A Rich Man for Dry Creek / a Hero for Dry Creek

by Janet Tronstad

  Robert knew the FBI was in Dry Creek. One of their agents had questioned Jenny and himself when they’d landed with the lobsters out near Garth Elkton’s ranch the other night.

  “You know who they think done it?” the man asked, leaning so close that Robert got a strong whiff of alcohol. “The rustling?”

  “No, I don’t think they know yet.” Robert wondered if he should insist the man come into the warmth of the barn. With the amount of alcohol the man was drinking, it was dangerous for him to be out in the freezing temperatures. “You’re sure you don’t want to borrow the coat? You’d be welcome to eat with us.”

  The man carefully set his bottle of beer on the hood of an old car before reaching out toward the coat. “I might just get me a little bit of something. It sure smells good.”

  The two men walked inside the barn together.

  The old man headed toward the table set up with appetizers. Robert resisted the urge to go over and visit his carrot flowers. Instead he looked around for the woman he needed.

  There was a sea of taffeta and silk. Young teenage girls with heavy lipstick and strappy high heels. Farm wives with sweaters over their simple long dresses. A couple of women who looked unattached.

  And, of course, the chef.

  If he had his choice, Robert would persecute the chef. If for no other reason than to rattle her calm and make her take off that hairnet of hers. It was a party. She could loosen up. But the only thing he could think to do was to kiss her, and that certainly wasn’t outrageous. The media would just think he’d taken another in a long line of girlfriends. They’d yawn in his face.

  No, he needed something shocking.

  He looked over the teenagers and settled on the youngest one. His kissing her would raise the hackles of the tabloid world. She looked to be little more than a child, no more than twelve. Women all across the country would raise their handbags in unison to clip him a good one and he’d deserve it.

  Robert went over to the buffet table. He’d look less threatening if he had one of those plastic cups in his hand. After all, he wanted to kiss the girl, not have her pass out in terror. She might be wearing lipstick, but twelve was still awfully young.

  He nodded to the older woman behind the table. “I’ll have some champagne.”

  The woman looked at him blankly. “I think there’s punch in the bowl.”

  Robert looked over and saw the punch. It was pink.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any bottled water?”

  The woman shook her head no. “There might be coffee later.”

  Robert nodded. He’d have to do this empty-handed. He walked over to the girl. She was leaning against the side of the barn and watching the other kids sort through some old records. Now who had those relics? He couldn’t remember ever seeing records played. Not with cassettes and CDs available.

  “Know any musicians?”

  The girl looked up and shook her head shyly. “Do you?”

  Robert nodded. He’d be able to score a few points with this one. “Name a group and I probably know them.”

  He realized when he said it that it was true. The world of the truly famous was pathetically small.

  “Elvis,” the girl named softly.

  “Elvis is dead.”

  “I thought maybe you had known him. When you were young.”

  Robert wondered if he’d fallen down a time warp. “How old do you think I am?”

  The girl shrugged. “He’s my favorite is all.”

  “He’ll always be the King,” Robert agreed gently. Maybe this girl wasn’t the one, after all. Her eyes reminded him of Bambi. He didn’t want to see the confusion in them that would surely come if a man as old as Elvis kissed her.

  “You got a camera?” he asked instead.

  “A disposable one.”

  “Do me a favor and take a few pictures of me tonight. I’ll tell you when.”

  “Sure.”

  Robert nodded his thanks. Tabloids loved pictures like that and even sweet-eyed Bambis needed a college fund. Somebody might as well get some good out of tonight.

  The lights in the barn were subdued and the whole place seemed to smell of butter and steam. Long tables were set up in the back of the barn and covered with white cotton tablecloths. Stacks of heavy plates, the kind found in truck stops, stood at the end of each table.

  Several teams of ranch hands were holding big trays with a towel draped over steaming lobsters. Robert frowned at the men. Why hadn’t Jenny asked him to help? He’d had to practically demand a knife and some carrots earlier.

  Jenny put a dozen silver tongs down on the head table and blessed Mrs. Buckwalter for requesting that they be brought to Dry Creek along with dozens of tiny silver lobster picks. Even Jenny wasn’t sure she’d tackle the lobster dinner with plastic forks and no tongs. “Can someone go back and get the last pan of butter?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Jenny stopped arranging the tongs and looked up in panic. It was Robert Buckwalter. “But you can’t—I mean you don’t need to—”

  “Well, someone needs to.”

  “I can do it myself,” Jenny said. She could at least try to remember the difference in their social standing. He was, after all, her employer’s son. “You don’t want to spill butter on that suit. It looks expensive.” Jenny took a deep breath and smiled. Her sister owed her for this one. “I mean, it’s a tuxedo, isn’t it? Good enough to wear to a wedding.”

  “Tonight’s a special occasion.”

  “Aren’t they all?” She struggled upstream. “These receptions—nothing brings out the good suits like a reception or a wedding.”

  Robert nodded. “Or a funeral.”

  Jenny started to sweat. Being a news source was more difficult than one would think. “Funerals and weddings. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

  Robert looked at her like she’d lost her mind.

  “I mean sometimes weddings get off to a rocky start.” Boy, did her sister owe her.

  Robert nodded. “I suppose so.”

  “Been to any weddings lately?”

  Robert shrugged. “Not for a while. I’ve been away from the social scene.”

  “Oh?” Jenny looked up brightly. Now they were getting somewhere.

  “Haven’t missed it.” Robert looked toward the barn door. “It won’t take me a minute to run back to the café and get that butter.”

  Jenny nodded in defeat. “It’s on the back of the stove. Be sure and use a pot holder.” She suddenly remembered to whom she was talking. “That’s a padded square of cloth. It’ll be on the counter.”

  “I know what a pot holder is.” Robert didn’t add that he hadn’t known until five months ago.

  Jenny stood with her back to the tables and watched Robert walk out of the barn. He was limping. Now she wondered why a man who had spent five months resting would be limping.

  “Handsome, isn’t he?”

  Jenny turned to look at the woman standing next to her. Mrs. Hargrove was one of the people in Dry Creek that Jenny liked the best. She’d organized the apron brigade for Jenny, using aprons from the church. Towel aprons. Frilly aprons. Patched aprons. They’d used them all.

  “You’re pretty good-looking yourself,” Jenny said.

  The older woman had worn a gingham cotton dress every other time Jenny had seen her. Tonight she was in a silk mauve dress with a strand of pearls around her neck. A lemon scent floated around her.

  “Maybe he’ll ask you to dance,” Jenny continued. Mrs. Hargrove had said earlier that this was the first dance she’d attended since her husband died two years ago.

  “Me?” Mrs. Hargrove laughed. “I was thinking he’d ask you to dance.”

  “No time. I’ll be busy with the food.”

  “Not when the dancing starts.”

  “No, by then I’ll be busy with the pots and pans—washing dishes.”

  “Goodness, no! The dishes can wait. Tomorrow’s soon enough for that. We’ll all pitch in t
hen. That’s the way it’s done here. I might even ask old man Gossett to help us. Be good for him to get out. You’d be doing him a favor.”

  Jenny had a sudden wish that she could dance. “But I’m not dressed for a party.”

  Mrs. Hargrove shrugged. “I’ll bet there’s a few more dresses at the café.”

  The women of Dry Creek had loaned their old prom dresses and bridesmaids dresses to the teenage girls from Seattle. For most of the girls, this was the first time in their lives they had worn a formal dress.

  “He’s back,” the older woman announced.

  Robert Buckwalter entered the barn doorway and stood for a moment. Jenny could see the blackness of the outside air. Snowflakes were scattered on his head and shoulders. His hands were carefully wrapped around the handle of the saucepan he was holding. He hesitated in the doorway as though he was shy, unsure of his place among the guests. His shyness, combined with the perfect balance of his face almost took her breath away. Maybe he did deserve to be the number one bachelor.

  He certainly didn’t deserve to carry the butter.

  “Here, let me get that.” Jenny wiped her hands on her apron and started toward him. The steam from the lobsters had made her hands clammy. “You shouldn’t have to—”

  “I can carry a pan of butter.”

  “Of course.” Jenny stopped. Of course he could. Why in the world was she so nervous around the man? It must be her sister. Making him sound so mysterious. Just because he was rich, it didn’t mean he wasn’t just a regular kind of a guy, too. He just had more change in his pockets than most.

  “Dinner’s almost ready.” Jenny turned to talk again with Mrs. Hargrove.

  The regular guy walked around her toward the table.

  “Then your troubles for the evening will be over,” Mrs. Hargrove said kindly as she put a hand on Jenny’s arm. “We’re so grateful for all the work you’ve done, dear.”

  Robert frowned as he set the saucepan on the table. If dinner was coming soon, he had work to do fast. He suspected people were always more easily shocked on an empty stomach. Plus, after dinner, the sounds of those records playing would mask his attempts at being outrageous.

  He’d given some thought to his dilemma while outside and he’d decided age could go two ways. Instead of focusing on someone young like Bambi, he could try someone old enough to be his grandmother.

  “Ah, there you are.” Robert turned back to Mrs. Hargrove. He understood she was the Sunday school teacher for most of the little people in Dry Creek. She should be thoroughly offended by a kiss from a strange man. Everyone else should be shocked, too.

  He looked around for Bambi and called her over. There’d be no point in rattling the people of Dry Creek if he couldn’t shake up the rest of the country, too.

  “Yes?” Mrs. Hargrove looked up at him. Her eyes were bright with curiosity. Her cheeks were pink. She must be seventy years old. She looked like every cookie-lover’s picture of Grandma.

  Robert dove right in. “I love you.”

  “Why, I love you, too.” She beamed back.

  “What?” Robert stalled. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.

  “I love all of God’s children,” Mrs. Hargrove continued. “They say that’s how Christians will know each other. By the love they have for others. I John 4:7. Does this mean you’re a Christian?”

  “Well, no, I—I mean I’m not opposed to Christianity.” Robert started to sweat in earnest. How had God gotten into this? “Don’t really even know much about it—”

  “Well, I’d be happy to tell you.”

  “Great, maybe later. It’s just that’s not what I meant when I said I love you.”

  “Well, then, what did you mean?”

  Robert was desperate. He looked over and nodded at Bambi. She was in position. Then he started to bend down.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Hargrove bent, too. “My beads.”

  Robert heard the scattered dropping of pearls as his kiss landed smack on the top of Mrs. Hargrove’s gray head. His lips met the scalp where her hair was parted.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hargrove said as she bent down farther.

  Now Robert couldn’t even kiss the top of her head unless he squatted down to where his kneecaps should be.

  “Here, let me help you,” Jenny said as she stepped closer to both of them.

  Robert wasn’t about to give up. It wasn’t ideal. But the camera was in place and he was determined to kiss someone. Even if it was Jenny.

  He heard her first soft shocked breath as he drew Jenny to him. He was close enough to feel her second indignant breath as he bent his head.

  The camera flashed. The talking stopped. A bead rolled.

  Robert was triumphant. His big moment was recorded. He could end the kiss. But he didn’t. Something was happening.

  The kiss blossomed. Jenny tasted of home. The minute Robert felt her lips tremble beneath his, he was lost. He didn’t want the kiss to end. He felt like he had caught a fragile thread of something precious he didn’t even understand.

  “Mmmm, sweet. I like that—I mean you—I like you,” he whispered when he finally drew away.

  “Not love?” Bright red dots stood out on both of Jenny’s cheeks. “I thought ‘I love you’ came easy enough to your type.”

  Robert felt like he was coming out of a cozy cave and facing the frost of winter.

  “My type?” he asked cautiously.

  Jenny’s brown eyes had deepened to a snapping black. She bristled.

  “The type of man who kisses his employees—whom he likes—even when he says he loves Mrs. Hargrove.”

  “I don’t kiss my employ—” Robert stopped. That was no longer true. “I mean, I don’t. Well, I didn’t—”

  There was an incessant ringing somewhere and a gnarled old hand reached from behind Robert. Mr. Gossett had pulled the ringing phone out of the coat pocket. “This yours?”

  “You want it?” Robert asked Jenny.

  Jenny’s cheeks were red still and her breathing quick. She was adorable.

  Robert suspected she reached for the phone more for something to do than because she wanted to talk.

  “Yes.” Jenny turned her back to him and walked a few feet away.

  “You talked to him!” She looked over her shoulder in a betraying move. It was the sister. “So he knows.”

  Robert knew he should pick up on the accusation Jenny had left dangling and make some strong sexual harassment statements. Publicly threaten to fire her unless she kissed him again. That would certainly knock him off the bachelor list. Women didn’t tolerate sexual harassment anymore and they shouldn’t.

  But Robert didn’t open his mouth. Suddenly the list was not all that important.

  He had met the woman the Bob inside him wanted to marry and she was looking at him this very minute like he was some hair ball a very unwelcome stray cat had coughed up.

  Considering the set of her jaw as she talked to her sister, Robert figured he had as much chance of ever kissing her again as he had of teaching that stray cat to dance a tango.

  Chapter Three

  “He kissed you! You’re telling me he kissed you! Robert Buckwalter the Third kissed you!”

  Jenny’s sister was screeching so loudly Jenny had to hold the cell phone away from her ear. She’d slipped outside so that she could finish the phone conversation in private. She shivered from the cold.

  “After he kissed Mrs. Hargrove,” Jenny said as she wiped one hand on her chef’s apron. The coarse bleached muslin steadied her. She was a chef. An employee. “He’s my boss. He can’t kiss me. He didn’t even say he loved me.”

  “Love! He loves you!” her sister screeched even louder.

  “No, he didn’t say that—that’s what I’m saying. He didn’t even attempt to be sincere.”

  “But he kissed you.”

  The Montana night was lit by some stars and a perfectly round moon. Silver shadows fell on the snow where the reflection of the barn light showed through t
he barn door and two square side windows. A jumble of cars and trucks were parked in the road leading up to the barn.

  “Maybe he did it because I talked to you about him. Maybe there’s some servant’s code I breached when I told secrets about the master. You know, maybe it’s a revenge thing.”

  Jenny could hear the pause on the other end of the phone. The silence lasted for a full minute.

  Finally her sister spoke. “Have you been taking those vitamins Mom sent you?”

  “Well, yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “You’re getting old. First you don’t even wonder about whether or not the man is married and now he kisses you—Robert Buckwalter the Third actually kisses you—and you think it’s for revenge!”

  “Well, it could be.”

  “Men like him don’t kiss for revenge! They use lawsuits. Or buyouts. Corporate takeovers. They use termination. He could fire you. But not kisses! Kisses are for romance.”

  Jenny snorted. “I smell like fish and my hair is flat. No man’s kissing me for romance.”

  “You’re in your chef’s apron?” Some of the bubble drained out of her sister’s voice. “With that funny hairnet on?”

  “And orthopedic white shoes because I’m standing so much. And no makeup because the steam from the lobster pots would make my mascara run. And I even have a butter stain on my apron—not a big one, but it’s there in the left corner.”

  “Then why is he kissing you?” her sister wailed and then caught herself. “Not that—I mean you’re real attractive when you’re…well, you know—”

  “Those are my thoughts exactly. I might pass for someone in his social circle when I’m dressed up—heels, makeup, the works.”

  “You looked real good in that black dress you wore last New Year’s.”

  “But in my working clothes, I’m more likely to attract a raving lunatic than a rich man.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have some exotic perfume on? One of those musk oil scents?”

  “Not a drop.”

  “Well, this isn’t fair, then. A man like this Buckwalter fellow shouldn’t go around kissing women just for kicks. He could hurt their feelings.”