A Rich Man For Dry Creek And A Hero For Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad
He loves you!” her sister screeched even louder.
“No, he didn’t say that—that’s what I’m saying. He didn’t even attempt to be sincere.”
“But he kissed you.”
The Montana night was lit by some stars and a perfectly round moon. Silver shadows fell on the snow where the reflection of the barn light showed through the barn door and two square side windows. A jumble of cars and trucks were parked in the road leading up to the barn.
“Maybe he did it because I talked to you about him. Maybe there’s some servant’s code I breached when I told secrets about the master. You know, maybe it’s a revenge thing.”
Jenny could hear the pause on the other end of the phone. The silence lasted for a full minute.
Finally her sister spoke. “Have you been taking those vitamins Mom sent you?”
“Well, yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re getting old. First you don’t even wonder about whether or not the man is married and now he kisses you—Robert Buckwalter the Third actually kisses you—and you think it’s for revenge!”
“Well, it could be.”
“Men like him don’t kiss for revenge! They use lawsuits. Or buyouts. Corporate takeovers. They use termination. He could fire you. But not kisses! Kisses are for romance.”
Jenny snorted. “I smell like fish and my hair is flat. No man’s kissing me for romance.”
“You’re in your chef’s apron?” Some of the bubble drained out of her sister’s voice. “With that funny hairnet on?”
“And orthopedic white shoes because I’m standing so much. And no makeup because the steam from the lobster pots would make my mascara run. And I even have a butter stain on my apron—not a big one, but it’s there in the left corner.”
“Then why is he kissing you?” her sister wailed and then caught herself. “Not that—I mean you’re real attractive when you’re…well, you know—”
“Those are my thoughts exactly. I might pass for someone in his social circle when I’m dressed up—heels, makeup, the works.”
“You looked real good in that black dress you wore last New Year’s.”
“But in my working clothes, I’m more likely to attract a raving lunatic than a rich man.”
“Are you sure you don’t have some exotic perfume on? One of those musk oil scents?”
“Not a drop.”
“Well, this isn’t fair, then. A man like this Buckwalter fellow shouldn’t go around kissing women just for kicks. He could hurt their feelings.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s so rich he doesn’t need to worry about anyone’s feelings. Especially the feelings of his employees.”
It was the dumped pet thing all over again. The rich were rich enough to be selfish. They didn’t care about their pets. They didn’t care about other people. That was all there was to it. The normal courtesies of life didn’t apply to people like Robert Buckwalter.
Jenny looked over toward the barn. Mrs. Hargrove stood in the open doorway watching her anxiously. She was motioning for her to come back inside.
“I think they need me.” Jenny waved Mrs. Hargrove back into the warm barn. “It must be lobster time. Talk to you later.”
“Call me.”
“I will—wait.” She’d just thought of something. “When you talked to Robert Buckwalter earlier, did you tell him he was number one on the list or did you just say you were thinking of making him number one?”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell him he was number one. I said maybe, but I didn’t say it had been settled. That’s not decided. Besides, it’s confidential.”
“I see. Thanks. I’ll call you later.”
Jenny slipped the cell phone into the front pocket of her chef’s apron. Well, that explained everything. Robert Buckwalter thought a kiss might nudge him into that first-place position. Cozy up to the sister of someone with influence on the list and—presto—he’s at the top. It was a game as old as mankind.
The heat inside the barn enfolded Jenny when she stepped across the threshold. She rubbed her arms. She’d been so angry she hadn’t noticed the goose bumps that had crept up her arms. It was freezing outside.
“There you are, dear,” Mrs. Hargrove said. The older woman stepped toward her. “I was worried. I forgot to tell you that there’s been a threat of kidnapping tonight. Garth Elkton has cautioned all the women to stay inside.”
“A kidnapping? Here?”
Jenny looked around in astonishment. She couldn’t imagine a less likely place for a kidnapping. The teenagers had strung pink and white crepe paper from the rafters, making Jenny feel as if she were trapped in Candy Land. Dozens of ranchers and their wives sat at the long white tables at the back of the barn. Some of the ranchers had arms as big as wrestlers. What kind of army would it take to kidnap someone from here tonight?
“But who—?” Jenny asked.
“Garth Elkton got a strange call warning him that someone was out to get his sister.”
“Francis!” Jenny had met the woman earlier and liked her instantly. “But who would want to kidnap her?”
Mrs. Hargrove leaned close. “Some folks say it’s an old boyfriend of hers. But I don’t believe them. Flint Harris is a good boy. I always thought Dry Creek would be proud of him one day.”
Jenny looked over at the string of men standing along the far side of the barn. Most of them wore dark cowboy work boots and had the raw look of a new shave on their faces. “Which one is he?”
“Why, none of them, dear. Flint Harris hasn’t been in Dry Creek for almost twenty years now.”
“Well, then, surely he’s not a threat.”
Mrs. Hargrove shrugged. “I’ve never believed he was. Everyone’s so wound up about this cattle rustling that’s going on that we’re making fools of ourselves, I’m afraid. Folks are saying now that the FBI thinks that someone from Dry Creek is tipping off the cattle rustlers. Imagine that! It’s rattled a lot of folks, but I don’t set much store by it. It’ll all blow over. But it’s best that you be careful. If you need to go over to the café, let me know and I’ll get one of the ranch hands to go with you.”
Jenny nodded. “I think we have everything we need to get started.”
Steam from the lobsters kept the air inside the barn moist and Jenny could smell the coffee someone had set to brew.
Mrs. Buckwalter took charge, thanking everyone for coming and asking Matthew Curtis, the newly married minister, to say a blessing on the celebration meal. He agreed and asked everyone to join hands.
Jenny offered one hand to Mrs. Hargrove and the other to a young girl with rosy cheeks standing next to her.
The whole town of Dry Creek held hands and then closed their eyes.
“For the blessings You have given, we thank You, Lord,” the minister prayed. He held the hand of his new bride, a fresh-faced redhead that people had been calling Angel all night long. “For this food eaten with friends, we are most grateful. Keep us in Your love. Amen.”
“And thanks for my money, too,” the young girl at Jenny’s side whispered quietly, her eyes still squeezed shut.
Jenny hadn’t noticed that the girl wasn’t holding someone’s hand on the other side of her. Instead she was clutching a green piece of paper that looked like a check.
“Maybe you should put