by Cora Seton
“Marriage is an outdated institution,” Rachel put in.
“Not everyone’s as cynical as you, Rachel,” Chris said.
Melissa caught Sam’s eye and pretended to gag. They’d been hearing this argument their whole lives, and had known since they were teenagers Chris had an unrequited crush on their mother.
Sam watched the men of Base Camp working at their various tasks as the others argued around her, and realized that underneath the silly goals there was something far more serious going on. Ten men had pledged their lives to try to build a model community. They were willing to give up their homes, their military careers—and even the chance to pick whom and when to marry—in order to meet their goals. When the cameras panned in on the one completed tiny house and the second one under construction, Sam was enchanted, even though she knew what living in a small space could entail. The beautifully constructed houses on the television screen were everything this old sleeper coach wasn’t. The materials were organic, the setup brilliant, and instead of sitting around drinking beer and yelling at the TV, the participants were working hard to build a something special.
“Sustainable means that something can keep working forever without degrading its environment,” one of the characters on-screen explained in an interview.
Sam let out an uneven breath. That was her problem in a nutshell; her situation was unsustainable. She couldn’t live like this for another minute, let alone the rest of her life. She needed a way out. She needed something like Base Camp—a community to join in which she would be allowed to do something real.
As she watched, an ache grew in her chest. If only she belonged on that ranch…
When the show ended, she was nearly in tears because all that faced her now was typing out emails, answering questions, cleaning up beer bottles and dirty dishes after everyone else hit the hay in their sleeper bunks—and then getting up tomorrow to do it all over again.
“Oh, my God. Look at that,” Melissa said just as Sam turned her attention back to her e-mail.
Sam looked up. “What?”
Melissa pointed to the screen where a photo of Clay had been posted under the headline, “Backup Bride Needed.”
“Are you female, single, between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age? Looking for a husband? Think you’ve got what it takes to join Base Camp?” the announcer said. “Follow the link below to apply now.”
“Oh, my God; they don’t think Clay can marry Nora in time. They’re finding someone else for him just in case,” Melissa squealed.
“Who the hell would volunteer for that?” Rachel asked.
“No one in their right mind,” Henry said.
Melissa laughed and socked Sam on the arm. “Three hundred and fifty-eight.”
“Ouch.” Sam rubbed her arm, but didn’t retaliate. She knew exactly why Melissa had punched her: their parents agreed so seldom, they’d begun counting the times they did when Sam was thirteen and Melissa was twelve. Melissa kept a tally on the wall of her sleeper bunk.
Sam snapped down the cover of her laptop before Melissa could see what she’d just typed: the URL to apply to be Clay Pickett’s backup bride.
At the time, she hadn’t planned to go through with it, of course.
But it had proven too tempting.
Now, just three weeks later, here she was crossing the tarmac to the small terminal, her heart pledged to Curtis Lloyd and Base Camp, the sustainable community she’d watched with such interest back in the bus. Her heart beat triple time as she crossed the short distance to the entrance. Was Curtis Lloyd watching her with equal trepidation from inside the terminal? Did he like what he saw?
Or was he regretting this as much as she currently was?
No. No regrets, she told herself. She was boldly stepping into the next phase of her life. The phase in which she got to stay in one place and dedicate herself to a cause she believed in with all her heart.
The phase in which she married a man.
A stranger.
Sam stumbled. Caught herself.
Kept going.
Chapter Two
‡
Harris didn’t know what to do.
He’d made it to the airport without Renata following him. He’d placed himself by the door and watched every passenger exit the small plane when it landed, searching the crowd for single females. There’d been several, but each time he’d moved forward to greet them, they’d rushed into the arms of a husband or family member and marched happily off toward the baggage carousel along with the other passengers.
The stream of people getting off the plane had slowed to a trickle and then stopped altogether.
Samantha Smith hadn’t come, after all.
Problem solved.
Still, Harris lingered. He didn’t like to leave a job uncompleted. Loose ends were messy. They formed an entryway for trouble. Had Samantha gotten in touch with Boone to let him know she wouldn’t arrive? Or had she gotten held up along the way? Should he call Boone and risk waking him the one time the man got to sleep in? Should he question someone from the airline?
Harris was just turning to scan the small terminal again, in case Samantha had somehow passed him by in the earlier crush of passengers, when a movement at the top of the metal stairs to the airplane caught his attention, and he swiveled around.
Two women emerged: a stewardess and a passenger. The stewardess said something and waved. The passenger began to descend the stairs.
Samantha Smith. It had to be her.
Harris stepped closer to the window and stared.
She was nervous. He could tell from here because she kept shifting her purse and carry-on bag from hand to hand even as she climbed down the stairs. Once on the ground, she took a moment to smooth her skirt, a straight, navy blue number that stopped just above her knees. She wore a white blouse and navy pumps she didn’t seem altogether comfortable walking in. She’d dressed up to meet her husband-to-be, Harris realized with a jolt.
A husband-to-be who hadn’t come to meet her.
As she raised a hand to pat her hair into place, she moved closer, and her vulnerability stabbed him like a knife to the heart. Her hair was a shiny chestnut, and had been corralled into a sleek twist that showed off a slim neck and fine features. This woman had courage, but she was worried, as well she might be, Harris thought. She was walking into a situation with very little information. A kind of human sacrifice to the television gods who demanded sex and tension from a show that was supposed to be about sustainable living.
In a few moments, he was going to have to tell her Curtis didn’t want her, after all.
He knew without a shadow of a doubt the news would crush this woman’s heart. And he knew—somehow he knew—she’d soldier on despite it. He read it in the proud angle of her jaw, the tight grip on her carry-on and the firm steps she was taking.
Harris nodded to himself. She’d get hurt, but she’d recover. She’d do okay. He moved closer to the door to greet her when she walked in—
And Samantha stumbled on the tarmac.
She caught herself and kept walking. She’s fine, Harris told himself firmly.
But it was too late. In that moment—in that one, unguarded moment in which he’d read the fear, panic and desperation in her face as she nearly fell—Harris’s heart squeezed hard, and he knew his fate was irrevocably tied to hers.
Samantha Smith had come here to marry. She wanted a husband. Needed one badly enough to risk everything on a stranger. She couldn’t know Curtis was reluctant to marry her. She had to believe she was wanted—because Curtis would want her as soon as he saw her. She was beautiful. Determined. Oh, so feminine.
Ready to fall in love.
Harris would be the shepherd one last time. He’d make sure Samantha and Curtis made it to the altar—today—and then he’d go have that conversation with Boone, the one in which he explained he’d been wrong—that it wasn’t in the cards for him to marry.
He’d thought Boone might have an idea
for how he could stay on in some ancillary capacity. He’d hoped they’d be able to find a man to replace him on the show. Now he knew he’d have to leave Base Camp altogether.
Because the one thing he knew for sure:
He couldn’t watch Samantha Smith fall in love with another man.
What if Curtis wasn’t there to meet her? What if he’d already left? Or hadn’t come at all? What if this was all a huge joke and she was about to be humiliated on camera? Would there be cameras? Or would they wait? What would her wedding be like?
What would happen if she threw up right now?
Cameras. Film crew. People watching, she told herself and lifted her chin as the door into the terminal opened automatically. She needed to make a good first impression both on her husband-to-be and the viewing public. After all, her family would only learn of what she’d done when they watched the next episode of Base Camp. She’d fled the bus in the middle of the night, leaving a note that said she was all right and needed to make a life for herself. She’d neglected to say how—or where. She knew in order to make this break from them, she had to operate without their input. She was far too used to doing what they wanted her to do. This time she needed to trust her own gut.
The terminal had emptied out by the time she walked in, and at first she thought there was no one to greet her. Her heart plunged into her stomach and she fought the urge to be sick again.
Until she spotted a man standing off to one side, and realized she’d seen him before.
Harris, she thought. Harris Wentworth, the sniper.
The one who’d caught her attention the first time she’d watched the show. Since that day she’d watched it online a dozen times, and had gone back to catch the first episode, too. She’d focused on Clay, of course, and then Curtis when Boone called her and told her the news about the attack on Nora. Both men were good, decent men who were dedicated to their cause and ripe for marriage.
Still, whenever the sniper was on-screen—a rare enough occurrence—Samantha found her eyes drawn to him. He rarely spoke, but he was still compelling. A strong, silent, vigilant man who seemed constantly on the lookout for trouble. Samantha couldn’t help sympathize with the urge to look for danger and do what you could to prevent it. She’d spent her whole life doing that for her family and the band.
She hesitated just inside the door, unsure what to do next. Why was Harris here instead of Curtis?
Had Curtis found another woman to love—like Clay had?
As Harris stepped toward her, Samantha realized that had to be the answer, otherwise Curtis would be the one reaching for her bag, not this silent man whose eyes searched hers. He was dressed in jeans, boots, a plaid shirt unbuttoned over a black T-shirt that stretched across a muscled chest. But all Samantha could focus on was Curtis’s absence.
“He’s not coming, is he?” Her voice was so high and thin, she barely recognized it. “He doesn’t want me.”
“He’s—”
Sam cut Harris off. “He’s taken one look at my photograph and decided he can do better.” That had to be it. She’d never photographed well, and besides, she wasn’t a woman who could compete like that. Her sister was the one to get all the men. Hell, her mother did better than her in that department, with a string of beaus half her age parading in and out of the bus. Sam was nowhere near as beautiful as either of them. She was too… practical. Too plain.
“He hasn’t looked at your photograph.”
Sam blinked. “Hasn’t looked at it?” That meant he’d been against this marriage from the start. “What am I doing here?” She hated the desperation in her voice. What must this man think of her?
Harris shifted uncomfortably and Sam choked back a wild laugh. Where were the television cameras? Surely they’d want to capture this moment of humiliation for the whole world to see.
When she thought of how hard she’d worked to secretly prepare for this moment, she wanted to die. When the band had made a stop in Phoenix, she’d slipped away to buy a wedding dress. She’d packed it carefully in the luggage she’d purchased and hidden in the bus’s undercarriage storage until it was time to leave. She had makeup, jewelry—she’d even bought a pair of etched wineglasses in a fit of romantic impulse, in order to toast her new husband on their wedding night.
She was such a fool.
“What am I doing here?” she repeated, tears stinging her eyes. Where would she go? Could she crawl back to her family after this? Get her job back driving the bus?
She was shaking. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d wanted this to work until it had become clear it wouldn’t. She’d been so stupid to think there could be one quick answer to all her problems. Her cheeks burned as she remembered her daydreams about marrying into Base Camp, pulling on one of those beautiful Regency gowns, becoming close friends with the other women and helping run the Jane Austen Bed & Breakfast, and maybe being one of the first three women to become pregnant to help secure Base Camp for good.
What an idiot. No man wanted her like that.
“Why am I here…?” she breathed, unable to stop herself, although it was clear Harris didn’t want to answer her questions.
It was a good thing he reached out to steady her before he spoke, because his words when they came nearly swept her feet out from under her.
“Because you’re going to marry me.”
What was he doing?
Harris moved like an automaton, carrying the heavy suitcase Sam had pointed out to him on the carousel. The plain black bag was easy to spot as it traveled slowly around the apparatus, the only luggage still unclaimed. He led the way through the small airport and out into the parking lot where the taxi he’d rode here in still waited for them, just as he’d asked.
“Back to Westfield?” the cabby asked when they were settled inside.
Harris nodded, then quickly changed his mind. They couldn’t go to Westfield. Not until he’d sorted out this mess.
“No—to Silver Lake,” he blurted, naming the closest town over from Chance Creek. He needed to go where no one knew him so they could talk this through. He had to admit the truth—that Sam was still supposed to marry Curtis, whether Curtis was willing or no, but that she’d have to wait until another forty days were up. That was the way the show went: one wedding every forty days. By then, Curtis would have fallen as hard for Sam as Harris had.
How the hell did he make that clear to her, though?
Her gratitude when he made his declaration had nearly undone Harris. As soon as he’d blurted out the words, he’d expected her to laugh at him. Women didn’t want to date him, let alone marry him. Instead, she’d clung to him like he was a lifeline.
She’d… smiled.
And in that moment, she’d set hooks into his heart he knew he’d never shake off. He wanted what she was offering so badly.
A wife.
A family of his own.
His sisters were grown now, both of them married. His mother had remarried, too, after he’d convinced her to enter counseling and she’d been treated for the reversals of fortune that had nearly undone her. Everyone had a home and a partner—except him.
All Harris knew was that the minute they reached Base Camp, Renata would swoop down on them with her cameras. Boone would take over and organize things. Curtis would claim Samantha for his bride.
He should tell the cabdriver to drive to Westfield, but somehow the words wouldn’t come.
As long as they kept going, Samantha was his.
Why wasn’t Harris saying anything?
Sam kept taking surreptitious glances at the man seated next to her in the cab, but she couldn’t read anything in his expression. He took up far more room than she did on the narrow seat, his legs wide, his hands resting on his jeans-encased thighs. He was rugged, with strong features and eyes that seemed to see everything, although he didn’t move a muscle for the first five minutes they rode in the cab.
“Why are we going to Silver Falls?”
she finally managed to ask. “I thought Base Camp was in Chance Creek.” She’d done her research. Base Camp was the name the men had given their tiny community, which sat on part of a large ranch named Westfield. Westfield had been owned by the Eaton family for over a hundred years. Riley Eaton—now Riley Rudman—had expected to inherit it from her uncle, but her uncle had sold it to a billionaire named Martin Fulsom instead. Fulsom was the one backing Base Camp and the television show named after it.
“We’re going to Silver Falls…” He trailed off as if he didn’t know the answer. Sam turned toward him. She’d known from the start something had gone wrong, and now all her fears were back.
“For the wedding?” she pressed him.
After a short pause, he nodded. “For the wedding. There’s…a chapel there.” A muscle in his jaw tightened and Sam wished she knew what he was thinking. Was he here of his own free will, or had he drawn the short straw in yet another round of who’s going to marry next on the show?
“A chapel,” she prompted. “But… what about the marriage license?”
That muscle in his jaw flexed again. “We’ll have to stop to get it at the courthouse.”
“Okay.” But she had more questions. “Won’t we… be filmed?”
“Is that why you came?” The look he fixed on her drew her up short.
“I’m not some publicity whore,” she retorted, then closed her eyes and got a hold of her temper. “That’s not why I’m here,” she assured him, and faltered when he suddenly smiled.
Sam’s heart skidded to a stop and then thump, thump, thumped to catch up again. She’d never seen Harris smile on-screen, and she wanted to reach out and smooth a thumb over the curve of his mouth. The sense of humor it betrayed warmed her to the core. This wasn’t a hard-hearted man she’d pledged to marry; Harris had depths she’d only begun to suspect.
“Publicity whore,” he said, trying out the phrase. “That sums it up pretty good.”
“I’ve known my fair share.” She felt a twinge of guilt. That was a rough expression to use to describe her family and the other members of the band, but sometimes, when they were out at a bar after a show, everyone competing to out-drink, out-laugh and outdo the others in their wild, attention-getting antics, Sam couldn’t help feel like the whole lot of them ran on publicity rather than food and water. They could never just stop and relax, and act like normal people. Whenever she hinted they should try, her mother, father and sister shouted her down for even suggesting it.