Читать книгу A Gentleman for Dry Creek - Janet Tronstad - Страница 9

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.