A Bride for Dry Creek

by Janet Tronstad

  The old man looked confused.

  “You’ve seen the notices in the post office.” Flint kept talking. The old man was of the era that could be intimidated by the government—maybe. “You’d do best to just leave it on the ground. Besides,” Flint added for good measure, “that rifle of yours looks like it has seen some action. Don’t think you’d need any more persuasion than she can give you.”

  The old man looked proud as he gripped the gun tighter. “She’s a good shooter, all right.”

  There was a large tarp—no, it was a parachute, Francis realized—as well as ten, maybe twelve boxes sitting next to the plane. The parachute was white, and a dozen ropes swirled around it on the ground. On the other side of the parachute the four-wheel-drive Jeep was parked. Deep boot prints were all around the boxes and led up to the plane.

  “That’s the Edisons’ Jeep,” the old man said thoughtfully as he peered out the windshield. “Wonder if it’s their boy, Duane, out there.”

  Flint prayed it would be. He thought the old man might have a harder time hurting someone from Dry Creek than he would a stranger. Sort of a you-never-hurt-the-ones-you-know theory.

  “I heard Robert Buckwalter was having some more supplies flown in for the café—with all the kids around these days they are running low on everything.” Francis spoke nervously.

  Mr. Gossett shook his head in disgust. “In my day, you wouldn’t find anyone flying in supplies. We’d eat bread and beans if that’s all that was available. Kids today are too soft.”

  Flint believed in diversionary tactics. He agreed heartily. “You can say that again. Most of them aren’t worth their salt.”

  Francis felt the faint squeeze Flint gave her fingers. She understood his message.

  “They should all be sent to reform school,” Francis agreed. “Teach them some manners.”

  The old man nodded thoughtfully. “They wouldn’t like it—locked in with everyone else. I know I wouldn’t.”

  “We could meet with the authorities about this,” Flint offered. He had his fingers crossed that the old man would take the bait. “They’ll understand how you feel about being locked up. I’ll drive you back to the café and we can make a call. If you turn state’s evidence on this rustling business, you might get off with probation. I’ll see to it that you meet with the right people—maybe even the state governor—or a congressman.”

  The old man snorted. “Worthless politicians. I’d rather deal with them kids any day.”

  “The press then.” Flint continued the bribe. “Say you don’t confess to anything. We could get the press out here and do an article for the Billings paper. You’d be famous.”

  The old man paled. Then he raised Flint’s gun and jerked it at him. “Who in blazes wants to be famous? I just want to be left alone.”

  Well, that eliminated most of the mental-illness categories, Flint thought in resignation. He didn’t know whether it would be easier to deal with someone who was crazy or someone who was stone-cold sane and just mean.

  “You call out and let them know we’re here.” The old man jerked his head toward the plane. “They’ll come out at the sound of your voice. Be friendly-like.”

  Flint hoped Mr. Gossett was wrong and that whoever was inside the plane would stay right there.

  “Anybody home?” Flint rolled down his window and called out. “You’ve got company. Company and trouble—they come together—”

  “Hush,” the old man hissed.

  Francis felt the sweep of frigid air coming in the open window. She wanted to snuggle closer to Flint, but she felt the tension in his body and did not want to be in the way if he needed to move fast.

  Flint’s heart sank. He saw a figure standing in the open door to the small plane. His hint had gone unheard.

  “It’s the chef,” Flint murmured. Another figure joined the first. “And Robert.”

  “Let’s go meet them,” Mr. Gossett ordered Flint as he grabbed the door handle. “I’ve got plans.”

  Flint hoped he never heard the words “I’ve got plans” again. Mr. Gossett kept waving the guns around, and his plans were soon implemented. Robert Buckwalter was able to assess the situation quickly. Flint would wager the other man had had his own share of training in how to deal with hostage situations. Since Robert traveled internationally, he might even have some training on terrorist activities.

  It only took a minute for Robert Buckwalter to assure the old man that he would fly him anywhere he could.

  “The plane’s only got enough fuel to fly to someplace like Fargo, North Dakota—or we could head for Billings if you want to stay in Montana,” Robert explained to the older man just like he was a pilot planning a routine flight.

  “I’ll take Fargo. Let’s all get in.”

  Robert nodded toward the old man and eyed him speculatively. “The fuel will last longer if the plane is lighter. I’d say you’re about one hundred seventy pounds?”

  The old man nodded.

  “I’ll go with you to fly this thing, but you don’t want to take the others—it’s unnecessary weight.”

  “I’ll need a hostage.”

  Flint stepped forward. “That would be me.”

  The old man snorted. “I don’t think so. I’ll take her.” He jerked his head at the young woman who was standing by Buckwalter’s side. “She’s a skinny little thing. Can’t weigh much.”

  “It’s not just about weight,” Flint said. He kept moving around, hoping to find a moment when the old man was off guard. But Mr. Gossett kept his gun trained on one of the women at all times. “I can talk to the authorities for you.”

  “You speak English?” He barked the words at the chef.

  She nodded.

  “She can talk for me,” the old man insisted. “Now, you two men get all the boxes out of that plane. I don’t want any unnecessary weight holding us back.”

  Francis shivered. She and Jenny, the chef who worked for Mrs. Buckwalter, were standing together near the door to the plane. Mr. Gossett stood nearby and held Flint’s gun loosely in his hand.

  “You’ll be all right,” Francis whispered to the young woman. “Flint will get help.”

  The young woman nodded mutely.

  Francis prayed she was right. Once the plane was airborne she and Flint could drive one of the pickups the ten or so miles back to Dry Creek and get help sent ahead. If they could alert the airports in Fargo and Billings, they should be able to stop the old man without anyone getting hurt.

  “Now, everyone out of the plane,” the old man ordered.

  All the boxes had been thrown to the ground. Flint and Robert jumped to the ground from the open door of the plane.

  Flint had his plan. The floor of the plane was about four feet up from the ground. There would be no way the old man could climb into the plane and hold onto both guns at the same time. That would be when Flint would tackle him.

  “Now—you two—get down on the ground.” The old man jerked his gun at Francis and Flint.

  “What?” Flint bit back a further protest. This was a twist he hadn’t counted on.

  “But it’s cold.” Robert stepped in. “Let them at least go sit in the pickup—or even the Jeep.”

  “The ground. Now,” the old man ordered, his voice rising in agitation. “I don’t have all day, I gotta get out of here.”

  Francis lowered herself to the ground. The snow was not yet packed, and it was like sinking into a down pillow. An icy cold down pillow. She sat down with her legs crossed in front of her.

  “You, too,” the old man said curtly as he glanced over at Flint. “I want you with your back to her—” the old man shifted his gaze to Jenny “—and you get some rope from those boxes to tie them up.”

  “You’re not going to leave them like that?” Jenny protested. “It’s freezing out here. They’ll—” Jenny swallowed and didn’t finish her sentence.

  Francis could finish it for her. If she and Flint were tied and left in a snowdrift like this, they could di
e.

  “What does it matter to me if they get cold?” the old man demanded. “That’ll teach them to come snooping around, asking questions. Butting into a man’s private life.”

  Flint watched the old man and didn’t like what he saw. Maybe it wasn’t a choice of whether the old man was crazy or a criminal—maybe he was both.

  “It’s a federal offense to kill an FBI agent,” Flint said softly as he moved to step between Francis and the old man.

  “Not if it’s an act of God,” the old man said with a humorless chuckle as he shifted to adjust for Flint’s move.

  Unless Flint wanted to anger the old man, he knew he shouldn’t move again right away. Once step could be casual. Two would be a threat.

  “But surely you’re not planning—” Robert Buckwalter protested in disbelief from where he stood beside the plane.

  “I’m not debating this,” the old man said firmly, still keeping his gun bead steady on Francis at all times. “I suggest everyone just do what they’re told.”

  Francis had kept her head down for this entire conversation. Flint wondered if she were praying and then decided he hoped she was. Maybe God would listen to someone like Francis. She sure didn’t deserve to be out here in the middle of a snowdrift with a crazy man threatening to shoot her.

  “Why should we do anything you say?” Francis looked up, and her chin came up defiantly. “You’re going to leave us tied up here no matter what we do. You can’t bring yourself to shoot us. But you’ll let us freeze to death. From where I sit, there’s not much else you can do to us.”

  Flint cringed when he heard what Francis said. The old man was unstable at best. Defiance wasn’t a good choice.

  For the next ten minutes, Francis tried to take her words back. She kept saying “I’m sorry” like it was a mantra. It hadn’t mattered. The old man hadn’t been listening.

  She kept apologizing until the small plane moved down the makeshift airstrip and took off.

  “It’s okay, it’ll be okay,” Flint said behind her back, and Francis realized he had been saying the words softly for some time now.

  Francis stopped apologizing to the old man who wasn’t even there any longer. She was so numb she no longer shivered. The old man had shown what else he could do. First he’d taken Flint’s jacket, then hers. He’d thrown the coats in the back of the plane. Then he’d forced her to remove her dress and Flint to remove his suit. Those, too, had gone into the back of the plane.

  “Just to show you what a good guy I am, I’m leaving you your underwear.” Mr. Gossett grinned. “Wouldn’t want the proper ladies of Dry Creek to get in a tizzy when someone finds the bodies.”

  The old man laughed then instructed Jenny, “Tie ’em tight. Don’t want either of them wandering around out here and getting lost.”

  Flint wanted to shout at the old man, to call him names. The strength of the desire shook him. He was losing his edge. It was unprofessional. He knew that. It wasn’t by the book. It wasn’t smart. But it’s Francis, his mind screamed.

  Flint forced himself to focus. He needed all of his energy just to keep himself and Francis alive.

  Before the old man climbed into the plane, he took Jenny with him and walked to both vehicles. The Jeep’s hood was stiff, but he had made Jenny open it and then he had reached in and pulled out a handful of spark plugs and stuffed them in his pocket. He had done the same with the pickup that Flint and Francis had driven.

  It was at that point that Francis had broken down and started apologizing more loudly. She was still whimpering, the words coming softly from her lips.

  Flint tried to move his arms so that he could turn around and hold Francis. He was terrified. The freezing cold was a worse enemy than any he had faced. At least, with a kidnapper or a terrorist, you had the chance of talking them out of their plans. But the cold? What did the weather care for either threats or emotions?

  Finally, Flint moved so that his hands could grip Francis’s. The plane was growing smaller in the mid-morning sky. It had started east and then slowly turned to head west. The old man must have changed his mind and settled on Billings, after all.

  Flint murmured again, “It’ll be okay.”

  Francis hiccuped and then quieted. Her throat was beginning to hurt from the gulps of cold air that she had breathed. Every exposed inch of skin on her body was tingling. She felt like she was being pricked with a thousand daggers. She forced herself to focus. She was facing her death, and only a few things were still important.

  “I should say I’m sorry,” Francis said calmly. The only warm place on her body was her hand, and that was because Flint held it in his. “I should have waited for you twenty years ago instead of thinking you had deserted me. I should have trusted you.”

  “I should have trusted you, too,” Flint said as he strained against the ropes tying them together so he could move his back closer to hers. Finally, their bare shoulder blades met. Francis leaned into him, and he could feel the elastic ridge of her bra strap. Their skins gradually warmed.

  Flint continued to strain at the ropes. The old man had watched Jenny carefully as she knotted the ropes, but Flint believed she would have left them room to escape if there was any way she could.

  “I wish we’d gotten to church this morning,” Francis continued pensively. “I was thinking of going back, you know—not that I guess I was ever there much as an adult. But still, there’s a sense of going back. Looking for the hope I’d lost.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “It would be a comfort to know how to pray to God.”

  “My grandmother always said you just open your mouth and talk to Him.”

  “Still, it would have been nice to pray in a church,” Francis continued, her voice drifting. “Do you suppose they’ll come looking for us when we don’t show up this morning?”

  “Sure,” Flint lied. He’d already thought of that. He and Francis had left early. No one would miss them for a half hour. By then the service would just be starting, and they would think that Francis was taking longer to get dressed or that they had gotten stuck in a snowdrift or changed their minds altogether. It would be a good hour before they would even start to worry.

  Flint knew it would be several hours more before anyone would find them. And that would be too long for people left in a snowbank in ten-below-zero weather without even a shirt between them.

  “But if they don’t come right away we could make some kind of shelter from those boxes,” Flint said brightly. He had no idea if a box house would keep them alive long enough. What he did know is that Francis needed hope. He needed it himself.

  “And there might be something to start a fire with in those boxes,” Francis agreed willingly. “Some cooking utensil or something. Chefs are always flambéing something or another.”

  Flint felt the ropes at his wrist start to give.

  “Twist your hand away from me,” Flint instructed. “I think I’ve got it.”

  One of Flint’s hands scraped through the knot. He pulled his hand up and flexed his fingers. The cold was stiffening them more quickly than he had thought. He needed to act fast.

  “If we had a fire, we might be able to find something to burn that would make enough black smoke to make someone curious,” Flint said as he twisted his other hand to free it as well.

  Finally, both of Flint’s hands were free.

  He turned and saw Francis’s back. Her shoulders were hunched, and the thin line of her spine stood out whiter than the rest of her skin. She had curled her hair for church, and the curls still bounced. Her hands were still behind her back, and with the extra room in the knots since Flint had removed his hands, she was twisting her hands to free them.

  The threat of death does strange things to a man, Flint reflected. It certainly made him dare things he wouldn’t otherwise.

  “Come.” Flint turned Francis and drew her to him.

  Francis knew that their only victory might be untying their hands. She knew they might not have
a way to burn the boxes for heat and that they might freeze to death after all. But she would still be glad that they had freed their hands and could hug one another.

  Flint’s chest had changed since they used to embrace. He’d been a lanky young man, and his chest used to be wiry. Now his chest was solid. Muscles rippled as his arms tightened around her.

  Flint almost couldn’t breathe, and he wasn’t so sure it was because of the biting cold in his lungs. He had Francis in his arms once again. He wanted to let his words of love spill out and cover them, but he didn’t.

  “I’ll get us out of here,” he said gruffly as he pulled away from her. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get us out of here.”

  Francis nodded. She was too cold to think.

  Dear Lord, she thought, we might actually die out here. This time the thought did not terrify her.

  “But if not, you’ll hold me some more, won’t you?” Francis asked quietly. “I mean, if it turns out that there’s no hope? I don’t want to die alone.”

  “You’re not going to die,” Flint promised fiercely as he forced himself to stand. The cold was beginning to slow him, too. “I’m going to look through those boxes that just came in. Then I’m going to see if the cigarette lighter in the Jeep works.”

  Flint stood and eyed the boxes. It was so cold the snow wasn’t melting, and the boxes were not damp at all. He slowly counted ten large boxes. Quite a parachute drop. Nine of them had the red stamped logo of a supermarket on them. Howard’s Gourmet Foods.

  Flint was walking toward the first of those boxes when he noticed the tenth box in more detail. It was a rectangular box with the imprint of some clothing store on it.

  “Bingo!” Flint shouted, and turned to Francis.

  She was huddled in the snow where they’d been tied. Her skin was too white, and her eyes were half-closed. That was a bad sign.

  “You need to move around,” Flint urged her as he quickly walked to her and held out his hand. “Come over here and let’s open the boxes.”