A Bride for Dry Creek (9 page)

“Something must be happening to bring you out in this kind of weather,” Matthew agreed calmly as he walked over and helped Mrs. Hargrove struggle out of her coat. Flecks of snow still clung to the plaid wool. “Why don't you sit by the fire and tell us all about it while I get you a cup of that cocoa you like.”

“Oh, it's just old man Gossett.” Mrs. Hargrove started to mutter as she walked to an empty chair and sat down with a sigh. “I swear I don't know what that man is thinking.”

“Mr. Gossett?” Matthew said in surprise as he turned from the coat hook behind the counter. “I've never heard anyone complain about him before—I mean except for the usual—his drinking and his cats.”

“That man—I swear he's stretched my Christian patience until there's only a thin thread left,” Mrs. Hargrove continued and then looked at Flint. “Oh, I'm sorry—you probably don't know him. I wouldn't want you to think he's typical of the folks hereabouts.”

Flint had never seen Mrs. Hargrove so flustered. He turned to Francis. “What number is he?”

“Old man Gossett?”

“Yes.”

“Why, I—” Francis was scanning her paper. “I think I forgot to put him on the list.”

“Forget anyone else?”

Francis was running her finger down the column. “Let me do a quick count—no, I'm only one short.”

“He's an easy one to forget,” Mrs. Hargrove said with irritation still fresh in her voice. “Forgets himself often enough—as long as he has a bottle he's never seemed to care about anything or anyone.”

“What's his name?”

Mrs. Hargrove looked at him blankly. “Why, Gossett. Mr. Gossett.”

“His first name.”

“Well, I don't know.” Mrs. Hargrove frowned in thought. “He's always called old man Gossett. I try to call him Mr. Gossett myself because it reminds me he's one of God's creatures, but I don't think I've ever heard him called anything else. Just old man Gossett or sometimes Mr. Gossett.”

“Didn't his father settle Dry Creek?”

“Back in the big drought in the twenties,” Mrs. Hargrove said as she nodded. “Folks here talk about it sometimes—our parents and grandparents all pretty much had settled around these parts after the Homestead Act of 1902. But they wouldn't have stayed if it hadn't have been for the Gossett who was alive then. He started this town and named it
Dry Creek to remind folks that they could survive hard times. Made us a community.”

“So Dry Creek owes the Gossett family a lot?”

Mrs. Hargrove shrugged. “In a way. Of course, it would be different if it was the first Gossett. I was a little girl way back then, but I remember him still. Quite an impressive man. Never could figure out why his son didn't measure up.”

“You must remember,” Francis interrupted. She was chewing on the tip of a pencil. “If you knew old man Gossett when he was a boy, you must have known his name.”

“Why, you're right,” Mrs. Hargrove said. “It's just he's been old man Gossett for so many years—but you're right, back then he wouldn't have been—” She closed her eyes and then smiled. “Harold. It's Harold. Little Harry, they called him. Little Harry Gossett.”

Mrs. Hargrove was clearly pleased with herself as Francis added the man's full name to her list.

“Now he's eighty-three,” Francis declared.

“Eighty-three in what, dear?” Mrs. Hargrove leaned over to see Francis's list more clearly.

“You didn't tell us your news.” Flint interrupted the older woman quickly before she could ask any more questions. He didn't relish telling her that all her friends and neighbors were suspects in aiding the rustlers. So far, most of the people in Dry Creek all believed the rustlers were outsiders, from the
west coast, they figured. They would never look at their own ranks.

“Why, bless me, you're right,” Mrs. Hargrove said as she straightened in her chair. “And after I hurried all the way over here.”

“It's not the boys, is it?” Matthew asked in alarm.

Mrs. Hargrove smiled. “Your boys are fine. They're with Glory. It's just that Mr. Gossett— Harold—has been trying to talk Glory into driving him into Miles City, and I was afraid she'd weaken and say yes.” Mrs. Hargrove looked around sternly. “I told them both no one had any business driving anywhere in weather like this and that if all he wanted was a bottle of something to keep him warm until the roads cleared he'd be welcome to my vanilla.”

“I don't think a bottle of vanilla would keep him happy enough.” Flint almost smiled.

“I read in the newspaper that vanilla is ninety-nine percent alcohol and alcoholics sometimes tip back the bottle,” Mrs. Hargrove announced.

“Unless you have a gallon of it, though, it's not going to be enough.”

“Well, Glory might give him hers, too.”

Flint had a mental picture of all the ladies of Dry Creek emptying their cupboards to keep Mr. Gossett happy during the blizzard. It was neighborliness at work.

“Do you think we should be giving him anything?” Francis worried. “Maybe now's a good time for him to quit.”

“He doesn't want to quit.” Mrs. Hargrove grunted in disapproval. “He wants to talk someone into braving this weather just to take him to a store. Or a bar, more like it.”

“I could go talk to him,” Flint offered. He would like to get reacquainted with the man Dry Creek had forgotten even while he lived in their midst. “I'll tell him there's a fine for endangering lives or something like that.”

“Scare him?” Mrs. Hargrove asked, but Flint couldn't tell whether or not she liked the idea.

Flint shrugged. “Just slow him down. If he can wait until tomorrow, the roads will be better.”

“The wind might stop, too,” Matthew offered. “The forecast says this storm will blow through tonight.”

“It really is too bad he can't quit,” Mrs. Hargrove said softly. “That little boy wasn't so bad, now that I remember him from all those years ago. Wonder whatever happened?”

 

Flint kept his hands in his gloves while he knocked on Harold Gossett's front door. Flint had convinced Francis to wait outside in the pickup for him while he spoke with Mr. Gossett. It was probably nothing, but Flint had a feeling about this man.
If anyone had a grudge against Dry Creek, he'd bet it was this Gossett fellow. He knocked again.

A shadow crossed the peephole in Gossett's front door. Funny, Flint thought, no one else in Dry Creek felt the need for a peephole. Even if they locked their doors, they just called out and asked who was outside. But you couldn't arrest someone for having a peephole in their door. If you could, all of California would be in jail. Maybe Gossett just wanted to avoid his neighbors as much as they wanted to avoid him.

The door opened a crack. The inside of the house was dark. A subdued light came in through the blinds that were drawn at each of the windows. There wasn't much furniture. An old vinyl recliner. A television that was blinking. A wooden table pushed against one wall with rows of beer bottles stacked up underneath it. The house smelled of cats, although it wasn't an unpleasant smell.

“Hi,” Flint said as he took his glove off and offered his hand to the man inside the house. “My name's Flint Harris.”

“Essie's grandson.” The older man nodded. The man was heavyset with a looseness to his face that came from drinking too much. He was wearing a pair of farmer overalls over thermal underwear that had holes in both of the elbows. If the man was planning to go to Miles City today, he certainly
wasn't worried about making a good impression once he got there.

“I wanted to introduce myself,” Flint said. He was beginning to doubt his suspicions about the man. He certainly didn't look like he'd come into any money lately. Not with the way he lived. “I've tied my horse out back on the other side of your yard a few times of late.”

“Ain't my property.”

“I know,” Flint continued. “I checked it out first. Still, I thought you might have been curious.”

“Nope.”

The older man started to close the door. Flint moved his foot to block it.

“Just wanted to talk to you about your conversation with Glory Becker—I mean, Glory Curtis.”

Gossett's eyes jumped slightly in guilt. “I wasn't talking to her.”

“That's good, because it would be foolish to try to drive into Miles City today. I was worried when I heard that's what you were planning.”

The older man swallowed. “I wasn't going nowhere.”

“That's good,” Flint repeated. He was beginning to see why Mrs. Hargrove found the man exasperating. “See that you don't. At least not until the blizzard breaks. Nothing's that important.”

The old man nodded vacantly. Flint had seen that kiss-off-to-the-feds face enough times to know that
it didn't mean the man was agreeing to anything. Still, there wasn't much else Flint could do. He moved his foot so the door could close.

Francis opened the door on the driver's side so Flint could slip into the pickup.

“What do you know of Gossett's drinking style?” he asked as he turned the key to start the motor.

“He drinks lots.”

“But lots of what? He's got enough beer in there to keep an army happy, but he might be out of something else. Maybe he uses beer as a chaser for hard liquor and he's out of hard liquor?”

Francis shrugged. “Must be. Why else would he be so set on going into Miles City?”

“Maybe he's out of cat food. I understand he's got lots of cats.”

“Yes, but he could borrow cat food from anyone in Dry Creek. Folks often borrow back and forth in the winter months instead of making a special trip to Billings or Miles City.”

“Maybe he's got a lady friend he visits?”

“Old man Gossett?” Francis asked in genuine surprise.

“Well, you never know,” Flint said as he backed away from the Gossett house. At least he had Francis thinking about romance again.

“Old man Gossett,” she repeated.

Well, maybe not romance, Flint thought wryly as
he started driving down the short road that was Dry Creek. She sounded more like she was thinking of a circus act.

“Oh, look,” Flint said as he drove level with the café. “It's open”

A black Open sign was hanging in the window of the café under another more permanent sign that read Jazz and Pasta.

“We could stop for coffee,” Flint offered.

The interior of the café smelled of baking bread and spicy tomato sauce. Black and white linoleum covered the floor, and several square tables were set up for dining.

Ah, here we go,
Flint thought as he saw a small candle in the middle of each table.

“Allow me.” Flint held the chair for Francis.

Now they were getting somewhere, Flint thought.

His heart sank when Francis pulled out her checklist.

“I think we need to consider thirty-four, too,” she said. “He got his hair cut.”

“His hair cut?”

“Yeah, and it wasn't anyone around here who did it,” Francis said. “You can't get a cut like that in Miles City even—I'd say he's been to Spokane or Boise.”

Flint sighed. Francis would have been a terror on the force. “You want to talk about some guy's haircut?”

“It could be important,” Francis persisted.
Besides, I don't know what to say to you. I'm afraid of saying anything that's going to rock this boat we're on.

Our lives could be important, too,
Flint felt like saying. But he didn't. Maybe Francis was right. Maybe it was too late for them to go back to what they once were.

The minister, Matthew, had seemed hopeful, saying they should thank God for bringing them together now instead of being angry for being separated earlier. But even if God was bringing them together now, why was He bothering? It seemed more like a cosmic joke than anything—bring the two young lovers back together so they could realize what they had missed during all those years.

Flint let his hand drop to the Bible that sat on the seat next to him. He felt comforted just touching the thing—maybe more of his grandmother's faith had gotten under his skin than he ever realized. He had a sudden urge to pray and wished he knew how. Wished that words would form on his lips to express the confusion inside his heart. But his lips were silent.

A
teenager walked out of the back of the restaurant. She was wearing a white chef's apron over faded jeans, and her shaggy hair was dyed a bright copper red. As she walked she pulled an ordering pad out of the apron pocket. She snapped her chewing gum. “Can I get something for you folks?”

“Hi, Linda,” Francis greeted the teen. “How's business?”

“Not bad,” Linda said and smiled. “We've decided to open for the breakfast crowd now—so far so good—we got seven breakfast orders from Sheriff Wall already this morning. We didn't have doughnuts, but Jazz makes a mean biscuit served with honey. The sheriff bought a dozen extra biscuits. Asked me to cut little holes in them so they looked like doughnuts,” Linda shrugged and smiled
again. “And folks around here think I'm weird because I got my nose pierced.”

The teenager tilted her face so Flint and Francis could see the sparkling stud in the side of her nose.

“Nice,” Flint said with a smile. Linda's face was scrubbed clean and fresh-looking.

“Just the right touch,” Francis agreed. She was glad Linda had forgotten about the black lipstick she sometimes wore.

The teen took their order for coffee and biscuits and called out, “Two for a combo—make it sticky!” to someone in the back before walking over to the coffee urn that rested on the counter at the side of the large room.

“What number is she?” Flint whispered to Francis.

“Linda?” Francis seemed surprised. “Well, she's number twenty-seven, but I don't really think—”

“She's in a public place,” Flint reminded her. He enjoyed watching Francis's eyes. Their gray depths had lost all semblance of calm. “Good place to get information. Overhear talk about cattle. Maybe know when a rancher is sick and not making his usual rounds.”

“But the ranchers don't hang out here,” Francis protested firmly. “Besides, their café has only been open since Christmas Eve. Most of the rustling happened before that.”

“True.” Flint liked the way Francis's eyes got
passionate in their defense of the young woman. He tried a different tactic. “How old do you think she is?”

“Eighteen, I think.”

“And this Jazz guy that works the restaurant with her?”

“Duane? A year or two older.”

“Just like us,” Flint said softly. “That was the age we were when we got married.”

 

The old man looked in the back window of the café. He knew that this window beside the black cookstove wouldn't be frosted up and would still be hidden from the people inside the café. He had to stand in a snowbank to get a good view through the window, but that didn't bother him. He'd be a lot colder if he didn't find a way to get to that bus in Miles City.

What were they talking about? The FBI man and Francis. She was a smart one, she was. He'd known her mother. She had been the same way. Never did understand why she had married Elkton when she could have married him. He'd been somebody back then before the drinking.

The FBI man thought he was so clever, coming to his door with some nonsense about the roads. But the old man wasn't fooled. Since when did the federal government care about cars driving in snow?

Besides, he had seen the agent look in his trash
barrel the other day and take out an empty jelly jar that had broken. The jelly was crab apple, left over from a summer when Mrs. Hargrove had canned some jelly for him from his tree. The agent put the jar back, but the old man wasn't sure if he'd taken a fingerprint off of it somehow. The agent must have. What did the government care about empty jelly jars?

It all made the old man nervous. He had to get out of town. That Glory Becker wasn't much of an angel as far as he was concerned. Wouldn't even drive him to Miles City in that Jeep of hers. And she had good tires. He'd checked them out. He'd half considered stealing them to put on his pickup, but he couldn't use a tire iron anymore. Couldn't drive his pickup even if it had tires on it, when it came right down to it. He hadn't driven anything for a good twenty years now—he'd be surprised if he'd know how, especially if he was behind the wheel of a newfangled car.

He was an old man, plain and simple. He was surprised the Becker woman hadn't agreed to help him. What kind of Christian charity was she showing—she just said no and kept talking about the twins. You'd think she was their real mother the way the woman went on about them. Little Joshua and little Joey. It made the old man want to gag. He knew it wouldn't hurt the little creatures to stay home alone for a day. Might even do them some
good. Take some of the happy shine off their infernal faces.

Disgusting. And no help at all.

He'd have to try something else. And soon. Before any more snow got dumped on the roads and the bus got canceled.

 

Francis felt her nerves stretch tighter than a new drum. The day had stiffened her like a board. She was grateful Garth had convinced Sam to spend the day with some of the ranch hands in the bunkhouse. She suspected they were teaching him to play poker. If they were, he'd be there until supper trying to win his money back.

She wished she had something like that to worry over. She'd tried to keep her mind organized, but she hadn't succeeded. Her thoughts kept straying—kept going back to the wistful look on Flint's face when he realized that Linda and her fiancé, the Jazz Man, were the same age she and Flint had been when they eloped to Las Vegas.

Linda and the Jazz Man were working toward their dream. The two teenagers had sat with her and Flint after they had their biscuits and talked about the farm they planned to buy when they'd saved enough money. Their faces shone with their dream. They were halfway to their goal already. Every dollar helped. They had looked happy when Flint offered to pay them fifty dollars if they would go out
to his grandmother's old place and bring Honey back to the small building behind the café so they could feed and water her for a day or two.

Francis sighed. She wished her own dreams were as simple to fulfill.

“You okay? Flint asked me to check.”

Francis glanced up and saw her brother standing in the doorway and looking at her in concern. She had told Flint she was going into the den and didn't want to be disturbed. It was taxing to be guarded—especially by Flint. They'd spent the whole day together. It was almost time for supper, and Francis needed some time alone before she offered to help the others prepare the meal.

“Yeah, sure,” Francis answered. “Tell Flint I'm fine.”

She was sitting in the old rocker in the den. The room was growing darker as the last of the day's light seeped in through the frost-covered windows. The furniture in Garth's house had been replaced in the past few years, but the rocker was one thing that would never leave. This was the chair their mother used to sit in when she read to them when they were each small. Garth kept it in the corner of the den that couldn't be seen from the door. Francis suspected he used it as an escape place, too.

“Want to talk about it?” Garth offered as he pulled over a straight-backed office chair and sat down. “I suppose you're still mad at Dad.”

Francis grimaced. “He could have told me. I spent so much time being angry with Flint. Even if Flint had gone on with his life by then, Dad should have told me.”

“Probably meant to.” Garth mused. “Dad was never much good at talking, and I'd guess it got harder to tell you as the years went on.”

Francis hesitated and then took the plunge. “And I've been thinking about Mom, too.”

Garth sat still. “Oh.”

“Do you remember her taking us to church? I always remember her getting you and me ready and taking us to Sunday school and then church.”

“Yeah.” Garth was noncommittal.

“Why did she?”

Garth seemed surprised. “Why? I never thought about it. She just did. That was part of her being Mom.”

“Do you think it meant something to her? You were older than me when she died, and I can't remember.” Francis could tell it was painful for Garth to talk about their mother, but she pressed on. “I can remember her sitting in this chair about this time late every afternoon—just before she started getting supper ready and before Dad came in from the fields. She'd sit a bit and read her Bible and then pray. I know she prayed with us later, when we went to bed, but this was just her time. I haven't thought
about that for years. I wonder—did she really believe it all?”

“Yeah,” Garth said softly. “I think she did.”

They were both silent for a minute.

“I wish she were with us now,” Francis whispered. Maybe her mother would know how to untangle the feelings Francis was feeling. Maybe she'd even know how to help Francis pray to the God she herself had known so well.

“So do I, Sis. So do I.”

Francis looked at her brother. She hadn't noticed how weary he was looking, either. “Troubles?”

Garth shrugged.

Francis took a shot. She'd noticed how her brother looked at the woman from Seattle. “How's Sylvia doing?”

Garth grunted.

“She likes you, you know,” Francis offered softly.

Garth's wince told her she had hit the sore spot.

“She's got better things to do with her life than liking me,” Garth said harshly as he stood up and pushed his chair to the desk. “She deserves someone better.”

“Maybe you should let her decide that,” Francis said as Garth walked toward the door.

“It's already decided. If you need me, I'll be out back chopping some more wood for winter,” Garth said as he opened the door.

Francis had seen the huge stack of wood Garth had already chopped in the last two days. “Don't we have enough wood?”

“Not enough to suit me.”

Francis nodded. It looked like she wasn't the only one in the family with troubles in love.

 

Flint was in the kitchen pacing. The hands on the clock over the refrigerator seemed to crawl. What was Francis doing, locked in the den like that? He knew she had looked more and more strained as the day wore on, but he wished she would talk to him. The fact was, if she didn't come out soon, he was going to go right in and demand that she talk to him. Yes, he said to himself, that's what he'd do. It was his duty, after all. He was guarding her. On official government business. He had a right to know how she was.

Flint looked at the clock in exasperation. Two minutes down. He was beginning to understand why the inspector didn't want him to serve as guard to Francis. Being around her all day was doing things to him that he wasn't able to control. Before he knew it, he was going to make ten kinds of fool of himself doing something like demanding she talk to him. He'd never demanded that someone in protective custody talk to him before—at least not about their feelings. The FBI didn't care about feelings. It worried about the who, where and when questions.

Flint looked at the clock. One more minute. Ah, there she comes. Flint heard the faint click of the doorknob and turned to face the small hall that led to the den.

“Relax. It's just me,” Garth said as he walked through the open door.

“Oh.”

“She'll come out soon,” Garth offered gruffly as he walked over to the rack of coats that hung near the kitchen door and pulled a jacket off a peg. He turned back and looked at Flint squarely. “Don't leave her this time.”

“I never left her the first time,” Flint protested and then smiled. This was as close to a blessing as someone like Garth would give him. “You don't have to worry. Francis isn't that interested in me these days. I'm only her guard.”

Garth grunted as he pulled on the jacket. “I've officially turned down the FBI's request, you know. There's no reason to kidnap her.”

“The bid has already been put out,” Flint explained. He'd gone over that in his mind, too. “If it's put out with a crime syndicate, it's probably too late to pull back the orders. There might have been a backup in place before we even arrested those other goons.”

“I'll tell the boys to keep their eyes open.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

A rush of cold air entered the kitchen as Garth
opened and then quickly closed the outside door. The clock crawled two more minutes before Francis opened the door from the den. Flint tried to pretend he wasn't waiting for her and turned to face the wall. Ah, good, there was a calendar tacked to the kitchen wall about level with his eyes.

“Tomorrow's Sunday, isn't it?” Francis asked as she walked down the hall.

Flint scrambled to look at the calendar more clearly. “Yes, I guess it is, at that. Why?”

“No reason,” Francis said as she walked over to the kitchen sink and turned the water on. “I just thought if it was Sunday tomorrow I might go to church.”

“Church?”

“I mean, if that's all right with the FBI.” Francis reached into a cupboard and pulled out a teakettle. “I know I'm being guarded, but it's only church. The FBI couldn't object to that.”

Flint groaned. He knew the FBI would object. He'd be placing the person he was protecting square in the middle of every suspect in Dry Creek. Everyone would be rounded up under one roof with no weapons check and predictable times when everyone from the minister on down would stand for long minutes with their eyes closed. A lot could happen with all those closed eyes. A smart kidnapper could nab their victim and hustle them out the door before the prayer finished.

“I'd really like to go,” Francis continued as she put the kettle under the faucet and began to fill it with water. “And you'll be there, so there's really no danger.”

The easy confidence with which Francis said the latter was Flint's undoing. She trusted him. “We'd have to sit in the back row.”

“That'd be fine.” Francis looked at him and smiled. “I'm sort of a back row kind of person anyway—I haven't been in church for years.”