Marooned with the Maverick. Christine Rimmer

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For my dad.

       I love you, Dad.

       And miss you so much!

       Chapter One

      At 2:10 in the afternoon on the Fourth of July, Collin Traub glanced out the great room window of his house on Falls Mountain and could not believe what he saw in the town down below.

      He stopped stock-still and swore under his breath. How could the situation have gotten so bad so fast? He probably should have been keeping an eye on it.

      But he’d been busy, his mind on work. And it was later than usual when he stopped for lunch and came upstairs.

      To this.

      He could kick his own ass for not paying more attention. It had to be about the wettest day on record in Rust Creek Falls, Montana. The rain had been coming down in buckets since yesterday morning. And Rust Creek, which ran northeast to southwest through the center of town, had been steadily rising.

      Collin had told himself it was no big deal. The creek had good, high levees on either side, levees that had held without a break for more than a hundred years. He’d never doubted that they would hold for another hundred.

      And yet somehow, impossibly, sections of the levee on the south bank were crumbling. Through the thick, steady veil of rain that streamed down the windows, he watched it happen.

      The levee just … dissolved, sending foaming, silvery swaths of water pouring through more than one breach. It was a lot of water and it was flowing fast and furious onto the lower-elevation south side of town.

      People were going to lose their homes. Or worse.

      And the water wouldn’t be stopping on the edge of town, either. South of town lay Rust Creek Falls Valley, a fertile, rolling landscape of small farms and ranches—and any number of smaller creeks and streams that would no doubt also be overflowing their banks.

      The Triple T, his family’s ranch, was down there in the path of all that water.

      He grabbed the phone off the table.

      Deader than a hammer.

      He dug his cell from his pocket. No signal.

      The useless cell still clutched in his hand, Collin grabbed his hat and his keys and headed out into the downpour.

      It was a hell of a ride down the mountain.

      One-third of the way down, the road skirted close to the falls for which the mountain was named. The roar was deafening, and the pounding silver width of the falling water was twice what he was used to seeing. He made it past without incident. But if the rain kept on like this, the road could easily be washed out. He’d have himself a real adventure getting back home.

      But now was not the time to worry over coming back. He needed to get down there and do what he could to help. He focused his mind on that, keeping his boot light on the brake, giving the steering wheel a workout, as he dodged his 4×4 F-150 around mudslides and uprooted trees, with the rain coming down so thick and fast he could hardly see through the windshield. Now and then, lightning lit up the gray sky and thunder boomed out, the sound echoing off in the distance, over the valley below.

      Lightning could be damned dangerous on a mountain thick with tall trees. But with the rain coming down like the end of the world and everything drenched and dripping, a lightning strike causing a forest fire was probably the last thing he needed to get anxious over today.

      Water. Rivers of it. That was the problem.

      There were way too many spots where the streams and overflowing ditches had shed their contents across the narrow, twisty mountain road. He was lucky to make it through a few of those spots. But he did it.

      Fifteen endless minutes after sliding in behind the wheel, he reached Sawmill Street on the north edge of town. He debated: go right to North Main and see what he could do in town, or go left over the Sawmill Street Bridge, skirt the east side of town and make tracks for the Triple T.

      The rest of his family was three hundred miles away for the holiday, down in Thunder Canyon attending a wedding and a reunion. That made him the only Traub around.

      His obligation to the family holdings won out. He swung left and crossed the Sawmill Street Bridge, which was still several feet above the raging water. With a little luck and the Almighty in a generous mood, that bridge might hold.

      The Triple T was southeast of town, so he turned south at Falls Street until he caught sight of the miniature lake that had formed at Commercial and Falls. He saw a couple of swamped vehicles, but they were empty. He swung left again. Having been raised in the valley, he knew every rutted dirt road like he knew the face he saw when he looked in the mirror to shave. Collin used that knowledge now, taking the higher roads, the ones less likely to be flooded in the troughs and dips, working his way steadily toward the ranch.

      About a mile from the long driveway that led to the barns and houses on the Triple T, he crested a rise and, through the heavy curtain of pouring rain, saw another vehicle on the road ahead of him: a red Subaru Forester moving at a dead crawl.

      He knew that Subaru. And he knew who was behind the wheel: Willa Christensen, the kindergarten teacher.

      In spite of everything, the pounding, relentless rain and the flooded road and the pretty-damned-imminent danger, Collin grinned. Since a certain evening a little more than four years before, Willa had been running away from him—and no, he hadn’t been chasing her.

      Yeah, he had something of a reputation. People called him a skirt chaser, a player, the Traub family bad boy. But come on. He had better things to do with his time than sniff around after a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. And since