Kitabı oku: «A Gentleman for Dry Creek»

“I’d never hurt you.

“You don’t need to be afraid of being close to me,” Garth said.

Lord, he must think I’m a ninny. I’m not afraid of him.

It took a moment for the realization to sink even further into Sylvia’s mind. She checked the nerves in her stomach. Yes, she thought, she was not scared of Garth. It must be that she had just never been forced to live with her fears long enough to conquer them before. She’d never had to sit in a man’s lap until the trembling stopped. That must be it.

It must be. Because the alternative—that she had special feelings for Garth that made her fears disappear—that maybe she was even a little bit in love with the man—was starting up a trembling all of its own. And this trembling rocked her to her foundations.

JANET TRONSTAD

grew up on a small farm in central Montana. One of her favorite things to do was to visit her grandfather’s bookshelves, where he had a large collection of Zane Grey novels. She’s always loved a good story.

Today, Janet lives in Pasadena, California, where she works in the research department of a medical organization. In addition to writing novels, she researches and writes nonfiction magazine articles.

A Gentleman for Dry Creek
Janet Tronstad

www.millsandboon.co.uk

And it shall come to pass in the day that the Lord shall give thee rest from thy sorrow, and from thy fear, and from the hard bondage in which thou wast made to serve.

—Isaiah 14:3

Dedicated with love to my two sisters, Margaret Enger and Doris Tronstad. How fortunate I am to have both of you in my life.

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed the story of Sylvia and Garth. I wanted to show a woman who—like most of us—has struggled with fear in her relationships. It would have been easy for Sylvia to listen only to those fears. But, in doing so, she’d have missed out on the gift of love Garth was offering.

If you have similar fears in your life, I pray you will not let them stop you from accepting the love of others, whether it be the love of a friend, a family member, or the love of that special man. In the beginning of the book, I chose the words of Isaiah 14:3 to remind us that God can give us rest from our fears. Once our fears have been put to rest, we can accept the gift of love and friendship others have for us.

May we all love well and fearlessly.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Sylvia Bannister checked the rearview mirror, not because there was likely to be any traffic on this one-lane road outside of Miles City, Montana, but because she had anxiously checked the mirror every few minutes all the way here from the airport in Billings. Between checking the mirror and praying, she didn’t notice that the snowflakes were falling thicker and the temperature was dropping.

She was worried. She kept expecting a pulsing red light to fill the back window of her rental car. She’d asked the police to flag her down if they found out anything new about K.J. and John—anything at all.

But the window stayed dark except for the snow that gathered around the edges. The two boys could be anywhere between here and Dry Creek, Montana. And they probably didn’t have warm jackets with them. Or anything more substantial than a candy bar to eat. And certainly not a map—Sylvia stopped herself. The two boys would be fine. They’d faced tougher odds on the streets of Seattle. The teenagers were two of the gang members her center was pledged to help. She’d had such hopes for these two boys. She knew their background—in one of the deadliest gangs in the area—but she knew kids and she’d pinned some hopes on these two.

That’s why, when she’d found out they had been offered money to kill someone in Dry Creek, Montana—and then had bought plane tickets to Billings—she barely had time to activate the center’s prayer chain before she rushed to the airport, flew to Billings and then rented this car to drive the rest of the way.

She’d chase those two boys to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took to snatch them back from a life of crime.

She looked in her rearview mirror again. She wondered just how far away Dry Creek, Montana, could possibly be. She’d driven down Interstate 94 and turned off at the exit that said Dry Creek. It was dark outside, but her headlights had shown the sign clearly. She couldn’t have made a mistake. Still, she’d expected to be in Dry Creek by now. So far, she hadn’t seen any buildings, and the road she was driving on was little more than a path over a washboard of foothills.

Sylvia opened the window and a fine flurry of snow blew in her face. She loved the soft touch of snow. Besides, the wet coldness of the flakes kept her awake. She was sleepy. She didn’t realize she didn’t have a firm grip on the car’s wheel until she was jarred by a bump in the road and automatically swerved. With all the snow it was hard to tell, but she felt like she hit something. She was on the bank of an old creek bed and she needed to pull the car back on the path. She twisted the wheel, but the car spun to the right. Something was wrong. Then she realized the something she hit must have had a sharp point to it. She had a flat tire.

She pulled harder, but the red Buick was already tilting. She couldn’t control it. She was going down the bank. She barely had time to whisper a prayer as she tipped. She felt a stabbing pain as her head hit the windshield.

Her last thought was that she’d freeze to death if no one found her soon.

And who would find her? It was four o’clock in the morning and she hadn’t seen another car for twenty long miles.

Dear Lord, what have I done?

Garth Elkton sat crouched down in the cab of his ranch pickup and peered out his window at the Buick Skylark. Someone had driven the car right down the side of the creek bed and lodged it into a snowdrift.

Looked like a fool’s mistake.

Trouble is, there weren’t that many fools around Miles City. Not with the tourists all down in California at this time of year. Even drunks had better sense than to venture out in the middle of winter—and if they did, they didn’t end up in his cow pasture half-buried in a snowdrift.

No, something wasn’t right.

The early-morning light was still hazy, so he carefully checked the snow-covered ground in all directions. He was looking for boot marks or hoof prints. Rustlers had been hitting this part of Montana, and he’d even heard rumors of contract killers coming into the Billings airport yesterday.

But there were no prints around the car. He didn’t see anything but frostbitten sage and, in the distance, the low rolling hills of the Big Sheep Mountain range. He could make out the smoke coming from the fire in one of the bunkhouses on his ranch and he sighed. He should be home with his feet propped up in front of the fire having a second cup of coffee.

Instead he’d come out to be sure all the cows made it to the storm shelter last night, and here he was. Trying to decide what kind of trouble that red car was going to be.

He studied the car. Most likely it was empty. Failing that, however, it was a trap set by the rustlers. Whoever drove that car into the creek bed knew someone passing by couldn’t resist walking over and taking a look inside. Not after a brittle winter night like last night. Because—if the car wasn’t empty—it meant some poor fool needed help desperately.

Well, he might as well get it over with. He reached under the seat. He’d feel a lot more comfortable with a weapon of some sort. He usually had more tools there, but all he found was one old hammer. He’d picked up the hammer in a ditch a month or so ago when he was out mending fences.

Garth eyed the hammer doubtfully. He’d heard of men who could kill someone with a dinner fork, but he doubted even they could do much with this hammer. The wooden handle was splintered and the metal was rusty. It looked like it’d crumble with the first blow. Not that he needed to worry about giving a second blow anyway if the men inside the car were packing guns. He’d be finished before he began.

Garth opened his cab door cautiously. A light filter of snow was falling and the weather was so cold, Garth’s breath hung around him like smoke. He hefted the hammer in his bare hand as he walked low, gliding from sagebrush to sagebrush.

Garth half slid along the ground when he got closer to the car. The snow was cold on his stomach, but he hardly noticed.

The window of the Skylark was steamed up but Garth could see a shape. It could be a bundle of blankets. Or it could be a man.

A soft moan came from inside the car.

This is it, Garth said to himself. He took a deep breath, rose to his full height, hefted the hammer and opened the car door all in one swift movement. Garth was braced for the blast of a rifle, but not for the shrill scream that shook his earlobes.

He dropped the hammer on his toes.

“What the—” He swore until the small face in front of him blinked and then opened up a pair of eyes so blue, he couldn’t believe they were real.

How in the world had she gotten eyes the color of polished turquoise? Garth shook himself. Forget her eyes, old man. Remember where you are. She could be a criminal. Rustlers wouldn’t hesitate to use a pretty woman as bait. “What are you doing here?”

Sylvia looked up at the man. He was standing with his back to the rising winter sun. Flecks of snow clung to the gray Stetson that kept his face in shadows even though it was early morning. The hat was worn and dipped to shield his eyes like it had been trained for the task. He was tall, six foot two or three she’d judge, and sturdy.

She shivered a little from the sheer size of him. Big men made her nervous, not that she ever let them see it. With dogs and big men, she needed to keep her nerve up.

He was angry—she could see that. His face was red with anger even in the cold. But then she saw that his eyes didn’t squint the way a mean man’s eyes would. She had become expert at reading anger on a man’s face. At least her ex-husband had done that much for her.

“What?” Sylvia tried to listen to the man. She felt like she was coming out of a sleep. Something important had happened and she couldn’t remember what it was. Maybe this man knew. She’d driven so far and so fast, she felt as if she was still moving. Then she felt the pain in her head and she remembered—the accident, the twisting of her shoulder, the impact on her head and then the blackness.

“What are you doing here?” the man repeated, and then paused. “Are you working with the rustlers?”

“No,” Sylvia whispered. Her head was pounding. “I’m working with the—”

“The what?”

“The gang.” Sylvia didn’t know why her tongue was so thick. “The boys in the gang.”

The pain in Sylvia’s head twisted and she saw white…

Sylvia woke later to the sound of voices. There was a man’s voice. The big man. She remembered him. His voice sounded like a low rumble. Then there was an old man’s voice, raspy and quiet. Over it all, a woman’s voice soothed them.

“She’s coming round,” the old voice said with assurance.

Sylvia opened her eyes. She was in a Norman Rockwell painting. A white-haired man with a stethoscope around his neck was beaming down at her. A sweet-faced woman with her hair pulled back was looking around his shoulder and beaming, too.

Behind her she saw the big man. He must not have heard of Norman Rockwell. Instead of a smile he wore a scowl. “Give her room to breathe.”

“I’m fine,” Sylvia mouthed the words. They squeaked out softer than she wanted so she took a breath and tried again. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure she doesn’t need to be in the clinic?” The big man kept talking about her like she wasn’t there. She noticed his gray jacket was still damp from melted snow. “I can take her to Miles City easy enough—the roads aren’t that bad.”

Mention of the roads reminded Sylvia. “I’ve got to go.” She started to sit up.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the woman said firmly, turning to the big man. “Is she, Garth?”

“Garth.” Sylvia rolled the name around on her tongue. She liked it. Even if he had a wife. “Thank you—all of you—but I need to leave.”

Sylvia slowly raised herself completely. She’d been lying on a plaid sofa in a high-ceiling living room. Huge windows opened onto a snow-dusted outdoor deck.

“What do I owe you?” Sylvia looked at the doctor. Doctors in Seattle didn’t make house calls, but if one did it’d be expensive. She wondered how much cash she had with her.

“No need for that.” The old man waved away her offer. “I was out here anyway—the boys had a horse that needed a look-see.”

“A horse?”

“I tend to all of God’s creatures,” the old man said with a smile. “Don’t worry. I went to medical school. Only took up vetting in my later years. Not that you’re complicated. A vet could tell you what you need to know. Take it easy, don’t doze off, someone to watch you—that sort of thing. But don’t worry. Francis will look out for you.”

“Thanks, but—” Sylvia took a ragged breath and swung her legs around so she’d be sitting normally. The room started to spin.

“What the—” Garth stepped to the other side of the sofa where Sylvia was sitting, and grabbed her shoulders. “Fool woman. Don’t you listen to the doctor?”

Sylvia felt the man’s hands on her shoulders. She wanted to shrug them off, to show she didn’t need help. But even she could tell that without his support she’d fall over like a rag doll.

“I need to get to Dry Creek.” Sylvia said the words distinctly. Carefully.

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Garth said, eyeing her. What he saw stopped him. Pain stretched the pale skin of her face and her startling blue eyes half closed with the effort of breathing. He could feel every breath she took through his hands as they held her shoulders.

When she’d passed out in the car he’d been alarmed at her stillness. He’d put his cheek close to her lips to feel the warmth of her breath. He wanted to do the same again. Even though Dr. Norris said there were no broken ribs, he was sure there were some bruised ones. She wasn’t breathing right.

“No, it can’t. Life and death—”

“Death! Oh, surely not,” the doctor sputtered as he patted her knee. “That much of a doctor I’ve always been. No, you’re not going to die—a concussion maybe, but that’s it.”

Sylvia wondered why the doctor’s hands felt merely comforting while Garth’s hands on her shoulders felt like an anchor. Her muscles settled into the palms of his hands and she leaned slightly. She’d rest a minute before she stood. “It’s not me—it’s Glory Beckett.”

“You’re with her?” Garth demanded. “She’s the one who’s mixed up with those contract killers I’ve heard about.”

“I—I can explain,” Sylvia said as she took another partial breath.

“Explanations can wait,” Garth said. He didn’t like the whiteness in the woman’s face now that she was sitting. And he could feel the effort her body spent in drawing each breath. He’d taken off her coat when he’d first laid her on the sofa. Nothing separated him from her skin but the white silk blouse she was wearing. The material was cool and sleek, but he could feel her warmth beneath the material. Yes, explanations could wait. He’d just as soon hold this butterfly of a woman a minute or two longer before he found out what was making her so worried.

Chapter Two

Six weeks later, on a side street in Seattle

Garth Elkton figured he was the sorriest excuse for a man alive. He’d let his butterfly woman fly right out of his life and he’d been too tongue-tied to stop her. The fact that she was avoiding him at the time—and had avoided him most of the two days that she spent in Dry Creek—should not have stopped him.

You’d have thought it was his fault she hadn’t known those two boys had come to Dry Creek to save Glory Beckett instead of shoot her and that Glory Beckett had ended up helping the Feds cut off the distribution network for the stolen beef that was being rustled out of Montana. He had not known those things himself. He couldn’t have told Sylvia.

But that didn’t ease her coldness to him. As near as he could figure, Sylvia had been annoyed with him just for breathing the same air as everyone else. A sane man would give up on a woman so set against him. At first he’d thought it’d been the confusion about Francis. But he’d told her Francis was his sister. It hadn’t seemed to make a difference.

He told himself a dozen times he should forget her.

Still, he tapped his shirt pocket. Sylvia had lost a butterfly-shaped, gold earring when she rode in his pickup the morning he’d found her. He hadn’t noticed it until after she left Dry Creek. He’d meant to mail it to her in Seattle, but he’d found he was reluctant to part with it. He kept hoping she’d write and ask about it. But she didn’t.

He glanced down at the faded Polaroid picture that he’d taped to the dash of his pickup—he’d given Santa five bucks to take that picture of Sylvia on Christmas Eve and it was the best five bucks he’d ever spent. She’d been talking to the kids serving the spaghetti dinner that night in Dry Creek and her face was alive with laughter. Her smile had haunted him ever since she climbed into Glory Beckett’s Jeep and headed back to Seattle.

At the time, he’d thought his yearning for her would fade. He didn’t know her. He knew that. The shadows of emotions that had chased themselves across her face when he talked to her could be misread. But he had an itch inside his gut to know Sylvia Bannister, and he figured the only way to get rid of it was to do something about it.

He didn’t have a plan past returning the earring. A man needed hope to have a plan and he didn’t have any of that. Sylvia Bannister had made it clear she was a church woman and he figured a church woman would never take up with the likes of him. But plan or no plan, hope or no hope, it seemed the best way to start was to go to Seattle.

And here he was. Lost as a stray sheep on some wet Seattle street. Or maybe he was even in Tacoma. He’d dropped Matthew Curtis off so the man could do his own courting of Glory Beckett. Garth had thought he’d find Sylvia’s youth center with no problem. He’d flown missions in the army with a flashlight held to a map the size of a baseball card.

But the streets here were confusing. Too many hills and detours. Too many gang markings covering street signs. Too many empty, shelled buildings with the street numbers erased off their sides. He knew he wasn’t in the safe part of town and he didn’t like the thought of Sylvia’s center being here.

And then he saw a familiar face. One of the kids. John. The kid was half walking, half running down the street beside an abandoned building. Gray metal sheets were nailed over the windows of the building and rust outlined the doorway. Garth guessed the building used to be a factory of some kind.

Then he noticed that John’s face was as gray as the weathered sheet metal. The kid was afraid, looking over his shoulder and trotting along like some lopsided chicken.

Garth pulled over and parked his pickup. He was going to call out to John when he saw what was happening. Kids—thugs, Garth thought—were coming toward John from all directions. Instead of running faster, John slowed down like it was hopeless.

Garth reached over and opened the passenger door of his pickup truck. John could make it to the pickup if he gave one good burst of speed. Garth honked the horn and John looked up but didn’t move. Garth had seen this before. Someone so scared they couldn’t move even to save themselves.

Garth half swore. He’d have to do this the hard way. He opened his door and reached behind the seat for an old bullwhip he’d bought at an auction last week. The Gebharts were selling out and he’d paid as much for the whip as their pride would allow. At the time he wasn’t sure it’d stay together long enough for him to nail it to his barn wall.

Now he hoped the whip would hold together a bit longer than that.

Sylvia stopped her fingers from twisting together nervously. She was sitting behind her desk in the small office at the center. The other staff—Melissa Hanson and Pat Dawson—were conspicuously absent. Cowards. They were no more prepared to chat with Mrs. Buckwalter than she was.

At first she’d felt like Alice in Wonderland when Mrs. Buckwalter had called, asking to see the center. Sylvia knew of the Buckwalters. True, she never traveled in those financial—or social—circles, but she knew they existed. Just like she knew the queen of England existed. She’d just never expected to have the queen—or Mrs. Buckwalter—for tea.

The Buckwalter Foundation was not the kind of donor that usually supported the center—in fact, they were more likely to donate millions to a Seattle museum than ten dollars to a small, church-funded youth center that needed a camp.

Of course, she’d be happy to show Mrs. Buckwalter around. She’d smiled into the phone in frozen shock. Today? Yes, four o’clock would be fine.

Sylvia wasn’t off the phone for two seconds before she realized something was very wrong. She had assumed somehow in those magical minutes that someone from the staff had approached the Buckwalters about their ideas for a youth camp. The funding they had counted on had fallen through at the last minute and her first wild hope was that somehow word had gotten to the Buckwalters and they were coming to their rescue.

She realized how naive that sounded the moment she thought about it. A lion in the jungle didn’t worry about whether or not an ant had funding. She didn’t even know anyone who knew the Buckwalters well enough to get past the army of secretaries that fielded their calls. They were notorious for being difficult to contact.

Her fears were confirmed when she questioned the staff. No one had called Mrs. Buckwalter. No one even knew how to reach Mrs. Buckwalter.

That’s when Sylvia panicked. The phone call had not been a miracle—it had been a mistake. Mrs. Buckwalter must have thought she was calling someplace else. She must have looked in the phone book under Tacoma-Seattle Youth Center and dialed the wrong place.

Sylvia took a deep breath. So it wasn’t perfect. It was still a slim hope and that was better than anything else she had. After all, Jesus was an old hand at drawing a rabbit out of a hat. He had fed five—or was it ten—thousand with a few biscuits and a couple of fish fillets. If he could do that, he could help her with Mrs. Buckwalter.

Sylvia braced herself. Yes, she’d do her best pitch. She had the grant proposal. She needed to make some changes and it would be ready. Then all that remained was—

Oh, no, the office! Or more like the nonoffice. Sylvia used the room that had once been a janitor’s storage room. The room met her needs but it still smelled of floor wax. She’d always kept lots of green plants around, but surely a woman like Mrs. Buckwalter would expect more to sit on than a gray folding chair.

And her clothes! Sylvia looked down at herself. Usually she wore a suit when meeting with prospective donors. But today she had on a bulky navy sweater and acid-washed jeans. There wasn’t time to drive back to her apartment and change.

Sylvia took a deep breath and reminded herself what Jesus could do with a biscuit. That reminded her—yes, tea. She needed a pot of tea and some English biscuits.

By four o’clock the tea was cooling in the cups and Sylvia’s glow was fading by the second. Mrs. Buckwalter certainly wasn’t interested in the proposal Sylvia had managed to get ready.

“—we’d pair each teen with a mentor.” Sylvia pressed forward with her proposal because she didn’t know what else to do. Mrs. Buckwalter still held her purse in her lap. The purse was genuine leather and the lap was ample. Sylvia had seen Mrs. Buckwalter at a distance in several local charity events and thought she looked imposing. Up close she looked downright intimidating. English tweed suit, hand-tailored for her. Starched blouse. Iron hair, severely pulled back. Intelligent green eyes that seemed impatient.

Mrs. Buckwalter looked at the diamond watch on her wrist.

Sylvia gave up. Mrs. Buckwalter must have realized the mistake early on and was just waiting for enough minutes to pass so she could politely leave. She obviously wasn’t used to this part of town. There must be thirty carats of diamonds on that watchband alone. “You shouldn’t wear your good watch down here.”

Mrs. Buckwalter looked up blankly. “I didn’t.”

“Well, it would be the watch of a lifetime for any of the kids down here,” Sylvia said dryly. “We try not to wave temptation in front of them.”

Mrs. Buckwalter nodded and slowly unhooked her watch. Then she laid the watch out beside the teapot. “It’s yours.”

“But I didn’t mean for you to—”

“I know.” Mrs. Buckwalter waved aside her protest. “I’m an old woman and I don’t have time to be subtle. Don’t know what made me think I might be able to pull this off slowly. Let me put it to you straight. I’ll fund this camp of yours but I have one condition—I pick the campsite, no questions asked. If you have a problem with that—”

“No, no—” Sylvia was speechless. She started to rise out of her chair. Could it really be that simple?

“We’ll need at least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Sylvia clarified. She wasn’t sure Mrs. Buckwalter had been paying attention.

Mrs. Buckwalter nodded complacently. “We’ll probably want to make it two hundred thousand dollars, plus whatever the watch brings. I never liked it anyway. I want to be sure they have the best of everything. Not that it’s necessary for learning good manners, but it helps.”

Sylvia half choked as she sank lower into the folding chair. “Manners?” She was right. Mrs. Buckwalter hadn’t been listening. She had them confused with some other youth center. Maybe one of those upscale places that prepares girls to be debutantes.

“We work with young people who have been in gangs,” Sylvia offered quietly as she got up and walked over to a locked cabinet and turned a key. She pulled the drawer open to reveal a jumble of knives, cans of spray paint and bullets. Each item had a tag. “These are only from the past month. Kids give them to us for a month at a time. We hope that at the end of the month they’re ready to give up the stuff forever. Usually they do. Sometimes they don’t. Either way, they know fear every day of their lives. They see other kids killed. They’ve all robbed someone. They need more than manners.”

Mrs. Buckwalter looked at the drawer and raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you’re set on it, you’re welcome to add the prayer and Bible stuff I hear you’re famous for—I don’t believe it will harm anyone. But you’re to include a proper amount of old-fashioned manners, too. I don’t care how violent these children have been—we are a civilized nation and manners will do them good.”

“You don’t mean table manners? Salad forks—that kind of thing?” Now that Sylvia concluded Mrs. Buckwalter knew where she was and what she was saying, she tried to sort the thing out. Was “manners” a code name for some new therapy she hadn’t read about yet? Some kind of new EST thing—or maybe Zen something. Mrs. Buckwalter didn’t look the type to go in for psychological fads, but she must be.

“And everyday etiquette, too,” Mrs. Buckwalter added complacently. “Respect for elders. Ladies first, boys opening the door for girls—that kind of thing. Maybe even wrap it up with a formal dance.” Mrs. Buckwalter’s face softened. “I’ve always thought there’s nothing like a formal dance to bring out the manners in everyone.”

Sylvia felt as if her head was buzzing. Most of the kids she worked with had probably never seen a dance more formal than the funky chicken. And if a boy opened the door for a girl, she wouldn’t go through it, suspecting he was using her as a body shield to stop bullets from someone on the other side of it.

“But—” Sylvia started to explain when she noticed that Mrs. Buckwalter was no longer listening to her. Instead, the older woman had her head tilted to the outer room. Things were getting a little noisy, even for the center.

“Excuse me,” Sylvia said. She’d worry about manners later. “I’d better check and see what’s happening.”

The thud of a basketball sounded as it hit the wire hoop in the main, gymlike room of the center, but no one even looked as the ball circled the hoop before slowly dropping through the basket. The two teenage boys, who had been shooting baskets, had their backs to the hoop. They stood frozen, half-crouched, undecided about whether to run or to hit the floor as the front door slammed open.

Sylvia scanned the big room in a glance. The air was humid; it’d been raining off and on all day. Sometimes the weather made everyone short-tempered. But it wasn’t the weather today. She saw the two boys in the middle of the floor and three or four girls sitting on the edge of the floor where they’d been gossiping.

All of the kids were staring at the front door. And she couldn’t blame them. A large figure was shouldering its way inside. If they were anywhere else, Sylvia would say it was a bear. Or Bigfoot. But then she saw that the figure had two parts. John was slung over the shoulder of a man as big as a mountain. She could already hear the squeal of rubber as a car screeched to a stop outside.

Chapter Three

Sylvia stood on the steps of the Seattle police station, as close to swearing as she was to weeping. She’d almost gotten them away. If she’d taken Mrs. Buckwalter at her word and gathered the kids under her wing yesterday and run off to Montana, she wouldn’t be climbing these steps now on her way to try and bail them all out of jail.

The irony was she’d worked through her resistance to the idea of staying on Garth’s ranch and decided she would do it. She had no other options for the kids.

She’d take the kids to Montana she decided—at least the ones for whom she could get parental consent. Likely, that would be all of them as long as she promised to only keep them for a month. A month wasn’t long enough to interfere with any government support their parents were getting for them. And they’d get permission from the schools. Both of her staff were teachers as well as counselors and gave individual instruction to the kids.

Even a month would let the kids start to feel safe. She’d learned early on that a month’s commitment was about all the kids could make in the beginning. They couldn’t see further into the future than those thirty days. So that’s how she started. Once one month was down, she’d ask for another. Lives were being changed one month at a time.

But the kids getting arrested made everything so much more difficult. Some of the boys were on probation. A couple of the girls, too. The others had probably walked close enough to the edge of juvenile problems to be placed on probation with this latest episode. They might not have the freedom to decide what they wanted—not even for a month.

What, she thought to herself in exasperation, had possessed these kids to tackle a dangerous gang? But she knew—gang thinking was vicious. It made war zones out of school grounds and paranoid bush soldiers out of ordinary kids. She was lucky it was the police station she was visiting and not the morgue.

Sylvia swung open the heavy oak doors that led into the station’s waiting area. There were no windows, but the ceilings were high and supported a dozen fans that slowly rotated in an attempt to ventilate the place. Even with the fan blades buzzing in the background, the cavelike room still smelled slightly on days that weren’t wax days.

On Thursdays, when the janitors did an early-morning wax job on the brown linoleum floors, the room smelled of disinfectant. On other days the odor was people—too many, too close together and stuck there for too long.

Benches lined the room and there were two barred cashier cages on one side. The other side funneled into a long aisle that led into the main part of the police station. Sylvia’s friend, Glory Beckett, worked as a police sketch artist and her workroom was down that hall and off the main desk area.

Sylvia started in that direction.

Glory might know a shortcut to get the kids out. The two of them had worked the system before. Sylvia said a quick prayer that Glory would be in her office. Yesterday morning Glory had called, worried about having dinner last night with Matthew Curtis, the minister who’d come to Seattle from Dry Creek to ask—Sylvia sincerely hoped—Glory to marry him. In Sylvia’s opinion, it was about time. Glory hadn’t been herself since they’d come back from Dry Creek after Christmas.

The door to Glory’s workroom was closed and a note had been taped to the front of it. “She’ll be in later today—try back again. The Captain.”

Well, Sylvia thought, so much for some friendly help. She glanced at the police officer who was sitting at the desk in the open area across from Glory’s workroom. She wondered how late Glory would be. It was almost ten o’clock now.

“Do you know—” she began.

“I don’t know anything, lady,” the officer said, clearly busy and exasperated. “All I got is what you see. I can’t be answering questions every five minutes. You’ll have to wait just like the other guy.” He glared down the hallway.

“The other guy?” Sylvia’s eyes followed his gaze.

The bench was at the end of the hall and a square of light shone in through a side window. That was the only natural light. In addition a row of ceiling lights burned weakly, leaving more shadows than anything. A man sat on the hall bench, staring at the brown wall across from him. Sylvia was too far away to see his face. But she didn’t need to see it to know who he was. How many gray Stetson hats were there in Seattle in February?

The hall seemed far from the hub of the station and the noises that filled the rest of the building were muffled here. Sylvia was aware of the sharp snap of her heels as she marched down the hall.

Garth Elkton was the last person she wanted to face today. Correction. He was the second to the last. Mrs. Buckwalter was the absolute last, and as friendly as the two of them had been when they parted yesterday, she wasn’t sure that what one discovered wouldn’t be shared soon enough by both of them.

Ordinarily she wouldn’t mind. She didn’t have anything to hide. But this… She shook her head. She knew it would not look good to their potential sponsor to find all thirty-one kids from her center behind bars this morning.

As eccentric as Mrs. Buckwalter appeared, even she could hardly think this was a good beginning to their plans. Sylvia only hoped the woman wouldn’t find out about the arrests. The older woman had made a verbal commitment yesterday. But nothing had been put in writing. Everything could change if Mrs. Buckwalter knew about the kids being in jail and had sent Garth to find out whether the arrests were justified.

Sylvia was halfway down the hall when the hat moved.

Garth didn’t know why someone would put a stone bench in the hall of a police station. He’d perched on mountain rocks that were more comfortable. Not that anything about the building had been designed for comfort. Made a man feel as if he was locked up behind bars already. Guilty before he was even sent to trial.

The only good thing about the building was the hard linoleum floor. He loved the sounds of a high-heeled woman walking across a hard surface. Something about the tip-tap was thoroughly feminine. He hoped Sylvia would walk right up to him before she started to talk.

She didn’t.

“What are you doing here?” Sylvia was a good five feet from him. The question could have been friendly. But it wasn’t.

Garth eyeballed her cautiously. Sylvia had more quills than a porcupine and, unless he missed his guess, she’d just as soon bury them one by one in his hide. Slowly. He’d seen what tangling with a mad porcupine could do. He’d just as soon save his skin.

“Glory called me,” Garth answered quietly. That much he could tell her. He wasn’t sure her pride would want to know Glory had asked him to help keep Sylvia calm until she got there. “Asked me to meet her here.”

Garth watched Sylvia’s face. She might have porcupine quills, but her eyes were the tenderest blue he’d ever seen. And right now he wasn’t sure whether they were snapping with anger or tears. Maybe both. Her cheeks were red and he noticed she hadn’t pinned her hair back, instead sweeping her coal-black tresses back into a scarf.

“That’s the only reason?” Sylvia eyed him doubtfully.

Garth smiled. “Well, she did tell me they had coffee here. I haven’t seen any yet, but she said she’d get me a cup. Almond flavored.”

Sylvia seemed to relax. “Glory does like her flavored coffee.”

Garth decided disarming a porcupine wasn’t such a difficult task. He moved over on the bench and Sylvia sank down beside him. He took a deep breath. How was it she always smelled of peaches? Made him think of a summer orchard even though it was raining outside and the humidity was so high that the concrete walls were sweating.

If it wasn’t for the echo in the hallway, Garth would whistle a tune. He was that happy. Sylvia was sitting down beside him. She hadn’t thrown any barbs at him. Life was good. Forget the echoes in the hallway, he thought. A good whistle would cheer everyone up. Garth drew his breath and then it came.

“I thought maybe Mrs. Buckwalter had sent you,” Sylvia said quietly. “I thought she’d asked you to spy.”

Garth choked on the whistle. “What?” His tongue was still tangled. How did she know about Mrs. Buckwalter? The older woman hadn’t told him until he walked her to her car yesterday that she had a message for him from the FBI. She’d asked him again about infiltrating the rustling ring as a spy. He was going to dismiss the idea just as he’d done before—when she reminded him of the kids. The kids made him pause. Still, Sylvia could not know about the FBI’s offer. He himself was sworn to secrecy. That was the way these things worked. Anyone who watched television knew that much.

“I don’t know anything to spy about,” Garth answered carefully. He wondered if Mrs. Buckwalter had told Sylvia. He always thought it was a mistake for the FBI to use civilians. They never knew when to keep quiet.

“So Mrs. Buckwalter doesn’t know?” Sylvia said, relief evident in her voice.

Garth eyed her. Sylvia had leaned against the bench’s stone back and actually appeared comfortable. Garth decided there was one advantage to the stone. The pitted beige texture made Sylvia’s hair look silken in contrast. The black strands softly caught in the roughness of the concrete and flew around her head like a halo.

“About—?” Garth left the question to dangle.

Sylvia straightened up and looked at him critically.

Garth nervously tipped back his hat. He’d taken it off earlier, but then put it back on.

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell,” Sylvia said seriously.

Garth half smiled. She reminded him of a school-child when she said that. He raised one hand in oath. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Sylvia smiled back faintly, so quick and slight Garth would have thought he’d imagined it if her eyes hadn’t flashed, too.

Then she was solemn and worried. “The kids have been arrested.”

Garth wished he could take the worry off her face. Taking care of some thirty kids was too much for anyone, even Sylvia. “Glory told me there was trouble,” Garth said. “Actually, Matthew told me—he seemed in a hurry and didn’t tell me much. He’d called from the hotel lobby before he left this morning.”

Sylvia nodded. “I’m waiting to see the kids. But first I wanted to talk to Glory and see what chances we have—maybe a kindhearted judge will help us.”

Quick footsteps came toward them and Garth heard them before Sylvia. “Help is on the way.”

“We’ve got to hurry,” Glory Beckett said as she rushed down the hall and stood beside Sylvia. “I’ve got ten minutes on Judge Mason’s calendar—now.”

“Well, let’s go.” Sylvia stood. She and Glory had been through this drill before.

Judge Mason sat behind the bench in his courtroom. On another day, Sylvia would have appreciated the carved mahogany molding in the room. The court reporter was present as well as a lawyer from the D.A.’s office.

“Just so we’re clear.” Judge Mason looked over a list he held in his hand and then looked directly at Sylvia. “We’ve got an assortment of assault charges. Aiding and abetting. You want to post bail for all thirty-one of these juveniles?”

Sylvia nodded. “If I can. I have this.” She held up the watch Mrs. Buckwalter had given her yesterday. “I’m hoping it’ll be enough.”

“A watch?” The judge looked skeptical.

“Diamonds,” Sylvia assured him as she twisted the watchband so it would sparkle.

The judge grunted. “Doubt it’ll be enough for all thirty-one. But I tell you what. I’m going to keep it low—ten thousand dollars apiece on the assault and five thousand dollars on the rest. I’m going to overlook the probation violations. You can bail half of them out with the watch.”

“Half?” Sylvia’s hopes sank. She couldn’t take half of the kids and leave the rest.

“I’ll cover the other half,” Garth said quietly.

Sylvia turned. She’d forgotten he’d followed her and Glory.

“You’ll need collateral.” The judge frowned slightly. “A few hundred thousand.”

“I’ve got it,” Garth said.

“But I can’t repay you if—” Sylvia protested. She was used to risking everything on kids that might or might not come through. But she couldn’t be responsible for someone else losing money. “The kids mean well, but there’s no guarantee.”

“I know,” Garth said, and then grinned. “But since they’re going to be on my ranch, I’ll have a pretty good say in whether or not they show up for their court hearing.”

“Which will be six weeks from now,” the judge said. He peered over his glasses at Sylvia. “I know how you feel about these kids. We’ve covered that ground before. I don’t need to tell you how important it is that they are back here for court.”

“I know.” Sylvia felt the rubber band inside of her relax.

“And get them out to that ranch in Montana as soon as you can,” the judge said as he stood. He then turned and left the room.

“Thank you.” Sylvia turned to Garth. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Well, jail is no place for kids,” Garth muttered.

“And you—” Sylvia turned to Glory.

Glory just smiled. “I’d best get back to work.”

Sylvia looked more closely at her friend. Glory looked different. Her auburn hair was loose and flowing, instead of pulled back. But that wasn’t everything. Then Sylvia realized what it was. Glory was happy. Beaming, in fact.

“Have a nice evening last night?” Sylvia asked cautiously. Yesterday, when she’d talked to Glory about her date with Matthew Curtis, Glory had been grim.

“Mmm-hmm,” Glory said, lifting her hand to sweep back her hair.

“A diamond!” Sylvia saw what her friend was flaunting. “You’re engaged!”

Glory laughed with glee and nodded.

“Oh, my!” Sylvia reached up and hugged her friend. “Congratulations!”

“Finally,” Garth muttered. “Glad to see he had the nerve.”

“Nerve?” Glory looked over at Garth, puzzled. “Why would he need nerve?”

Garth snorted. That’s how much women knew about the whole business.

Chapter Four

The leather work gloves on Garth’s hands were stiff from the cold. He was twisting a strand of barbed wire to see exactly where the cut had been made. Not that it made much difference. This time the rustlers had succeeded. His crew counted twenty cows missing.

“Might be they’ll show up on the other side of the Big Sheep,” Jess, one of his new hands, offered. Jess was nearing sixty, too old to be out riding the range in most outfits, but Garth had hired him five months ago, after all the other big outfits had turned the man down. In Garth’s eyes, every man deserved the right to prove himself, and Garth assigned him to light duty in the calving barn. Jess had been pointedly grateful ever since.

“They must have hit last night and it’s already late afternoon. I should have been paying more attention,” Garth muttered as he pulled his Stetson down farther. The air around him was so cold it hung like smoke. A wet frost had hit last night and the barbed wire had stayed iced all day. Garth had thought he was safe from the rustlers in weather like this. The thieves must be desperate to get back into operation if they’d work in this cold.

“You can’t check all your fences every day,” Jess protested loyally. “Not with the land you have. No, you couldn’t have known.”

Garth grunted. He’d never know if he could have known or not. He wasn’t concentrating like normal on business at hand. For the past two days he’d thought of little else but the camp he had promised to Sylvia. The bubble of euphoria—that Sylvia was coming to his ranch—had slowly deflated as he drove back to Montana.

No, he’d given almost no thought to his cattle. He had bigger worries. He had a three-day head start. What was he going to do with thirty teenagers? And, worse yet, what was he going to do with Sylvia?

He’d assigned every hand on his place something to clean and he’d put his sister Francis in charge of the inspections. He missed his son, but the boy had gone to Chicago to visit an old friend. Garth wished his son were here to help keep the men happy. Except for Jess, the men had all threatened to quit. They said they’d hired on to ride herd on cattle, not scrub walls. Even after Garth promised them a bonus, they still muttered. But they cleaned—cowboy-style—using a broom like a shovel and a rag like a whip.

Francis insisted they use ammonia and now the whole ranch smelled of it. Garth took a cautious whiff of his hand. Even through the glove he could still smell the stuff. The one good thing about it all was that Francis brightened considerably as she took to her task. She’d still not told Garth what was troubling her and he knew better than to push. But it was good to have his sister smiling again, and she’d promised to extend her visit until summer.

Sound traveled clearly on a crisp cold afternoon and Garth heard the rumble of a load-pulling engine before he saw the bus crawl over the hill that led to the main house.

“We best get back,” Garth said as he walked over to the horses. Garth put his leg into the stirrup and lifted himself up. “We’ve got company.”

Sylvia stood in the long wood-frame building. So this was the bunkhouse. Late-afternoon shadows filled the corners but she didn’t turn on the overhead light. She could see what she needed to see. The plank floor was unpolished and smooth from years of wear. The small row of windows were half covered with frost and they lacked curtains. Eight cots were lined against each of the long sides of the building.

Puffs of heat came toward her, fighting the cold air. Metal grates along the wall indicated gas heating, but most of the heat seemed to be coming from a potbelly stove near the door. The stove door was closed but the bright glow of a steady fire shone through the door cracks. But as cozy as the inside of the bunkhouse was, the view out the windows of the afternoon sun reflecting off the snow-capped mountains was breathtaking. The girls would like it. They might not admit to it, but they would like it. She could hear the girls now, chattering as they walked to the ranch house from the rented bus.

Above the voices of the teenagers, she could hear Mrs. Buckwalter’s deep laugh. Sylvia had to give the older woman credit. She hadn’t just written a check. She’d spent hours shopping and packing for their camp. Finally, she had confidently asked if she could ride with them to camp. Sylvia would have refused, but she could use an extra adult on the trip, especially since Mrs. Buckwalter had a quelling influence on the rowdy teenagers. No one misbehaved around Mrs. Buckwalter; whether it was the promise of new skis or the fact that the older woman formally called each of the kids by their full name, Sylvia did not know.

Sylvia, herself, kept watching the woman cautiously, half expecting something to happen that would cause Mrs. Buckwalter’s generous enthusiasm to disappear. Surely one of the woman’s relatives would step up and say Mrs. Buckwalter wasn’t competent to donate large sums of money. That was one reason Sylvia was glad to be away from Seattle. She doubted any of the accountants would bother with them when they were so far away.

Mrs. Buckwalter had made all the arrangements. The bus had been rented for a month even though the driver would fly back to Seattle once the suitcases were unloaded. The driver would return and drive them back when they were ready to go.

Sylvia looked around the bunkhouse again, reassuring herself that she had made the right decision. She had excused herself from the others, saying she needed to change her blouse. She had spilled coffee on it this morning, but the small spot wouldn’t ordinarily stop her. No, she wanted a few minutes alone to gather her thoughts before she faced Garth again.

She remembered being in Garth’s house that morning when he’d found her half-frozen and had brought her to his ranch. She could almost picture where he must be sitting now. He’d have his boots off and his feet propped up in front of the fireplace. Garth hadn’t come to the door when the bus pulled up. It had been Francis who stood on the porch and called out, asking everyone to come up to the ranch house for a cup of hot cocoa and some cookies.

Sylvia had asked Mrs. Buckwalter to tell Francis that she’d be up soon. She had thought a five-hundred-mile bus ride would prepare her to meet anyone again. But it hadn’t.

Now here she was—hiding out in the bunkhouse like a coward. She shook her head ruefully as she set her suitcase on one of the chairs near the stove. Even with the stove’s heat, it was still a little chilly in the room. Sylvia took off her coat and opened her suitcase. She’d be quick. Maybe she’d put on her red blouse for courage.

Garth swore as he rode over the hill and looked down at his house. The bus was parked in the driveway and he could hear the sounds of voices coming from the living room. Knowing Francis, she had everyone inside thawing while she fed them cookies. Garth hoped she kept everyone there for a few minutes. He wasn’t ready to meet Sylvia. She was a city woman and he didn’t think she’d appreciate being greeted by a man whose hands smelled of ammonia and whose feet smelled of cattle. Fortunately he could slip into the bunkhouse and wash up before he headed up to the house.

Garth opened the door to the bunkhouse.

Mercy!

Since the time he was a small boy, Garth had been taught to close the door behind him in winter. It was a cardinal rule in these mountains. Heat was precious. But, so help him, he couldn’t move.

Sylvia stood there. Her midnight-black hair was loose around her shoulders. Her turquoise eyes were opened in surprise. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. It wasn’t until he noticed the red start to creep up her neck that he realized she wasn’t wearing a blouse. And the lace contraption she wore for a bra made him warm even though it was cold enough inside the bunkhouse to frost the windows.

“Excuse me,” Garth finally managed to say. His manners kicked in and he stepped inside. “I didn’t mean to let the cold air in.”

Once he was inside, Garth kicked himself again. He’d obviously stepped the wrong way. Sylvia looked embarrassed and he certainly didn’t mean to embarrass her. “Don’t mind me. I didn’t know someone was in here. I can leave. I just came in to wash my hands.”

Garth turned to go.

“It’s all right. You can wash up here.” Sylvia spoke. Garth had fished on creeks with thinner ice than Sylvia had in her voice. “The sink’s in the back.”

Sylvia wrapped her blouse around herself, waiting for Garth to pass.

What could a man do when he’d done everything wrong so far? Garth walked down the aisle between the beds to one of the sinks at the end of the bunkhouse.

He’d turned on the faucet before he looked up. Hallelujah! The mirror above the sink gave him a clear view of Sylvia. Her skin was golden in the light from the stove. Her hair shone like black coal. It took him a full minute to realize that Sylvia was half-frozen. He’d seen that same stiffness in fawns caught in the headlights of a tractor.

He lowered his eyes and quickly washed his hands before turning off the faucet.

“There’s lots of extra towels if you or the girls need them,” Garth said as he turned around. Maybe Sylvia was shy. He pointed. “In the cabinet right here.”

“We’ll find them, I’m sure,” Sylvia said.

Garth sighed. She had her blouse buttoned to her chin and her arms crossed.

“Anything you need, just ask.” Garth wondered how mannerly he would need to be to make Sylvia smile at him. She certainly wasn’t smiling now. She did nod.

“Well, okay, then,” Garth said. He thought about removing his hat, but it seemed foolish since he hadn’t taken if off when he’d first entered the bunkhouse. Instead, he nodded, too. “I guess the others are up at the house?”

Sylvia nodded.

Garth was defeated. He nodded again. This time he closed the door very carefully on the way out.

The sound of teenagers greeted Garth as he stepped on his front porch. He hoped they, at least, would talk to him.

Sylvia sat down. She was out of breath. She hadn’t had an episode like that in years. She thought she had gotten a handle on her fears about men. And usually she was all right. Her days at the youth center had helped her deal with violence and fear. But sometimes something would happen that would take her by surprise and she wasn’t in control. Like just now. With Garth. He’d appeared so suddenly and she’d thought she was alone. She hadn’t had time to steel herself, to hide her primitive reaction.

She wondered if he knew she had been paralyzed. She hoped not. It wasn’t his fault she’d had bad experiences with men and violence. And she didn’t want to hear his apology or, worse yet, the polite questions that invited her to tell her whole sorry story. Sylvia reached into her suitcase and brought out her Bible.

She sought the comfort of Psalm 91. The psalm had been with her for years and it always served to anchor her. “He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.” She repeated the verse. The familiar words soothed her. The psalmist was right. God was her fortress. She relied on that fact every day of her life. She hid herself in the folds of His love. He protected her. There was no other way she could have taken her fear of violence and used it to start erasing violence in the lives of the kids who came to the center.

But lately she had begun to wonder if she could continue living in that fortress. She was safe, but she was also alone. She knew God would not want her fear to be a prison. She closed her eyes in weariness. Dear Lord, show me how not to be so afraid. Show me how to stop my fears.

Tiny flakes of snow were falling by the time Sylvia stepped out of the bunkhouse to walk to the main house. She’d put several pieces of wood in the bunkhouse stove. It was almost dark outside even though it must not have been later than six o’clock.

Snowflakes settled on Sylvia’s cheeks as she lifted her face in the early-night sky. She’d never seen darkness fall like this in Seattle—a blanket of thick gray covered the sky. No stars sparkled. No moon dipped in the sky. When night fell completely it would be deep black. She was glad the camp could start in the winter. It was a lovely time of year here.

Squares of golden light showed the windows of the main house. Sylvia heard the hum of voices before she climbed the steps to the house.

“Sylvia!” Francis opened the large, oak door before Sylvia had a chance to knock. The woman was wearing a denim skirt and tennis shoes. She had a dish towel draped over her shoulder and a plate of cookies in one hand. The smell of fresh-baked oatmeal cookies mixed with the soothing smell of real wood burning in the fireplace. “Come in. You must be frozen! I was just going to send Garth down to check on you. I just turned the gas heat on this afternoon. I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight. It’s too cold—”

“There’s a fire going,” Sylvia protested as she shook the snow off her hair. She looked around the room. Francis looked as friendly as she remembered. The teenagers were grouped around something in the dining room. A few squeals from the girls told Sylvia she wouldn’t get their attention soon. “It will be fine—”

“I don’t want the girls to be uncomfortable,” Francis said worriedly. She put the plate of cookies down on a small table near the door. “I know how girls like nice things.”

“They like cookies even better,” Sylvia said. She doubted the kids had had homemade cookies in years. Most of their mothers worked long hours. Cookies were a luxury.

“You’ll have one?” Francis offered the plate. “I haven’t made any since Tavis—that’s Garth’s son—is away. I put in extra raisins. Kids generally like raisins.”

“Thank you.” Sylvia took a cookie. “And thank you for the warm welcome. You’ve gone to so much extra trouble.”

“I’ve been looking forward to everyone coming since Garth first called.”

“And you’ve been busy. I saw that all the cots were made up.”

Francis smiled. “We worked on the girls’ bunkhouse first. I had Garth do some rewiring so they have more outlets for blow-drying their hair, and he even put in a telephone that goes between the bunkhouse and here.”

“A telephone?” Sylvia said in surprise.

“I told Garth you might feel more comfortable that way.” Francis looked more relaxed than she had in December when Sylvia had lain unconscious on the living room sofa. “That way, when you’re in the house with us, you’ll be able to call down and see that everything’s all right. That is—” Francis looked shy “—I’m hoping you’ll stay in the house with us. I told Garth he was to ask you. We have so much to plan—with Glory’s wedding and all—”

“Wedding! The last I talked to Glory, they were going to go to a justice of the peace.”

“Oh, not for our angel! Well, they are going to a justice for the wedding, but not for the reception. Not with Mrs. Hargrove around.” Francis smiled. “When they said they didn’t have patience for the details, Mrs. Hargrove told them she’d organize it all for them—this Saturday night. The whole town is in on it. I’m baking the wedding cake and you’re to be the maid of honor.” Francis hesitated. “I know you haven’t had a chance to talk to Glory since you’ve been driving here, but she told Mrs. Hargrove you were the one she wants to stand beside her when they repeat their vows here. I’m to help make you a dress—so you see, you need to stay in the house with us. I told Garth he was to insist.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—” Sylvia bit off her words. Garth hadn’t mentioned anything to her earlier about staying in the house. He might not want her there. They were renters, after all. Not guests. “I couldn’t leave the girls alone.”