A Husband For Christmas: Snow Kisses / Lionhearted. Diana Palmer

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      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