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A Match Made in Alaska
Hunter Jacobson wants no part of his grandfather’s matchmaking. The lone cowboy is certain that’s what the old man is doing when he trades part of their Montana ranch for Scarlett Murphy’s claim to an old Alaska gold mine. Or is he running one of his legendary scams on the sweet single mom? A trip to Dry Creek, Alaska, reveals the truth—and brings Hunter and Scarlett face-to-face with a past family feud and a vulnerable present. But surprisingly it’s the future that intrigues Hunter most…if he can get Scarlett to make him her groom.
“What’s your game now?”
Scarlett shot Hunter a look as she added, “First you wanted me to go, now you want me to stay. Why?”
“I’m just seeing more possibilities,” Hunter said.
She had a thought. “You do know that kiss didn’t mean anything.” She saw the way his eyes flashed.
“A kiss always means something. Promise. Betrayal. Something.”
“But a kiss doesn’t mean you have to take care of me,” she said. “We don’t need charity.”
“It’s not charity to receive what’s due you.” His voice gentled. “I always take care of my—” He stopped. “Friends.”
His eyes softened and Scarlett wasn’t sure she was ready for that. She couldn’t care about him…not until she could trust him.
She needed to get back to Alaska. Once she was on her own turf, her feelings for Hunter would subside.… Wouldn’t they?
JANET TRONSTAD
grew up on her family’s farm in central Montana and now lives in Pasadena, California, where she is always at work on her next book. She has written more than thirty books, many of them set in the fictitious town of Dry Creek, Montana, where the men spend the winters gathered around the potbellied stove in the hardware store and the women make jelly in the fall.
Alaskan Sweethearts
Janet Tronstad
Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right. Honour thy father and mother; (which is the first commandment with promise;) That it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth.
—Ephesians 6:1–3
This book is dedicated, with love,
to my younger sister, Doris Tronstad—a true Alaskan.
Contents
Thick clouds gathered overhead as Hunter Jacobson pressed down on the gas pedal of his pickup, determined to reach the café in Dry Creek, Montana, before his grandfather talked Scarlett Murphy out of whatever money she had in her purse. He had the windows open and leaned forward, feeling the sweat on his back. He’d never seen this Scarlett woman, but he pictured her carrying one of those worn black clutches that widows used for their grocery money. He gritted his teeth and stepped on the gas pedal harder.
“Of course, she’s not going to thank me for saving her,” he muttered, glancing down at his sole passenger, a calico barn cat who was sitting on the other side of the pickup floor licking one of her front paws. She’d gone with him to feed the cattle and he hadn’t taken time to shoo her away when he’d gotten back into the pickup moments ago. She ignored him now.
Hunter eyed the country road more closely, squinting as dust billowed up. The sky ahead was gray and the wheat fields beside the road were nothing but a blur of early fall stubble as he sped by.
He had seen the woman’s letter lying open on the table when he’d gone inside the house to get a drink of water before heading back to the fields. His grandfather’s pickup wasn’t parked in its usual spot and, since they were the only ones living on the ranch, he’d picked up the note thinking it was for him. Instead he’d read that Scarlett Murphy was to meet his grandfather this morning at the café to sign some papers he had for her. Her signature was ladylike, spiderweb thin and elegant. Nobody under seventy years of age wrote that way anymore.
Not that age was proof against his grandfather’s schemes. Hunter was thirty-three years old, but he probably wouldn’t know what to do about the old man’s mischief if he lived to be a hundred.
Hunter pulled up close to the café, then braked and turned his vehicle onto the strip of barren dirt that everyone used for parking. He pulled the keys from the ignition and opened the door all in the same smooth motion. The heat hit him as he reached back and grabbed the envelope that held the letter. He was surprised when the cat jumped out of the pickup. He’d thought her paw would still be bothering her since he’d pulled a prickly cocklebur out of it only hours ago.
He bent to pick up the feline, but she dodged his hands. The family of cats who had ruled the ranch’s barns for generations was tough. They were survivors, all of them. He decided that if this one wanted to run loose for a few minutes