“It could be number sixteen.” Francis looked up from her list and frowned slightly. “I hope not, though. He has two little kids and his wife has been sick a lot. He needs the money, I’m sure, but—”
“You loved that Cat of yours,” Flint continued staunchly. It was real hard to strike a light note when Francis insisted on worrying over the guilt of her neighbors. “Bet there never was a calf like him.”
“Her.” Francis finally looked up from her list. “I picked a her so that she could go on to be a mother and have calves of her own.”
Something about the tightness of Francis’s voice warned him. Francis had always wanted children. Should have had children. That was the one dream she’d shared with him back then. “I hadn’t thought about that—”
“It’s not important.”
“Of course, it’s important,” Flint protested. Until now, he’d just thought of those wasted twenty years as a trick being played on him. He hadn’t had time to adjust and realize what they had meant for Francis. “You were meant to be a mother. That’s all you ever wanted to be.”
Francis blinked and looked at her list. “We don’t always get what we want in life.”
“I know, but—” Flint had a sudden flash of a little girl who would have looked like Francis. He’d never realized the sum total of his own loss until that minute. He could have had a daughter. Or a son. His life could have meant something to someone besides the FBI. “How could this all have happened?”
Francis looked at Flint. She’d been nervous all morning around him-wondering what he thought of her hair, of her clothes, of the words she spoke. All of those things suddenly didn’t seem so important now as she looked at him, the defeat plain on his face.
“It certainly wasn’t your fault,” Francis comforted him softly.
“Well, it wasn’t yours, either.”
“I could have had more faith in you.”
Flint snorted. “You were a kid. What did we know?”
“It was just one of those things.”
“Like fate?” Flint challenged. He had fought many enemies in his life, but he’d never tackled fate before. It was like boxing with a shadow. There was no way to win. “You’re saying it was our fate?”
“Well, maybe not fate, but—” Francis glanced over at Matthew and lowered her voice. She’d given this a lot of thought in the hours she’d lain awake last night. She’d remembered snatches of what she had learned in Sunday school as a child when her mother used to take her. “But it must have been God’s will.”
“Well, I don’t think much of God then if He’s got nothing better to do than mess up the lives of two young kids so crazy in love they couldn’t see straight.” Flint knew he was speaking too loudly for Francis’s comfort. She kept looking at Matthew. “And I don’t care who hears me on that one. It wasn’t fair.”
Francis looked at Matthew. She remembered pictures of God in his long white robes. She had never considered the possibility that God was unkind until last night. He had always seemed distant, like her father. But never unkind. “I’m sorry.”
Matthew stopped polishing the old lantern that was sitting on the counter. “Don’t be. I happen to agree with Flint there.”
“You do?” Flint was as surprised as Francis.
Matthew nodded. “It’s what drove me out of the ministry.”
“So you agree with me?” Flint asked for clarification. He thought ministers always defended God. That was their job. “You’re not taking God’s side in this?”
Matthew laughed. “I don’t know about there being sides to this issue. I know it’s not fair—” he assessed Flint “—and you—you’re probably sitting there wishing there was some guy you could arrest and make pay for all of this.”
Flint gave a short, clipped laugh. “There’s something about an arrest that levels the field again.”
“Only there’s no one to arrest,” Matthew continued. He walked around the counter and stepped over to the small table that had been set up next to the window. A coffeepot sat on the table, and the flavor of good coffee had been drifting through the air for some time now. Matthew turned to Flint and Francis. “Coffee?”
“Yes, thanks,” Flint said as Francis nodded.
“The most frustrating thing about injustice is that usually we can’t do anything about it,” Matthew said as he poured coffee into three thick, white mugs.
“You’re saying there’s nothing we can do about bad things?” Francis asked.
“Now, I didn’t say that.” Matthew turned to look at them again. “Sugar or cream? Or maybe a flavor? I’ve got some orange flavor. Or raspberry.”
“Plain for me,” Francis said.
“Me, too.” Flint watched as Matthew balanced the three cups on a small tray and brought them over to where he and Francis were sitting.
“We need to get some TV trays around here,” Matthew apologized as he pulled up a wooden box with his foot. “The regular clientele never was one for fussing, but lately—”
“Since Glory’s been around,” Francis finished for him in a teasing tone.
“Well, you have to admit she does bring a whole new brand of people into the store here.” Matthew laughed and then sobered. “I’m blessed to have her in my life.”
Matthew carefully set the coffee cups on the box within easy reach of both of them. “And it’s a blessing I almost let get away just because I was stuck on the same problem that is plaguing you two.”
“And that would be?” Flint prodded. He didn’t know the ex-minister well, but he’d watched him at the wedding reception the other night. Matthew had had kind words for everyone present.
“Being so preoccupied with my anger toward God for what had happened in the past that I was totally unable to accept any blessings in the here and now.”
“But you still hold God responsible?” The conversation was getting under his skin, and Flint realized he really wanted to know what the minister thought.
“Of course,” Matthew agreed as he pulled up another straight-back chair and joined them in front of the Franklin stove. “But it’s not always that easy. Like for you two—you can sit there and be mad at God for letting you be pulled apart twenty years ago or you can sit there and thank Him for bringing you back together now.”
“But we lost so much,” Flint said.
“Maybe,” Matthew said as he took a sip of hot coffee. “But I’d guess there’s things you gained along the way, too. Who would you be today if you hadn’t parted back them?”
“We’d be chicken farmers,” Flint said, and smiled. “Living on my grandmother’s old place. But at least the windows would be fixed.”
“And I would have had a child,” Francis added shyly and cupped her hands around her mug as though she had a sudden chill.
“Maybe,” Matthew said. “But then maybe something would have happened and that child would be nothing but a heartache to you—maybe there’d be a sickness or who knows what. The point I’m making is that when God takes us down a path all He asks is that we’re willing to go. He doesn’t guarantee that there won’t be troubles on that path. All He guarantees is that He’ll walk it with us.”
“That sounds so easy,” Flint said.
“Doesn’t it?” Matthew agreed as he set his coffee cup down. He grinned at Flint. “Trust me, it’s not as easy as it sounds.”
Flint reached down beside his chair and picked up the Bible he’d lain there earlier. “My grandmother tried to pray that kind of faith into me when I was here with her.”
“Well, she must have succeeded,” Francis said.
Flint looked at her in surprise.
“You wrote a verse next to our marriage lines,” Francis explained softly. “It must have meant something to you at the time.”
“I didn’t write any verse,” Flint said as he flipped the Bible open to the center pages where the family record was kept. He looked down and saw the writing. “It must have been my grandmother. She must have written something down. A
nd here I thought I’d covered my tracks and that she didn’t know—”
“Song of Solomon,” Francis said as she stood and looked over Flint’s shoulder. “Verses six and seven—chapter eight. Let’s read it.”
“Now?” Flint looked at the Bible.
“Why not? If your grandmother had something to say about our marriage, I’d like to hear it.”
Flint shrugged and started to page through the early part of the Bible. “I guess you’re right.”
Flint skimmed the verses his grandmother had selected before he cleared his throat and read them aloud. “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death… Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it—” Flint’s voice broke and he couldn’t continue.
“Those are sweet words,” Francis said softly. “I thought she might have picked something about the folly of youth or trusting strange women.”
Flint smiled. “My grandmother liked you.”
“She must have thought I left you, as well.”
Flint looked at Francis. “We were all a-tangle, weren’t we? So many if onlys—”
“It just wasn’t right.”
“No, no, it wasn’t.” Flint looked at Matthew. “You know, you seem like a good person. But I just don’t see how God could let this happen.”
Matthew nodded, rather cheerfully, Flint thought. “So you think He could have stopped you?”
“Stopped me?”
“Yeah, when you decided to run off to Vegas that night—you must think God could have stopped you.”
“Not unless He sent in a tornado.”
The door to the hardware store opened, and a blast of snowy wind blew in with the well-wrapped figure of an older woman. She had to remove two head scarves before Flint recognized Mrs. Hargrove.
“A tornado,” she gasped when she could speak. “Don’t tell me we’re getting a tornado on top of this?”
“Of course not,” Matthew assured her. “This is Montana, not Kansas.”
“Well, nothing would surprise me anymore,” Mrs. Hargrove muttered as she removed her gloves and set them on the counter. “Everything in Dry Creek has gone topsy-turvy these days.”
“Something must be happening to bring you out in this kind of weather,” Matthew agreed calmly as he walked over and helped Mrs. Hargrove struggle out of her coat. Flecks of snow still clung to the plaid wool. “Why don’t you sit by the fire and tell us all about it while I get you a cup of that cocoa you like.”
“Oh, it’s just old man Gossett.” Mrs. Hargrove started to mutter as she walked to an empty chair and sat down with a sigh. “I swear I don’t know what that man is thinking.”
“Mr. Gossett?” Matthew said in surprise as he turned from the coat hook behind the counter. “I’ve never heard anyone complain about him before—I mean except for the usual—his drinking and his cats.”
“That man—I swear he’s stretched my Christian patience until there’s only a thin thread left,” Mrs. Hargrove continued and then looked at Flint. “Oh, I’m sorry—you probably don’t know him. I wouldn’t want you to think he’s typical of the folks hereabouts.”
Flint had never seen Mrs. Hargrove so flustered. He turned to Francis. “What number is he?”
“Old man Gossett?”
“Yes.”
“Why, I—” Francis was scanning her paper. “I think I forgot to put him on the list.”
“Forget anyone else?”
Francis was running her finger down the column. “Let me do a quick count—no, I’m only one short.”
“He’s an easy one to forget,” Mrs. Hargrove said with irritation still fresh in her voice. “Forgets himself often enough—as long as he has a bottle he’s never seemed to care about anything or anyone.”
“What’s his name?”
Mrs. Hargrove looked at him blankly. “Why, Gossett. Mr. Gossett.”
“His first name.”
“Well, I don’t know.” Mrs. Hargrove frowned in thought. “He’s always called old man Gossett. I try to call him Mr. Gossett myself because it reminds me he’s one of God’s creatures, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard him called anything else. Just old man Gossett or sometimes Mr. Gossett.”
“Didn’t his father settle Dry Creek?”
“Back in the big drought in the twenties,” Mrs. Hargrove said as she nodded. “Folks here talk about it sometimes—our parents and grandparents all pretty much had settled around these parts after the Homestead Act of 1902. But they wouldn’t have stayed if it hadn’t have been for the Gossett who was alive then. He started this town and named it Dry Creek to remind folks that they could survive hard times. Made us a community.”
“So Dry Creek owes the Gossett family a lot?”
Mrs. Hargrove shrugged. “In a way. Of course, it would be different if it was the first Gossett. I was a little girl way back then, but I remember him still. Quite an impressive man. Never could figure out why his son didn’t measure up.”
“You must remember,” Francis interrupted. She was chewing on the tip of a pencil. “If you knew old man Gossett when he was a boy, you must have known his name.”
“Why, you’re right,” Mrs. Hargrove said. “It’s just he’s been old man Gossett for so many years—but you’re right, back then he wouldn’t have been—” She closed her eyes and then smiled. “Harold. It’s Harold. Little Harry, they called him. Little Harry Gossett.”
Mrs. Hargrove was clearly pleased with herself as Francis added the man’s full name to her list.
“Now he’s eighty-three,” Francis declared.
“Eighty-three in what, dear?” Mrs. Hargrove leaned over to see Francis’s list more clearly.
“You didn’t tell us your news.” Flint interrupted the older woman quickly before she could ask any more questions. He didn’t relish telling her that all her friends and neighbors were suspects in aiding the rustlers. So far, most of the people in Dry Creek all believed the rustlers were outsiders, from the west coast, they figured. They would never look at their own ranks.
“Why, bless me, you’re right,” Mrs. Hargrove said as she straightened in her chair. “And after I hurried all the way over here.”
“It’s not the boys, is it?” Matthew asked in alarm.
Mrs. Hargrove smiled. “Your boys are fine. They’re with Glory. It’s just that Mr. Gossett— Harold—has been trying to talk Glory into driving him into Miles City, and I was afraid she’d weaken and say yes.” Mrs. Hargrove looked around sternly. “I told them both no one had any business driving anywhere in weather like this and that if all he wanted was a bottle of something to keep him warm until the roads cleared he’d be welcome to my vanilla.”
“I don’t think a bottle of vanilla would keep him happy enough.” Flint almost smiled.
“I read in the newspaper that vanilla is ninety-nine percent alcohol and alcoholics sometimes tip back the bottle,” Mrs. Hargrove announced.
“Unless you have a gallon of it, though, it’s not going to be enough.”
“Well, Glory might give him hers, too.”
Flint had a mental picture of all the ladies of Dry Creek emptying their cupboards to keep Mr. Gossett happy during the blizzard. It was neighborliness at work.
“Do you think we should be giving him anything?” Francis worried. “Maybe now’s a good time for him to quit.”
“He doesn’t want to quit.” Mrs. Hargrove grunted in disapproval. “He wants to talk someone into braving this weather just to take him to a store. Or a bar, more like it.”
“I could go talk to him,” Flint offered. He would like to get reacquainted with the man Dry Creek had forgotten even while he lived in their midst. “I’ll tell him there’s a fine for endangering lives or something like that.”
“Scare him?” Mrs. Hargrove asked, but Flint couldn’t tell whether or not she liked the idea.
Flint shrugged. “Just slow him down. If he can wait until tomorrow, the roads will be better.”
<
br /> “The wind might stop, too,” Matthew offered. “The forecast says this storm will blow through tonight.”
“It really is too bad he can’t quit,” Mrs. Hargrove said softly. “That little boy wasn’t so bad, now that I remember him from all those years ago. Wonder whatever happened?”
Flint kept his hands in his gloves while he knocked on Harold Gossett’s front door. Flint had convinced Francis to wait outside in the pickup for him while he spoke with Mr. Gossett. It was probably nothing, but Flint had a feeling about this man. If anyone had a grudge against Dry Creek, he’d bet it was this Gossett fellow. He knocked again.
A shadow crossed the peephole in Gossett’s front door. Funny, Flint thought, no one else in Dry Creek felt the need for a peephole. Even if they locked their doors, they just called out and asked who was outside. But you couldn’t arrest someone for having a peephole in their door. If you could, all of California would be in jail. Maybe Gossett just wanted to avoid his neighbors as much as they wanted to avoid him.
The door opened a crack. The inside of the house was dark. A subdued light came in through the blinds that were drawn at each of the windows. There wasn’t much furniture. An old vinyl recliner. A television that was blinking. A wooden table pushed against one wall with rows of beer bottles stacked up underneath it. The house smelled of cats, although it wasn’t an unpleasant smell.
“Hi,” Flint said as he took his glove off and offered his hand to the man inside the house. “My name’s Flint Harris.”
“Essie’s grandson.” The older man nodded. The man was heavyset with a looseness to his face that came from drinking too much. He was wearing a pair of farmer overalls over thermal underwear that had holes in both of the elbows. If the man was planning to go to Miles City today, he certainly wasn’t worried about making a good impression once he got there.
“I wanted to introduce myself,” Flint said. He was beginning to doubt his suspicions about the man. He certainly didn’t look like he’d come into any money lately. Not with the way he lived. “I’ve tied my horse out back on the other side of your yard a few times of late.”
A Bride for Dry Creek Page 10
