A Bride for Dry Creek (8 page)

“Don't worry, big fella,” Garth cooed to the rooster. “We can take a hint. We'll leave you to your beauty sleep.”

It took Francis fifteen minutes to pick all of the straw out of her hair. She sat on a straight-backed chair in the kitchen and willed the full light of morning to arrive.

“Well, I didn't know everything was all right,” Sam protested for the tenth time. “I thought I should call the sheriff. What am I to think when I hear a scream and Garth tears out of here like the place is on fire?”

Francis tried to be fair. The fact that Flint had wrapped his body around hers when he thought she was in danger and Sam had merely put a call in to the sheriff did not make Sam a coward. Cautious maybe, but not a coward.

“I can't reach either one of them. That means they're both coming.” Flint paced the kitchen with his cellular phone in his hand. “I hate to have the sheriff and Inspector Kahn drive all the way out here when we've got it under control.”

“But I didn't know,” Sam repeated. “I would never have raised the alarm if I hadn't thought you were both in trouble.”

Flint grunted. They were in trouble, all right. Not that Lover Boy had to know about it. “The rooster did make enough noise to raise the dead.”

Sam nodded and pulled his blankets closer around his shoulders. “I did what I thought best.”

“Of course you did,” Francis reassured him. Each time she ran a comb through her hair more straw appeared. She knew what she was doing wrong. She'd given in to vanity and was using a tiny silver comb instead of the working woman's brush she would normally use. And all because Flint insisted on watching her. Well, he wasn't so much watching as guarding. But she wanted him to know she was classy. That she didn't ordinarily lounge around in a fuzzy old robe and pick straw from her hair. She hoped he noticed that the comb was real silver—it was one of her few truly elegant, feminine possessions.

“Well, I expect they'll be here any minute now.” Flint nodded toward the basket of eggs on the table. “I think it's only fair that they get some breakfast when they do arrive.” He looked at Sam. “You want to scramble the eggs or tackle the pancake batter?”

“Me?” The man looked like Flint had asked him to skin a snake.

“You cook, don't you?” Flint said as he looked around the kitchen. He opened a drawer and pulled
out a spatula. Then he reached down and got a glass bowl off a bottom shelf.

“Well, I guess…” Sam stuttered.

“Good,” Flint said as he put the bowl on the kitchen table. He hadn't cooked an egg in over a decade, but Lover Boy didn't need to know that. “The inspector likes a little cheese in his scrambled eggs. It's not good for him, but it'll put him in a better mood.” Flint opened a canister of flour on the counter. “On second thought, put a lot of cheese in those eggs. It's a long trip out here and the roads are probably packed with snow. He might have had to use a shovel.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed and then looked at Francis sheepishly. “You'll help me?”

“She can't,” Flint said emphatically. He walked toward the refrigerator to get the carton of milk. He hadn't cooked recently, but how hard could it be? He'd read the recipe on the flour sack already. “She needs to go get dressed.”

That robe that Francis wore could cover a monk, and Flint would still find it attractive just because he could remember what the soft ridges of the chenille felt like under his hands. And he didn't like her to wear the robe in front of Lover Boy. Sam was slow, but he just might figure out how soft and cuddly Francis was in that robe. Then they'd really have trouble. Flint didn't think he could endure guarding Francis if Lover Boy started hugging her.

“I can put the coffee on first,” Francis offered.

“Just show me where the can is and I'll get it going,” Flint said.

Flint already knew where the coffee was, but he didn't mind having Francis come over and stand next to him while she reached up on tiptoes to bring the can down from its tall shelf. He could smell her perfume. It was fainter than last night and it was unmistakably mixed with the smell of chicken, but he found that he thoroughly liked it.

“Two scoops,” Francis instructed as she handed the gold can over to Flint. “It says three in the directions, but it's too much.”

Flint nodded. “Don't worry. We'll have breakfast ready in no time.”

 

The smell of coffee was rich when there was a knock on the kitchen door fifteen minutes later.

“That'll be them,” Flint said as he wiped his hands on the towel he'd wrapped around his waist. “Put the eggs in the skillet.”

The inspector liked the extra cheese in his eggs and he didn't fuss too much about being called out on a cold winter morning. Sheriff Wall didn't complain at all.

“Glad to be away from them,” the sheriff muttered when Flint apologized for the false alarm. Sheriff Wall had left his snow boots by the door and his parka on a nearby chair.

“I suppose they're rattled by the arrest.” Flint sympathized. He'd grown to know the three men better than he wanted when he had them staked out. “First time for them, I'd bet.”

Sheriff Wall snorted. “They ain't rattled. They keep going on about their rights.”

“We read them their rights.”

“Oh, those rights they have down pat. It's the other rights they're adding to the list. Some legal mumbo jumbo about humane treatment of prisoners. To them, that means a right to clean sheets. And softer pillows. And doughnuts!” Sheriff Wall stopped as though he still couldn't believe it. “Doughnuts! I asked them if they saw any all-night doughnut shop in these parts. I'd be out getting doughnuts for myself if there were any to be had within thirty miles. Told them they could have their bowl of oatmeal and be grateful for it. We don't run no four-star restaurant here.”

“Doughnuts would be nice,” Sam said a little wistfully. His banker look had worn off, and he looked disheveled now that he had a little flour on his pajamas and his hair was uncombed. “Don't even have to cook them.”

“You're doing fine, Lover Boy. Just grate a little more cheese.” Flint turned his attention to the pancake he was frying. He had poured a perfect circle of dough on the hottest place on the griddle. He'd even slipped a pat of butter underneath it. He'd done
everything he could to make this pancake melt-in-the-mouth perfect. He'd timed it to the opening of the door upstairs. He smiled. He was right on target.

“Something smells good,” Francis said as she walked into the kitchen.

“Good morning.” Inspector Kahn smiled at Francis.

Francis had showered and washed her hair in a peach shampoo Sylvia had given her. The smell lingered, and she put on some peach hand lotion, as well. She'd scrubbed her face until her cheeks were pink and then put on a light lip gloss. She thought about putting eyeliner and eye shadow on but she didn't want anyone to think she was making a fuss. It was enough that she pulled out the ivory cashmere sweater she'd gotten for Christmas last year and put on her gold earrings.

“Sorry about the mix-up,” Francis said to the inspector as she sat down at the kitchen table. She studiously avoided looking at Flint over by the stove. “I should have considered the consequences before I went out to get the eggs. I usually do, you know. I'm in planning—for cities. I know that one thing leads to another and to another.”

“I know your job history.”

“You do?”

“Of course,” the inspector said as he raised his coffee cup to his lips. “We made brief profiles on everyone in Dry Creek when this rustling started.”

“You mean I was a
suspect?
”

“Not really.” The inspector gave a quick smile and looked toward Flint. “We—even Flint—figured you weren't too likely.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn't steal cattle from my own brother.”

“Oh, no, that wasn't the reason we ruled you out. Actually, Garth being your brother made you more likely. Maybe you had a grudge. Maybe you figure you should have inherited more when your father passed away.”

“I never gave it a thought.”

The inspector shrugged. “People do. In the best of families. Whether it's cattle or stocks and bonds.”

“Well, Flint would know that I'd never—” Francis started to protest again and stopped. She had no idea what Flint thought of her or had thought of her for the past twenty years.

“Pancake?” Flint interrupted as he set a plate on the table that held a perfectly round, perfectly browned pancake.

“Thank you.”

“Would you like some coffee, too?”

“I can get her coffee if she wants it,” Sam said. The other man had left his assigned duties of chopping onions for the next breakfast shift and walked over to the table.

Flint noticed Francis wince as she got a whiff of
Sam's hands. Flint hadn't spent twenty years fighting crime for nothing. He could set someone up with the best of them.

“I've already got the pot,” Flint said as he reached back and pulled the pot off the stove. “I'll take care of Francis.”

“You don't need to—I've known her longer than you have,” Sam said, tight-lipped. He didn't move back to the counter where he had been chopping onions. “You can't just waltz in here and take over.”

“I'm not taking over,” Flint said mildly. “Just doing my job. Pouring her some coffee, that's all.”

“She's wearing my sweater,” Sam said triumphantly as he finally turned.

“You bought her that cashmere?”

Sam nodded. “For Christmas.”

Flint didn't like that. A man didn't buy a woman something as soft as cashmere without running his hands all over it, usually with the woman inside it. Flint found he didn't like the thought of Sam touching Francis. He didn't like the idea of Francis wearing that sweater, either.

“We're going to have to be going,” the inspector said as he pushed his chair away from the table.

“Yeah,” Sheriff Wall agreed. “Roads have been closed to everything but four-wheel drives. I should get back to the office unless anyone needs me.”

“I didn't know the snow was that bad.” Flint
cheered up. “You think it's high enough to keep the bad guys out for a while?”

The sheriff shrugged. “The Billings airport has been closed since last night. Even if they could fly anyone in from the west coast, they'd be stuck in Helena. And most of the rental cars would never make it to Dry Creek.”

“That means I'm not in danger?” Francis asked in relief. “Flint doesn't need to keep guarding me?”

The thought of Flint leaving didn't please Francis. But she would like to know if he would stay with her even if he didn't need to guard her because it was his job.

“Now, I wouldn't say you're out of danger,” the inspector said slowly as he looked at the scowl on Flint's face and then at Francis. “The odds of trouble have gone down, but they haven't disappeared. I'd say you're in danger until we figure out who the informant around here is. Until then, you'll need to be guarded.”

“You mean someone who's already here is the informant?”

The inspector nodded. “Someone who has been here all along. The rustlers are getting a local tip-off.”

“I don't suppose you could be wrong?”

“Not much chance.”

Francis squared her shoulders and looked at the inspector. “Then we have work to do. I'm happy to
help figure out who the informant is—and see if it is someone local. I'm pretty good at setting up a cross-tabbed table—if you want to look at who has been around at different times.”

“You'd be working with Flint,” the inspector said. “Might be good for you both.”

“Oh.”

Flint grunted. It didn't escape his notice that Francis was in a mighty hurry to get away from him. You'd think a woman would like a man who was spending so much effort working to keep her alive.

“Why don't you set up shop at the hardware store in Dry Creek,” the inspector suggested. “I think it might be good for people around here to see that the FBI is doing something—their taxes at work, that sort of thing.”

“That'd be a good place.” Francis ate the last piece of her pancake. “It's more businesslike there. We won't be distracted.”

And I won't be distracted,
Francis vowed. There was a step-by-step path in every relationship, and she fully realized that she and Flint could not take the next step in getting to know each other again until this rustling business was settled.

“We could try the café instead,” Flint offered.

“You're hungry?” Francis stood up from the table. “Of course, you probably don't like eggs and pancakes—I can fix—”

“I like pancakes just fine,” Flint protested as he
waved her back to her chair. “I just made batter for another dozen more.”

“Well, then, why go to the café?”

“A café has candles,” Flint explained wearily. “I thought we'd like a candle on the table.”

Now she understood, Francis thought. Flint wanted to burn any paper they wrote on right at the table. Her face blanched. He was right, of course. There could be an informant around any corner. A dangerous informant.

Flint sighed. He hadn't made that many romantic suggestions to women in the past few years, but he couldn't believe it was a promising sign when the woman's face went ten shades whiter. Times couldn't have changed so much that a candlelit dinner—or lunch—wasn't considered romantic.

T
he café wasn't open yet so Flint had to content himself with taking Francis to the hardware store. It was nearly impossible to date someone in a place like Dry Creek. Especially when the woman you were dating didn't know you were courting her. All this talk of crime didn't set a very romantic mood. And a hardware store! There wasn't even a dim light anywhere. At least not one that wasn't attached to a fire alarm.

Flint was tempted to ask the clerk behind the counter if he could borrow the small radio he had plugged in by his stool. They might get lucky and hear a country-and-western love song. But the clerk was Matthew Curtis, a minister who had recently gotten married and was probably in some romantic haze of his own.

Matthew had married Glory Becker, the woman who had become famous locally as the flying angel in Dry Creek's Christmas pageant. Flint hadn't been in Dry Creek then, but he'd read reports. He'd even heard the gossip about how the angel had brought the minister back to God. A man like Matthew wasn't likely to let folks listen to anything but hymns, and that sure wouldn't help a man's courting.

But that wasn't the only reason Flint hesitated. Flint was reluctant to ask a minister for anything, even a minister who was now a clerk in a hardware store. Flint half expected the man to question him about the Bible Flint still carried with him. Flint knew he could have left the book in the pickup he had borrowed from the inspector, but he didn't. He liked having his grandmother close by—wished she were here now with her brusque no-nonsense approach to life.

 

“It couldn't be number twenty-six,” Francis announced as she consulted the notebook she'd been writing in all morning. She'd given each person in Dry Creek over the age of sixteen a number so that she could be more objective about them. Flint had cautioned her that children under the age of sixteen were also capable of crime, but she wouldn't listen. She insisted no child in Dry Creek could be involved. “Number twenty-four is sweet. And he
wouldn't know a Hereford from a Guernsey. I can't see how he'd ever set up an operation like that. I think maybe I should delete people who don't know the cattle business, too.”

Francis wished she could delete all the suspects in Dry Creek. It made her feel old to realize that someone she had known all her life could be stealing from the ranchers around here. Anyone from Dry Creek would know the thin line that separated some of the ranchers from success and failure. A rustling hit could mean some of them would need to sell out. Who would do that?

They were both sitting on the hard-back chairs that formed a half-circle around the Franklin stove that was the centerpiece of the store. Flint was relieved to find out that this part of Dry Creek at least was the way he remembered it. Usually, an assortment of men would be sitting around this stove sharing worries about the weather or information about crop prices. But the snow had kept them home today.

“I remember you raised a Hereford calf for 4-H that year,” Flint mused leisurely. The snow outside would keep even the most determined villians away. The FBI had already analyzed all the people in Dry Creek. Flint knew Francis wouldn't come up with anything new. The inspector had assigned her the task so she'd have something to worry about while she was with Flint. It wouldn't have taken a tenth
of the inspector's powers of observation to see that Francis was all nerves around him, Flint thought. It'd take more than a fancy flowchart to make her happy with him guarding her. “You even named him—what was it?”

“Cat.”

Flint chuckled. “Yeah, I remember now. You had wanted to have a kitten instead, but your dad said you were in cattle country and—if you were that set on having a pet—it was a calf or nothing.”

“It could be number sixteen.” Francis looked up from her list and frowned slightly. “I hope not, though. He has two little kids and his wife has been sick a lot. He needs the money, I'm sure, but—”

“You loved that Cat of yours,” Flint continued staunchly. It was real hard to strike a light note when Francis insisted on worrying over the guilt of her neighbors. “Bet there never was a calf like him.”

“Her.” Francis finally looked up from her list. “I picked a her so that she could go on to be a mother and have calves of her own.”

Something about the tightness of Francis's voice warned him. Francis had always wanted children. Should have had children. That was the one dream she'd shared with him back then. “I hadn't thought about that—”

“It's not important.”

“Of course, it's important,” Flint protested. Until now, he'd just thought of those wasted twenty years
as a trick being played on him. He hadn't had time to adjust and realize what they had meant for Francis. “You were meant to be a mother. That's all you ever wanted to be.”

Francis blinked and looked at her list. “We don't always get what we want in life.”

“I know, but—” Flint had a sudden flash of a little girl who would have looked like Francis. He'd never realized the sum total of his own loss until that minute. He could have had a daughter. Or a son. His life could have meant something to someone besides the FBI. “How could this all have happened?”

Francis looked at Flint. She'd been nervous all morning around him-wondering what he thought of her hair, of her clothes, of the words she spoke. All of those things suddenly didn't seem so important now as she looked at him, the defeat plain on his face.

“It certainly wasn't your fault,” Francis comforted him softly.

“Well, it wasn't yours, either.”

“I could have had more faith in you.”

Flint snorted. “You were a kid. What did we know?”

“It was just one of those things.”

“Like fate?” Flint challenged. He had fought many enemies in his life, but he'd never tackled fate
before. It was like boxing with a shadow. There was no way to win. “You're saying it was our fate?”

“Well, maybe not fate, but—” Francis glanced over at Matthew and lowered her voice. She'd given this a lot of thought in the hours she'd lain awake last night. She'd remembered snatches of what she had learned in Sunday school as a child when her mother used to take her. “But it must have been God's will.”

“Well, I don't think much of God then if He's got nothing better to do than mess up the lives of two young kids so crazy in love they couldn't see straight.” Flint knew he was speaking too loudly for Francis's comfort. She kept looking at Matthew. “And I don't care who hears me on that one. It wasn't fair.”

Francis looked at Matthew. She remembered pictures of God in his long white robes. She had never considered the possibility that God was unkind until last night. He had always seemed distant, like her father. But never unkind. “I'm sorry.”

Matthew stopped polishing the old lantern that was sitting on the counter. “Don't be. I happen to agree with Flint there.”

“You do?” Flint was as surprised as Francis.

Matthew nodded. “It's what drove me out of the ministry.”

“So you agree with me?” Flint asked for clarification. He thought ministers always defended God.
That was their job. “You're not taking God's side in this?”

Matthew laughed. “I don't know about there being sides to this issue. I know it's not fair—” he assessed Flint “—and you—you're probably sitting there wishing there was some guy you could arrest and make pay for all of this.”

Flint gave a short, clipped laugh. “There's something about an arrest that levels the field again.”

“Only there's no one to arrest,” Matthew continued. He walked around the counter and stepped over to the small table that had been set up next to the window. A coffeepot sat on the table, and the flavor of good coffee had been drifting through the air for some time now. Matthew turned to Flint and Francis. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thanks,” Flint said as Francis nodded.

“The most frustrating thing about injustice is that usually we can't do anything about it,” Matthew said as he poured coffee into three thick, white mugs.

“You're saying there's nothing we can do about bad things?” Francis asked.

“Now, I didn't say that.” Matthew turned to look at them again. “Sugar or cream? Or maybe a flavor? I've got some orange flavor. Or raspberry.”

“Plain for me,” Francis said.

“Me, too.” Flint watched as Matthew balanced
the three cups on a small tray and brought them over to where he and Francis were sitting.

“We need to get some TV trays around here,” Matthew apologized as he pulled up a wooden box with his foot. “The regular clientele never was one for fussing, but lately—”

“Since Glory's been around,” Francis finished for him in a teasing tone.

“Well, you have to admit she does bring a whole new brand of people into the store here.” Matthew laughed and then sobered. “I'm blessed to have her in my life.”

Matthew carefully set the coffee cups on the box within easy reach of both of them. “And it's a blessing I almost let get away just because I was stuck on the same problem that is plaguing you two.”

“And that would be?” Flint prodded. He didn't know the ex-minister well, but he'd watched him at the wedding reception the other night. Matthew had had kind words for everyone present.

“Being so preoccupied with my anger toward God for what had happened in the past that I was totally unable to accept any blessings in the here and now.”

“But you still hold God responsible?” The conversation was getting under his skin, and Flint realized he really wanted to know what the minister thought.

“Of course,” Matthew agreed as he pulled up
another straight-back chair and joined them in front of the Franklin stove. “But it's not always that easy. Like for you two—you can sit there and be mad at God for letting you be pulled apart twenty years ago or you can sit there and thank Him for bringing you back together now.”

“But we lost so much,” Flint said.

“Maybe,” Matthew said as he took a sip of hot coffee. “But I'd guess there's things you gained along the way, too. Who would you be today if you hadn't parted back them?”

“We'd be chicken farmers,” Flint said, and smiled. “Living on my grandmother's old place. But at least the windows would be fixed.”

“And I would have had a child,” Francis added shyly and cupped her hands around her mug as though she had a sudden chill.

“Maybe,” Matthew said. “But then maybe something would have happened and that child would be nothing but a heartache to you—maybe there'd be a sickness or who knows what. The point I'm making is that when God takes us down a path all He asks is that we're willing to go. He doesn't guarantee that there won't be troubles on that path. All He guarantees is that He'll walk it with us.”

“That sounds so easy,” Flint said.

“Doesn't it?” Matthew agreed as he set his coffee cup down. He grinned at Flint. “Trust me, it's not as easy as it sounds.”

Flint reached down beside his chair and picked up the Bible he'd lain there earlier. “My grandmother tried to pray that kind of faith into me when I was here with her.”

“Well, she must have succeeded,” Francis said.

Flint looked at her in surprise.

“You wrote a verse next to our marriage lines,” Francis explained softly. “It must have meant something to you at the time.”

“I didn't write any verse,” Flint said as he flipped the Bible open to the center pages where the family record was kept. He looked down and saw the writing. “It must have been my grandmother. She must have written something down. And here I thought I'd covered my tracks and that she didn't know—”

“Song of Solomon,” Francis said as she stood and looked over Flint's shoulder. “Verses six and seven—chapter eight. Let's read it.”

“Now?” Flint looked at the Bible.

“Why not? If your grandmother had something to say about our marriage, I'd like to hear it.”

Flint shrugged and started to page through the early part of the Bible. “I guess you're right.”

Flint skimmed the verses his grandmother had selected before he cleared his throat and read them aloud. “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death… Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods
drown it—” Flint's voice broke and he couldn't continue.

“Those are sweet words,” Francis said softly. “I thought she might have picked something about the folly of youth or trusting strange women.”

Flint smiled. “My grandmother liked you.”

“She must have thought I left you, as well.”

Flint looked at Francis. “We were all a-tangle, weren't we? So many if onlys—”

“It just wasn't right.”

“No, no, it wasn't.” Flint looked at Matthew. “You know, you seem like a good person. But I just don't see how God could let this happen.”

Matthew nodded, rather cheerfully, Flint thought. “So you think He could have stopped you?”

“Stopped me?”

“Yeah, when you decided to run off to Vegas that night—you must think God could have stopped you.”

“Not unless He sent in a tornado.”

The door to the hardware store opened, and a blast of snowy wind blew in with the well-wrapped figure of an older woman. She had to remove two head scarves before Flint recognized Mrs. Hargrove.

“A tornado,” she gasped when she could speak. “Don't tell me we're getting a tornado on top of this?”

“Of course not,” Matthew assured her. “This is Montana, not Kansas.”

“Well, nothing would surprise me anymore,” Mrs. Hargrove muttered as she removed her gloves and set them on the counter. “Everything in Dry Creek has gone topsy-turvy these days.”