A Rich Man For Dry Creek And A Hero For Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad
two men walked inside the barn together.
The old man headed toward the table set up with appetizers. Robert resisted the urge to go over and visit his carrot flowers. Instead he looked around for the woman he needed.
There was a sea of taffeta and silk. Young teenage girls with heavy lipstick and strappy high heels. Farm wives with sweaters over their simple long dresses. A couple of women who looked unattached.
And, of course, the chef.
If he had his choice, Robert would persecute the chef. If for no other reason than to rattle her calm and make her take off that hairnet of hers. It was a party. She could loosen up. But the only thing he could think to do was to kiss her, and that certainly wasn’t outrageous. The media would just think he’d taken another in a long line of girlfriends. They’d yawn in his face.
No, he needed something shocking.
He looked over the teenagers and settled on the youngest one. His kissing her would raise the hackles of the tabloid world. She looked to be little more than a child, no more than twelve. Women all across the country would raise their handbags in unison to clip him a good one and he’d deserve it.
Robert went over to the buffet table. He’d look less threatening if he had one of those plastic cups in his hand. After all, he wanted to kiss the girl, not have her pass out in terror. She might be wearing lipstick, but twelve was still awfully young.
He nodded to the older woman behind the table. “I’ll have some champagne.”
The woman looked at him blankly. “I think there’s punch in the bowl.”
Robert looked over and saw the punch. It was pink.
“I don’t suppose there’s any bottled water?”
The woman shook her head no. “There might be coffee later.”
Robert nodded. He’d have to do this empty-handed. He walked over to the girl. She was leaning against the side of the barn and watching the other kids sort through some old records. Now who had those relics? He couldn’t remember ever seeing records played. Not with cassettes and CDs available.
“Know any musicians?”
The girl looked up and shook her head shyly. “Do you?”
Robert nodded. He’d be able to score a few points with this one. “Name a group and I probably know them.”
He realized when he said it that it was true. The world of the truly famous was pathetically small.
“Elvis,” the girl named softly.
“Elvis is dead.”
“I thought maybe you had known him. When you were young.”
Robert wondered if he’d fallen down a time warp. “How old do you think I am?”
The girl shrugged. “He’s my favorite is all.”
“He’ll always be the King,” Robert agreed gently. Maybe this girl wasn’t the one, after all. Her eyes reminded him of Bambi. He didn’t want to see the confusion in them that would surely come if a man as old as Elvis kissed her.
“You got a camera?” he asked instead.
“A disposable one.”
“Do me a favor and take a few pictures of me tonight. I’ll tell you when.”
“Sure.”
Robert nodded his thanks. Tabloids loved pictures like that and even sweet-eyed Bambis needed a college fund. Somebody might as well get some good out of tonight.
The lights in the barn were subdued and the whole place seemed to smell of butter and steam. Long tables were set up in the back of the barn and covered with white cotton tablecloths. Stacks of heavy plates, the kind found in truck stops, stood at the end of each table.
Several teams of ranch hands were holding big trays with a towel draped over steaming lobsters. Robert frowned at the men. Why hadn’t Jenny asked him to help? He’d had to practically demand a knife and some carrots earlier.
Jenny put a dozen silver tongs down on the head table and blessed Mrs. Buckwalter for requesting that they be brought to Dry Creek along with dozens of tiny silver lobster picks. Even Jenny wasn’t sure she’d tackle the lobster dinner with plastic forks and no tongs. “Can someone go back and get the last pan of butter?”
“I’ll do it.”
Jenny stopped arranging the tongs and looked up in panic. It was Robert Buckwalter. “But you can’t—I mean you don’t need to—”
“Well, someone needs to.”
“I can do it myself,” Jenny said. She could at least try to remember the difference in their social standing. He was, after all, her employer’s son. “You don’t want to spill butter on that suit. It looks expensive.” Jenny took a deep breath and smiled. Her sister owed her for this one. “I mean, it’s a tuxedo, isn’t it? Good enough to wear to a wedding.”
“Tonight’s a special occasion.”
“Aren’t they all?” She struggled upstream. “These receptions—nothing brings out the good suits like a reception or a wedding.”
Robert nodded. “Or a funeral.”
Jenny started to sweat. Being a news source was more difficult than one would think. “Funerals and weddings. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”
Robert looked at her like she’d lost her mind.
“I mean sometimes weddings get off to a rocky start.” Boy, did her sister owe her.
Robert nodded. “I suppose so.”
“Been to any weddings lately?”
Robert shrugged. “Not for a while. I’ve been away from the social scene.”
“Oh?” Jenny looked up brightly. Now they were getting somewhere.
“Haven’t missed it.” Robert looked toward the barn door. “It won’t take me a minute to run back to the café and get that butter.”
Jenny nodded in defeat. “It’s on the back of the stove. Be sure and use a pot holder.” She suddenly remembered to whom she was talking. “That’s a padded square of cloth. It’ll be on the counter.”
“I know what a pot holder is.” Robert didn’t add that he hadn’t known until five months ago.
Jenny stood with her back to the tables and watched Robert walk out of the barn. He was limping. Now she wondered why a man who had spent five months resting would be limping.
“Handsome, isn’t he?”
Jenny turned to look at the woman standing next to her. Mrs. Hargrove was one of the people in Dry Creek that Jenny liked the best. She’d organized the apron brigade for Jenny, using aprons from the church. Towel aprons. Frilly aprons. Patched aprons. They’d used them all.
“You’re pretty good-looking yourself,” Jenny said.
The older woman had worn a gingham cotton dress every other time Jenny had seen her. Tonight she was in a silk mauve dress with a strand of pearls around her neck. A lemon scent floated around her.
“Maybe he’ll ask you to dance,” Jenny continued. Mrs. Hargrove had said earlier that this was the first dance she’d attended since her husband died two years ago.
“Me?” Mrs. Hargrove laughed. “I was thinking he’d ask you to dance.”
“No time. I’ll be busy with the food.”
“Not when the dancing starts.”
“No, by then I’ll be busy with the pots and pans—washing dishes.”
“Goodness, no! The dishes