A Bride for Dry Creek

by Janet Tronstad

  “I think you’d pick any place you could, Romeo. Any place. Any time. It’s just that when it’s my sister, you go through me first.”

  Francis looked at the two men and sighed. That’s all she needed. A few macho games. “Garth, I’m not a child. I can take care of myself.”

  Garth looked at her and shook his head. “But the chicken coop?”

  “I was gathering the eggs.”

  “At this hour of the morning?” Garth finally looked around and saw both the basket of eggs and the rooster, strutting aggressively in the corner. Garth seemed to visibly relax. “Well, no wonder you’re flat on the ground. Big Ben here doesn’t like to get up before the sun. I’m surprised he didn’t chase you out of here.”

  “I think you interrupted him,” Flint said. The black rooster was watching the three humans with a growing annoyance in its beady eyes. “He doesn’t want to take on all three of us—at least not yet.”

  “Don’t worry, big fella,” Garth cooed to the rooster. “We can take a hint. We’ll leave you to your beauty sleep.”

  It took Francis fifteen minutes to pick all of the straw out of her hair. She sat on a straight-backed chair in the kitchen and willed the full light of morning to arrive.

  “Well, I didn’t know everything was all right,” Sam protested for the tenth time. “I thought I should call the sheriff. What am I to think when I hear a scream and Garth tears out of here like the place is on fire?”

  Francis tried to be fair. The fact that Flint had wrapped his body around hers when he thought she was in danger and Sam had merely put a call in to the sheriff did not make Sam a coward. Cautious maybe, but not a coward.

  “I can’t reach either one of them. That means they’re both coming.” Flint paced the kitchen with his cellular phone in his hand. “I hate to have the sheriff and Inspector Kahn drive all the way out here when we’ve got it under control.”

  “But I didn’t know,” Sam repeated. “I would never have raised the alarm if I hadn’t thought you were both in trouble.”

  Flint grunted. They were in trouble, all right. Not that Lover Boy had to know about it. “The rooster did make enough noise to raise the dead.”

  Sam nodded and pulled his blankets closer around his shoulders. “I did what I thought best.”

  “Of course you did,” Francis reassured him. Each time she ran a comb through her hair more straw appeared. She knew what she was doing wrong. She’d given in to vanity and was using a tiny silver comb instead of the working woman’s brush she would normally use. And all because Flint insisted on watching her. Well, he wasn’t so much watching as guarding. But she wanted him to know she was classy. That she didn’t ordinarily lounge around in a fuzzy old robe and pick straw from her hair. She hoped he noticed that the comb was real silver—it was one of her few truly elegant, feminine possessions.

  “Well, I expect they’ll be here any minute now.” Flint nodded toward the basket of eggs on the table. “I think it’s only fair that they get some breakfast when they do arrive.” He looked at Sam. “You want to scramble the eggs or tackle the pancake batter?”

  “Me?” The man looked like Flint had asked him to skin a snake.

  “You cook, don’t you?” Flint said as he looked around the kitchen. He opened a drawer and pulled out a spatula. Then he reached down and got a glass bowl off a bottom shelf.

  “Well, I guess…” Sam stuttered.

  “Good,” Flint said as he put the bowl on the kitchen table. He hadn’t cooked an egg in over a decade, but Lover Boy didn’t need to know that. “The inspector likes a little cheese in his scrambled eggs. It’s not good for him, but it’ll put him in a better mood.” Flint opened a canister of flour on the counter. “On second thought, put a lot of cheese in those eggs. It’s a long trip out here and the roads are probably packed with snow. He might have had to use a shovel.”

  “Okay,” Sam agreed and then looked at Francis sheepishly. “You’ll help me?”

  “She can’t,” Flint said emphatically. He walked toward the refrigerator to get the carton of milk. He hadn’t cooked recently, but how hard could it be? He’d read the recipe on the flour sack already. “She needs to go get dressed.”

  That robe that Francis wore could cover a monk, and Flint would still find it attractive just because he could remember what the soft ridges of the chenille felt like under his hands. And he didn’t like her to wear the robe in front of Lover Boy. Sam was slow, but he just might figure out how soft and cuddly Francis was in that robe. Then they’d really have trouble. Flint didn’t think he could endure guarding Francis if Lover Boy started hugging her.

  “I can put the coffee on first,” Francis offered.

  “Just show me where the can is and I’ll get it going,” Flint said.

  Flint already knew where the coffee was, but he didn’t mind having Francis come over and stand next to him while she reached up on tiptoes to bring the can down from its tall shelf. He could smell her perfume. It was fainter than last night and it was unmistakably mixed with the smell of chicken, but he found that he thoroughly liked it.

  “Two scoops,” Francis instructed as she handed the gold can over to Flint. “It says three in the directions, but it’s too much.”

  Flint nodded. “Don’t worry. We’ll have breakfast ready in no time.”

  The smell of coffee was rich when there was a knock on the kitchen door fifteen minutes later.

  “That’ll be them,” Flint said as he wiped his hands on the towel he’d wrapped around his waist. “Put the eggs in the skillet.”

  The inspector liked the extra cheese in his eggs and he didn’t fuss too much about being called out on a cold winter morning. Sheriff Wall didn’t complain at all.

  “Glad to be away from them,” the sheriff muttered when Flint apologized for the false alarm. Sheriff Wall had left his snow boots by the door and his parka on a nearby chair.

  “I suppose they’re rattled by the arrest.” Flint sympathized. He’d grown to know the three men better than he wanted when he had them staked out. “First time for them, I’d bet.”

  Sheriff Wall snorted. “They ain’t rattled. They keep going on about their rights.”

  “We read them their rights.”

  “Oh, those rights they have down pat. It’s the other rights they’re adding to the list. Some legal mumbo jumbo about humane treatment of prisoners. To them, that means a right to clean sheets. And softer pillows. And doughnuts!” Sheriff Wall stopped as though he still couldn’t believe it. “Doughnuts! I asked them if they saw any all-night doughnut shop in these parts. I’d be out getting doughnuts for myself if there were any to be had within thirty miles. Told them they could have their bowl of oatmeal and be grateful for it. We don’t run no four-star restaurant here.”

  “Doughnuts would be nice,” Sam said a little wistfully. His banker look had worn off, and he looked disheveled now that he had a little flour on his pajamas and his hair was uncombed. “Don’t even have to cook them.”

  “You’re doing fine, Lover Boy. Just grate a little more cheese.” Flint turned his attention to the pancake he was frying. He had poured a perfect circle of dough on the hottest place on the griddle. He’d even slipped a pat of butter underneath it. He’d done everything he could to make this pancake melt-in-the-mouth perfect. He’d timed it to the opening of the door upstairs. He smiled. He was right on target.

  “Something smells good,” Francis said as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Good morning.” Inspector Kahn smiled at Francis.

  Francis had showered and washed her hair in a peach shampoo Sylvia had given her. The smell lingered, and she put on some peach hand lotion, as well. She’d scrubbed her face until her cheeks were pink and then put on a light lip gloss. She thought about putting eyeliner and eye shadow on but she didn’t want anyone to think she was making a fuss. It was enough that she pulled out the ivory cashmere sweater she’d gotten for Christmas last year and put on her gold earrings.

  “So
rry about the mix-up,” Francis said to the inspector as she sat down at the kitchen table. She studiously avoided looking at Flint over by the stove. “I should have considered the consequences before I went out to get the eggs. I usually do, you know. I’m in planning—for cities. I know that one thing leads to another and to another.”

  “I know your job history.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course,” the inspector said as he raised his coffee cup to his lips. “We made brief profiles on everyone in Dry Creek when this rustling started.”

  “You mean I was a suspect?”

  “Not really.” The inspector gave a quick smile and looked toward Flint. “We—even Flint—figured you weren’t too likely.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t steal cattle from my own brother.”

  “Oh, no, that wasn’t the reason we ruled you out. Actually, Garth being your brother made you more likely. Maybe you had a grudge. Maybe you figure you should have inherited more when your father passed away.”

  “I never gave it a thought.”

  The inspector shrugged. “People do. In the best of families. Whether it’s cattle or stocks and bonds.”

  “Well, Flint would know that I’d never—” Francis started to protest again and stopped. She had no idea what Flint thought of her or had thought of her for the past twenty years.

  “Pancake?” Flint interrupted as he set a plate on the table that held a perfectly round, perfectly browned pancake.

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like some coffee, too?”

  “I can get her coffee if she wants it,” Sam said. The other man had left his assigned duties of chopping onions for the next breakfast shift and walked over to the table.

  Flint noticed Francis wince as she got a whiff of Sam’s hands. Flint hadn’t spent twenty years fighting crime for nothing. He could set someone up with the best of them.

  “I’ve already got the pot,” Flint said as he reached back and pulled the pot off the stove. “I’ll take care of Francis.”

  “You don’t need to—I’ve known her longer than you have,” Sam said, tight-lipped. He didn’t move back to the counter where he had been chopping onions. “You can’t just waltz in here and take over.”

  “I’m not taking over,” Flint said mildly. “Just doing my job. Pouring her some coffee, that’s all.”

  “She’s wearing my sweater,” Sam said triumphantly as he finally turned.

  “You bought her that cashmere?”

  Sam nodded. “For Christmas.”

  Flint didn’t like that. A man didn’t buy a woman something as soft as cashmere without running his hands all over it, usually with the woman inside it. Flint found he didn’t like the thought of Sam touching Francis. He didn’t like the idea of Francis wearing that sweater, either.

  “We’re going to have to be going,” the inspector said as he pushed his chair away from the table.

  “Yeah,” Sheriff Wall agreed. “Roads have been closed to everything but four-wheel drives. I should get back to the office unless anyone needs me.”

  “I didn’t know the snow was that bad.” Flint cheered up. “You think it’s high enough to keep the bad guys out for a while?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “The Billings airport has been closed since last night. Even if they could fly anyone in from the west coast, they’d be stuck in Helena. And most of the rental cars would never make it to Dry Creek.”

  “That means I’m not in danger?” Francis asked in relief. “Flint doesn’t need to keep guarding me?”

  The thought of Flint leaving didn’t please Francis. But she would like to know if he would stay with her even if he didn’t need to guard her because it was his job.

  “Now, I wouldn’t say you’re out of danger,” the inspector said slowly as he looked at the scowl on Flint’s face and then at Francis. “The odds of trouble have gone down, but they haven’t disappeared. I’d say you’re in danger until we figure out who the informant around here is. Until then, you’ll need to be guarded.”

  “You mean someone who’s already here is the informant?”

  The inspector nodded. “Someone who has been here all along. The rustlers are getting a local tip-off.”

  “I don’t suppose you could be wrong?”

  “Not much chance.”

  Francis squared her shoulders and looked at the inspector. “Then we have work to do. I’m happy to help figure out who the informant is—and see if it is someone local. I’m pretty good at setting up a cross-tabbed table—if you want to look at who has been around at different times.”

  “You’d be working with Flint,” the inspector said. “Might be good for you both.”

  “Oh.”

  Flint grunted. It didn’t escape his notice that Francis was in a mighty hurry to get away from him. You’d think a woman would like a man who was spending so much effort working to keep her alive.

  “Why don’t you set up shop at the hardware store in Dry Creek,” the inspector suggested. “I think it might be good for people around here to see that the FBI is doing something—their taxes at work, that sort of thing.”

  “That’d be a good place.” Francis ate the last piece of her pancake. “It’s more businesslike there. We won’t be distracted.”

  And I won’t be distracted, Francis vowed. There was a step-by-step path in every relationship, and she fully realized that she and Flint could not take the next step in getting to know each other again until this rustling business was settled.

  “We could try the café instead,” Flint offered.

  “You’re hungry?” Francis stood up from the table. “Of course, you probably don’t like eggs and pancakes—I can fix—”

  “I like pancakes just fine,” Flint protested as he waved her back to her chair. “I just made batter for another dozen more.”

  “Well, then, why go to the café?”

  “A café has candles,” Flint explained wearily. “I thought we’d like a candle on the table.”

  Now she understood, Francis thought. Flint wanted to burn any paper they wrote on right at the table. Her face blanched. He was right, of course. There could be an informant around any corner. A dangerous informant.

  Flint sighed. He hadn’t made that many romantic suggestions to women in the past few years, but he couldn’t believe it was a promising sign when the woman’s face went ten shades whiter. Times couldn’t have changed so much that a candlelit dinner—or lunch—wasn’t considered romantic.

  Chapter Seven

  The café wasn’t open yet so Flint had to content himself with taking Francis to the hardware store. It was nearly impossible to date someone in a place like Dry Creek. Especially when the woman you were dating didn’t know you were courting her. All this talk of crime didn’t set a very romantic mood. And a hardware store! There wasn’t even a dim light anywhere. At least not one that wasn’t attached to a fire alarm.

  Flint was tempted to ask the clerk behind the counter if he could borrow the small radio he had plugged in by his stool. They might get lucky and hear a country-and-western love song. But the clerk was Matthew Curtis, a minister who had recently gotten married and was probably in some romantic haze of his own.

  Matthew had married Glory Becker, the woman who had become famous locally as the flying angel in Dry Creek’s Christmas pageant. Flint hadn’t been in Dry Creek then, but he’d read reports. He’d even heard the gossip about how the angel had brought the minister back to God. A man like Matthew wasn’t likely to let folks listen to anything but hymns, and that sure wouldn’t help a man’s courting.

  But that wasn’t the only reason Flint hesitated. Flint was reluctant to ask a minister for anything, even a minister who was now a clerk in a hardware store. Flint half expected the man to question him about the Bible Flint still carried with him. Flint knew he could have left the book in the pickup he had borrowed from the inspector, but he didn’t. He liked having his grandmother close by—wished she were here now with her b
rusque no-nonsense approach to life.

  “It couldn’t be number twenty-six,” Francis announced as she consulted the notebook she’d been writing in all morning. She’d given each person in Dry Creek over the age of sixteen a number so that she could be more objective about them. Flint had cautioned her that children under the age of sixteen were also capable of crime, but she wouldn’t listen. She insisted no child in Dry Creek could be involved. “Number twenty-four is sweet. And he wouldn’t know a Hereford from a Guernsey. I can’t see how he’d ever set up an operation like that. I think maybe I should delete people who don’t know the cattle business, too.”

  Francis wished she could delete all the suspects in Dry Creek. It made her feel old to realize that someone she had known all her life could be stealing from the ranchers around here. Anyone from Dry Creek would know the thin line that separated some of the ranchers from success and failure. A rustling hit could mean some of them would need to sell out. Who would do that?

  They were both sitting on the hard-back chairs that formed a half-circle around the Franklin stove that was the centerpiece of the store. Flint was relieved to find out that this part of Dry Creek at least was the way he remembered it. Usually, an assortment of men would be sitting around this stove sharing worries about the weather or information about crop prices. But the snow had kept them home today.

  “I remember you raised a Hereford calf for 4-H that year,” Flint mused leisurely. The snow outside would keep even the most determined villians away. The FBI had already analyzed all the people in Dry Creek. Flint knew Francis wouldn’t come up with anything new. The inspector had assigned her the task so she’d have something to worry about while she was with Flint. It wouldn’t have taken a tenth of the inspector’s powers of observation to see that Francis was all nerves around him, Flint thought. It’d take more than a fancy flowchart to make her happy with him guarding her. “You even named him—what was it?”

  “Cat.”

  Flint chuckled. “Yeah, I remember now. You had wanted to have a kitten instead, but your dad said you were in cattle country and—if you were that set on having a pet—it was a calf or nothing.”