White Christmas in Dry Creek

by Janet Tronstad

  Renee renewed her commitment to finding a suitable puppy for Tessie.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry,” Betty finally said, sounding as discouraged as Renee felt. “It’s just with her father the way he is—”

  “I know you mean well.” In a small town, no one carried his or her burdens alone. Sometimes that was good, sometimes bad. But Renee knew the concerns were as much for Tessie as they were for her, and she couldn’t fault the town for caring.

  She had been taking her daughter to a therapist in Billings and the woman said that Tessie would outgrow these fantasies when she finally felt completely safe. The girl’s love for her father warred against her fear of him. She yearned to see him and, at the same time, was scared he might come back with some wolfhounds to hurt her. Her fairy-tale pretense of a father as a faraway king helped her feel secure until she could finally admit it wasn’t the animals but her father who made her afraid.

  Renee felt a chill just thinking what the sight of that wolf might do to her daughter if it came closer. Hopefully, it had already gone now that there wasn’t a wounded man out there waiting to become the wolf’s prey. There were no young calves or chickens around this time of year, either, but she’d still call over to the bunkhouse when she had a minute and alert the ranch hands.

  “Tessie, sweetheart, maybe you should go sit in the bedroom and wait for me,” Renee said with a nod to the girl.

  “Good thinking,” the operator said, her voice back to normal. “That little one doesn’t need to be mixed up in something like this.”

  Tessie stood, her white-and-pink nightgown damp from the snow that had fallen on her when she’d held the door open earlier. Her blond hair curved around her face, and her eyes were serious as she continued to look down at her prince. “I think he’s smiling at me.”

  Renee turned her attention back to the man and eyed him suspiciously. “That’s not a smile, sweetie. He’s just moving his lips—maybe from the pain. He probably doesn’t even know how to smile.”

  Tessie’s eyes filled with sympathy, but she didn’t back away from him.

  Renee noted her daughter’s eyes seemed to always return to that mole on the man’s cheek. She suddenly wondered if the man could stay around long enough to show Tessie that he was no prince. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes for the man to open his mouth and prove he was mortal. Maybe that would be the first step in Tessie facing her fears and fantasies. If so, God might have sent the man for that very purpose.

  “The man’s moving!” the operator echoed in alarm. “I’ll tell Sheriff Wall to hurry. Not that he isn’t already driving as fast as he can in the snow. He’ll be there soon.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Renee said, as much to reassure herself as the operator. The man’s breathing had improved, but he wouldn’t have the strength to do any real damage. Not with her here.

  “Did you check to see if your prince has a gun?” Betty asked.

  “No!” Renee gasped at her oversight and then turned to see her daughter still staring at the stranger in speculation. His lips were moving again.

  Renee hated guns. And if the man was involved in rustling, he likely had one. She put down the phone and braced herself to touch him again.

  In the meantime, Tessie leaned closer.

  “You can watch television in the bedroom,” Renee said, promising a rare treat. “Turn the Disney Channel on. They have that princess show you like so much.”

  Tessie looked down at the man, clearly reluctant to leave.

  “Please, sweetheart,” Renee said. “Mommy needs you to go.”

  Tessie nodded and headed down the hallway.

  “Close the door.” Renee waited until Tessie did so, shutting herself in the bedroom.

  Renee turned her attention back to the man. He wasn’t moving his lips anymore, so she gingerly opened his wool-lined jacket. His gray flannel shirt had a large damp spot where his wound had bled and the whole garment was plastered to his chest. She didn’t see any bulges that would indicate a shoulder holster, though. Of course, she knew from her ex-husband that there were many places to hide a gun if a man didn’t want it to be seen. She ran her hands down the sides of his torso. The man flinched and moaned. At one point, she wondered if she didn’t feel something taped to his chest. She wasn’t taking any chances, so she unbuttoned his shirt and opened it.

  “Oh, my,” she gasped softly as she reached out to touch a bandage that stretched across the man’s bare midriff. Nothing was hidden there, but he had faded red burn scars and dark bruises all over. They were not recent, but there were so many. She let a finger trail across his skin, wondering what trouble he’d seen—or caused—in his life to end up with all of these.

  She felt a tremor race through her, making her hand shake slightly. His skin, while bruised, was baby soft. She pulled her hand away quickly and then pulled his shirt back together. She knew what bruises like that might mean and it frightened her. It wasn’t right looking at him when he was not aware enough to stop her, though. His scars were his own business. And maybe the sheriff’s.

  She picked the phone up again.

  “I think he’s been beaten,” she said to Betty. “Maybe he really is a criminal. Or maybe he tried to go straight and this is what the others did to him.”

  “Don’t go feeling sorry for him, now,” Betty advised, her voice low and serious. “Finish searching him before he comes to. And keep the phone close to you.”

  Renee reached for his pockets. A man like this could have a knife, too.

  All she found was a scrap of paper in the front pocket of his jeans that had a smudged telephone number written on it in pencil. The melting snow had made the marks practically illegible.

  His breathing became more labored as she knelt there.

  “Easy, now,” she said in a soothing voice as she turned the paper over. The front was a receipt for a hamburger and a cup of coffee. She couldn’t make out the name of the business where he’d bought the food. She set the paper aside to give to the sheriff when he came. Maybe the phone number would be a contact for the man’s next of kin.

  His eyes had been closed when she found the paper, but his eyelids were twitching now. And a muscle along his jaw was clenching. Then he groaned.

  Renee spoke into the phone again. “He’s regaining consciousness.”

  “Did you find a gun?” Betty asked.

  “No.”

  Renee heard a siren in the distance and realized the sheriff was close. She wondered if the man heard the sound. If he did, he didn’t react. Her ex-husband had always flinched when he heard a cop’s siren, even if he wasn’t doing anything illegal at the time.

  Then the man’s eyes fluttered open.

  “You look like an angel.” His words slurred and a small, lopsided grin started to form.

  “I know karate,” Renee announced.

  “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” the man said, his grin spreading.

  She realized then that he must have seen Tessie’s angel wings. He likely hadn’t realized Tessie was a different person, but he had glimpsed the wings even in the condition he was in. They’d repaired one of them earlier tonight, replacing the gold glitter border.

  Renee felt her knees grow weak. She’d do anything to protect her daughter. A blast of cold air hit her neck and she turned to see that the sheriff had stepped into the room. She hadn’t locked the door after she brought the stranger inside. Now she was relieved someone was here to take him away. She and Tessie didn’t need this man around. Even if he was not a rustler, he wasn’t safe. The quiver in her stomach told her that much. She was still breathless from touching the bruises on his chest. This man was trouble.

  * * *

  Rusty Calhoun just lay there and looked at the angel kneeling beside him. She looked stressed, but in a vague, delicate way. He
’d had concussions before in the eight years he’d spent in the army and he’d seen his share of hallucinations, but nothing like this. The woman’s skin was so translucent it looked like a white South Seas pearl—the expensive kind. Her hair floated around her like a halo. Sometimes, when she moved her head, a speck of gold would fall from her like a star coming down to earth. He took that as a sign from the heavens that she wasn’t real.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he finally said, deciding he could say that because she was a figment of his imagination. And a man should be able to say anything he wanted to a vision he’d created in his own mind.

  The woman made a dismissive sound, but he didn’t care. Not when her skin shone the way it did. It made sense that any hallucination he had would look like a pearl. His mother had loved pearls. And his nightmares in Afghanistan had been littered with them.

  When he’d rambled on about a pearl necklace in his delirium on that awful night when his platoon had been bombed in the Wardak Province, the doctors searched through his belongings until they found the strand he carried with him. When they gave it to him, he’d cursed and thrown it across the room. That was when they’d called in the chaplain.

  “Are you awake?” the woman asked now.

  Rusty barely had time to wonder if he should answer his hallucination before a lawman took her place. Or was it two lawmen? Rusty wasn’t sure. But he figured whether they were one or two, they were real enough.

  “He’s awake,” the lawman said with authority and the two images of him slowly merged into one. “Tell me your name.”

  “U.S. Army ranger Rusty Calhoun, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  The clipped voice of command sounded familiar. Voices like this had demanded his report when he had been returned to safety that dark night in Afghanistan.

  “I was the only one left.” The medics had pulled him out of the rubble. He hadn’t wanted to leave. Not with the others lying around him.

  “Who else was with you?” the voice asked.

  “My platoon. The eleventh mountain division, sir. It was a trap.”

  There was silence after that. Rusty closed his eyes and saw the flashes of the bombs. He’d failed them all.

  “Tonight?” The man’s voice had softened, but it was persistent. “Here in Montana?”

  Rusty felt the pounding in his head and opened his eyes. He remembered the snow now.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  He smelled Christmas. The scent of pine trees and popcorn.

  The doctors hadn’t wanted to release him yet, but his younger brother, Eric, had called to say he needed him. Rusty had let down so many people already that he was determined to save his brother from whatever trouble he was in. The doctors said they wouldn’t release Rusty until next week, but he had pressed them and left early. He hadn’t called Eric and told him that he was here, though.

  “You’re in Montana, son. You were out riding a horse—”

  “Annie. Is she all right? And my dog?”

  “There was no dog,” the woman said. “Maybe the wolf chased it off.”

  “Not a wolf. It’s my dog.”

  “Goodness,” the woman gasped.

  “I—” Rusty paused. His felt sweat on his forehead, but it was cold. He’d picked up Annie and the dog from the Morgan ranch this afternoon. After his family lost the ranch, he’d paid the Morgans to board his horse and dog along with his brother until he could get back here.

  “Take a minute. Think about tonight,” the man’s voice urged.

  Rusty took a ragged breath and offered up a prayer for strength. Thanks to that chaplain, he and God had forged a truce of sorts in Afghanistan. Rusty wasn’t sure the connection was going to hold in Montana, but he wasn’t ready to give it up, either.

  “There was a pickup.” Rusty forced his mind to leave the old battles and remember the past few hours. The wind had been frigid, but he’d welcomed the bite of the snow as it hit his face.

  He’d been riding on the south section of his family’s ranch. His father had died while he was overseas, and riding on the land was the only way Rusty knew to say goodbye to the man. He’d been out for hours and was ready to turn back when a large black pickup seemed to emerge from the night as it came across the fields.

  The pickup went off-road and into a ravine. When Rusty rode to the top of the ravine and looked down, he saw another pickup was already parked at the bottom, sitting there with its lights off. Someone stepped out of the smaller pickup, leaving the door open. The small overhead light let Rusty see enough. He knew it was Eric standing there because the boy was wearing his brown baseball cap backward. It was unlikely anyone else around here would wear a cap like that, especially when the wind was so strong.

  “They shot me,” Rusty added, remembering that much from his scramble up the side of the ravine. “It hurts pretty bad.”

  He’d signaled his dog to stay silent so it wouldn’t be shot and the animal had obeyed. Rusty marveled that even though he had been gone so long, his dog still saw him as master. They’d been through some tough times together, he and that dog.

  “Who shot you?” the sheriff asked as he took a small notebook out of his pocket.

  Rusty hesitated. “I don’t know.” Fearing that might not be enough, he added, “It was too dark to see any faces.”

  He waited for the accusation to come. He had never lied—not even by withholding information. Until now. He knew he’d seen Eric tonight even though he hadn’t seen his face. And he wasn’t willing to give up his brother that easily. Not until he heard the other side of things.

  The sheriff didn’t press and Rusty breathed deep. Maybe the doctors were right that he merely needed some rest.

  He turned to search for the woman’s face. If the lawman’s voice was real, she must be, too.

  Just then he heard the soft sounds of slippers on the hardwood floor and he saw the woman turn to look behind her. She had a lovely neck, he thought with a smile.

  “No,” the woman whispered in horror as she looked at something.

  Rusty tried to raise himself up to defend her from whatever was coming, but he had no strength. Then he saw the woman was merely worried about the girl who ran from behind her and stood in front of him with her little hands on her hips. Her angel wings were crooked, but her face was beaming.

  “Have you seen my daddy?” she demanded to know.

  Rusty felt as if the room was spinning. “What’s he look like?”

  He’d known too many fathers who had died in Afghanistan. “Was he an army man? In my platoon?”

  “No, he’s a king,” the girl replied proudly as she stepped a little closer.

  “British?”

  “No, he’s a king in Montana,” she insisted with a guilty look at her mother. Then she leaned forward and whispered, “With a crown. My mommy doesn’t believe, but—”

  Rusty smiled, finally realizing she was pretending. He had no idea that kind of innocence was still alive anywhere in the world.

  He was going to answer her when he was struck with a sudden worry. The girl must have a mortal father, too.

  “Does your father wear an orange parka?”

  That would describe the tall man who had been in the ravine waiting for Eric. The man must have been using night-vision goggles, too. He wouldn’t have been able to see Rusty without them.

  “My father always wears a purple robe,” the girl said firmly. “Purple is for kings. Never orange.”

  He relaxed. “I haven’t seen him, then.”

  Rusty wondered if his brother knew the man in the orange parka had taken a rifle out after the taillights on Eric’s pickup disappeared from view. In the dark, Rusty wouldn’t have known the man was aiming the gun at him except that he’d seen a small white beam
of light a second before the shot was taken.

  “Tessie, sweetheart,” the woman said as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the girl, “the sheriff needs to ask the man some questions. And you need to go back to the bedroom.”

  The woman released her daughter and gave her a nudge in the direction of the hallway. All three adults watched as the girl dutifully walked down the hall and went through a door.

  “Sorry about that,” the woman said.

  The lawman nodded and then moved closer so Rusty could see him and the notebook in his hand.

  “Where were you when you got shot?”

  Rusty thought a minute and then decided there was no harm in telling the lawman. “The ravine that is a quarter of a mile from the gravel road that intersects with the road that goes up to the Morgan ranch.”

  Rusty had been fortunate he’d been able to scramble to the top of the ravine and get on his horse before the man in the orange parka could walk over to where he had been shot.

  “So you were on your father’s old place? The one the bank foreclosed on?”

  Rusty nodded and the slight action made him wince. “I was just looking around. No harm in that.”

  “An ambulance is on its way,” the sheriff said as he stood up and put the notebook back into his pocket.

  The sheriff had a gray Stetson on his head and it shaded his eyes, but there was no doubt where he was focused next. “I recognize you now. You were a scrawny little kid last time I saw you. That ranch of your father’s was bigger than the Elkton ranch here. Got put up for sale by the bank in the past month or so. Some corporation bought it. It wasn’t handled right—I’ll give you and your brother that much.”

  Rusty tried to answer, but the pain in his head stopped him from doing more than giving a slight nod. He was surprised anyone from Dry Creek would remember him. He’d joined the army when he turned eighteen and hadn’t come back until he’d gotten off the plane in Billings early this morning. That was eight long years and he’d changed.