A Bride for Dry Creek (12 page)

“But you never left the area?” Flint asked softly.

“Where would I go?”

For a blinding moment Flint envied the old man his certainty about where he belonged in his life. Love it or hate it, Dry Creek was the old man's home. Flint had bounced around for years, never feeling connected to any place.

The old man pointed out the window. “There's the plane.”

Flint could just make out the dark shape against the white snow ahead. No, wait. There was more than one black shape.

“There's another pickup there,” Francis said, her voice neutral. Her mind was busy calculating the odds. Another pickup could be a problem or it could be a solution. She wondered which Flint thought it would be.

There was a time when she would have known what he thought. Would have comfortably finished his sentences for him when he talked. At the time, she had thought it was because they were so much in love. Now she wondered. They had been young and foolish. The fact that they had run off to Las Vegas without planning enough to even have luggage with them showed just how foolish.

“You'll stay in the pickup when we get there,” Flint ordered Francis as he drove closer. He didn't like the fact that the old man was holding Flint's
gun closer now. That gun had altogether too many bullets in it waiting to be fired.

“I'll say who stays where,” the old man protested heatedly.

“She stays in the pickup.” Flint ignored his words.

The old man grunted.

“Maybe we should all stay—just turn around and go where we need to go in the pickup,” Francis offered. She didn't like the thought of Flint being alone with the crazy old man. “The roads might be open. You know those weather people—they're always behind the times. Maybe the roads have been cleared by now. We could drive to the main road and find out.”

Francis's leg had pressed itself against Flint. And her scent—she smelled of summer peaches. He didn't dare turn and look fully at her because he didn't want the old man to get nervous.

Besides, Flint didn't really need to see her to know what she looked like. He had memorized her face over twenty years ago and he could still pull the picture out of his mind. Her eyes were the color of the earth after the first fall frost, full of brown shadows and dark green highlights with shimmer that promised depths unknown. Her eyes were usually somber. He had loved to tease her just to watch that moment when her eyes would turn from serious to playful indignation.

Flint moved his hand to the knob of the gearshift
even though he had no further gears left and wouldn't be shifting down. He just wanted to rest his hand closer to her.

Francis had never been more aware of Flint than she was at that moment. Maybe it was because of the danger around them. Maybe it was because of the long years she'd spent missing him.

Whatever it was, she had to slip her hand under her leg so that it wouldn't reach out and caress Flint's wrist. His arm was covered with the sleeve of a bulky winter jacket. His hands had been without gloves long enough now that they would be cold. But his wrist was the meeting place between cold and warm.

The pickup was bumping along closer to the plane. Without the four-wheel drive, the vehicle would have been stuck in at least a dozen different snowdrifts since they'd started following the plane tracks.

Flint had considered letting the pickup accidentally get stuck, but he didn't want to annoy the old man. Especially since staging a delay wasn't the best way to stop Mr. Gossett. Fifty years of progress would take care of that. Flint was confident the old man would take one look at the sophisticated instrument panel on the plane and give up any hope of flying it out of here. Even if the old man had flown a plane once in his youth, he would be bewildered today.

The fact that someone else was at the plane com
plicated things. Flint suspected it was Robert Buckwalter who had come out to the plane. If it was, the old man had a pilot. That would change the odds on everything.

Francis sensed Flint's worry. Nothing in his face had changed since they spotted that pickup, but she gradually sensed the tension in him.
We're really in danger,
she realized numbly.
Dear God,
The thought came to her almost unbidden.
We need help.

Francis was tired of worrying about the problems between her and Flint. Just like she instinctively turned to God when she needed help, she also wanted to turn to Flint. They were in trouble, and she didn't want to face it alone. She slipped her hand from under her leg and brought it up to lightly touch Flint's wrist.

Flint's hand responded immediately. It moved off the gearshift and enclosed her hand.

I am home,
Francis thought. His hand was cold. Ice cold. But it didn't matter. His hand could rival the temperature of the Arctic Circle and she'd want to hold it. She could face anything if they were together hand in hand.

I
f a person didn't know better, this could be a view on a postcard, Francis mused.

The morning sun was bright on the snow-covered hills leading up to the Big Sheep Mountain Range. The mountains themselves were low and didn't have any of the peaks that were found in other mountain ranges in Montana.

There were no houses on the horizon and no trees. Usually there were no signs of civilization up here except the thin lines of barbed-wire fence that divided the various sections of land that had belonged to her father and now belonged to her brother, Garth. Some of the land would be planted in wheat this coming spring. Some of it would be left for free-range grazing. Right now, it was empty. All of the
cattle had been brought closer to the main house because of the storm.

The only mar in the otherwise peaceful picture was the tracks in the snow. There were now two sets of tracks. One set was partially filled in with drifting snow. The other set of tracks was newer. Both led to the small twin-engine plane that was parked next to one of the barbed-wire fences that followed the country road. Past the plane was a piece of land that had been scraped clean of snow. Either a snowplow had done it or it had been shoveled clean by hand.

“It must be Robert,” Flint said softly. There was no one standing outside in the area between the plane and the Jeep, but it must be Robert. Who else would care enough about an airstrip to make one on a day like this?

Flint felt a twist in his stomach. With an airstrip and a pilot, there would be no stopping the old man from flying.

That's what Flint had been afraid of— He didn't want the old man airborne. Not that he knew for sure they would all be safer if old man Gossett had no hope of getting that plane in the air. But gunfire was much more likely if the old man even thought he could get them in the air.

“I'll do the talking,” Mr. Gossett announced suddenly. “Don't want you two scaring them off.”

Flint stopped the pickup as far away from the plane as he felt he could. Whoever had driven the
Jeep in here must be inside the plane. “They haven't got any place to go, anyway.”

The old man renewed his grip on the two guns he held. “This won't take long.”

“You'll want to be careful with that gun of mine,” Flint said softly. “It's federal property. Use it to commit a crime and they'll lock you up and throw away the key.”

The old man looked confused.

“You've seen the notices in the post office.” Flint kept talking. The old man was of the era that could be intimidated by the government—maybe. “You'd do best to just leave it on the ground. Besides,” Flint added for good measure, “that rifle of yours looks like it has seen some action. Don't think you'd need any more persuasion than she can give you.”

The old man looked proud as he gripped the gun tighter. “She's a good shooter, all right.”

There was a large tarp—no, it was a parachute, Francis realized—as well as ten, maybe twelve boxes sitting next to the plane. The parachute was white, and a dozen ropes swirled around it on the ground. On the other side of the parachute the four-wheel-drive Jeep was parked. Deep boot prints were all around the boxes and led up to the plane.

“That's the Edisons' Jeep,” the old man said thoughtfully as he peered out the windshield. “Wonder if it's their boy, Duane, out there.”

Flint prayed it would be. He thought the old man might have a harder time hurting someone from Dry Creek than he would a stranger. Sort of a you-never-hurt-the-ones-you-know theory.

“I heard Robert Buckwalter was having some more supplies flown in for the café—with all the kids around these days they are running low on everything.” Francis spoke nervously.

Mr. Gossett shook his head in disgust. “In my day, you wouldn't find anyone flying in supplies. We'd eat bread and beans if that's all that was available. Kids today are too soft.”

Flint believed in diversionary tactics. He agreed heartily. “You can say that again. Most of them aren't worth their salt.”

Francis felt the faint squeeze Flint gave her fingers. She understood his message.

“They should all be sent to reform school,” Francis agreed. “Teach them some manners.”

The old man nodded thoughtfully. “They wouldn't like it—locked in with everyone else. I know I wouldn't.”

“We could meet with the authorities about this,” Flint offered. He had his fingers crossed that the old man would take the bait. “They'll understand how you feel about being locked up. I'll drive you back to the café and we can make a call. If you turn state's evidence on this rustling business, you might get off with probation. I'll see to it that you meet
with the right people—maybe even the state governor—or a congressman.”

The old man snorted. “Worthless politicians. I'd rather deal with them kids any day.”

“The press then.” Flint continued the bribe. “Say you don't confess to anything. We could get the press out here and do an article for the Billings paper. You'd be famous.”

The old man paled. Then he raised Flint's gun and jerked it at him. “Who in blazes wants to be famous? I just want to be left alone.”

Well, that eliminated most of the mental-illness categories, Flint thought in resignation. He didn't know whether it would be easier to deal with someone who was crazy or someone who was stone-cold sane and just mean.

“You call out and let them know we're here.” The old man jerked his head toward the plane. “They'll come out at the sound of your voice. Be friendly-like.”

Flint hoped Mr. Gossett was wrong and that whoever was inside the plane would stay right there.

“Anybody home?” Flint rolled down his window and called out. “You've got company. Company and trouble—they come together—”

“Hush,” the old man hissed.

Francis felt the sweep of frigid air coming in the open window. She wanted to snuggle closer to Flint,
but she felt the tension in his body and did not want to be in the way if he needed to move fast.

Flint's heart sank. He saw a figure standing in the open door to the small plane. His hint had gone unheard.

“It's the chef,” Flint murmured. Another figure joined the first. “And Robert.”

“Let's go meet them,” Mr. Gossett ordered Flint as he grabbed the door handle. “I've got plans.”

Flint hoped he never heard the words “I've got plans” again. Mr. Gossett kept waving the guns around, and his plans were soon implemented. Robert Buckwalter was able to assess the situation quickly. Flint would wager the other man had had his own share of training in how to deal with hostage situations. Since Robert traveled internationally, he might even have some training on terrorist activities.

It only took a minute for Robert Buckwalter to assure the old man that he would fly him anywhere he could.

“The plane's only got enough fuel to fly to someplace like Fargo, North Dakota—or we could head for Billings if you want to stay in Montana,” Robert explained to the older man just like he was a pilot planning a routine flight.

“I'll take Fargo. Let's all get in.”

Robert nodded toward the old man and eyed him speculatively. “The fuel will last longer if the plane
is lighter. I'd say you're about one hundred seventy pounds?”

The old man nodded.

“I'll go with you to fly this thing, but you don't want to take the others—it's unnecessary weight.”

“I'll need a hostage.”

Flint stepped forward. “That would be me.”

The old man snorted. “I don't think so. I'll take her.” He jerked his head at the young woman who was standing by Buckwalter's side. “She's a skinny little thing. Can't weigh much.”

“It's not just about weight,” Flint said. He kept moving around, hoping to find a moment when the old man was off guard. But Mr. Gossett kept his gun trained on one of the women at all times. “I can talk to the authorities for you.”

“You speak English?” He barked the words at the chef.

She nodded.

“She can talk for me,” the old man insisted. “Now, you two men get all the boxes out of that plane. I don't want any unnecessary weight holding us back.”

Francis shivered. She and Jenny, the chef who worked for Mrs. Buckwalter, were standing together near the door to the plane. Mr. Gossett stood nearby and held Flint's gun loosely in his hand.

“You'll be all right,” Francis whispered to the young woman. “Flint will get help.”

The young woman nodded mutely.

Francis prayed she was right. Once the plane was airborne she and Flint could drive one of the pickups the ten or so miles back to Dry Creek and get help sent ahead. If they could alert the airports in Fargo and Billings, they should be able to stop the old man without anyone getting hurt.

“Now, everyone out of the plane,” the old man ordered.

All the boxes had been thrown to the ground. Flint and Robert jumped to the ground from the open door of the plane.

Flint had his plan. The floor of the plane was about four feet up from the ground. There would be no way the old man could climb into the plane and hold onto both guns at the same time. That would be when Flint would tackle him.

“Now—you two—get down on the ground.” The old man jerked his gun at Francis and Flint.

“What?” Flint bit back a further protest. This was a twist he hadn't counted on.

“But it's cold.” Robert stepped in. “Let them at least go sit in the pickup—or even the Jeep.”

“The ground. Now,” the old man ordered, his voice rising in agitation. “I don't have all day, I gotta get out of here.”

Francis lowered herself to the ground. The snow was not yet packed, and it was like sinking into a
down pillow. An icy cold down pillow. She sat down with her legs crossed in front of her.

“You, too,” the old man said curtly as he glanced over at Flint. “I want you with your back to her—” the old man shifted his gaze to Jenny “—and you get some rope from those boxes to tie them up.”

“You're not going to leave them like that?” Jenny protested. “It's freezing out here. They'll—” Jenny swallowed and didn't finish her sentence.

Francis could finish it for her. If she and Flint were tied and left in a snowdrift like this, they could die.

“What does it matter to me if they get cold?” the old man demanded. “That'll teach them to come snooping around, asking questions. Butting into a man's private life.”

Flint watched the old man and didn't like what he saw. Maybe it wasn't a choice of whether the old man was crazy or a criminal—maybe he was both.

“It's a federal offense to kill an FBI agent,” Flint said softly as he moved to step between Francis and the old man.

“Not if it's an act of God,” the old man said with a humorless chuckle as he shifted to adjust for Flint's move.

Unless Flint wanted to anger the old man, he knew he shouldn't move again right away. Once step could be casual. Two would be a threat.

“But surely you're not planning—” Robert
Buckwalter protested in disbelief from where he stood beside the plane.

“I'm not debating this,” the old man said firmly, still keeping his gun bead steady on Francis at all times. “I suggest everyone just do what they're told.”

Francis had kept her head down for this entire conversation. Flint wondered if she were praying and then decided he hoped she was. Maybe God would listen to someone like Francis. She sure didn't deserve to be out here in the middle of a snowdrift with a crazy man threatening to shoot her.

“Why should we do anything you say?” Francis looked up, and her chin came up defiantly. “You're going to leave us tied up here no matter what we do. You can't bring yourself to shoot us. But you'll let us freeze to death. From where I sit, there's not much else you can do to us.”

Flint cringed when he heard what Francis said. The old man was unstable at best. Defiance wasn't a good choice.

For the next ten minutes, Francis tried to take her words back. She kept saying “I'm sorry” like it was a mantra. It hadn't mattered. The old man hadn't been listening.

She kept apologizing until the small plane moved down the makeshift airstrip and took off.

“It's okay, it'll be okay,” Flint said behind her
back, and Francis realized he had been saying the words softly for some time now.

Francis stopped apologizing to the old man who wasn't even there any longer. She was so numb she no longer shivered. The old man had shown what else he could do. First he'd taken Flint's jacket, then hers. He'd thrown the coats in the back of the plane. Then he'd forced her to remove her dress and Flint to remove his suit. Those, too, had gone into the back of the plane.

“Just to show you what a good guy I am, I'm leaving you your underwear.” Mr. Gossett grinned. “Wouldn't want the proper ladies of Dry Creek to get in a tizzy when someone finds the bodies.”

The old man laughed then instructed Jenny, “Tie 'em tight. Don't want either of them wandering around out here and getting lost.”

Flint wanted to shout at the old man, to call him names. The strength of the desire shook him. He was losing his edge. It was unprofessional. He knew that. It wasn't by the book. It wasn't smart.
But it's Francis,
his mind screamed.

Flint forced himself to focus. He needed all of his energy just to keep himself and Francis alive.

Before the old man climbed into the plane, he took Jenny with him and walked to both vehicles. The Jeep's hood was stiff, but he had made Jenny open it and then he had reached in and pulled out a handful of spark plugs and stuffed them in his
pocket. He had done the same with the pickup that Flint and Francis had driven.

It was at that point that Francis had broken down and started apologizing more loudly. She was still whimpering, the words coming softly from her lips.