like the Franklin stove were true or if he’d romanticized them over the years, mixing them up with some old-fashioned movie he’d seen or some nostalgic dream he’d had.
He realized he didn’t want to know about the stove so he hadn’t looked inside the hardware store.
Flint had only spent a few months in Dry Creek, but this little community—more than anywhere else on earth—was the place he thought of as home. His grandmother had lived her life here, and this is where he’d known Francis. The combination of the two would make this forever home to him.
None of the chrome-and-plastic-furnished apartments he’d rented over the years could even begin to compete. They were little more than closets to keep his clothes out of the rain. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cooked anything but coffee in any of them. No, none of them could compete with the homes around Dry Creek.
Even old man Gossett’s place looked as though it had a garden of sorts—a few rhubarb stalks stuck up out of a snowdrift, and there was a crab apple tree just left of his back porch. There were no leaves on the tree, but Flint recognized the graceful swoop of the bare branches.
The trash barrel that the man kept in the vacant lot had a broken jelly jar inside. Flint suspected someone was making jelly from the apples that came off the tree. It might even be the old man.
Flint envied the old man his jelly and Flint didn’t even like jelly. The jelly just symbolized home and community for him, and Flint felt more alone than he had for years. Maybe when he finished this business in Dry Creek, he should think about getting married.
That woman he’d started dating—Annette—he wondered if she could make apple jelly. He’d have to find out—maybe he should even send her a postcard. Women liked postcards. He hadn’t seen any that featured Dry Creek, but maybe he’d stop in Billings when this was all over. Get her something with those mountains on it. In the daylight the Big Sheep Mountain Range was low and buff-colored with lots of dry sage in the foreground. Looked like a Zane Grey novel. Yes, a postcard was a good idea. That’s what he’d do when this was all over.
From the sounds of the ruckus inside that old barn, the whole community of Dry Creek, Montana, was celebrating tonight. All eighty-five adults and the usual assortment of children.
Flint had checked the vital statistics before he headed down here. The place didn’t have any more people now than it had had that spring he’d spent at his grandmother’s place. The only new people that had come to the community were the busload of Seattle teenagers who were there for a month to see that all of life wasn’t limited to the city streets. As long as Francis stayed with the people inside the barn, she would be safe.
That thought had no sooner crossed his mind than the side barn door opened. A woman stood silhouetted in the golden light from inside the barn. Flint felt all breath leave his body. It was Francis.
Francis let the winter air cool her. The ruby red material of her dress was thin, but it had still suddenly gotten much too hot inside the barn. The rumor that Flint had been the one who made the phone call to Garth this afternoon had opened up all of the speculation about her and Flint. She saw it in the eyes of her neighbors. They were asking themselves why she’d never married, why she’d moved away so quickly all those years ago, why she’d never come back to live in Dry Creek until now—why, why, why. The questions would be endless until they’d worried her heart to a bone.
She only wished the asking of the questions would help her find an answer, she thought ruefully. Because, even if no one else had been asking those questions, she would be asking them.
But not tonight, she decided. Tonight she would just breathe the crisp night air and look at the stars that were scattered across the sky like pieces of glitter sprinkled over velvet. She used to love to go out on a winter’s night like this and find the Big Dipper.
Now where is it, she asked herself as she stepped through the open door and outside. The barn was hiding the constellation from her. But if she went over by that old cattle truck she could see it.
She suddenly realized she hadn’t gone looking for the Big Dipper in many years.
Flint swore. No wonder being a hero had gone out of style. His leg still stung where Francis had kicked him in her glittery high-heeled shoes, and one of his toes could well be broken where she had stomped on it.
Next time, he’d let the kidnappers have her. She was more than a match for most of the hired toughs he’d seen in his time. She’d certainly hold her own with the men in the cattle truck.
And thinking of his toes, what was she doing with shoes like that, anyway? Women only wore shoes like that to please a man. That meant she must have a boyfriend inside that old barn. That was one statistic he hadn’t thought to check before heading out here.
Flint’s only consolation was that his horse seemed to know he needed her and was behaving for once.
“Now I know why they call you Honey,” Flint murmured encouragingly as he nudged his horse down the dark road.
“Hargh.” An angry growl came from the bundle behind him, but Flint didn’t even look back. Except for being temporarily gagged, Francis was doing better than he was. He’d even tied his jacket around her. Not that she had thanked him for it.
“Yes, sir, you’re a sweetie, all right,” Flint continued quietly guiding his horse. Honey knew the way home even if it was only a humble abandoned shed. That horse could teach some people the meaning of gratitude.
Or, if not gratitude, at least cooperation, Flint fumed.
If it wasn’t for his years of training as an agent, Flint would have turned around and told Francis a thing or two. What did she think?
There was no time for niceties when he knew those two hired thugs were waiting for Francis. He’d heard them repeat their instructions about kidnapping Garth’s sister in her black jacket with the old high school emblem of a lion.
Early on in the evening, the two men made a decision to wait for her by the bus—parked right next to that old cattle truck they’d come in. They hoped Francis would tire of dancing and come to sit in the bus. Flint had winced when he heard the plan. The two men were clearly amateurs, unfamiliar with Montana. No one, no matter how tired, would come to rest in a cold bus when the engine wasn’t running.
But he saw their dilemma. They couldn’t face down the whole town of Dry Creek or even the busload of kids that would be going back to the Elkton ranch. That’s why he wasn’t surprised, after the men had waited a few hours and gotten thoroughly cold themselves, to hear them start talking about going home and waiting until the next day to kidnap Francis.
Flint was hoping they’d leave soon. And they would have, except who should come outside for a late night stroll but Francis. She wasn’t wearing the black jacket, but Flint couldn’t risk the thugs getting a close look at her and realizing who she was, even without the jacket.
There was no time for fancy plans. The only way to protect Francis was to grab her first and worry about the men later.
Flint knew the men might be a problem if they realized what he was doing, but he hadn’t counted on Francis’s resistance. He thought once she knew it was him she’d come quietly. Perhaps even gratefully. But the moment he saw recognition dawn, she fought him like he was her worst enemy. He hadn’t planned on gagging her until she made it clear she was going to scream.
And
