Easter in Dry Creek

by Janet Tronstad

  She stared at him. He was so focused on the boy that he didn’t see her, but Allie knew she needed to sit down with him later today and tell him that she believed him. She had no choice. She could see that Clay wouldn’t lie. She let the knowledge sink into her heart. That meant robbing the gas station had been all Mark’s doing. And Clay had been sent to prison for something he hadn’t done.

  She heard Hen clear his throat. “I—I’m the one who did this.”

  Hen held up a knife he had gotten from somewhere. “I’m guilty.”

  The ranchers stared at the boy, unmoved by his confession.

  “But why?” one of them finally asked. “Why would you do this?”

  “I—” the boy started and then stopped to look at Clay.

  “Go on,” Clay encouraged him. “You’re not done here yet, so you may as well answer the question.”

  “Everyone was so perfect inside there,” Hen said as he jerked his head in the direction of the church. “There’s no one like me there. So I just did it. I’m sorry.”

  The boy’s words had been raw when he spoke them, his voice low and hoarse. Allie thought he might be on the verge of tears.

  She wasn’t sure how the ranchers managed to communicate, but she saw them shift as one and she knew that a decision had been made.

  “I’ve failed at more things than you can possibly know, boy,” one of the ranchers said. “I’ve been an alcoholic. A liar. I’m not as perfect as you might think.”

  “I have a terrible temper,” another one offered. “Ask anyone. I do battle with myself almost every day.”

  “I cheated on my wife,” another one said. “It was many years ago—before I became a Christian—but I thank God every day that she forgave me. I don’t stack up better than any man.”

  “Elmer and me,” one of the last two men said as nodded to the man beside him, “we’ve been swindled so bad we almost lost everything. One of those pyramid schemes with a buy-in that was supposed to pay off big-time. Greed, you know. That’s our downfall.”

  Elmer nodded. “None of us are perfect in that church. We’re all just forgiven. God loves us and He loves you.”

  Tears were streaming down the boy’s face by now. Allie could see he was touched and embarrassed by his emotions.

  “I’m sorry for what I did,” Hen mumbled.

  The ranchers nodded in unison.

  “And—” Clay prompted the boy.

  “And I plan to do anything I can to make things better,” Hen pledged.

  Allie had tears in her eyes, too. She wished the community had gathered around Clay all those years ago like they were doing with this boy. “I plan to make things better, too,” Allie said as she went over and stood by Clay.

  She watched him, standing there looking satisfied that Hen had confessed and been forgiven.

  “You’re a good man,” she said to Clay, soft enough that only he could hear.

  He seemed startled at her words, turning to study her.

  “Everyone knows that,” she added, feeling self-conscious. “Even if they haven’t admitted it yet.”

  A slow grin spread across his face. “I’m just glad that you know it.”

  Allie smiled back. “Me, too.”

  She hadn’t felt so happy in years. And then she remembered the daffodils. Easter wasn’t going to be the same in Dry Creek without the daffodils.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clay went out to the barn the next morning. He’d told Hen to meet him there. The day was warmer than the day before. The storm was over. There was no way to physically replace the daffodils that had been destroyed, but Clay knew they could go all out and paint the wagon with pictures of daffodils. Traditionally, the wagon carried a large cross, and Clay figured they could make a plywood backdrop to put behind the cross that would show a field of daffodils.

  Clay had brought down the yellow and green paints from the hayloft and had already painted a small section of daffodils. He planned to have Hen paint the yellow and recruit Jeremy to paint the leaves.

  Allie came by before Hen arrived.

  Clay saw her standing just inside the barn. She’d been quiet, and Clay wanted to take time to enjoy looking at her before she made herself known. The sun shone through the strands of her hair, giving her a coppery look. She looked nervous, but not scared. Clay refused to think of her leaving in a little over a week, but he knew she planned to go back to her job in Jackson Hole.

  Clay hoped in a few months he’d be making enough money with his sketches that they could at least make plans for a future where Allie stayed on the ranch she loved. He didn’t know how to even talk to her about that, though, so he just watched her from a distance.

  She stepped closer and quietly cleared her throat. He looked up.

  “I want you to know I believe you about that robbery,” she said without any drama. “I’m sorry I held on to my anger. I think that’s what stopped me from seeing that you wouldn’t lie.”

  Clay leaned back on his heels. He had squatted down to draw some more daffodils on the front of the wagon. He had hoped for years to someday hear Allie say she believed him, but now that she was saying it, he realized how unfair he’d been.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been pressing you to take my side,” he said as he stood up. “I’m willing to compromise. We can just start from now and move forward. You don’t have to believe I’m innocent.”

  He wiped his hands on the cloth he used to clean up any paint splatters.

  He appreciated that Allie was willing to say she believed his side of the story. But hearing all of those old ranchers confess their faults to Hen yesterday made Clay wonder if he wasn’t too proud of being truthful. Quite often people saw the same situation from different perspectives. He didn’t need to always have everyone agree with him.

  Allie frowned. “Okay.”

  Clay saw he’d only confused her. He stepped closer and opened his arms wide. “Come here.”

  Allie stepped into his arms, and he was centered. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t want anything to come between us again. Not who’s guilty or innocent. Right or wrong. Rich or poor.”

  Allie leaned back and eyed him wryly. “Rich or poor? I’m guessing we don’t have to worry about the rich side of that one.”

  “We’ll get by,” Clay said confidently. He hadn’t told Allie yet that his agent was getting bids already for a series of sketches on the goat and horse. Of course, nothing was certain yet. The bids could evaporate. The truth was, he had nothing to offer Allie yet. He was a broken-down ex-con with a future that could go up in smoke.

  “So we’re still friends?” Allie asked hopefully.

  That stopped Clay. He felt like he was on a precipice with her. But she seemed to be on firm ground. He saw now that she had spoken out to shore up what she thought of as a good friendship. She didn’t look like she wanted anything more.

  “Yeah, sure,” Clay said.

  Suddenly, Clay envied Randy his ability to buy all those slices of chiffon pie. He wished there was a similar way for him to show Allie that he wanted more than friendship.

  Clay had let the moment pass, and he realized he might as well get back to the wagon. Allie had already started looking around to check on the animals.

  “Wondering where the goat is?” he asked as he picked up the marker he was using to outline the floral motif on the wagon.

  Allie nodded. “Remember that man Stan said we shouldn’t turn our backs on him?”

  “The goat only gets mad if we’re working with the horses,” Clay replied. “Besides, I put him in the stall over there by the pig.”

  Allie stayed to work with the Appaloosas. Clay knew she had a good eye for telling which two horses would work best together when harnessed to the wagon.

  When Hen showed
up, he went right to work. Clay was a little surprised the teenager took to the task with reasonable enthusiasm.

  “Sheriff Wall talk to you?” he asked the boy after a while.

  Hen nodded.

  “I remember a couple of problems I had with him when I was here before,” Clay remarked. “He can be a powerful motivator.”

  “You ain’t kidding,” Hen said and looked over his shoulder toward the barn door as though he was making sure the sheriff wasn’t there. “He said he was going to keep an eye on me, and I’m thinking maybe he’s with the Mafia or something.”

  “I don’t think they have the Mafia around here,” Clay said, trying to control his laugh.

  “Well, he sure sounds like he could do something if he doesn’t like what he sees,” Hen said.

  Clay let his laugh roll out.

  “He’ll get the church talking to you is what he’ll do,” Clay said.

  Hen grinned wryly at that. “Those old men are pretty tough customers.”

  Clay nodded. He figured Hen had gotten the lay of the land. He would do fine as long as he was in Dry Creek. That fact gave Clay a good feeling. Maybe if things had been different when he’d been here, he would have done well, too. He had realized by now that if he and Mark had taken the church’s challenge more seriously back then and had read the Gospel of Luke, they might have stayed in the bunkhouse that night talking theology instead of driving all over the country looking for more beer.

  He couldn’t wait to see Mark and find out what he thought about that Gospel. It sure was a fascinating account, Clay told himself. He’d read it several times by now. He didn’t see how it related to him, but Mark might know.

  * * *

  Clay’s alarm clock woke him at four o’clock on Easter morning. The night was dark. Everything was planned down to the minute, though, and he needed to get up. Allie was waking about now, too. She was going to drive to the nursing home and bring Mark back to Dry Creek. Randy and Clay were going to get the wagon and horses to the church. Mr. Nelson and Jeremy would drive in later in the old red pickup. That would be where Mark would wait until everything was set to go.

  Clay was drinking a second cup of coffee when Allie knocked on the bunkhouse door. He opened it, and she presented him with a bag from the hardware store.

  “For Hen,” she said as he looked inside the bag and saw the white Stetson sitting there.

  “He’s worked hard lately, and I thought he might like to share in the Nelson family Easter hat tradition,” Allie said.

  “He’ll like it very much,” Clay said. He should have thought of doing this himself.

  “I need to be going to get Mark,” Allie said. “I’ll meet you at the church around six thirty.”

  Clay nodded and she was gone.

  The barn was cold and the metal snaps on the harness colder still. Clay wrapped the leather inside his coat a bit before he put it on the two horses. Allie had chosen the stallion and the tallest of the mares to pull the wagon. Randy helped get the horses in position, and Clay draped the harnesses around them. The goat nearly started attacking until Randy showed the animal where to stand beside the stallion.

  The rooster started crowing about the time Hen showed up. The teenager’s hair was tousled and his eyes sleepy. He had his faded black jeans and the black parka on. But someone had found him a white cotton shirt, and the collar was crisp. For the boy, this was as dressed up as he was likely to get.

  “Happy Easter morning,” Clay said as he held the bag out to Hen.

  “For me?” the teenager asked in disbelief.

  Clay nodded and Hen opened the bag.

  “Ah!” the teenager said with a triumphant shout. He took the white Stetson out of the bag and put it on his head. “I’m a regular Dry Creeker now.”

  Clay and Randy were both grinning, too.

  “You sure are,” Clay said as he stepped up to the seat on the wagon. Randy told Hen he could ride in the pickup with him. It was too dark outside still for the team to make their way down the roads, so Randy was going to drive his pickup in front of them and light the way.

  Clay had stacked as many wool blankets as he could in the back of the wagon. He’d need them to keep Mark warm. The tall wooden cross that they would eventually set up in the back was waiting at the church. They would add that to the wagon later, just before they did their procession through town.

  The road was bumpier behind a horse team than in a pickup. Clay discovered that as he made slow progress toward Dry Creek. Mr. Nelson had told him it would take some time, and the older man was right.

  Clay rather appreciated the quiet of the drive, though. He’d read the crucifixion account in the Gospel of Luke again last night. He could picture it better driving through the cold damp morning than lying in bed at night. He still didn’t find a way to connect to the story, though. Everything seemed to have happened so long ago to people so very different from him.

  They arrived at the church before the sun started to rise. That had been Clay’s plan. He wanted the wagon to be a surprise to the people of Dry Creek. Hen had worked hard on painting the flowers.

  Clay looked at where all of the daffodils had been planted. The plastic was cleared and the dead stalks raked up. Randy showed Clay where the cross was kept, and they both tied it into place on the back of the wagon.

  They were finished with everything when Mr. Nelson drove up in the old red pickup.

  “Where’s Jeremy?” Clay asked as the rancher stepped out of the vehicle.

  “Mrs. Hargrove offered to feed him breakfast,” the older man said. “I decided there was no reason for him to sit out here in the cold when he could be eating her cinnamon rolls. Besides...” The man’s voice trailed off.

  Clay understood. Mark would wonder at a small boy being tended by his father. Clay didn’t have much time to consider things, though, because Allie drove up in her father’s SUV. Mark had his face almost pressed to the window, he looked so eager.

  There was room for only one vehicle behind the church, so Mr. Nelson went to greet his son and help him move to the red pickup. Clay climbed in behind the wheel after Mark was settled in the passenger seat.

  “Warm enough?” Clay asked as he adjusted the knob to the heater.

  Mark nodded as he looked around the vehicle. “I just can’t believe I’m here in this old pickup with you. We had some great times, didn’t we?”

  Mark didn’t seem to need an answer to his question. He ran his hands over the dashboard and fiddled with the radio. A scratchy sound came on.

  “Someone fixed the radio?” Mark asked in surprise. “I was intending to do that.”

  “Must have been your dad,” Clay answered.

  Mark frowned then. “That crack wasn’t there before.”

  He pointed to the left side of the windshield.

  Clay was becoming uncomfortable. He hadn’t expected Mark to be so aware of things. How were they ever going to keep it a secret from him that he’d lost four years of his life?

  Then Clay saw that Mark was looking behind him.

  “What happened to my rifle?” Mark asked, frowning. “I always keep it in the rack behind us.”

  Clay guessed the rifle was buried in the sheriff’s department somewhere as evidence of the armed robbery. Or did the authorities return those items to Mr. Nelson? Clay had no clue. He could not even think of a plausible thing to say to Mark that was the truth.

  “We’re going to need to get out there on the wagon,” Clay said instead as his hand reached for the door handle.

  Allie walked with them over to the wagon. She hadn’t intended to go, but Clay realized he might need help. He hoped Mark would forget about his missing rifle, but he had a feeling his friend was thinking about something.

  “Come with us,” he mouthed to Allie.

 
; Clay and Allie set Mark between them on the wagon seat. He was wrapped in a half-dozen blankets, and his face was glowing with excitement. Hen stepped into the back of the wagon, behind the painted plywood. He was to keep that and the cross steady.

  “We’re doing it,” Mark leaned over and said to Clay.

  Clay nodded.

  “I’ve been praying for this day ever since I started reading the Gospel of Luke again,” Mark said. “I believe it all.”

  Clay was silent. Finally, he said, “It’s a compelling story. But it happened so long ago.”

  Mark snorted. “It could have happened yesterday. Jesus comes down to earth. Everything goes crazy. Then a bunch of people get together and convict an innocent man—”

  The words hit Clay like a bullet. All of the pieces fell into place. He’d never considered it that way. If anyone understood what had happened to him, it was Jesus. He might have lived thousands of years ago, but he knew what it was like to be innocent and have everyone look at him like he was guilty.

  “We need to pull out,” Mr. Nelson called, and Clay picked up the reins.

  The sun was starting to rise by the time Clay got the wagon to the start mark outside the small town. Almost a hundred people were huddled together at the stop sign that marked the beginning of the procession.

  Clay heard a collective gasp of delight when he pulled the wagon close enough for people to see all the flowers painted on the sides.

  “Hallelujah!” someone shouted. “We have our daffodils.”

  “Praise God,” another said.

  Clay figured it was a happy group that fell into step behind the wagon. He drove slowly. The goat did his job, guiding the stallion as they moved forward.

  Prayer started to bubble up inside Clay as he drove.

  “I think Jesus knows me,” he whispered to Mark as they rolled along.

  Mark squeezed his hand. “He does.”