A Bride for Dry Creek Read online

  Francis felt soft hands tugging at her dress. She looked into the face of the young girl.

  “You’re still a bride, aren’t you?” the little girl asked, worried. “You’re wearing a bride’s dress.”

  “A dress doesn’t make a bride,” Francis answered softly.

  “But the dress is the best part of the wedding,” the little girl said, confident in her knowledge. “Except for the cake, maybe. Does this mean there’s no cake, either?”

  The girl’s mother appeared at her side, “Hush, now, don’t bother Francis with your questions.”

  “It’s no bother,” Francis said woodenly as she made an effort to smile at the girl. “And I wish there was a cake— I love wedding cake, too.”

  When Francis looked up from the girl, she noticed that Flint had gone to talk with the inspector and the sheriff. They were standing in the back pew muttering, and the inspector had his cell phone in his hand.

  Flint had already borrowed a parka from the inspector and had replaced the tuxedo jacket with it. He hadn’t wasted any time getting back to normal, Francis thought, as she let Mrs. Hargrove lead her to a pew so she could sit.

  “Such a pity,” Mrs. Hargrove muttered as she settled Francis in a pew and tucked her coat around Francis’s shoulders.

  Francis didn’t know whether the older woman was talking about Mr. Gossett or the wedding that didn’t happen, but she didn’t ask.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Flint spit, then drove another nail into the side boards on his grandmother’s house. The air was cold, and he felt a bitter satisfaction with the way the frigid air caught in his throat. The board didn’t need that nail. It hadn’t needed the other ten he drove in before it, either. But it was hammer or go crazy, and so he kept his hand curled around the tool and his mind focused on the nail. The solid blows of iron on iron suited him.

  He sank that nail deep and pulled another one out of his shirt pocket. He had it positioned ready for striking when he heard the sound of a Jeep pulling itself up the slight incline that led to his grandmother’s old house.

  House, nothing, he said to himself as he looked at the weathered boards. The old thing could hardly be called a house anymore. It was more shack than house at the moment. When the windows had broken out, the snow and rain of twenty-some years had broken down the interior.

  It would need to be gutted, he thought. A new roof and gutted.

  The driver of the Jeep honked the horn as the vehicle slowed to a stop in front of the house.

  Flint didn’t want company. He’d already had a dozen congratulatory calls on his cell phone, telling him he was brilliant for figuring out that Mr. Gossett had changed his mind a second time and asked Robert fly him to Fargo, after all. Flint had cut all the calls short.

  Flint knew he wasn’t brilliant. It didn’t take brilliance to know what a cornered animal would do when you felt like you were one yourself.

  Flint hit the nail square and grunted. He wondered how many nails he’d have to hit before he felt human again.

  “There you are.” Mrs. Hargrove’s cheery voice came from behind him.

  If it had been anyone else, Flint would have asked them to leave. Since it was his grandmother’s dearest friend, he only grunted and hit the nail again. He hoped she’d take the hint. She didn’t.

  “I brought you some oatmeal cookies,” she continued. “I remember how you used to like them.”

  Flint had no choice but to turn and smile at the woman. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “I thought you might be out here,” she mused as she set a small box down and wiped the snow off the top porch step, Then she eased herself down and unwound the wool scarf she wore around her head. “Never can hear with that scarf on.”

  Flint had a sinking feeling that meant she was going to expect conversation. “I’m fixing the side wall here.”

  Mrs. Hargrove nodded and was silent.

  “Thought I’d put some windows in, too.” Flint went on. Her sitting there silent made him nervous. “Maybe fix that leak in the roof.”

  “Essie would like that,” Mrs. Hargrove finally said. “You living here.”

  “Me? Live here? No, I’m just fixing it up.”

  Mrs. Hargrove nodded. “You’re going to sell it then?”

  “Sell it? I couldn’t do that—it’s Grandmother’s house.”

  Mrs. Hargrove was silent so long that Flint positioned another nail and hit it.

  “Essie doesn’t need the house anymore, you know,” Mrs. Hargrove finally said gently. “You don’t have to take care of it for her.”

  “She wouldn’t like it if it was run down.”

  “She wouldn’t blame you for it if it was.”

  “I wouldn’t want to disappoint her,” Flint said softly as he gripped the hammer and hit the nail again. “I’ve disappointed enough folks as it is.”

  “Essie was never disappointed in you.”

  “She should have been— I messed up enough times.”

  “Everybody messes up sometimes,” Mrs. Hargrove said softly. “Your grandmother knew that— She was a big believer in grace and forgiveness.”

  Flint grunted. “My grandmother was a saint.”

  Mrs. Hargrove chuckled. “Not to hear her tell it. She used to say the vein of guilt that ran through your family was thick enough to make somebody rich if they could only mine it.”

  Flint looked up for the first time. “But she never failed anyone. She was as close to perfect as anyone could be. What did she ever need forgiveness for?”

  “We all need forgiveness,” Mrs. Hargrove said softly as she placed a motherly hand on Flint’s arm. “We all fall short somewhere or other. But we can’t let it stop us or we’d never—” Mrs. Hargrove stopped abruptly. “Why, that’s it! That’s why you’re out here pounding away at those rusty old nails instead of sweet-talking Francis! You’re afraid.”

  Flint winced. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “And just what would you say, then?”

  Flint grimaced. “I’m cautious—based on my knowledge of myself, I’m cautious about promising something and then disappointing someone.”

  “You don’t love her, then?”

  Flint squirmed. “No, that’s not the problem.”

  “You intend to marry her and then leave her someday and break her heart?”

  “Why, no, of course not, I wouldn’t do that.”

  Flint wondered if it would be too impolite to climb on the roof and take care of those loose shingles while he was thinking about them. Mrs. Hargrove had the tenacity of a bulldog.

  “Well, son, what is it that’s eating away at you then?”

  “I need to fix the roof.”

  “And that’s why you can’t get married?” she asked incredulously.

  Flint sighed. There was no way out of this one but to go through the scorching fire. “I’m just not good enough, all right? Somewhere, sometime, I’d let her down. I’d forget her birthday. I don’t make jelly, you know. Never learned how.”

  Mrs. Hargrove looked at him blankly.

  “Even old man Gossett has a cellar full of crabapple jelly. He must be able to make it. Me, I can’t even make a company cup of coffee—what kind of a husband would I make?”

  Mrs. Hargrove didn’t say anything.

  “Besides, I’ve noticed some thinning in my hair. I could go bald someday.”

  “Your hair looks fine to me,” Mrs. Hargrove interrupted skeptically.

  “That’s not the point,” Flint said in exasperation.

  “It’s just an example of what could happen, and anything could happen.”

  Mrs. Hargrove eyed him thoughtfully. “You don’t have a clue about grace and forgiveness, do you? And after all those Bible verses I taught you in Sunday school, I would have thought one or two would stick.”

  “They did stick,” Flint said softly. “It’s just that being forgiven by God isn’t quite the same as being forgiven by a flesh-and-blood wife you’ve disappointed.”
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  Mrs. Hargrove snorted. “You can’t fool me. You don’t remember them, after all, do you? Recite me one.”

  “Now?”

  Mrs. Hargrove nodded.

  Flint’s mind scrambled. “I remember one about four times forty—or was it eight times eighty?”

  “Seven times seventy.” Mrs. Hargrove shook her head. “That’s how many times we’re to forgive someone.” She fixed him with a challenging eye. “Do you figure you’ll mess up more times than that? That’s almost five hundred times. Francis isn’t likely to have nearly that many birthdays.”

  “Well, there’d be anniversaries, too. Every year April seventeenth will roll around—”

  “Surely you’re not planning to forget them all?” Mrs. Hargrove demanded. “Give yourself some credit.”

  Flint stopped in the middle of a swing with the hammer. He knew he wouldn’t forget the anniversaries. He hadn’t forgotten one of them yet. “I might not need to worry about the anniversaries.”

  Mrs. Hargrove nodded complacently. “They’ve been a sore spot, have they?”

  Flint looked at her indignantly. How did she know these things?

  The older woman laughed. “You’re a Harris. None of the folks in your family ever took lightly to love. Essie used to say it gave everyone another reason to suffer.”

  Flint grunted and then admitted slowly, “I’ve hated April for years. The first five anniversaries I went out and got stinking drunk on April seventeenth, and then sat down and wrote a scathing letter to Francis.” He smiled. “I wrote down all my disappointments for the whole year like they were all her fault. Finally, I was able to tell her the good things, too—and how I missed her.”

  Flint concentrated on steadying another nail.

  “Well, if you remembered your anniversary for years, what makes you think you’d forget it if Francis were with you?”

  Flint didn’t know. That was what had been gnawing at him for the past two days. He didn’t know why he was so nervous about taking a flying leap into matrimony, he just knew that he was.

  “You need to sit down with Essie’s Bible,” Mrs. Hargrove declared. “Maybe then you can make some sense out of yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The older woman eased herself off the porch and stood. “Remember, this is lightning country.” She nodded at the nails in the piece of board. “Much more of that and this place will catch the next bolt that comes flying through.”

  Flint smiled. He wasn’t so sure the bolt wasn’t already here. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Just see to your reading.”

  Flint had no intention of reading the Bible, but he felt almost like he’d promised. And so he opened it after Mrs. Hargrove had left and began to read the verses his grandmother had highlighted. The afternoon slipped into dusk and the sun was going down before he realized he’d spent the afternoon looking for the answers to the gnawing inside himself.

  When he realized what time it was, he pulled out his cell phone and made a call to the manager of his apartment building.

  “Yes, I’d like you to send them overnight express.” He finished his instructions. “I’ll go into Miles City tomorrow and get them.”

  Francis was standing in the small bedroom she used at Garth’s house. She was packing. Her old-fashioned suitcase was open on the bed. It was a good-quality suitcase, but it had none of the modern pockets and compartments. Francis always maintained that a neat person didn’t need to fear packing and certainly didn’t need compartments.

  Francis’s socks were neatly paired and folded with the toes under. Her bras were folded and laid conveniently close to her panty hose. She had loose tissue to pack around her slacks and two dresses. Organizing her clothes made her feel like there was something in her life she could control just the way she wanted it. She might not be good with men, but she was good with avoiding creases.

  Francis had waited around for Flint Harris once before, and she couldn’t bear to do it again. Flint’s face had been cold when she’d last seen him three days ago, and it had nothing to do with the weather. Sam was getting restless and wanted her to fly back to Denver with him. She’d told him she’d be ready tomorrow. He might be a little dull, but Sam was a good man.

  “You’re leaving?”

  The deep voice came from the doorway to the small bedroom, and Francis whirled.

  “Who let you in?” Francis swore she’d fry the culprit in hot oil.

  “Garth,” Flint said simply. “He told me I have five minutes.”

  “That’s five more than I would have given you.”

  Flint had his outdoor parka on, and there were flecks of snow melting on his shoulders. He might have had a hat on his head, because his hair was slightly rumpled. He was fresh-shaven, and his hands held a small plastic bag with the name of a Miles City drugstore stamped on it.

  Flint nodded seriously. “I figured as much, and you don’t even know the half of it.” He hesitated and took a deep breath. “I have a drawer full of mismatched socks in my apartment, and baldness runs in my family.”

  Francis looked at him in astonishment.

  Flint nodded glumly. “It’s true. One of my mother’s brothers. That’s the worst odds, they say. And I don’t know how to make jelly—or really good coffee—I guess I could maybe manage a cup of tea and dry toast—”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I’ve had to kill two men. They were evil men and I had to do it, but it’s there all the same—plus I work too much.” Flint staunchly continued his list. “Although I have been thinking about chickens for the last day or so, and maybe it’s time to quit my job and take them on. I’ve made good investments over the years so money’s not a problem. It’d work out.”

  Francis was becoming worried. “Did Dr. Norris check you out when we got back to Dry Creek? I’ve heard of sunstroke doing this to people, but maybe extreme cold acts in the same way—”

  “Of course, if you don’t still want to do chickens, we could try our hand at something else.” Flint cleared his throat and continued his speech. He didn’t want to get derailed. If he did, he might not get back on the track again. “I’ve decided I like Dry Creek. I like the church here and I think that’s going to be important to me. And the air is good. Hard to get good air anymore.”

  Francis looked at Flint. His eyes looked clear enough to swim in, and he didn’t have any strange twitches happening with his mouth. Then she remembered the drugstore bag he carried.

  “Is that medicine you have with you?” she asked gently. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t heard from him for three days. “You poor man.”

  Francis stepped to Flint and placed her hand on his forehead. “Did Dr. Norris give you something to take?”

  Flint’s mouth went dry. His voice croaked. “I’m not sick.” Flint swore no man in the history of the world had bungled a job like he was doing.

  “Of course you are,” Francis said softly. “What else could this be?”

  Flint took a deep breath and plunged. “It could be a marriage proposal.”

  Francis stared at him, her hand frozen on his cheek.

  “Not a good proposal, I’ll admit,” Flint continued shakily. “But I thought you should know the problems up front. I’ve always believed in saying the truth straight out.”

  “Marriage?” Francis’s voice squeaked. “But the medicine?”

  “It’s not medicine,” Flint said softly. “It’s cards—for you.”

  Francis looked around for support and sat on the bed.

  Flint opened the bag and held up twenty envelopes. Some of the envelopes were white. Some pink. A few ivory. One even had pale green stripes on it. Each one had the number of a year written on it in black ink.

  “They’re anniversary cards,” Flint said softly as he fanned them out on the bed next to her. “Bought the whole store out. One for each year—and inside is the letter I wrote you in that year.”

  “You wrote me?” Francis whisper
ed.

  Flint nodded. “I had to.”

  “Oh.” Francis brushed a tear from her eye. She tried to focus, to think this new information through, but for once in her life she didn’t care about the order of anything. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”

  “How could I forget the only woman I’ve ever loved?” Flint said softly. The tears gave him hope. He would carry this through in any event, but the tears did give him hope.

  Flint pulled a long-stemmed yellow rose out of an inner pocket in his parka. It was the only yellow rose to be had in Miles City, and it was a little peaked. Then he dropped to one knee and offered the rose to Francis. “Will you marry me again? This time for good?”

  “Oh.” Francis swallowed.

  “Is that an ‘oh, yes’ or an ‘oh, no’?” Flint asked quietly.

  “Yes,” she stammered. “My, yes. It’s an ‘oh, yes.”’

  Flint reached up and brushed the tears from her eyes before he leaned forward and kissed her. The pure sweetness of it sang inside of him. He didn’t deserve someone like Francis.

  “I could maybe do something about those socks.”

  Francis laughed and touched his cheek. Yes, he was real. “I don’t care about the socks.”

  “This time let’s get married in the church here in front of everyone in Dry Creek,” Flint said. “I want to see my bride walk down that aisle.”

  Francis smiled dreamily. “Dry Creek does love a bride.”

  “Not half as much as I do,” Flint said, smiling as he bent his head to kiss Francis again. “Not half as much as I do.”

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-7190-0

  A BRIDE FOR DRY CREEK

  Copyright © 2001 by Janet Tronstad

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017 U.S.A.