAND SO WE have to ask ourselvesâwhat do women want?â Jerry Thompson desperately needed to know the answer. He tapped his pen against the empty page of the legal pad spread before him and studied the yellow-lined paper as if the solution to his problems would magically appear. When he looked up, the six members of the town council stared back at him.
Bachelors all, they were a varied group. On his left sat Les Purcell, a young cowboy who had been injured on the rodeo circuit and now lived with his grandparents. Seated next to Les was Pete Lyons, a nice enough guy who looked as if he slept in his clothes.
âNow, thereâs one heck of a question,â Les muttered. âAnyone who has the answer to that can write a book, go on Dr. Phil and make a pile of money.â
âItâs a valid question,â Jerry, recently elected mayorâbecause Art Woodhouse died and no one wanted the jobâand full of ideas, looked across the table at the owner of the only auto-repair place in town. Hank Dougherty was likely too busy to watch much daytime television.
âWhatâs Dr. Phil got to do with it?â Hank asked.
âNothing. Just that he knows everything.â
âOr thinks he does,â Les said.
Jerry took a swallow of coffee. Obviously this was going to take more time than heâd thought. âLetâs not get off track. Iâm serious about this. We need to know what women want and then we have to give it to them.â He ignored the spurt of laughter that followed this declaration and frowned. âIâm trying to get something going here. Weâre talking about publicity. About money coming into town. About women coming into town.â
âWomen? What kind of women?â This question came from Jack Dugan, who Jerry figured had no problem getting dates.
âSingle women,â he replied, as if he was talking to a bunch of first-graders. Not that he had any idea what it was like to talk to schoolkids. But this group, the city council and various other men who enjoyed free coffee once a month at the town meetings and sat around a couple of pushed-together Formica-topped tables, was about as dense a bunch of men as heâd ever met. No wonder they didnât have women of their own, or at least a date once in a while. Not that he himself was much different. Heâd had two dates since he left Los Angeles three years ago and neither one had been what anyone would remotely call a success.
Pete, a thirty-something rancher who also drove the school bus, leaned forward. âHow old are these women gonna be? And theyâre not gonna be from a foreign country, are they?â
âLike the Russian mafia and the mail-order brides,â Mike Breen, the town treasurer who ran the county newspaper, added. âSaw it on Law & Order last night. Scary stuff.â
This was quite the suspicious group. Jerry took a deep breath and started over again. âNo, Mike, theyâre not going to take your money and kill you when you want to divorce them.â Heâd seen that episode himself. âLook,â he said, eying the six bachelors who comprised the council. They werenât a bad-looking bunch. They could be cleaned up, their shirts ironed or, better yet, replaced. They had a rugged appeal he knew some women were attracted to, but he had severe doubts that his constituents had the skills to keep a woman interested past the first date. Heck, most of them couldnât make it further than a getting-to-know-you bottle of beer. âI have a friend in Los Angeles whoâs putting together an idea for a reality show.â
âLike Survivor?â Hank perked up. He was fifty-five, widowed, with two grown daughters and a decent property in town. He might appeal to an older demographic, maybe the over-forty women.
âMore like The Bachelor.â
Jack, who worked at the feed store, grinned. âMan, thatâs a great show, that Bachelor. I never miss it.â The crowd grumbled their displeasure, but Jack didnât waver. âYou should see the women,â he insisted. âThey act crazy, and theyâre gorgeous and they sit in a lot of hot tubs with the bachelor. Everyone tries to get a date with the guy and lots of times he canât tell the crazy ones from the ones who really like him.â
Jack was young and good-looking, struggling to keep a small cattle outfit afloat while working in town. He picked up odd carpentry jobs and was careful with his money. And, Jerry thought, heâd look perfect on TV.
âThatâs right. Hot tubs and hot women in bathing suits.â Now he had their interest.
âThe only hot tub in the county belongs to MacGregor,â Gary Petersen, retired from the co-op, whispered. âAnd he just sat down behind you, Jerry, so you might want to keep your voice down.â
Jerry restrained himself from turning around to see if Gary was telling the truth. Heâd never met Angus MacGregorâs descendant but heâd read a lot about the family history. Theyâd practically invented cattle ranching in Montana.
âThanks, Gary, for pointing that out.â Jerry wrote hot tub on his paper. âIâll bet the TV production would spring for something. Either that or maybe we could use some town funds and buy one ourselves.â Everyone looked at Mike, who shrugged.
âMoneyâs hard to come by these days,â he declared.
âYeah,â Pete muttered. âAnd so is a sex life.â
âWeâre not talking about sex,â Jerry felt it necessary to point out, though the lack of women was the one of the biggest drawbacks to living in rural Montana. âWeâre talking about attracting single women to our town. Weâre talking about publicity, about attracting businesses, about letting people know we live in a beautiful part of the country where people care about one another. Weâre talking about expanding the population, saving the school, making Willing a great place to raise a family again.â
âQuite a speech, Jerry. Youâre starting to sound like a politician,â Hank said, chuckling. âYouâre not running for governor, are you, son?â
âNot yet,â Jerry said. âNow, do any of you have any objections to getting married?â
âWell,â Hank drawled, âI did it once.â
âAnd?â Jerry prompted.
âIt sure beat being alone.â
Not exactly high praise. Jerry fought the urge to bang his forehead on the table. Instead he gave each man a long look. âYouâre all lonely and miserable and you know well enough that if a woman gave you as much as a nod youâd be signing a marriage license and following her around the IGA with a grocery cart.â
No one denied it, so Jerry figured theyâd all just voted yes. Yes to inviting Hollywood to Willing. Yes to encouraging a busload of single women to give Montana bachelors a chance to impress them. Yes to drumming up a little excitement for a change.
Speaking of excitement, Jerry looked down the length of the crowded room and waved to Meg. She picked up a carafe and made her way toward his table. As far as Jerry was concerned, Meg Ripley was an important person. She knew everyone in town and he had no doubt she could run against him for mayor and win in a landslide. Heâd been told she was thirtyish, single and straight, so Jerry had asked her out to dinner a month after heâd moved to town. Theyâd quickly become friends, though Meg politely refused any dates that could be construed as romantic.
He actually preferred blondes, but dark-haired Meg was attractive in a no-frills, low-maintenance way. Heâd never seen her in anything but jeans, but she had a cute figure and a nice smile. In a town overpopulated by men, she mysteriously remained single, though heâd heard plenty of stories about broken hearts. As far as he could tell, Meg kept to herself and didnât go out of her way to break anything.
âMeg,â he began, âhow many times have you been proposed to?â
âI really donât thinkââ
âSeriously,â Jerry said. âItâs important.â
She took a step back. âIâm not going toââ
âEighteen,â Jack declared. âLast time we did a count, it was eighteen.â
âYouâve kept count?â Meg shot him a horrified look and Jack shrank back into his chair.
âItâs posted at the Dahl,â Hank pointed out. âItâs not like itâs a secret or anything.â
âP-posted?â Meg sputtered. âI never saw it.â
âMenâs room.â Les whispered to Jerry, âLucia Swallowâs up to eight and Patsyâyou know, Patsy Parrish at the Hair Lairâshe has seven.â These were interesting statistics, but Jerry needed Meg involved in his scheme and these numbers werenât going to make that happen.
âEighteen proposals of marriage,â he mused. âIâm impressed.â
âDonât be,â she said. âIâm not.â She set down the full pot and removed the empty one. âEvery once in a while someone has too much to drink, waves roses in front of me and wants to get married. And donât get me started on Valentineâs Day.â
âThere,â he said, slapping his hand on the table. âYouâve proved my point exactly. Do you all see now how unbalanced and crazy this is?â
âCrazy? You think itâs crazy that someone would want to marry me?â The look she gave him practically shriveled his manhood.
The council members sucked in their collective breaths. Jerry realized he was flying too close to the flame now, and any minute Meg would toss them all out of the restaurant, meeting adjourned. She wasnât a fan of personal questions and she didnât take kindly to discussing her love life, not that anyone thought she had one. Heâd know if Meg had a boyfriend, probably because the news would make the front page of the local paper. Or at least the menâs room of the Dahl.
For one agonizing moment Jerry feared she would fling the empty coffeepot across the room. Heâd heard there was a temper beneath the cheerful smile, but up until now he hadnât believed it. He pulled out a chair and gestured toward it. âLook, Meg, Iâm sorry. Thatâs not quite what I meant. Join us for a minute, will you?â He kept his voice soft, used the persuasive tone heâd spent so much time cultivating. âWe need your help.â
She edged away. âNo, thanks. I have breakfast ordersââ
He wasnât about to let her off the hook. He needed a female perspective and he needed it now. And he didnât care if it came from an overly sensitive woman who had a bad attitude or a bad boyfriend or just disliked men. âMeg. Please. Just tell me, what do women want? You know, from men. We need to know.â
âExcuse me?â The question obviously surprised her, because she paused in midflight and stared at him.
âIâm serious,â he repeated, his pen poised. âTell me what women want. Itâs important. Iâll take notes.â
âJerry,â she said, backing up. âYou donât have a big enough piece of paper.â
