The Lawman Meets His Bride Read Free Page B

that she hadn’t found “the one” yet. But that was only a partial truth, and Hazel knew it as well as she.
    And even now the wily old cattle queen must have sensed the tenor of her thoughts.
    “The burnt child fears the fire,” Hazel said gently. “But, dear, does one bad burn mean you must remain in the cold forever?”
    Constance slowed down for a rough section of road, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in her throat. She loved Hazel; in fact, she considered the town matriarch her closest friend. But the candid old gal sometimes forced her to confront facts Constance would rather ignore.
    In the cold. Aptly put, she decided. Career-wise she was content and becoming more so. She loved her family, and she loved Mystery. Overall, she considered herself blessed and felt humble enough to admit it. But Hazel was right. Romantically speaking, she was trapped out in the cold—in a sort of lovers’ Purgatory, that lonely and hopeless dwelling of those neither loved nor loving.
    “Doug Huntington was your one permissible youthful indiscretion,” Hazel assured her. “He fooled me, too, Connie, and you know very few folks ever pull the wool over this gal’s eyes.”
    No, Connie thought, trusting was no crime. But because of trust, she had nearly married a career criminal. Only weeks before she was to marry Doug, he had suddenly left the state. But being jilted was only the beginning. About the same time he left for parts unknown, she had started receiving the first of many massive credit-card bills. Thousands of dollars in purchases she never made—and none of the cards had been stolen. He had copied the ID numbers and gone on a telephone and Internet spending spree with them.
    Bad enough that she had to pay all the bills, since the cards were not reported missing. Adding final insult to grievous injury, many of the bills were for women’s fine lingerie and jewelry; she had paid the bills for Doug’s little sex kittens.
    Her only emotional salvation from the mess was to bury it like a squirrel buries acorns. To go to the police would mean reports and maybe a trial, and she couldn’t relive it again and again; it would break her. So she never reported him and never heard from him again. No one saw it outwardly in her bearing, but that trauma of the heart had orphaned all her hopes for romance. Since then, her confidence had been badly shattered when it came to judging men and their character. She doubted if she could ever pick up all the pieces again.

    “Well, anyway, I didn’t call you to rake up the past,” she told her friend. “Possible good news. I’m on my way to show the old Hupenbecker place to a potential buyer.”
    “See?” Hazel perked up in triumph, never one to be sidetracked from an unpleasant topic. “You feared no one would ever call. It just needed a little time, was all. Just like you. Give it a little time, and grass will push over a stone.”
    “Time,” Constance told her wryly, “is a rare commodity when you’re trying to build up your own real-estate company.”
    “There’s always time for love,” Hazel insisted. “But you have to allow it an appointment now and then, busy lady.”
    “Maybe I will,” Constance said with little inward conviction. “When business slows down a little. Right now it’s booming, and I’m lucky if I have time to heat a microwave meal, much less meet my significant other. Speaking of business—wish me luck. Five minutes, and I’ll be showing the cabin.”
    Before she hung up, Hazel asked, “To a man or a woman?”
    “Man. One who seems used to ‘politely but firmly’ getting his way, too.”
    “Hmm,” was all Hazel said to that, yet her oo-la-la tone suggested plenty. She added quickly, “Make sure to show him that lovely creek out back. Jake McCallum himself built the stone bridge over it. The State Historical Society wants to put a plaque on it, the silly featherheads. The oldest stone bridge in Montana.”
    “I will,” Constance