“I need help, Mommy. I can’t twirl by myself.”
Bailey started to rise from her chair.
“No,” Mark said. “I’ll help her twirl. You need to stay safely in that chair.”
Bailey sat back down. She had to admit she wasn’t used to having someone worry about her.
Soon the music was absorbing all Bailey’s attention. Rosie was dancing her heart out, a big smile on her face and her copper-red curls bouncing in time with the song she had chosen. Mark seemed to instinctively know when a twirl was needed, and he held his hand out so he could steady Rosie in her moment of glory.
Bailey sighed as she saw her old friend gallantly help her daughter twist and turn. No matter what happened next in any of their lives, Bailey knew she would never forget this dance practice. Neither Mark nor her daughter was dressed in their finery, but the expressions of pure joy on each of their faces were perfect. They gave her hope for the future. Maybe having Mark for a friend would be enough for the both of them...
Janet Tronstad grew up on her family’s farm in Montana and now lives in central California, where she is currently working on her next book. She has written over thirty books for Love Inspired, many of them set in the fictitious town of Dry Creek, Montana. When not writing, Janet loves to read, have lunch with friends and travel.
Books by Janet Tronstad
Love Inspired
Dry Creek
Dry Creek Sweethearts
A Dry Creek Courtship
Snowbound in Dry Creek
Small-Town Brides
“A Dry Creek Wedding”
Silent Night in Dry Creek
Wife Wanted in Dry Creek
Small-Town Moms
“A Dry Creek Family”
Easter in Dry Creek
Dry Creek Daddy
His Dry Creek Inheritance
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
HIS DRY CREEK INHERITANCE
Janet Tronstad
And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.
—Romans 8:28
Many happy Valentine’s greetings to all of my readers. May love and friendship abound for each of you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Dear Reader
Excerpt from A Home for Her Baby by Gabrielle Meyer
Chapter One
An icy wind blew through the small town of Dry Creek, Montana, as Army Sergeant Mark Dakota pressed his black Stetson more securely on his head and braced himself with his metal cane. He was standing in front of the café and carefully leaned forward in hopes he could see through the window. Most of the glass was covered by a huge red poster advertising some Valentine event, but he could see around the sign well enough to know no one was inside the eatery. Except for his parked rental car, the street was empty.
The whole area looked deserted. Sitting on the wide-open plains of southeastern Montana, the scattering of buildings was eerily quiet despite the wind. Mark felt the same prickle of unease at the back of his neck that he’d had in Afghanistan several months ago, just before that roadside bomb exploded and tore his leg apart.
Suddenly, a dog barked and, without thinking, Mark threw himself to the ground.
“Uumph.” He felt the resulting agonized jolt of pain all the way from his hip to his toes.
“That was a mistake,” he muttered when he got his breath back. The doctors had cleared him to do routine physical activity, but this was over the line. He’d panicked.
Turning his head, Mark looked along the street and saw a brown mutt shoot out from behind a nearby house and come straight at him. By now, Mark knew that the dog’s bark hadn’t been a warning. This wasn’t a war zone. Mark wore his civilian jeans and his old winter coat. Besides, the dog looked like a harmless stray.
“Easy, boy.” The scruffy animal arrived and stood still. Then he eyed Mark, who was flat on the ground, carefully before crawling close enough to sniff at the soles of his worn boots.
“Good doggie,” Mark murmured as he raised himself up slightly on an elbow and patted the dog, feeling along its spine until he was satisfied that the mutt was not starving. The animal might not be a family pet, but it was fed well enough.
Mark figured that getting a few scraps was about as much as any stray—man or animal—could hope for in life. Using his cane, he struggled to his feet and watched the dog trot down the street again. That mutt reminded Mark of his place in life and he finally admitted to himself that he’d been a fool to come back here.
That letter his foster father Eli Rosen had written—the only one Mark had received from anyone in Dry Creek during the nine years he’d been in the army—demanded that he come home as quick as possible because Eli needed him. But Eli never needed anyone and, if he did, there was his real son, Junior. There probably wasn’t any brazen gold-digging woman out to steal the Rosen Ranch either. As for the closing paragraph where he called Mark his son, the less said about that the better.
Still, Mark admitted, those final words from Eli had been enough to bring him back here just as surely as that dog returned to the households that occasionally gave him a bone. Mark stood, letting the pain in his leg recede while the air grew colder. Finally the distant sound of people singing “Amazing Grace” floated down the street. It was Saturday morning, not Sunday, but everyone must be in the church.
Well, there was nothing for it, Mark told himself as he squared his shoulders and began the long walk up the street. He couldn’t turn back now without at least talking to his foster father. Given the growing wind, Mark was glad to reach his destination. The foyer of the church was dark and the doors from it to the inner sanctuary were closed. Mark let the warmth settle over him as he listened to the muffled sounds of what must be a prayer from the pulpit in the large room on the other side of the wall.
Suddenly, the double doors to the sanctuary burst open and two men in black suits stood there, looking shocked and staring at Mark. Bright sunlight streamed in from the windowed sanctuary behind them. He recognized the men; they used to work on the Rosen Ranch.
“Josh?” Mark asked softly. “Arnold?”
Arnold gave a strangled-sounding croak. “Mark? Is that you, son?”
Mark nodded, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. By now, he saw they were holding the front part of a brass-accented coffin. It wasn’t seemly for a funeral to have interruptions like this.
Suddenly, a small woman walked around the pallbearers and stood in the foyer, with what looked like a black choir robe billowing around her and a black blanket draped over her head like a shawl so that he couldn’t see her face.
“Mark?” the figure finally spoke. Mark knew the voice well.
“Bailey? Bailey Morris? Is that you?” Mark hadn’t shaved this morning. The color of his skin might betray his days in the Afghan sun, but his dark whiskers were all his own. Mark knew he looked unkempt.
The woman drew back the blanket and Mark could see it was his childhood friend. He recognized the f
lyaway red hair and emerald eyes that she’d had when they met in the first grade. Somehow though, the angles of her face had filled out since he’d seen her last. And her hair was slightly tamer and more styled. She’d be twenty-eight years old now. He took a second look.
“You seem—” Mark didn’t know how to finish his sentence.
What had happened to dear old Bailey? She used to be comfortable in her appearance, like a favorite aunt sitting in front of the television in a tattered robe with her stockinged feet up and a bowl of popcorn on her stomach. Even with that black blanket, he could see this was no longer the Bailey he had known. Her skin used to be freckled something fierce, but now it was creamy with no hint of a spot. Her hair, carrot red for the decade he’d known her, was now auburn with dark blond streaks. Instead of frizz, she had soft curls. If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d spent some real money at a beauty salon. That fact stopped him for a moment as he contemplated it. Bailey was beautiful—expensive beautiful. His whole world shifted on its axis.
“Did Gabe Rosen send for you?” she demanded to know, her words coming out low and her eyes sparking with fury.
That settled Mark’s world back into place. She might be buffed up on the outside, but inside it was the same Bailey. She had been an outspoken seven-year-old when he had been sent to this community after the authorities tried, and failed, to track down his parents. He’d been abandoned in a gas station along the Dakota/Montana border. That’s why the foster care system gave him the last name of Dakota. Bailey had decided mothering him was her right since she was an orphan, too, and in the foster care system like he was. When he protested, she informed him he was only six years old and couldn’t know what awaited him in life. With her extra year, Bailey said, she had much more experience. She had sounded so sure that he’d believed her, at least for a few months.
Mark stood there, trying to figure out who could have died that would bring Bailey back to Dry Creek to pay her respects. Her elderly foster parents had passed away when she was in high school. Before Mark had left, she’d taken a good job working for an attorney in Los Angeles. She’d planned to go to law school at night and, in her words, make a place for herself. He wondered if she’d become a lawyer by now.
“Why would Gabe send for me?” Mark asked, picking on the point that made the least sense in all that she’d said. No one here knew he’d been wounded and was now on a medical leave while he decided whether or not to leave the army. No one, outside of Eli, would even know how to reach him.
The crowd behind the coffin must have parted, because someone stepped out. It was Gabe. He was a man now instead of a teenager, but he had the same lanky look to him. The son of Eli Rosen’s cousin, Gabe had been a thorn in Mark’s side when they were kids. The only good thing about having Gabe come for a visit to the ranch had been that Junior would align himself with Mark since they both thought Gabe was no fun. It was the only time Junior acted like he was Mark’s brother and Mark had liked it.
“I’m protecting the old man’s will,” Gabe said with a look of determination that Mark had never seen on the man’s face when they’d been boys. “Eli was like a father to me and I aim to see his wishes done. I saw a copy of the letter that he sent you,” he said and glanced over at Mark before continuing. “I read what he said about a ‘brazen gold-digging woman.’ He apparently didn’t want the ranch to go to Bailey and, no matter what she says or how she plans to twist the will, I don’t believe he ever meant to give it to her.”
“Bailey is the gold-digging woman?” Mark repeated in shock. Then he looked around. More people were crowding up to the pallbearers so they could see what was going on. “That can’t be right. Bailey might be controlling—maybe even a little bossy—”
“Hey,” Bailey protested, her words no longer low or soft.
“But she’s honest as the day is long,” Mark concluded hastily. And she was too short to be a physical threat to anyone. “I’d trust her with my life.”
Gabe snorted.
“And my wallet,” Mark added so there was no question.
Bailey’s face relaxed and she smiled.
Mark noted that the whole town of Dry Creek seemed to be buzzing and looking at him, Bailey and Gabe.
“Besides,” Mark said, thinking this would settle things, “doesn’t Junior inherit everything?”
That made the whispering stop. Mark knew bloodline was important to Eli Rosen and that meant Junior, his only child, would be his heir. Pure and simple. When Mark first came to the ranch, he had been shown where his bed was in the bunkhouse with the hired hands and he’d been given his list of work to do. There had never been any suggestion that he move to the main house or become part of the Rosen family.
He found out later, just before he enlisted in the army, that the foster care people had no other place to put him except on the ranch. He’d been angry in those days and it showed. No one had wanted him in their home. The authorities must have thought the bunkhouse was a good compromise.
“From what I’ve heard the will might be complicated,” Bailey said quietly as she backed up against the opposite wall of the foyer. “The reading happens after the—” She glanced back at the coffin.
“That’s Eli, isn’t it?” Mark whispered as he eyed the coffin. If he hadn’t been so distracted by seeing Bailey, he would have figured that out from the pallbearers. Unsettled, he stepped closer to the foyer wall. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The two ranch hands nodded.
“It’s good you’re here,” Josh said, and the procession began again.
People passed by Mark, most of them giving him a smile and a curious look. Finally, only Bailey was left with him.
“I wish you didn’t have to find out this way,” she said as she walked over to him. “I know Eli could be a difficult man, but—” She paused, her eyes full of sympathy. She had always been able to pull the painful feelings out of him like they were nothing but meddlesome cockleburs caught on his shirttail.
They were both silent for a moment.
“Whether he wanted to be or not, he was the closest thing to a father I ever had,” Mark finally admitted. It was pointless to confess that he’d had a flicker of hope when he first read that letter from Eli. The time was past for such dreams. “Eli was bigger than life. I never thought he would die.”
Mark wasn’t sure what a father was, but he knew it was more than just someone who lived, begat a child and died. He figured Eli must have known a secret that he hadn’t thought to share. Junior had seemed satisfied with his father.
“I know what you mean about Eli,” Bailey said. “I remember the time he gave us a whole roll of quarters so we could go on all the rides at the county fair. Just you and me.”
“I was surprised,” Mark recalled. He didn’t think that gesture of Eli’s revealed the secret of fatherhood, but it had been fun. “I’d never been as high as we were on that Ferris wheel.”
“Or as sick as when we rode the whirly-twirly thing,” Bailey added.
“You were only sick because you ate all that cotton candy,” Mark scolded mildly. “That stuff will kill you.”
“Not when you’re ten years old,” Bailey replied firmly. “It’s all right then.”
“Maybe,” Mark agreed. He’d be the first to acknowledge that he knew nothing more about kids than he did about fathers.
They were quiet and then Bailey started to waddle away. Mark decided she was having even more trouble walking than he was. It had been a while since he’d seen a pregnant woman, but she sure seemed to be one. He wondered where her husband was, but he saw no one lurking in the door opening, waiting for her. Mark quickly put his hat on the rack by the door and extended his right arm to her. “Let me help you.”
He gripped the cane firmly as she put her small hand on his other arm.
“Thank you,” she said.
The cemetery was behind the church
and that’s where everyone was headed. Mark and Bailey walked slowly down the few steps going out of the building. The ground was gray and rocky, but, when they turned the corner of the church, they saw a large fenced square filled with flat name markers, a scattering of gravestones and even a few concrete angels. Plastic flowers were everywhere except where a new proper hole had been dug.
Mark didn’t think Eli would be happy that his grave site looked so plain.
“I thought Junior would spring for a big marker of some kind,” Mark said as he glanced around. He didn’t want to show any disrespect to anyone. But he and Bailey were far enough behind the other mourners that they wouldn’t be overheard. “Where is Junior anyway?”
Bailey’s face flushed. “He’s...ah, well—” She paused and didn’t seem inclined to continue.
“What?”
Bailey stopped walking so Mark did, too.
“Junior isn’t with us anymore,” she finally said somberly.
“Took off on the rodeo circuit, did he?” Mark whispered a guess as they started moving again. “He always said he’d do that someday.”
Bailey shook her head. They were beside the open hole. She spoke in a low voice. “No, that’s not it. He’s dead. Car wreck. Alcohol. The usual.”
By then they had caught up with everyone else and the minister was opening his Bible.
“We’ll talk later,” Bailey whispered as he stared at her.
Mark couldn’t have said a word then anyway. Fortunately, the minister was saying everything that was proper. Dust did return to dust. The man cited the hope of heaven, but Mark figured that was just one of those nice things people said at funerals. He preferred to take death like a shot to the chin. There was nothing hopeful about it that he could see. As for the rest of it, God never had much time for him and Mark returned the favor.
Eli had at least written him a letter, Mark thought. Unfortunately, when it arrived, he was in the hospital trying to learn how to wiggle his toes again. When he’d left Dry Creek years ago, he hadn’t thought he was saying his final goodbye to either Eli or Junior. At first, he told himself he’d come back when he became successful in life. He wanted their respect.
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