“It’s a cold snap, all right,” Elmer agreed. “Almost didn’t get the pickup started to come down.”
Yesterday Glory had set up her easel close to the front window of the hardware store. The night cold had frosted over the edges of the large window, but the middle was clear. She could look out and see the whole main street of Dry Creek.
Coffee could wait a minute, she decided. The view from this window was postcard perfect.
The Big Sheep Mountains stood solid and round in the distance, their low peaks wearing blankets of fresh velvety snow. About halfway down, the thick snow changed to thin gray patches mingled with muddy-green shrubs. On the frozen ground right outside in Dry Creek, old snow lined the asphalt street and bunched up against the buildings.
“How long has this town been here?” Glory asked as she turned to Elmer and Jacob. The two men were putting wood in the fire.
“Since the days of the Enlarged Homestead Act of 1909,” Elmer said as he put a match to the kindling. “Folks—a lot of them from Scandinavia—came here. Trainloads of them—a body could lay claim to 320 acres of Montana and all they had to do was live on it for three years. Sounded like a dream come true.”
Elmer paused to put his hands out to the warming fire. “Course, they couldn’t predict the drought. And the hard times. Wasn’t long before people all over these parts were leaving. They couldn’t scrape together enough to plant crops, to eat, to live. But old man Gossett—father to the Gossett who lives next to the parsonage—owned the land here and he told folks we’d make it if we worked together. That’s when they founded the town—called it Dry Creek after a little creek that used to flow into the Yellowstone. Folks thought the creek would come back after the drought ended and we could change the name of the town. The creek didn’t return, but we kept the name. Kinda liked it after a while. Reminded us things have been worse. Gave us hope. We’ve always scraped by in Dry Creek before and we’ll do it again.”
“Hmph,” Jacob added as he shut the door to the old woodstove.
Glory didn’t know if he was agreeing or disagreeing “What do the young people do?” She was still thinking of Duane and Linda. “Do they stay or move away?”
“Most leave,” Elmer said with a touch of scorn as he reached behind him for the electric coffeemaker. “There’s not much work here and what work there is is hard work. Kids nowadays want it easy.”
“Can’t blame the kids for wanting to eat.” Jacob defended them as he measured coffee into the filter.
“Maybe you need to start some kind of business here,” Glory offered as she walked closer to the fire and rubbed her hands “I’ve read about Midwestern towns that brought in businesses so there’d be jobs for people. Maybe you could try that.”
Elmer gave a bitter chuckle. “You see the window there. Look out it. Do you see anything that would make a big corporation move here?”
“I didn’t say it needed to be a big corporation,” Glory persisted as she spread her hands out to catch the heat that was already coming from the small cast-iron stove. “All you need is a few small businesses. Maybe an outfit that makes something.”
“The women at the church made up a batch of jams one year that were good—I always thought they could sell them,” Jacob said thoughtfully as he put his wooden chair in front of the fire.
“Well, that would be a start,” Glory said as the bell over the door rang. A gust of cold air followed Matthew into the store. “Maybe they could hook up with a catalog. Do special orders. It’d definitely be a start.”
The crutches kept Matthew from swiveling to close the door quickly, so another gust of cold came in before he got the door shut. “Sorry.” Matthew wiped some fresh snowflakes off his wool coat. “Start of what?”
“Glory was thinking of new business ideas for Dry Creek,” Elmer informed him as the coffee started to perk.
“What kind of businesses?” Matthew asked as he took off his jacket and hung it on a nail behind the counter.
Glory tried not to look, but the snowflakes made Matthew’s hair shine. He had flakes on his eyelashes and eyebrows. The cold drew the skin tight against his cheeks and forehead. Lean a pair of skis against his shoulder and he could be an advertisement for sweaters or skis or some resort. He could be a model.
“Any kind of business.” Glory shrugged. “Jams. Woodworking. Modeling.”
“Modeling? You mean sitting for a painting?” Matthew asked thoughtfully. “Would anyone pay for that?”
“I’ve heard they do if you’re nude.” Jacob poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I wasn’t thinking of nude modeling.” Glory blushed.
“Kind of artistic for the folks around here,” Elmer said as he joined Jacob at the coffeepot. “But I suppose folks would do it to make a buck.” He looked at Glory. His face was suspiciously deadpan. “What do you art people pay for nude modeling, anyway?”
“I’ve never paid anything,” Glory protested.
“Well, you can’t expect someone to do it for free,” Jacob chided her, and then paused. “Well, maybe they would for you. What do you think, Reverend, would you model for free for the little angel here?”
Matthew choked on his laughter. He didn’t know if it was possible for Glory’s face to turn pinker. He kind of liked it that way. “Maybe if she did one of those abstract paintings so no one would recognize me. I wouldn’t want to embarrass the boys.”
“I don’t paint nude pictures. I wasn’t even thinking of nude pictures. I meant modeling for catalogs and things.”
Elmer nodded wisely. “Ah, underwear.”
“No, not underwear.” Glory forced her voice to stay calm. “I meant sweaters. Jackets. Clothes. That kind of thing. But that’s only one idea. The jam idea is better. Why doesn’t one of you mention that to the women?”
“Guess we could,” Jacob conceded.
“There could be a big market for it if the dude ranch—I mean, the guest ranch goes into operation.”
“Don’t remind me,” Elmer said.
But reminding him was exactly what Glory intended to do. It allowed her to sit back while the two older men lamented what the dudes would do to Dry Creek. She felt like fanning her face, but she knew the men would notice her behavior and remark on it, since it was still chilly inside the store. So she resolutely began to mix some oils on her palate. Blue and green. She’d use blue and green for something. She never should have thought about modeling—any kind of modeling. Even sweaters made her think of broad shoulders. And hats made her think of masculine chin lines. And belts of trim waists. No, she should wipe out any thoughts of modeling from her mind. She’d focus on the blue and green. She had the colors mixed before she realized she’d mixed the exact color of Matthew’s eyes.
Matthew watched Glory bristle and pretend to ignore the older men. He wondered if he should remind her that she’d neglected to put on the smock that she’d worn yesterday when she was working with oils. It’d be a shame if she got paint on the sweater she was wearing, a light pink that emphasized the color in her cheeks. He rather liked that pink sweater—it made her look cuddly. Maybe instead of saying something he should just take her smock over to her.
It was hard to be gallant on crutches, Matthew thought, grimacing as he held out the smock to Glory. His hand had pressed wrinkles in it where he’d clutched it close to the bar of his crutch handle.
“Thank you.”
The day passed slowly for Matthew. Glory spelled him at the counter so he could go home and bake the cupcakes he’d forgotten to make. The church day-care staff was having a bake sale to help pay for the set design for the Christmas pageant.
“They need any bales of hay?” Elmer asked when Matthew got back. “Tell them I can donate all they need.”
“And if the manger needs fixing, I can see to it,” Jacob offered.
“I don’t know if hay and a manger is going to be enough this year,” Matthew said as he hobbled behind the counter and sat down on his stool. “Everyone’s got it
in their head that this year the pageant needs to be special.”
“I could spray-paint the manger gold,” Jacob suggested. “Maybe put some bells on it or something. Tack on some holly, even.”
“I’ll pass the word along to Mrs. Hargrove.” Matthew chuckled. “Don’t know how else to jazz things up.”
“Jazz,” Glory muttered as her brush slipped. She’d been so engrossed in painting she’d completely forgotten about the Jazz Man and Linda.
“Saltshaker’s on the stove.” Matthew called directions to Glory from his place by the sink. Tonight he was letting everyone help with the dinner. The twins were in the living room making sure the magazines were set straight. Glory had an apron on and was boiling water for pasta. They were having chicken parmigiana.
“So you’re going to go with the ‘just a team’ theme?” Glory asked as she bent down to locate a strainer to drain the pasta once it cooked. “Horses in harness, that sort of thing?”
“Well, I suppose.”
“So what do you want me to say?”
“Whatever you want,” Matthew said as he grinned over at her. “You’re half of the team. You decide.”
“Well, this half of the team isn’t so good at giving advice.” Glory found the strainer. “Look at what my advice has already done.”
“Now, that wasn’t your fault.” Matthew defended her staunchly. “Linda came to you and asked for your opinion. Besides, all couples have this discussion—best to do it before the wedding.”
“Let’s just hope there’ll still be a wedding after I’m through with them.”
Matthew laughed.
“More garlic bread?” Glory offered the plate to Duane. He was wearing a suit and tie and Linda was wearing a long gray dress. The couple were obviously nervous and on their best behavior. Even the twins were sitting at the table politely eating.
Duane nodded and took a piece.
“You’ll have to give me your recipe,” Linda said, smiling slightly at Glory.
“Not my recipe. Matthew made the garlic bread.”
“Oh, really?” Linda appeared interested and gave Duane a meaningful look. “So Matthew helped with the meal.”
Glory choked on the sip of water she’d taken. “No, I helped. Matthew cooked the dinner—garlic bread to chicken parmigiana. I helped by boiling water for the pasta.”
“He did it all!” Linda’s face lost its politeness. She was delighted. She nudged Duane. “He cooked the dinner!”
Duane groaned and looked at Matthew in disgust. “Now see what you’ve done.”
Matthew nodded. “I’d guess the guys tell you cooking is women’s work?”
Duane nodded.
“Ever think how helpless that makes you?” Matthew helped himself to another piece of garlic bread.
“Helpless?” Duane growled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, look at me,” Matthew said. “I’ve had to learn how to cook the hard way. Every man needs to know how to cook and clean. The chores should be split.”
“But I thought you said being married was teamwork,” Duane protested. “I do half, she does half. Nothing that says my half needs to be meals. Besides, getting married better be about more than who’s going to do the cooking!”
Matthew laughed. “It is. But I’ve got to warn you. Being married has its surprises!”
“Like what?”
Matthew sobered. He didn’t want his failures to dampen the enthusiasm of the young couple before him. “I never knew what it would feel like to be so responsible for someone. I’d sworn to take care of that other person with all of my heart and all of my might. To do anything to keep her safe.”
Matthew stopped himself. When the dull pain of loss at Susie’s death had begun to ease, the guilt had started. He hadn’t kept Susie safe. His faith had not been enough. But that was his failure. It was between him and God. No one else needed to suffer it with him. He should have sidestepped that question.
“Anyway, back to cooking.” Matthew forced himself to smile. “The twins have paid the price of my learning to cook.”
Duane cleared his throat. “Guess I could learn to cook some things. Maybe breakfast. Or spaghetti. Or something.”
“My daddy can even cook angel cake,” Josh boasted.
Glory groaned. “I’m not an angel.”
“Not even a little?” Linda asked hesitantly.
Glory shook her head. Something was going on here. She didn’t like the guilty look on the girl’s face.
“Well, Debra Guthert asked me about you. I think she’s writing you up as an angel for the paper in Billings.”
Matthew had a sinking sensation. Debra Guthert lived in Miles City and wrote the “Southeastern” column for the Billings Gazette. Her column covered the ranches and small towns along the Yellowstone River, northeast of Billings past Terry and Glendive to the North Dakota border and the area south of Interstate 94 from Hardin to the Chalk Buttes. Except for a few colorful announcements from the Crow Indian Reservation, it was usually mundane things like family reunions and rattlesnake sightings. “Why didn’t someone stop her?”
Matthew didn’t need an answer to the question. An angel would make the Dry Creek Christmas pageant the social event of the winter. Which would mean—suddenly Matthew felt much better.
“You have to stay now.” Matthew turned to Glory. Even Glory couldn’t refuse the power of the press. “It’s in print.”
Glory looked around her. Five pairs of hopeful eyes. She groaned. How could she leave Dry Creek now?
Matthew stared into the embers of the fire. He’d wrapped so many blankets around himself he felt like a mummy. He was warm enough. The sofa was soft enough. The house was quiet enough. But he couldn’t sleep. The frozen pain he’d lived in for the past four years was shifting. He could hear the cracking inside him as surely as he could hear the cracking of the Yellowstone River when the spring thaw came. And that cracking scared him. If his pain left him, he knew he’d want to love again. And how could he love again? He couldn’t take another chance on love. He’d failed one woman. He didn’t need to fail another one, especially not Glory.
“Go ahead and call her,” Douglas urged the Bullet. The sadness in the old man’s eyes was steady. “You don’t know what I’d give for one last phone call with my Emily.”
Douglas was standing in the guest bedroom of his house with the receiver of a black phone stretched out to the Bullet.
What have I gotten myself into? The Bullet didn’t know what to do. He was sailing in uncharted water. He knew how to act around other hit men. He knew how to act around clients. But a friend? A new friend? He didn’t know the rules.
Chapter Seven
Glory wished she had a pair of sunglasses to hide behind. Two people had already stopped by the hardware store to ask her to sign their copy of the “Southeastern” column in this morning’s Billings Gazette. Linda had not exaggerated. The column talked in glowing terms of the two little boys who believed an angel had come to Dry Creek for Christmas.
Mrs. Hargrove predicted that attendance at the Christmas pageant would soar now that everyone from Billings knew about the angel. In fact, it appeared that attendance might be too high. No one knew what to do with all the people they were expecting.
“We could open the windows to the church and people could stand outside and watch the pageant through them,” Jacob said. Earlier he’d noted that the “Southeastern” column might have spread farther than Billings. “They might not hear the shepherds singing, but they could at least see them come down the aisle.”
Jacob, Elmer and Mrs. Hargrove were gathered around the potbellied stove, drinking coffee and planning the Christmas pageant. Mrs. Hargrove had called a substitute to take over for her in the day-care program so that she could devote herself to planning for the pageant now that it looked as if it would be such a big affair. It was already December 22. They didn’t have much time to plan for all the extra people coming. Glory decided that if you didn’t listen too clos
ely to the words, you would almost think the three were planning a war. Or at least a Southern ball.
“We’ll need a place for coats.” Mrs. Hargrove had a clipboard on her lap and a pencil in her hand.
“It’ll be too cold. People won’t give up their coats,” Matthew said from his stool behind the counter.
Matthew was, Glory would almost swear to it, sorting nuts and bolts. What else could he be doing? He had a long piece of twine and he kept attaching first one nut and then a bolt to it. She was the only one who was sane this morning, she assured herself as she added the Madonna look to her sketch. She’d found out that Lori, the little girl who wanted the Betsy Tall doll, was going to be Mary in the pageant. Glory had decided to do a rough ink sketch of the girl from memory. It might come in useful for a program for the pageant. Now that she’d decided to stay for the event, she found herself getting excited.
“There’s not going to be enough room.” Mrs. Hargrove repeated her worry as she wrote a number on her notepad. “The church won’t hold more than a hundred people. And that’s if we put folding chairs in the aisles, open the doors to the kitchen and move the tract rack into the office.”
“The young’uns are smaller, they’ll squeeze in, sit on a parent’s lap—maybe even on the floor,” Elmer suggested. He rested his elbows on the table that usually held a checkerboard. Today the game board was missing and a pot of coffee stood in its place.
“Maybe we could get in a hundred and fifty.” Mrs. Hargrove frowned as she added some numbers on her notepad.
“Wonder if we should charge?” Jacob asked from the sidelines. He’d stood up to get a new mug and was walking back toward the stove.
“Charge!” Mrs. Hargrove puffed up indignantly. “Why, we can’t charge! It’s a holy moment. Christ coming to earth. Shouldn’t be any money changing hands.”
“I just thought it’d make things easier for Christmas.” Jacob spread his hands and sat back down on a straight-backed chair. “Raise a little money for the children and all.”
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