by Grace Walton
Montana Miracles
Book Two
Hollister’s Choice
Grace Walton
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Cover Art by Ramona Lockwood
Published By CleanHeart Publishing
Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Psalm 52:10
Prologue
1 Corinthians 1:26-31
26 Brothers and sisters, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. 27 But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. 28 God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, 29 so that no one may boast before him. 30 It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God—that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption. 31 Therefore, as it is written: “Let the one who boasts boast in the Lord.”
Black Knife Ranch
“How firm a foundation is made in the Lord,” the girl grooming the horse sang softly. The simple turquoise and silver bangle on her wrist slid up and down a slim arm. She wore it all the time. If she’d been spiritual in a different way, it would’ve been considered her personal talisman. The quiet barn possessed a rustic serenity not unlike that of the rough clapboard church her family attended. There was the smell of hay commingled with crisp mountain air. Other animals contently nosed around their feed troughs searching for the last of their morning oats. The big Appaloosa gelding she was working on swished a lazy tail to and fro. He wasn’t keeping time with her low melodic voice, he was just chasing flies. His big head was propped up on the wooden crossbar of his stall. His eyes were half closed in bliss. A toe of one sturdy back hoof was cocked up and resting. The late summer sun was rising over a nearby ridge. Its shaft of pure lemon-colored light raked over the girl. Her breath and that of the gelding were foggy in the morning’s cold. Montana’s summers were short. This one was already on its way out.
The man leaning against the wide double entry to the barn frowned. His lips tightened as he watched the graceful young woman’s gentle hands ruffle the horse’s mottled black and white mane. He’d known her since she was an awkward adolescent. In those days, she’d been all scuffed boots, muddy jeans, and unraveling braids. Those innocent days were gone. And he cursed himself for noticing the changes in her. He told himself, for the thousandth time, that even though he’d taught her to ride. And he’d taught her to drive a beat-up old pickup truck. He was not, emphatically not going to teach Miss Magnolia Black Knife Ferguson anything about the passion that was possible between a man and a woman. No matter how much thinking about it made him ache.
She was way out of his league. No matter what his pedigree might claim. He was just the hired help. And he was years too old for her. And if that wasn’t enough, his soul was surely as black as the spots on the rangy gelding she was currying. He’d seen too much. Done too much. And he still had debts to pay. Big ones. He took off his battered old Stetson, slapped it against his leg, and plowed a frustrated, powerful hand through his thick hair.
The sudden movement caught the woman’s notice. She turned to him. Her hand stilled on the satiny hide of the Appaloosa. Before she could think to stop, a welcoming smile lit up her heart-shaped face. There was an unguarded moment when all that she felt for him shone through. A shaft of that pure sunlight played over her like a halo.
He thought she looked like an angel standing in that bright puddle of illumination. Motes danced in the icy air around her like stardust. His eyes narrowed and his jaw twitched at his foolishness.
“Hollister,” she said with a heartbreaking smile. “What are you doing out here? Gage said you were out riding fences.” She laid the curry comb on a nearby ledge. With an absentminded pat for the gelding, she moved towards the big man standing in the open doorway of the barn.
He watched her with hooded eyes that gave nothing away. His chiseled features could have been carved out of good Montana granite. One calloused hand balled into a fist at his side. As if he was using his iron will alone to keep it from reaching out to her. Maggie had seen that same expression on Hollister’s handsome face a lot lately. She’d watched his powerful frame tense as she came near. And she was pretty sure she knew why. He must finally, finally be feeling the ebb and flow of potent electrical chemistry between them. She’d almost become used to the uncomfortable feeling. Almost.
She’d always loved him. Even at fourteen, when her older brother had introduced him as the new ranch foremen, Maggie had been fascinated by Hollister. At first, since she’d been just a girl, it had been his perfect masculine features and his kindness that had called to her. Sometime during her high school years she’d become aware of how some of the older, more experienced girls’ eyes followed him whenever they were in town. Their frank, carnal regard made her uncomfortable.
Bozeman wasn’t big. But it had a college and a lively arts and rodeo culture. Usually the local mountain climbers were regarded by coeds as Montana’s own brand of rock stars. But then Hollister had come to town. Since that day, single women, and a few of the married ones, cooed and fluttered their mascara blackened eyelashes at him in every coffee house and store up and down the small main street. Even the Seed and Feed store’s cashier gave him a blatant come-on every time he came in to fetch something for the ranch. He’d never noticed. But Maggie sure had.
Hollister had given her an innocent hug at her high school graduation, along with the vintage bracelet she now wore. She’d been more than startled at the low insistent thrumming it had set off in her belly. She’d started to ask her mother about such unsettling feelings. But a niggling mental warning held her back.
Cerise Ferguson was a good woman. She’d been an attentive mother. But she was very straitlaced. Even for this lonely part of Montana, where folks still lived like it was a time warp from the 1950’s, the matriarch of the Black Knife Ranch was puritanical in her views.
Maggie noticed the old leather satchel at his feet. Something broke inside her.
“You’re leaving?” she whispered before she could stop herself. She stopped a few feet from him.
“I am.” He nodded. His hands gripped and traced the edge of the battered cowboy hat. It made a slow, tortured revolution in his fingers.
That’s when she noticed his hair was a dark muddy brown. It was a standing joke on the Black Knife spread that Hollister was a chameleon. He changed the color of his thick hair or shaved his head entirely. He wore contacts that concealed the true topaz cut of his eyes. He wore the most realistic temporary tattoos. There’d been piercings on his perfect face and hard, cut body. He grew out his beard or wore a goatee. He was clean-shaven or scruffy. His appearance was never the same. A few years back, when he and Gage had brought Carrie home, he’d looked like a surfer. Now he almost looked like a businessman, if the worn boots and Stetson could be overlooked. All of it was not done out of vanity or for the slavish following of fashion. It was done as part of his other occupation. The one that was not quite so innocent as being a ranch foreman.
“You’
ll be careful?” she pled.
Maggie had to ask, because she knew what this transformation meant. He was going somewhere dangerous. He was going to use his body as a shield and his skills as a mercenary. It was part and parcel of who he was and what he did. Yes, Hollister was more than a ranch foreman. Just as her brother Gage was more than a professor of Native American culture. They were both dangerous men who’d purposed to turn their military skills into something lucrative.
They were partners in Montana Miracles. Though Hollister, and all the other lost souls who worked for the organization, called Gage their boss. They all took a leadership role when called upon. And all of them dedicated their lives to saving others. Maggie knew it wasn’t just about the money, though that was certainly substantial. Every man on the Montana Miracle staff was wealthy. But she liked to think of them as heroes.
“I’m always careful, Blackbird.” His voice was deep and raspy as he closed the distance between them.
Maggie flushed at the childish nickname he’d given her the first time he’d picked her up out of the dust of a holding pen. She’d been fourteen and intent on riding one of her brother’s rowdiest studs. The horse had made quick work of tossing the girl off its back. And Hollister had leapt over the fence to grab her up and hustle her away from the murderous, snorting animal. It wasn’t the last time he’d put himself between her and almost certain death.
He’d meant it as a compliment to her striking coloring and eager intelligence.
But Maggie had only heard a slur upon her plain face. She knew she wasn’t a beauty. She was tall and skinny. Her mouth was too full. And her cheekbones were too high. Her abundant hair was as black and coarse as a mustang’s tail. All were her inheritance from some long ago Sioux ancestor. None of them added up to the type of women he dated.
She’d occasionally seen him with one of them. Hollister was adamant about keeping his private life distant from his life at the ranch. But Bozeman was not big enough to hide who he went out with and why. Every woman his name had been connected with had been older, experienced, and beautiful. Not just cowgirl pretty. They’d been super model caliber. Every one of them had the lush curved bodies men seemed to find so very compelling.
“Where are you going?” the girl asked.
She tilted her head to one side so much like the bird he’d called her. A lavish waterfall of jet black hair spilled over her shoulder. It reached down to kiss the turquoise and silver belt buckle that rode low on her slim hips. Her jeans were faded and ripped. There was not a smidgen of make up on her smooth olive-hued face. Her eyes were as black as her hair. A bright sheen of tears gathered there as she furiously tried to blink them away. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Without volition, his arms went out to envelop her. He tugged her against his hard body and buried his lips into her fragrant hair. Magnolia smelled like lemon and spices. Her body turned, without reservation, into the protective shelter of his own. She felt like every miracle he’d ever wished for. And he knew, he knew, she’d never be his.
“You know I can’t tell you,” his voice rumbled all the way through her.
Maggie frowned. Yes, she knew the men never disclosed where they were going or what they would be doing once they got to their destination.
“When will you be back?” That was a safe question. One she hoped he’d answer.
He didn’t. Instead he changed the subject. “Don’t go out with any of the rowdy cowboys on the ranch, while I’m gone.”
The girls stiffened in his arms. She turned her head up to peer at him.
“Are you jealous? I was going to invite you up to the house for a slice of my Red Bean Pie. I just took it out of the oven before I came down to the barn. But if you’re going to go all surly and jealous on me, I think I’ll pass.” she said it in a teasing way, but he heard the longing all the same.
He hated what he was about to do. But it was unavoidable.
First he snorted in derision. There was just enough disdain in the sound to wound. And it did. He saw the quick flash of pain that stung her face. But that didn’t stop him. He had to do this thing right, or she would suffer, in the end.
“Why would I be jealous?” he growled cruelly. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering to warn you. You’re safe enough. None of the men have even given you a second glance. A man likes to know he has a woman in his arms when he’s of a mind to slake his lust.” He stepped back and gave her body a slow, insulting inspection. “And honey, with that scrawny frame of yours, they see you as just another hand. You’re a joke in the bunk house. Did you know? Before you got that toy truck of yours, every Friday night they’d draw straws to see who had to drive you to town for your Saturday shopping. Short straw had to take you. Why do you think I was so intent on teaching you to drive when you barely turned sixteen? I was trying to boost morale with the cowboys. Nobody wanted to be seen pulling into Bozeman with you sitting on the seat beside him.”
“That’s not true,” Maggie gasped, horrified.
It couldn’t be true. The hands all loved her. She spent most of her time outside with them as they worked the cattle. The only thing her mother and brother wouldn’t let her do was spend the night at the line cabins. Everything else she did with as much vigor as the cowboys. With a rueful glance she looked down at her palms. They were hard from the hours she’d spent working the range with the men. Her fingernails were ragged too. They certainly didn’t look like the hands of a pampered prairie princess. Those daughters of rich ranchers, and their coiffed mothers, ruled Bozeman’s limited society with their dainty manicured fingers.
Maggie turned the palms down. She balled her hands into fists. That still didn’t stop her trembling. She’d wanted Hollister to see her as a woman. She’d prayed he’d someday return the deep and tender affection she had for him. For years, she’d lie on her bed at night and spin dreams of their life together. They would marry. Hollister would help Gage run the Black Knife. She’d love him and the children they’d have together with her whole heart.
“It’s true, Maggie,” he said with no feeling. “And the sooner you realize it, stop following me around like an infatuated child, and grow up, the better off you’ll be. Maybe you’ll acquire some much needed town bronze while you’re away at college. Come back with a little experience, and maybe I’ll be more interested. Though I doubt you’ll ever be woman enough to tempt me.”
His deep voice became clipped, elegant, and precise. Maggie didn’t recognize it. And what in the world was ‘town bronze’?
“Bronze what?” she asked and even to her own ears she sounded like a stupid hick.
Hollister’s jaw clenched. He looked away. After a second, he drilled her again with his cold golden eyes. This time his words were cowboy slow and laconic.
“It means sophistication.”
“It does?” she asked confused. She’d never heard of such.
“If you were more than an uneducated, homely little hayseed, maybe you’d know that,” Hollister said with a hard look.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded even as her heart broke.
“Nothing that a willing woman and bottle of Jack won’t fix,” he snarled as he strode away.
Chapter One
Three Years Later
“He’s back,” Gage Ferguson said as he carefully watched to see how his announcement would affect his baby sister.
Other than a moment of strange stillness, Magnolia Ferguson showed no outward sign that she’d heard him. She kept on weeding her garden with the same quiet, ruthless efficiency she did all things. It was early morning. She needed to deadhead the zinnias if there was to be one more blooming before the killing frost of late summer would eradicate the annuals. The smell of the rich soil was heavy as she knelt beside the lavish flowerbed. It was deep and ran around the front of the sprawling ranch house’s wide porch. A brace of mature trees lined it farther out. They served as a windbreak for the times when blizzard winds tore off the rid
ge and plowed through the bowl of the valley.
Gage frowned. Maggie had changed. And even though he knew why and he’d made sure she’d never be hurt again, he still mourned the carefree, sometimes reckless girl she’d once been. He inwardly cursed the drunken college jock who’d transformed his confident sister into this buttoned-up woman who was too far old for her tender years.
“Did you hear me, Mags?” he asked.
The young woman nodded. Her weeding never stopped. She didn’t look up. The bracelet slid up and down her arm in a graceful way.
“He’s not the same,” Gage said by way of a warning.
The last thing he wanted was for his poor battered sister to break her heart once again over Hollister. She’d barely survived the first time it’d happened. Then that scholarship steer wrestler at Montana State had taken an interest in her and finished off whatever scant self-esteem she’d had left.
“You don’t need to worry, Gage,” she said as she got up and dusted the skirt of her gray jumper. “I’m not the same either.”
He frowned again. This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to dredge up painful memories,” he started to explain.
Her face was lifeless and bleak as she stopped him. “It’s OK,” she murmured.
It was clearly nowhere near ‘OK’. In fact, Gage knew it never would be. Not only had she suffered at the hands of a heedless boy who’d drunkenly thought to prove his manhood by assaulting her, the jock had taken images of his so-called triumph and posted them on social media. Now that he was in prison, he wasn’t so arrogant. But the pictures of Maggie would never be totally expunged from public view and ridicule.
He couldn’t imagine the humiliation she’d suffered. The comments alone were scathing. The trolling was worse. And since the boy had been in a popular fraternity, there’d even been death threats. For the first year after it happened, Gage, Carrie, and his mother, Cerise kept a very close eye on Maggie. There’d been a very real fear she might kill herself.