A Bride for Dry Creek (2 page)

Even a rookie FBI agent would make the connection that the truck didn't belong to anyone local. And Flint had been with the Bureau for twenty years. No, the truck had to belong to the three men he'd identified as cattle thieves. He'd call in their location just as soon as he had something more concrete to tell the inspector than that he'd listened to them talk enough to know they were brothers.

The last time he'd made his daily check-in call, one of the guys had said the inspector was grumbling about him being out here on this assignment without a partner. Flint told him he had a partner—an ornery horse named Honey.

The fly made another pass close to Flint's face, seeking the warmth of his breath.

Flint half-cursed as he waved the fly away. He didn't need the fly to distract him from the mumbled conversation of the three men. They'd been standing in front of the cattle truck arguing for several
minutes about some orders their boss had given to deliver a package.

Flint sure hoped they were talking about which cattle to steal next.

If not, that probably meant his tip was accurate and they were planning to kidnap Francis Elkton. He hoped Garth had taken the phone call he had made seriously and was keeping Francis inside, in some controlled area with no one but the good ladies of Dry Creek around her.

Flint envied all of the people of Dry Creek the heat inside the barn. The warmest he was likely to get anytime soon was when he went to feed Honey some oats.

It hadn't taken him more than a half hour on Honey's back to realize that her owner must have had a chuckle or two when he named her. She was more sour than sweet. Still, Flint rubbed his gloved hands over his arms and shivered. Honey might be a pain, but he missed her all the same. She was the only breathing thing he'd talked to since he came to Montana.

By now Honey would be wondering when they'd go home. When he'd ridden her to town tonight, he'd tied her reins to a metal clothesline pole in a vacant lot behind Mr. Gossett's house. The pole was out of the wind, but Honey would still be anxious for warmer quarters. Last night, he'd bedded her down in an abandoned chicken coop that still stood
on the farm he'd inherited from his grandmother when she died fifteen years ago. As far as he knew, no one but gophers ever visited the place anymore.

He was half-surprised the men hiding by that cattle truck didn't use horses. The terrain on the south slopes of the Big Sheep Mountain Range wasn't steep, but it also wasn't paved. There were more fences than roads. The long, winding strings of barbed wire and aging posts did little in winter except collect snowdrifts. Flint had followed a dozen of those fences to reacquaint himself with the area last night and didn't see anything more than a thick-coated coyote or two.

But then these men probably didn't know how to ride a horse. Which meant they weren't professionals. If they had been pros, they would have learned before heading out here on a job like this. A pro would realize a horse would be a good escape option if the roads were blocked. Yes, a pro would learn to ride. Even if he needed to learn on a bad-tempered horse like Honey.

Flint's observations of the men had already made him suspect that they were not career kidnappers. They were too careless and disorganized to have lived long if they made a habit of breaking the law. But Flint knew that the crime syndicates liked to use amateurs for some jobs—they made good fall guys when things went sour.

Granted, the Boss—and the Bureau didn't know
who he was yet—had other reasons to use amateurs here. A pro would look so out of place in this rural community he might as well wear a red neon sticker that said Hired Killer—Arrest Me Now.

The fact that the men were too tender to ride horses made Flint hope that they would give it up for tonight and go home. The night was clear—there was enough moonlight so that Flint could see the low mountains that made up the Big Sheep Mountain Range. But it was ice-cracking cold and not getting any warmer.

The little town of Dry Creek stood a few miles off Interstate 94, which ran along the southern third of Montana from Billings on through Miles City. The town was nothing more than a few wood frame houses, an old square church, a café called Jazz and Pasta that was run by a young engaged couple, and a hardware store with a stovepipe sticking up through the roof. The pipe promised some kind of heat inside. Flint had not gone in to find out if the old Franklin stove he remembered was still being used. He hadn't even tried to find an opening in the frost so he could look in the window.

The memories Flint had of his days in Dry Creek were wrinkled by time, and he couldn't be sure if all the details like the Franklin stove were true or if he'd romanticized them over the years, mixing them up with some old-fashioned movie he'd seen or some nostalgic dream he'd had.

He realized he didn't want to know about the stove so he hadn't looked inside the hardware store.

Flint had only spent a few months in Dry Creek, but this little community—more than anywhere else on earth—was the place he thought of as home. His grandmother had lived her life here, and this is where he'd known Francis. The combination of the two would make this forever home to him.

None of the chrome-and-plastic-furnished apartments he'd rented over the years could even begin to compete. They were little more than closets to keep his clothes out of the rain. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cooked anything but coffee in any of them. No, none of them could compete with the homes around Dry Creek.

Even old man Gossett's place looked as though it had a garden of sorts—a few rhubarb stalks stuck up out of a snowdrift, and there was a crab apple tree just left of his back porch. There were no leaves on the tree, but Flint recognized the graceful swoop of the bare branches.

The trash barrel that the man kept in the vacant lot had a broken jelly jar inside. Flint suspected someone was making jelly from the apples that came off the tree. It might even be the old man.

Flint envied the old man his jelly and Flint didn't even like jelly. The jelly just symbolized home and community for him, and Flint felt more alone than he had for years. Maybe when he finished this busi
ness in Dry Creek, he should think about getting married.

That woman he'd started dating—Annette—he wondered if she could make apple jelly. He'd have to find out—maybe he should even send her a postcard. Women liked postcards. He hadn't seen any that featured Dry Creek, but maybe he'd stop in Billings when this was all over. Get her something with those mountains on it. In the daylight the Big Sheep Mountain Range was low and buff-colored with lots of dry sage in the foreground. Looked like a Zane Grey novel. Yes, a postcard was a good idea. That's what he'd do when this was all over.

From the sounds of the ruckus inside that old barn, the whole community of Dry Creek, Montana, was celebrating tonight. All eighty-five adults and the usual assortment of children.

Flint had checked the vital statistics before he headed down here. The place didn't have any more people now than it had had that spring he'd spent at his grandmother's place. The only new people that had come to the community were the busload of Seattle teenagers who were there for a month to see that all of life wasn't limited to the city streets. As long as Francis stayed with the people inside the barn, she would be safe.

That thought had no sooner crossed his mind than the side barn door opened. A woman stood silhou
etted in the golden light from inside the barn. Flint felt all breath leave his body. It was Francis.

 

Francis let the winter air cool her. The ruby red material of her dress was thin, but it had still suddenly gotten much too hot inside the barn. The rumor that Flint had been the one who made the phone call to Garth this afternoon had opened up all of the speculation about her and Flint. She saw it in the eyes of her neighbors. They were asking themselves why she'd never married, why she'd moved away so quickly all those years ago, why she'd never come back to live in Dry Creek until now—why, why, why. The questions would be endless until they'd worried her heart to a bone.

She only wished the asking of the questions would help her find an answer, she thought ruefully. Because, even if no one else had been asking those questions, she would be asking them.

But not tonight, she decided. Tonight she would just breathe the crisp night air and look at the stars that were scattered across the sky like pieces of glitter sprinkled over velvet. She used to love to go out on a winter's night like this and find the Big Dipper.

Now where is it,
she asked herself as she stepped through the open door and outside. The barn was hiding the constellation from her. But if she went over by that old cattle truck she could see it.

She suddenly realized she hadn't gone looking for the Big Dipper in many years.

 

Flint swore. No wonder being a hero had gone out of style. His leg still stung where Francis had kicked him in her glittery high-heeled shoes, and one of his toes could well be broken where she had stomped on it.

Next time, he'd let the kidnappers have her. She was more than a match for most of the hired toughs he'd seen in his time. She'd certainly hold her own with the men in the cattle truck.

And thinking of his toes, what was she doing with shoes like that, anyway? Women only wore shoes like that to please a man. That meant she must have a boyfriend inside that old barn. That was one statistic he hadn't thought to check before heading out here.

Flint's only consolation was that his horse seemed to know he needed her and was behaving for once.

“Now I know why they call you Honey,” Flint murmured encouragingly as he nudged his horse down the dark road.

“Hargh.” An angry growl came from the bundle behind him, but Flint didn't even look back. Except for being temporarily gagged, Francis was doing better than he was. He'd even tied his jacket around her. Not that she had thanked him for it.

“Yes, sir, you're a sweetie, all right,” Flint con
tinued quietly guiding his horse. Honey knew the way home even if it was only a humble abandoned shed. That horse could teach some people the meaning of gratitude.

Or, if not gratitude, at least cooperation, Flint fumed.

If it wasn't for his years of training as an agent, Flint would have turned around and told Francis a thing or two. What did she think?

There was no time for niceties when he knew those two hired thugs were waiting for Francis. He'd heard them repeat their instructions about kidnapping Garth's sister in her black jacket with the old high school emblem of a lion.

Early on in the evening, the two men made a decision to wait for her by the bus—parked right next to that old cattle truck they'd come in. They hoped Francis would tire of dancing and come to sit in the bus. Flint had winced when he heard the plan. The two men were clearly amateurs, unfamiliar with Montana. No one, no matter how tired, would come to rest in a cold bus when the engine wasn't running.

But he saw their dilemma. They couldn't face down the whole town of Dry Creek or even the busload of kids that would be going back to the Elkton ranch. That's why he wasn't surprised, after the men had waited a few hours and gotten thoroughly cold themselves, to hear them start talking about going
home and waiting until the next day to kidnap Francis.

Flint was hoping they'd leave soon. And they would have, except who should come outside for a late night stroll but Francis. She wasn't wearing the black jacket, but Flint couldn't risk the thugs getting a close look at her and realizing who she was, even without the jacket.

There was no time for fancy plans. The only way to protect Francis was to grab her first and worry about the men later.

Flint knew the men might be a problem if they realized what he was doing, but he hadn't counted on Francis's resistance. He thought once she knew it was him she'd come quietly. Perhaps even gratefully. But the moment he saw recognition dawn, she fought him like he was her worst enemy. He hadn't planned on gagging her until she made it clear she was going to scream.

And all the while she was kicking and spitting, he'd been doing her a great service.

Yes, he sighed, he could see why being a hero had gone completely out of style. It wasn't easy being the knight on the shining white horse. Not with the women of today. Come to think of it, it wasn't even easy with the horses of today. Honey made it clear she'd rather be eating oats than rescuing a damsel in distress.

“Tired, that's what you are,” Flint said softly as
he leaned over the horse's neck. Honey sighed, and he gave the horse another encouraging nudge. “We're both tired, aren't we? But don't worry. We're almost there. Then I'll have something sweet for you.”

The bundle behind him gave an indignant gasp and then another angry growl.

“I was talking to the horse.” Flint smiled in spite of himself.

F
rancis wished she had worn those ruby silk flowers in her hair like the teenagers had urged her to do. At least then, when the horse shook her, the petals would fall to the ground and leave a trail in the snow for someone to follow when they searched for her in the morning. Maybe if she were lucky, some of the sequins on her long evening dress would fall to the ground and leave a trail of reddish sparkles.

She still didn't understand what had happened.

One minute she'd been looking at the night sky, searching for the tail star of the Big Dipper. The next minute she'd felt someone put an arm around the small of her back. She hadn't even been able to turn around and see who it was before another arm went behind her knees and she was lifted up.

Suddenly, instead of seeing the night sky she was looking square into the face of Flint Harris. For a second, she couldn't breathe. Her mind went blank. Surely, it could not be Flint. Not her Flint. She blinked. He was still there.

She was speechless. He was older, it was true. Instead of the smooth-skinned boy she remembered, she saw the face of a man. Weather had etched a few fine lines around his eyes. A tiny scar crossed the left side of his chin. His face was fuller, stronger.

Oh, my Lord,
she suddenly realized.
It's true. He's kidnapping me!

Francis opened her mouth to scream. Nothing came out. She took a good breath to try again when Flint swore and hurriedly stuffed an old bandanna into her mouth. The wretched piece of cloth smelled of horse. She understood why it smelled when Flint slung her over his back like she was nothing to him but a sack of potatoes in a fancy bag. He then hauled her off to a horse tied behind Mr. Gossett's house.

Once Flint got to the horse, he stopped to slip some wool mittens from his hands and onto her hands. The mittens were warm inside from his body heat, and the minute he slid them onto her hands, her fingers felt like they were being tucked under a quilt.

But she didn't have time to enjoy it.

There was a light on in old man Gossett's house, and Francis struggled to scream through her gag.
She knew the man was home since he never went to community gatherings. He was a sour old man and she wasn't sure he'd help her even if he knew she was in trouble. Through the thin curtains on his window, she saw him slowly walking around inside his kitchen. Unless he'd grown deaf in these past years, he must have heard her. If he did, he didn't come outside to investigate.

Flint didn't give her a second chance to scream. He threw her over the back of the horse, slapped his jacket on her shoulders and mounted up.

Ever since then she'd been bouncing along, facedown, behind his saddle.

Finally, the horse stopped.

They had entered a grove of pine trees. The night was dark, but the moon was out. Inside the grove, the trees cut off the light of the moon, as well. Only a few patches of snow were visible. From the sounds beneath the horse's hoofs, the rest of the ground was covered with dried pine needles.

The saddle creaked as Flint stood to dismount.

Francis braced herself. She'd been trained to cope with hostage situations in her job and knew a person was supposed to cooperate with the kidnapper. But surely that didn't apply to criminals one knew. She and this particular criminal had slow danced together. He couldn't shoot her.

She'd already decided to wait her chance and escape. She had a plan. Flint had made a mistake in
putting the mittens on her. The wool of the mittens kept the cord from gripping her wrists tightly. When Flint stepped down on the ground, she would loosen the tie on her wrists, swing her body around and nudge that horse of his into as much of a gallop as the poor thing could handle.

Flint stepped down.

The horse whinnied in protest.

“What the—” Flint turned and started to swear.

Francis had her leg caught around the horn of the saddle. She'd almost made the turn. But almost wasn't enough. She was hanging, with one leg behind the back of the saddle and one hooked around the horn. She'd ripped the skirt of her ruby sheath dress and all she'd accomplished was a change of view. Her face was no longer looking at the ground. Instead, she was looking straight into the astonished eyes of Flint L. Harris.

Francis groaned into her gag. She'd also twisted a muscle in her leg.

And she'd spooked the horse. The poor thing was prancing like a boxer. Each move of the beast's hooves sent a new pain through Francis's leg.

“Easy, Honey,” Flint said soothingly as he reached out to touch the horse.

Francis saw his hands in the dark. His rhythm was steady, and he stroked the animal until she had quieted.

“Atta girl.” Flint gave the horse one last long stroke.

Flint almost swore again. They should outlaw high heels. How was a man supposed to keep his mind on excitable horses and bad guys when right there—just a half arm's length away—was a dainty ankle in a strappy red high heel? Not to mention a leg that showed all the way up to the thigh because of the tear in that red dress. He was glad it was dark. He hoped Francis couldn't see in his eyes the thoughts that his mind was thinking.

“She'll be quiet now.” Flint continued speaking slow and calm for the horse's benefit. “But she spooks easy. Try to stay still.”

Even in the darkness inside the pine grove he could see the delicate lines of Francis's face behind the gag. Her jaw was clenched tight. He hadn't realized—

“I know it's not easy,” he added softly. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

A muffled protest came from behind the gag.

Francis had worn her dark hair loose, and it spilled into his hands when he reached up to untie the gag. Flint's hands were cold, and her hair whispered across them like a warm summer breeze. He couldn't resist lingering a moment longer than necessary inside the warmth of her hair.

“It's not how I meant to say hello again,” Flint said as he untied the bandanna. And it was true.
What he'd say when he met Francis again had gone from being a torture to a favorite game with him over the years. None of his fantasies of the moment had involved her looking at him with eyes wide with fear.

“Don't pretend you ever meant to see me again.” Francis spit the words out when the gag was finally gone. Her voice was rusty and bitter even to her own ears. “Not that it matters,” she quickly lied. “I—”

Francis stopped. She almost wished she had the gag in her mouth.

“That was a long time ago,” Francis finally managed.

“Yes, it was,” Flint agreed as he finished unraveling the cord he'd used to tie Francis's hands behind her. It might seem like a long time ago to her. To him it was yesterday.

“Cold night out,” Flint added conversationally as he stuffed the cord into his pocket. He needed to move their words to neutral territory. Her wrists had been as smooth as marble. “Is it always this cold around here in February?”

“It used to be,” Francis answered. She'd felt Flint's fingertips on the skin of her wrists just at the top of her mittens. His fingers were ice cold. For the first time, she realized the mittens on her hands must have been the only ones he had. “Folks say, though, that the winters lately have been mild.”

“That's right, you don't live here anymore, do
you?” Flint asked as he put his hand on Francis's lower leg. He felt her stiffen. “Easy. Just going to try and unravel you here without scaring Honey.”

Flint let his hand stay on Francis's leg until both his hand and that section of her leg were warm. He let his hand massage that little bit of leg ever so slightly so it wouldn't stiffen up. “Don't want to make you pull the muscle in that leg any more than it looks like you've already done.”

Flint had to stop his hand before it betrayed him. Francis was wearing real nylon stockings. The ones like they used to make. A man's hands slid over them like they were cream. If Flint were a betting man, he would bet nylon like this didn't come from panty hose, either. No, she was wearing the old-fashioned kind of nylons with a garter belt.

This knowledge turned him first hot then cold. A woman only wore those kind of stockings for one reason.

“You won't be dancing any time soon,” he offered with deceptive mildness as he pressed his hands against his thighs to warm them enough to continue. “So I suppose that boyfriend of yours will just have to be patient.”

“He has been,” Francis said confidently. “Thank you for reminding me.”

Francis thought of Sam Goodman. He might not make her blood race, but he didn't make it turn to ice, either. He was a good, steady man. A man she'd
be proud to call her boyfriend. Maybe even her husband. She almost wished she'd encouraged him more when he'd called last week and offered to come for a visit.

Flint pressed his lips together. He should have thought about the boyfriend before he took off with Francis like he had. It had already occurred to him that he could have simply returned her to the good people of Dry Creek. Instead of heading for the horse, he could have headed for the light streaming out the open barn door and simply placed her inside. If it had been anyone but Francis, he would have.

But Francis addled his brain. All he could think of was keeping her safe, and he didn't trust anyone else—not even some fancy boyfriend who made her want to dress in garters and sequins—to get her far enough away from the rustlers. He had to make sure she was safe or to take a bullet for her if something happened and those two kidnappers got spooked.

Still, a boyfriend could pose problems. “I suppose he'll be wondering where you are,” Flint worried aloud as he slowly turned the saddle to allow Francis's leg to tip toward him.

Francis stared in dismay. Flint was helping her untangle herself, but he was obviously positioning her so that she would slide off the back of the horse and into his arms.

“I can walk,” Francis said abruptly.

“You'd have better luck flying at the moment,”
Flint said as he put a hand on each of her hips and braced himself. “Put your arms around my neck and I'll swing you around.”

“I don't think—” Francis began. Flint's hands swept past her hips and wrapped themselves around her waist. She took a quick, involuntary breath. Surely he could feel her heart pounding inside her body. The material on this wretched dress the girls had talked her into wearing was not at all good for this sort of thing. It was much too thin. She could feel the heat from Flint's hands as he cradled her waist.

“You don't need to think—just move with me,” Flint directed. He couldn't take much more of this.

It must be the cold that made his hands even more sensitive than usual. He not only felt every ridge of beaded sequin on the dress, he felt every move of her muscles beneath the palm of his hands. He knew she was trying to pull herself away from him. That she was struggling to move her leg without his help. The knowledge didn't do much for a man's confidence. He remembered the days when she used to want him to hold her.

“You're going to scare the horse,” Flint cautioned softly. Beneath the sequins, the dress felt like liquid silk. Flint had all he could do to stop his hands from caressing Francis instead of merely holding her firm so he could lift her off the horse.

“Where'd you get the horse, anyway?” Francis
forced her mind to start working.
Everything has a place,
she reminded herself. If she could only find the place of everything, this whole nightmare would come aright. She could make sense and order out of this whole madness if she worked at solving one piece of the puzzle and then went on to the next piece. She'd start with the horse.

“A small farm outside of Billings,” Flint answered. His hands spanned Francis's rib cage. He could feel her heart pounding. “They rent horses.”

“Why would you rent a horse?” Francis persisted. One question at a time. It helped her focus and forget about the hands around her. “You don't live around here. They must usually rent to ranchers.”

Flint stopped. He could hardly say he needed a horse to rescue her. She'd never believe that. Then he remembered he didn't need an answer. “That's classified information. Government.” Flint had her circled, and there was no reason to stall. “Move with me on the count of three.”

All thought of the horse—and its order—fled Francis's mind.

“One. Two.” Flint braced himself. “Three.”

When Flint pulled, his hands slid from the middle of Francis's rib cage to the top. He almost stopped. But Honey was beginning to tap-dance around again, and he had to follow through.

Francis gasped. The man's hands were moving
upward from her rib cage. There was nothing for it but to put her arms around his neck and swing forward.

“Atta girl,” Flint murmured. Even he didn't know if he was talking to Francis or the horse. And it didn't matter. He had Francis once again in his arms. Well, maybe not in his arms, but she was swinging from his neck. That had to count for something.

Francis winced. Her leg was swinging off the horse along with the rest of her body, and her leg was protesting. But she gritted her teeth. “Let me down.”

Flint went from ice to fire in a heartbeat. He'd been without a jacket after he gave it to Francis, and his chest was cold. But the minute Francis swung against him, his whole insides flamed. His jacket had only been draped over her, and now it fell back to her shoulders. He felt the cool smoothness of her bare arms wrapped around his neck and the swell of her breasts pressed against his shirt.

“I can't let you down.” Flint ground the words out. “You can't walk through a snowdrift in those heels.”

“I can walk barefoot.”

“Not with that leg,” Flint shifted Francis's weight so his neck didn't carry her. Instead, he had his arms around her properly this time. There were
no bad guys here. He could carry her like a gentleman. “Besides, you'd get frostbite.”