“Why, Flint Harris, what a thing to say—if your grandmother heard you, she’d—she’d…” Mrs. Hargrove appeared at a loss for what his grandmother would do.
Flint helped her out. He smiled. “She’d make me sit in that straight-back chair by the window while she prayed out loud asking the Lord to help me count my blessings and forgive my faults. I used to hate that more than anything. Used to ask her to just take away the keys to my pickup like normal kids.”
“That would be Essie,” Mrs. Hargrove said fondly. “She prayed over everything.”
“She once prayed over a chicken that was sick—fool bird ate a marble.” Flint could still picture his grandmother. She had unruly gray hair that she wore pushed back with an elastic headband and strong lines in her face that even wrinkles couldn’t unsettle. “I’m glad she’s not here to see me now.”
“Oh, well, she would understand—you didn’t know Francis’s dad would set you up that way.”
“It’s not just that. It’s who I am. She’d be brokenhearted if she saw me now.”
“Essie was tougher than you think. Her heart didn’t break easy. Besides, she always said it was never too late to repent. If you don’t like who you’ve become or what you’ve done, it’s not too late to ask God for forgiveness and start anew.”
“She was wrong,” Flint said as he took the last gulp of hot coffee and stood. “Sometimes it is definitely too late.”
“Flint L. Harris, that’s utter nonsense you’re talking.” Mrs. Hargrove stared up at Flint from her perch on the steps. “Just because you’ve had a few troubles in life—”
“Troubles?” Flint gave a wry laugh. “Troubles were the good times.”
“Essie always worried so over you, child,” Mrs. Hargrove said softly as she stood. “Said you took all the bad times to heart. Like they were all your fault. Your parents dying. Even the weather—you used to fret if there wasn’t enough rain to suit you.”
“Grandma needed rain for that garden of hers.”
“Your grandma got by just fine with what the Lord provided—she didn’t need you to fret for her.”
Flint remembered the lines on his grandmother’s face. “I couldn’t stand by helpless.”
“Ah, child.” Mrs. Hargrove reached out a hand and laid it on Flint’s arm. “We’re all helpless when it comes right down to it. We’re dependent on Him for the air we breathe, the food we eat. So don’t go thinking you need to do His job. The world is a mighty big weight for anyone to be carrying around—even a grown man like you.”
The touch on his arm almost undid Flint until he wondered what Mrs. Hargrove would do if he confessed what troubles had crossed his path in life. He’d seen corruption. Hatred. Evil at its finest. A man couldn’t see what he’d seen in life and remain untouched.
Flint winced inwardly. He sure didn’t stack up pretty when you stood him next to a choirboy like Sam. He’d wager the man didn’t even have a parking ticket to haunt his dreams.
Flint felt like an old man. He’d seen too much bad to truly believe in good anymore. He wasn’t fit for a woman like Francis.
“Oh, don’t let me forget to give you this.” Mrs. Hargrove reached into the large pocket of the jacket and pulled out his grandmother’s Bible. “She’d want you to have it.”
Flint grimaced as he reached for the book. “I always regretted just leaving it there after she died. Seemed disrespectful somehow. I should have come back for it years ago.”
“The important thing is that you came back now,” Mrs. Hargrove said softly. “Even if it was just to do your job.”
“Speaking of my job—” Flint had left the inspector inside with the last of the paperwork “I better get back to it.”
The barn was almost empty. The folding chairs were neatly stacked against the wall. The crepe paper streamers were being swept into a jumble in the middle of the floor by two aging cowboys. The refreshment table was stripped bare, and that was where the inspector was sitting and filling out the last of the forms.
“I always wonder if it’s worth it to arrest them,” Flint said softly as he walked over and sat down in a folding chair near the inspector.
The inspector looked up and chuckled. “The bean counters would just add another form asking us to explain why we let them go.”
“I suppose so.”
“Besides, I’m almost finished. I told the sheriff I’d come by in the morning around six and we’d set up the interrogation. Should really do it tonight, but there’s a storm moving in.”
“Oh, I can meet with the sheriff—”
The inspector looked up from the papers and assessed him. “You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days now—I can meet with the sheriff.”
The heaters had been turned off in the barn an hour ago when the guests left. The air, both inside and outside, had gradually grown heavy with the promise of snow. The windows had another layer of frost gathering on them.
“Besides,” the inspector continued softly. His breath clouded around his face. “You couldn’t bring Francis to the interrogation.”
Flint grimaced. “Trust me. I doubt she’d go anywhere with me.”
The inspector nodded. “It’ll be a challenge to guard her.”
Flint wasn’t surprised the inspector had followed his line of thinking. They’d worked together for so long they knew the routine. “She’s not safe here. Not until we arrest the man who hired those goons to do the kidnapping.”
The inspector nodded again. “She doesn’t know she’s still in danger?”
Flint snorted. “Francis? She didn’t believe she was in danger the first time.”
“Too bad. If she was scared, we could get her to agree to spend some time in the jailhouse in Miles City. Protective custody. Or to at least have a twenty-four-hour guard on her. I don’t like the thought of you having to guard her.”
“Me? I’ve guarded hundreds of folks.”
“But never your ex-wife,” the inspector said as he laid down the pen and folded the last of the forms. “Besides, it’s not her that I’m worried about. It’s you. If we weren’t out in the middle of nowhere I’d ask one of the other boys to come over and guard her.”
“I can handle it.”
The inspector grunted and looked square at Flint. The older man’s eyes darkened with concern. “Just how come is it that you’ve never married?”
“Lots of guys in this business are single,”
The inspector grunted again. “That’s because they marry and divorce and marry and divorce. Not many never marry.” The older man paused a minute and then shrugged. “Well, it’s your business, I guess.”
“I won’t even need to see Francis when I guard her,” Flint said defensively. “I thought I’d just do a stakeout. Nobody needs to know I’m there.”
The inspector looked up at this sharply. “There’s a blizzard coming in. Folks around here say it might fall to ten below before morning. You can’t play the Lone Ranger on that horse of yours tonight.”
The inspector was right. Flint knew it. He just hadn’t faced the truth yet. “I’m not sure Francis would let me stay in the house with them.”
“That brother of hers won’t be too happy, either, but he’d do anything to protect her.”
Flint snorted. “Trouble is—it’s me he’s protecting her from.”
“I’ll call and give him the order,” the inspector said as though that settled it. “If one of my men has to go out there on a night like this, the least Elkton can do is to let you inside the house.”
The chair in the Elkton kitchen was comfortable enough for sitting, but not comfortable enough for sleeping. Flint wondered if that was why Garth had pulled it out of his den begrudgingly when Flint had shown up at one o’clock in the morning. The inspector had made the arrangements and Flint only had to tap lightly on the kitchen door to have it opened by Garth.
“Thanks for coming.” Garth ground the words out reluctantly. “It wasn’t necessary, though. The boys and I can keep
Francis safe.”
“Like you did tonight?”
Garth grunted. “If you hadn’t taken off with her like a wild man, she would have been all right.”
“She would have been kidnapped. Maybe worse, with those goons.”
The two men measured each other for a moment with their eyes. Garth was the first to look away. “Like I said—thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome.”
Garth reached behind him and pulled a floor lamp closer to the chair. He snapped the light on. “I’ve turned the heat down a little, but you should be warm enough. I’ve brought a few blankets down.”
“Thanks.”
Garth smiled. “If you get hungry, there’s some cold lobster in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks. I’ll be fine.”
Garth turned to leave the kitchen. “We’ve got a double lock on all the doors now, and the windows are frozen shut. I don’t expect trouble.”
“Good.”
Garth looked at him and nodded before he started up the stairs.
Flint settled into the chair. He’d spent more hours lately than he wanted to count on Honey’s round back, so a chair, even an uncomfortable one, was welcome. The sounds of the kitchen lulled him—the steady hum of the refrigerator, the soft meter of the clock, the low whistle of the blizzard as it started to blow into the area.
Only a fool would be out on a night like tonight, Flint thought as he relaxed. The boss of the rustling outfit wouldn’t be able to get replacement men into Dry Creek until at least tomorrow. Tonight they were safe.
Flint half woke while the light was so new it was more black fog than anything. Sometime in the night, he’d left the discomfort of the chair and slept, wrapped in several wool blankets, on the kitchen floor. He’d unstrapped his holster gun and laid it beside his head. He’d used his boots for a pillow, even though, with his six-foot-three frame, that meant his toes were sticking out the end of the blankets. He wondered if he wouldn’t have been better to have left the boots on his feet for the night. His dreams hadn’t merited a pillow, anyway. He’d tossed and turned, chasing faceless phantoms across a barren landscape until, somehow, the face of Francis appeared and his whole body rested.
The air snapped with cold. Frost edged its way up the windowpane nearest him. But, cold and miserable as it was, Flint woke with one thought drumming through his head—he, Flint L. Harris, miserable man that he was, was married to Francis Elkton. Legally married to her. That had to count for something.
He had a sudden urge to get up and go pick her some flowers like he’d done in that long-ago time. Yellow roses were her favorite. He could almost picture her smelling a bouquet of roses. He decided to close his eyes and let his mind go back to dreaming for a few sweet minutes to see if the face of Francis would return.
Francis hadn’t slept. The moonlight filtered in through the small frosted windows in her bedroom. She had lain in her bed and counted the stripes on the faded wallpaper of her old bedroom until she thought she’d go crazy. In the past, counting had always calmed her so she could sleep.
When the counting didn’t work, she’d mentally made a list. List making was good. She made a list of the groceries they would need to buy to make lasagna for everyone some day this week. With Sylvia, the kids from her youth center and the ranch hands, they were feeding forty-some people at each meal. Planning ingredients required arithmetic and list making. Francis spent fifteen minutes figuring out how much mozzarella cheese they would need. It didn’t help.
Thinking of cheese reminded her of Sam. She didn’t question why. She grimaced just remembering him. She supposed he was peacefully sleeping downstairs on the living room sofa. What was she supposed to do with the man? He couldn’t have shown up in her life at a worse moment. With luck, he’d see reason in the morning and catch a flight back to Denver.
And Flint—she was still reeling from the knowledge that she had actually been married to him for the past twenty years.
When they’d gotten back to the ranch last night, Garth had gone into the den and pulled out an old business envelope. Francis’s name was handwritten on the outside of the sealed envelope, and Garth explained that before he died their father had given it to him to give to Francis when she became engaged. Garth had always assumed it was a sentimental father-to-daughter letter. It wasn’t.
Francis had left the whole envelope on the kitchen table. She’d opened it enough to know the contents were the old divorce papers.
No wonder she was unable to sleep, Francis finally decided around four o’clock. Her whole life had turned upside down in the past twelve hours. She’d seen Flint again. She’d found out he was her husband. She’d thoroughly embarrassed herself to the point that he felt he had to kiss her to save her pride. She’d felt both sixteen and sixty at the same time. It stung that the only reason he was even here in Dry Creek was that he had a job to do. At least she’d had the decency to come back here to mourn their lost love. He hadn’t even come back to pick up his family’s Bible.
Finally, the darkness of the night started to soften. The hands on her bedside clock told Francis it was almost five o’clock. She’d given up on sleep, and she got out of bed and wrapped a warm robe around her. She might as well set out some sausage to thaw for breakfast.
She had checked last night, and there was a case of sausages in the freezer downstairs. There were one hundred and sixty links in a case.
If Francis hadn’t been dividing the number of sausages by the number of breakfast guests, she would have noticed there was something a little too lumpy about the pile of blankets that someone had left on the kitchen floor. But she hadn’t wanted to turn on any lights in case they would wake Sam in the living room. She was used to the half-light of early Montana mornings.
Her first clue that something was peculiar about the pile of blankets was the whispered endearment, “Rose.” She recognized the voice even as she was tripping on a blanket corner—or was it a boot—and was falling square into the pile of—
Umph! Chest. Francis felt the breath slam out of her body and then felt her chin solidly resting on a man’s chest. She groaned inside. Even if she didn’t know the hoarse voice, she’d recognize that smell anywhere—half horse and half aftershave. She moved slightly, and then realized her dilemma. Her elbows were braced one on each side of Flint’s chest, and her fuzzy chenille bathrobe was so loosely tied that, if she raised herself up more than an inch or two, any man from Flint’s perspective, if he opened his eyes, would see her navel by way of her chin and all of the territory between the two.
Not that—she lifted her eyes slightly to confirm that his eyes were closed—not that he was looking.
Francis studied his eyelids for any betraying twitch that said he was really awake and just sparing them both the embarrassment of the situation. There was none.
Francis let out her breath in relief. A miracle had happened. He hadn’t woken up when she fell on him, and if she moved lightly, she would be up and off of him without him even knowing she’d fallen.
The congratulatory thought had no sooner raced through Francis’s mind than she had another one—only a dead man wouldn’t feel someone falling right on top of him! Francis moved just slightly and cocked her head to the side. She laid her ear down where Flint’s heart should be, and the solid pounding reassured her that he was alive.
Francis dismissed the suspicion that he was drunk—she would smell alcohol if that were the case. He must just be so worn out that he’d sleep through anything. She’d heard of that happening.
Flint lay very still. He was afraid if he opened his eyes Francis would stop the delightful wiggling she was doing on his chest. He’d felt the smooth warmth of her cheek as she laid it over his heart. It was sweet and arousing all at the same time. He almost couldn’t keep his pulse normal. He sure couldn’t keep his eyes completely closed. His eyelids shifted ever so slightly and his eyes opened a slit so that he could see the ivory warmth of Francis—he looked and almost sighed. She
could pose for drawings of the goddess Venus rising from her bath.
And then everything changed. Flint could almost see the moment when the warmth of Francis turned to stone.
Francis had managed to locate the belt on her robe and cinch it tighter before she realized what she had interrupted. Flint was dreaming. A floating half-awake dream that kept him in bed even though the only pillows he had were his own boots and his mattress was nothing but hard-as-nails floorboards. A dream that sweet wasn’t about some distant movie star or unknown woman. No, Flint was lying there with that silly dream smile on his face because of a woman named Rose. Rose! Suddenly, Francis didn’t care if she did wake Flint up.
With the flat of her hands fully open on the floor on either side of Flint, Francis lifted herself up and none-too-carefully rolled off Flint.
“It’s you.” Flint finally opened his eyes and smiled.
Francis was sitting beside him, a peach-colored fuzzy robe tied around her tighter than a nun’s belt. Her hair wasn’t combed, and a frown had settled on her forehead.
Francis grunted. “Yeah, it’s me. I suppose you were expecting this Rose woman.”
“Huh?”
“Not that you aren’t entitled to dream about whoever you want to dream about—”
Francis stood up.
Flint lay there. He’d never noticed Francis’s toes before—never seen them from this angle before. But right across from him, sitting as they did at eye level to him since he was flat on the floor, he marveled at them. How had he never noticed what dainty little toes she had?
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Francis demanded in a low voice. She didn’t want to wake the whole household. “Who let you in?”
“Garth.”
Her brother was the densest man on the face of the earth. “I guess Garth would take in anyone on a night like last night.”
A Bride for Dry Creek Page 7
