A Bride for Dry Creek (15 page)

Francis looked around for support and sat on the bed.

Flint opened the bag and held up twenty envelopes. Some of the envelopes were white. Some pink. A few ivory. One even had pale green stripes on it. Each one had the number of a year written on it in black ink.

“They're anniversary cards,” Flint said softly as he fanned them out on the bed next to her. “Bought the whole store out. One for each year—and inside is the letter I wrote you in that year.”

“You wrote me?” Francis whispered.

Flint nodded. “I had to.”

“Oh.” Francis brushed a tear from her eye. She tried to focus, to think this new information through, but for once in her life she didn't care about the order of anything. “I thought you'd forgotten me.”

“How could I forget the only woman I've ever loved?” Flint said softly. The tears gave him hope. He would carry this through in any event, but the tears did give him hope.

Flint pulled a long-stemmed yellow rose out of an inner pocket in his parka. It was the only yellow rose to be had in Miles City, and it was a little peaked. Then he dropped to one knee and offered the rose to Francis. “Will you marry me again? This time for good?”

“Oh.” Francis swallowed.

“Is that an ‘oh, yes' or an ‘oh, no'?” Flint asked quietly.

“Yes,” she stammered. “My, yes. It's an ‘oh, yes.”'

Flint reached up and brushed the tears from her eyes before he leaned forward and kissed her. The pure sweetness of it sang inside of him. He didn't deserve someone like Francis.

“I could maybe do something about those socks.”

Francis laughed and touched his cheek. Yes, he was real. “I don't care about the socks.”

“This time let's get married in the church here in front of everyone in Dry Creek,” Flint said. “I want to see my bride walk down that aisle.”

Francis smiled dreamily. “Dry Creek does love a bride.”

“Not half as much as I do,” Flint said, smiling as he bent his head to kiss Francis again. “Not half as much as I do.”