The sheriff grunted again. “Let’s go over to her place. We’ll see what she says.”
Barbara looked down the street. “I’ll have to walk with the children.”
The sheriff nodded. “That’s what I figured. I’ll walk with you then, too. I can carry the seats back here if you agree to her terms.”
“I don’t think there will be terms,” Barbara said. “I’m going to offer to give her a pie.”
The sheriff nodded. He didn’t want to discourage her, but he had known Mrs. Hargrove a lot longer than Barbara had.
Charley turned to go back into the hardware store. Barbara held out her hands to Amanda and Bobby and started walking. The main street of Dry Creek was made of hard-packed gravel. She felt the stones through the soles of her shoes. She looked over her shoulder at the sheriff. “I don’t think she’s going to ask me for any favors. I think you’re teasing me.”
The sheriff caught up with her and smiled. He wished he did know how to tease her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Barbara.” She kept her eye on the sheriff as she kept walking. He was enjoying this. She hadn’t seen him smile this much at her since she was lying in that hospital bed. The pain medicine she’d taken had made everything vague in those days so she didn’t remember many exact conversations that she’d had with the sheriff. But she did remember the feeling she’d had. She’d dreamt he called her “dear” and tucked her in at night. She’d felt safe for the first time in years with him in her hospital room. The fact that he was smiling so much now made her uneasy. It was a dead giveaway that he believed she’d be on the losing end of her deal with Mrs. Hargrove.
Barbara lifted her chin. She’d surprise the sheriff.
Mrs. Hargrove looked as if she was de lighted to have the children use the booster seats she kept on a shelf in her garage. “Of course they can use them. That’s what neighbors are for—I’m glad you came to me.”
Barbara was breathing easier. She and the sheriff were standing in Mrs. Hargrove’s yellow kitchen, just inside her back door and next to the bench where people sat to take off their muddy shoes. So far the older woman hadn’t mentioned anything about Sunday at all. Of course, Mrs. Hargrove had her hair in curlers so she might still be a little sleepy, but she didn’t look as if she was even going to try to bargain.
Barbara decided Mrs. Hargrove probably had all the help she needed with her Sun day-school class since she had Sheriff Wall to help her. What child would be disobedient when the sheriff was there? “I appreciate you letting us use the seats very much.”
Barbara glanced over at the sheriff and added, “We have to use them. It’s the law.”
Mrs. Hargrove nodded. “You’d use the seats anyway. You’re a good mother.”
“I try to be,” Barbara said as she turned to look through the screen door. Amanda and Bobby were both sitting on the back steps of Mrs. Hargrove’s house playing with a calico kitten.
Mrs. Hargrove nodded. “That’s why I figured you were just waiting to settle in a bit before you started Amanda and Bobby in Sunday school. I’m sure they will love to come once they start.”
“Oh.” Barbara didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Hargrove hadn’t exactly asked her anything so it seemed safest to not answer anything.
“Bobby was asking me about the Red Sea just the other day.” Mrs. Hargrove didn’t wait for an answer. Her voice was conversational, as though she was just chatting away on a fine spring morning. “One of the other kids had told him about it—you know, the story about when Moses parted the sea and everyone walked through on dry ground. Bobby couldn’t figure it out.”
“Yes, well—” Barbara cleared her throat and looked over at the sheriff. “He’s never seen much water. We went to Devil’s Lake in North Dakota once, passed through a town named Whitman, but that’s all.”
“He was probably just thinking about how much water there is in a lake,” the sheriff said. “You know, if ten people poured a gallon into the lake and five people took a cup out, how much lake do you have left?”
Barbara looked over at the sheriff and smiled in gratitude. “Yes, it’s probably just something like that.”
Mrs. Hargrove nodded. “The boy’s a thinker all right. But it wasn’t math that was concerning him. It was more along the lines of whether miracles actually can happen.”
“I wouldn’t want him to be disappointed,” Barbara said. She knew all she needed to know about miracles. She knew they weren’t for the likes of her. She doubted her children were destined to encounter any either.
“A child needs to know there is Someone who is bigger than their problems,” Mrs. Hargrove said softly. “Bobby would like Sunday school. It’s the perfect place to look for answers to all the big questions.”
“He’s too young to have big questions.”
Barbara knew she was wrong the minute she heard the words come out of her mouth. Bobby was a seven-year-old boy with a father in prison. He had to have questions. He would probably also want a miracle.
“No one’s too young for big questions,” Mrs. Hargrove said, as if the matter were settled. “Of course, you’ll want to come with him—and bring Amanda, too. And, since you’ll be there anyway, you might want to watch the children as they draw a picture of the Bible lesson.” Mrs. Hargrove looked over at the sheriff. “Watching the children draw is complete pleasure. It’s not work at all.”
The sheriff made a funny strangling sound.
“I’m not sure I could be much help,” Barbara said. “I don’t know what any of the Bible lessons would look like.”
Mrs. Hargrove shrugged. “There’s usually some camels and sheep. The kids put them in any scene whether they are mentioned or not. It’s okay. As long as nobody puts in a car or a flying carpet, that’s all we bother correcting. You’ll be perfect. Besides, Carl here is going to tell the story, so you’ll be able to figure out what the pictures are supposed to look like.”
“I am?” The sheriff seemed surprised. “I’m telling the story?”
“I was going to make you an apple pie—” Barbara tried again. She could swear the sheriff looked as if he’d swallowed something sour. That couldn’t bode well for Sunday school. “Lizette got some tart green apples from that produce stand just outside Miles City.”
“Oh, an apple pie would be wonderful,” Mrs. Hargrove said. “And you could take a picture of it with Carl, here, for your campaign. There’s something about apple pie that makes folks want to vote. Besides, if you’re both there in the Sun day-school class, you’ll be able to take more pictures to use in Carl’s campaign. It’s not exactly kissing babies, but it’s pretty close if you take a picture of him with the children. You might even do a press release about it.”
“They’ll let someone take pictures in church?” Barbara asked. It didn’t sound proper to her.
“Sure,” Mrs. Hargrove shrugged. “Al though this is Sunday school and not church, so it’s even less formal. There will be graham crackers and crayons all around.”
“I don’t know about taking pictures.” The sheriff frowned. “Isn’t that a little—well, I wouldn’t want to seem self-serving.”
“This is a political campaign, Carl Wall. You need to be self-serving,” Mrs. Hargrove said bracingly. “Besides, people love to see their children in the paper. We might even be able to talk the Miles City paper into doing a feature on your campaign if you offer the Sunday-school pictures.”
“People want to know I can fight crime, not that I can pass out crayons to six-year-olds.”
“People want to know that you have this community’s best interests at heart,” Mrs. Hargrove declared. “There’s no better place to prove that than in my Sunday-school class.”
Mrs. Hargrove sent both Barbara and the sheriff a look.
Barbara nodded meekly. She doubted Mrs. Hargrove needed the sheriff in her class to maintain order.
Barbara looked out the screen door at Amanda and Bobby. Had she misjudged their need for answers to the questions in their lives?
They were so young, she had a hard time thinking that they might have questions about good and evil.
“And the pie will be lovely, too,” Mrs. Hargrove said as she opened the screen door to lead the way to her garage and the car seats. “I do like an apple pie for Sunday dinner. Maybe you’ll have a chance to make it before next Sunday.”
Barbara nodded. She’d planned to make a pie for Mrs. Hargrove anyway. The older woman had helped her with many things since Barbara had come to Dry Creek. “I’ll make one next Friday or so.”
“That’s plenty of time. Just don’t work on it today. I don’t want it to interfere with getting ready for your date to night,” Mrs. Hargrove said cheerfully.
The sheriff’s face went white.
“What date?” Barbara asked in confusion. “You must mean our dinner tonight. That’s not a date. It’s a meeting about the sheriff’s campaign.”
“Well, whatever it is, I hope you have fun,” Mrs. Hargrove waved her hands at them. “And don’t worry about rushing through dinner. It’s not good for a body’s digestion to eat fast.”
“We won’t hurry,” the sheriff said.
Barbara thought the sheriff looked a little grim. He didn’t need to look so worried. She knew it wasn’t a date.
“I’ll go pick up those booster seats,” the sheriff added as he stepped outside.
The children followed the sheriff when he went down the steps.
Mrs. Hargrove watched them all walk toward her garage. “Yes, Carl Wall is a fine man.” The older woman looked back at Barbara. “He’d make someone a fine—” Mrs. Hargrove paused a moment and studied Barbara’s face. “Sheriff. He’d make a fine sheriff.”
Barbara didn’t know why she was disappointed. She had planned to point out to Mrs. Hargrove just why she, Barbara Stone, didn’t care if the sheriff would make a fine husband to some woman or not. Or a fine date either. She had been so sure that was what the older woman was going to say.
And why shouldn’t Mrs. Hargrove say it? Barbara asked herself glumly. The older woman was right. The sheriff would make some woman a fine husband. He couldn’t spend his whole life driving divorced women and their children around in his car. He probably was doing it because it was his duty, anyway, especially now that she’d received the note to pass on to Neal.
“I need to buy a used car before long,” Barbara said.
Mrs. Hargrove nodded. “In time. Everything will happen in its time.”
Barbara wasn’t so sure about that. But she wasn’t about to tell the older woman her doubts. Mrs. Hargrove would make her go to Sunday school for more than just this Sunday if she thought Barbara was asking big questions. Barbara’s only consolation was that the sheriff didn’t seem any more enthused about teaching Sunday school than she was.
Chapter Eight
Floyd reached into his pocket for an antacid pill. He had been standing behind a tree next to this old deserted house, watching Barbara Strong and those kids of hers for the past hour, and they’d spent more time in the company of the sheriff than Floyd thought was necessary. He wondered what they were talking about during all that time. He’d seen that big box with the blue ribbon that Barbara had loaded into the trunk of the sheriff’s car. That had to be the cake. At least she had made it.
Floyd put the antacid pill in his mouth to let it dissolve.
And he tried to relax. Fortunately, no one knew he was the one who had ordered that cake for Neal Strong. Even if Barbara told the sheriff about the cake, no one could trace anything to him.
Floyd wondered what he was thinking: he shouldn’t be worried about the cake. He should be worried about what would happen to him if the word didn’t get through to Neal and Harlow that he needed more time to get their money deposited in those bank accounts.
Even though his two partners were locked up in jail, Floyd had no doubt that Harlow had the connections to see that Floyd was hurt if Harlow thought he’d been double-crossed. Harlow wouldn’t leave a bone unbroken in Floyd’s body. Harlow had said as much before they committed the robbery. At that time, Floyd had wondered what could go wrong.
Now Floyd knew everything that could go wrong, and he wished he could go back in time and tell Harlow that he, Floyd Spencer, was not the man Harlow needed for the job.
Floyd watched as Barbara Strong, her two children, and the sheriff all left the yard of that old woman’s house. Floyd wished he could talk to Neal and Harlow directly and assure them that he was doing all he could.
He didn’t like pinning his hopes on a cake.
Floyd looked more closely at the children walking beside Barbara and the sheriff. He could tell by the way Barbara put her hands on the boy’s shoulders that she loved him. He supposed even Neal loved the boy.
Floyd thought a minute. He sure hoped Neal loved his son. If the message didn’t get to Neal with the cake, Floyd would have to think of some other way to get the attention of his partners. The son was Floyd’s best bet. Neal would make sure nothing happened to Floyd if Floyd had his son.
Floyd took a deep sigh. He just hoped everything went okay with that cake. He’d have to go to the jail and see if anyone took that cake inside. If the cake was inside, Neal would get the message. At least, Floyd hoped so.
Floyd took another look at the boy. The kid was kind of skinny, so he shouldn’t be much of a problem if Floyd needed some extra insurance. And the girl was small, too, which was good if he had to take them both.
Floyd gave another sigh. He didn’t like any of this. He reached for another antacid. If this kept up, he was going to have to get another packet of them. He’d bought this one at a little grocery store next to the motel where he’d been staying in Miles City. At this rate, he’d need to buy another packet tonight.
Chapter Nine
The sheriff was walking down the street away from Mrs. Hargrove’s place when he got a bad feeling that this cold gray morning was going to bring him more trouble than it already had. It was about ten o’clock and both booster seats were slung over his back, one resting on each shoulder. Bobby was holding onto the left edge of the sheriff’s jacket.
Barbara was walking on the sheriff’s other side and she held Amanda’s hand in hers. Earlier, the sheriff had tried to balance both booster seats on one shoulder so he’d have one arm to swing in unison with Barbara’s just in case she could be convinced to hold his hand to keep her fingers warm. He’d almost dropped both seats before he decided any hand-holding would have to wait for another chilly spring day. It was March, so another day like today would come along soon enough so that wasn’t what was troubling him.
No, the bad feeling he had wasn’t about the weather. The sheriff wondered if it was nothing more than a sense of being fenced in. He was surrounded by a woman and her children. It was an unusual place for him. Maybe he felt trapped. No, he realized, as he tried the idea on in his mind to see if it fit. It wasn’t that way at all.
In fact, he kind of liked this feeling he had, and if this was what trapped felt like, then it was okay with him. A man could get used to being pulled in all directions and having little voices fire off questions at him while he kept his eyes on the ruts in the road just to be sure he didn’t lead one of the children to make a misstep that would cause them to take a tumble.
No, it definitely wasn’t feeling trapped that was the problem, the sheriff thought as he looked up from the ruts. When he raised his eyes, he saw where the danger really was. It was coming straight at them and moving fast.
Pete Denning was stomping down the street, swinging his arms and muttering things that were probably curses, although the sheriff couldn’t hear the actual words so he didn’t know for sure. Even from a distance, the sheriff could feel Pete’s eyes glare at him. Some thing was wrong. And, whatever was wrong, the sheriff figured Pete thought the sheriff was it.
A wind was blowing around a few things that rustled and a dog was barking some where, but the sheriff still thought he caught the sound of a soft growl coming from Pete’s throat—which was
odd, since Pete was wearing a white shirt that was so well pressed that it had creases down the long sleeves. It wasn’t the kind of shirt that a man would normally wear if he was planning to make trouble. Added to that, the ranch hand’s boots were polished until they looked like they’d just come out of the store’s box.
Unless the sheriff was mistaken, Pete was even wearing that belt buckle he had won in the rodeo in Miles City last year. That buckle was Pete’s pride and joy. He kept it dangling from the mirror in his old pickup, vowing it was too good to wear.
Pete was dressed like he was going to a funeral, but the sheriff was never wrong about the fighting look in a man’s eyes, and Pete had that look all over him.
Pete stopped a few yards away from the sheriff and braced his legs.
The sheriff didn’t have room to get into a good fighting stance, not with Barbara on one side of him and Bobby on the other. Even if he could get ready to fight, he wasn’t about to fight a Dry Creek citizen without knowing what the other man was so agitated about anyway.
“Is there a problem?” the sheriff asked in what he hoped was a friendly tone. Until the sheriff knew Pete’s intentions, he wasn’t going a step closer to the man. And before he moved, he would see that Barbara and the children were out of harm’s way and he’d put down those booster seats on some dry patch of ground so they wouldn’t be damaged.
After that, if Pete was still determined to brawl, the sheriff wouldn’t back down
“Is it about the permit for your pickup?” the sheriff prodded when Pete was silent.
“You know it’s not about the pickup,” Pete ground out and then spat on the ground. “It’s about you making fools out of all of the rest of us guys. You just wanted a head start. You and your phony year of peace.”
“Oh, goodness, what’s that?” Barbara asked as she moved up until she was even with the sheriff. She was still holding Amanda’s hand. “Is the sheriff’s department sponsoring some campaign for non-violence or something? I could make a flyer.”
Sugar Plums for Dry Creek & At Home in Dry Creek Page 23
