An Angel for Dry Creek (13 page)

“My jacket's warm enough. Nothing wrong with it.”

Matthew sighed. He couldn't seem to say anything right. “Of course there's nothing wrong with it. You look beautiful in it. Black's a good color for you. And that shade of pink of your sweater is good, too.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew could see Glory smile. Now, this was the way a date was supposed to be. “I noticed you've done your hair different, too. Sort of softlike. It's good. And your earrings. I've watched them all day. They put me in mind of dolphins, with the graceful shape they have to them.”

“Okay, you win,” Glory said. “We won't talk about your issues now, but we will later.”

Matthew nodded. He hoped he and Glory would have lots of laters to talk about all of their issues. If he was lucky, he could keep her talking to him all winter. Maybe by then she'd be charmed by eastern Montana and decide to stay. He chided himself. He shouldn't think long-term with Glory. He knew he wasn't good enough for her. He wasn't the Christian man she deserved to marry. But even if they didn't marry, he'd like to have her in his life somewhere.
Who am I fooling? Could I bear to have her in my life and not have her belong to me as my wife?

 

“Mail it for me, will you?” The Bullet was back at Douglas's. He pulled two twenties from his pocket and handed them to Douglas along with an addressed box that he'd had wrapped at the store. “Overnight it. It's Millie's Christmas present and I can't wait for the post office to open.”

“You're not going to be there for Christmas? Not with Millie?”

“No.”

T
he afternoon sun was starting its slide down by the time Matthew pulled the car into Dry Creek. He'd primed Glory with a question or two, and she'd spent the rest of the drive back telling him about her desire to paint faces. He told her about the Custer County Art Center back in Miles City. He knew Glory loved art, and he wanted her to know art had a place around Dry Creek. They were, in fact, close to Charles M. Russell country, and they had his museum in Great Falls. Not that far to drive if she stayed a while.

Matthew loved to watch Glory. Her whole face lit up when she talked about art. She was a woman who noticed color and shadow and—Matthew looked down the street of Dry Creek. Over half of the houses needed painting. The whole town definitely needed tending. He hadn't noticed that it was run-down when he moved here. But now, driving up with Glory in his car, he wondered if a city woman, an artistic city woman, could ever live in a place like this. And it wasn't just the lack of a coat of paint. He could get a brush out
himself and do most of the houses if needed. There were so many other things. Dry Creek wasn't Seattle. Why, there wouldn't be movies in town if it wasn't for the rack of family videos they carried for rent at the hardware store. And there wasn't a hair salon, unless you counted the back room at Marcy Enger's. She'd never had any formal training, but the people around agreed she had a knack for cutting hair. An art center and an art museum wouldn't make up for all that. Not to a woman who liked flavored coffee.

“Look at that!” Glory said as she pointed to the old café.

Matthew groaned. And the old café—it was an eye-sore. He didn't need that called to his attention. “Sorry about that. Businesses don't always make it in Dry Creek.”

“Well, this one just might,” Glory said as she pointed again. “Look at that sign.”

Matthew looked again. He was so used to seeing the old café, he hadn't really looked before. He'd missed the banner. And the clean windows. And the open door.

“Christmas Jazz and Italian Pasta—$5.00.” Matthew read the words of the foot-high banner that had been strung across the door. “What in the world is that?”

The trim around the big window had been painted a bright red, and someone was pasting a frosted star inside the window's left corner. The person's head was bent, but Glory thought the hair and angle of the neck looked familiar. She was right. Matthew hadn't even parked his car before the woman in the window looked up and waved.

Linda called to them before they even got the car parked. “Come and see.”

The first thing Glory noticed when she stepped into the old café was that Linda's black lipstick was gone. The young woman's face was bare of any makeup—which was a good thing, since that left room for the traces of dust that trailed over her cheek. But, while there was dirt on Linda, there didn't look as if there was a speck of dirt hiding anywhere else in the large room. Wooden tables had been righted and scrubbed. The floor had been freshly mopped. The pine smell of disinfectant came from the kitchen.

“Jazz, honey,” Linda called into the kitchen. “The rev and the angel are here.”

Matthew winced. Glory laughed.

Duane came out of the kitchen. He didn't look like the Jazz Man now. Instead of a black leather jacket he wore an old flannel shirt that had holes in the sleeves and grease spots on the front. He was even more thoroughly dirty than Linda. He waved his arm in the direction of the back room. “Been getting the heater set up back there. Can't open up without heat.”

“Open up? You're going to open up?”

“Just for Christmas Eve, at least so far,” Linda said. Her eyes shone with excitement. “And word is spreading. We have a ton of cousins that are helping. The Alfsons and the Bymasters had to go home for supper, but they'll be back. So will the Lucas kids. It was Jazz's idea, really.” Linda stopped to look at her boyfriend adoringly. “He got to thinking that all those people coming to the pageant might like to have a spaghetti dinner.”

“Actually, Mrs. Hargrove gave me the nudge. Told me God answered prayers. It's just that sometimes He answered with our hard work. Then she gave me the keys and suggested Linda and I take a step of faith, as
she called it. I wasn't so sure at first, but then I figured if the reverend can cook so can I. And then Linda said that music makes any meal better.” Duane pointed to a raised area at the side of the room. “The band'll set up there.”

“What a great idea!” Glory said, and turned to Matthew. “We could help them get ready, can't we?”

“I don't see why not. At least, until I have to get the twins.”

Matthew disappeared into the back to help the Jazz Man with the furnace and Glory rolled up her sleeves to help Linda explore the cabinets under the counter next to the kitchen. Glory could smell that the cabinets had been cleaned. Everything that could be done in a short period of time had been done.

Linda pulled on one of the cabinet doors. She had to tug to open it. “Those two ladies who used to own this place had good taste, all right—and they didn't mind spending some money. This café was some kind of a hobby with them. I think they were planning to bring tea and civilization to the wild West.”

“They seem to have left it soon enough.”

“Dry Creek didn't match their dreams.” Linda held out a large apron for Glory. “Here, wrap this around you. You don't want to get dirty like I did.”

“Not match their dreams? Why not?” Glory said indignantly as she slipped the apron over her neck and tied the strings around her. “Everything I've seen is charming, quaint, full of real people and their lives.”

Linda laughed as she opened a bottom cupboard door. “Not everyone wants real.”

Glory leaned down with Linda to look into the cupboard. Inside the cupboard were stacks of old-fashioned restaurant dinner plates, the white plates with a thin
green band around the rim. “Well, well, look at this. There must be a hundred plates there.” Glory quickly counted the stacks of plates. She'd estimate there might be 120.

“This'll be great!” Linda lifted out a small stack of the plates. “We thought we'd have to spring for paper plates—but this, this has more style.”

Glory pulled open a drawer and found it full of stainless steel spoons.

“And forks!” Linda pulled open another drawer.

“They must not have even packed when they left,” Glory said as she reached up and opened a top cupboard. There in thick plastic bags were linen tablecloths and napkins.

Dust filtered down as Glory and Linda pulled the bags off the shelf. Neither one of them saw the glass pitcher leaning against the bags. When Glory pulled out the last bag, the glass pitcher rolled off the shelf, fell to the floor and shattered.

Surprised, both Linda and Glory screamed.

“No!”
Matthew's roar could be heard before he burst from the kitchen and into the dining area. He didn't stop in the doorway of the room to look around. Instead, wielding a piece of pipe, he simply threw himself in front of Glory and gently but quickly pushed her to the floor. He stood, half-crouched, over her.

Only then did he look around. “Where is he?”

Matthew's face had gone pale, and he looked fierce. He had a streak of black soot on his cheek and his hair had a film of white ash covering it. His eyes were pink from some irritant in the kitchen. He even wore a dish towel slung around his hips like a holster. He looked more like a back-alley bum than a hero. But all Glory
saw was a warrior ready to do battle to defend his friend.

Glory was humbled. She'd never had anyone leap to her defense. She lay on the linoleum catching her breath. “It was a pitcher.”

“A water pitcher?” Matthew was puzzled until Glory gestured to her left. His face went even whiter when he saw the pieces of glass. “Well—why—thank God I didn't push you in that direction. I could have hurt you myself.”

“But you didn't,” Glory quickly offered. She felt nothing but smooth linoleum beneath her arms and legs. “You thought it was a bullet, and you rushed to my defense.”

Glory had forgotten she and Matthew were not alone.

“A bullet?” Linda whispered. Her voice cracked. “A real bullet? Here?”

Glory pushed herself up until she was sitting. The Jazz Man was standing in the doorway from the kitchen, and Linda was still standing beside the counter with the bag of table linens in her hand.

“There's no need to worry.” Glory stood and brushed her jeans off even though she knew there was no dirt left on the floor. “It's nothing.”

“But why would you think there'd be a bullet?” Linda persisted. Her eyes had grown round, and she looked even younger than the first day Glory had met her.

“You some kind of crook or something?” the Jazz Man questioned Glory. He measured her and still appeared unconvinced. “The police after you?”

“No, the crooks are after her.” Matthew laid his piece of pipe down on the counter and took two steps over to Glory.

Matthew willed his panic to still itself. His pulse was pounding. His hands had been too scared to sweat until now. He knew he wasn't the man for Glory. Not really. But none of that mattered to him when he thought the bullets were flying. He felt a primitive need to protect her, as an animal needs to protect his mate. It was unthinking and unquestioned. If Glory needed protection, he needed to protect her.

And that wasn't all. Matthew stepped closer to Glory and tucked her into his arms. He could smell her spice perfume and feel stray strands of her hair as they brushed his chin. But for all that, he held her loosely. It was her, not him, that he was most aware of. He didn't kiss her. Didn't dream of doing more than hold her. For now, holding her within the circle of his arms was enough. Just to simply stand together with his arms wrapped around her. Matthew slowed his breathing until his pace matched hers, and they breathed as one.

The Jazz Man cleared his throat, but neither Matthew nor Glory responded. They just stood together. Finally Linda tugged at the Jazz Man's sleeve, and they both walked into the kitchen.

Glory didn't even notice they had gone. She was wrapped in a safe, safe cocoon. She felt as if she was underwater. As if everything that was noisy or demanding was distant. Nothing could reach her. Nothing could touch her. She had never felt as safe as she did now.

“We need to check back with the department,” Matthew finally said. He uncurled himself from around her. “They might know more about this hit.”

“Yeah,” Glory agreed as she fought her sense of loss. Reality was intruding, demanding her attention. She missed the sense of being detached with Matthew.
If all that ever happened with a scare like this was that Matthew hugged her because he was worried about her, she wouldn't mind a bullet drill every half hour.

 

“I see,” Glory said fifteen minutes later as she stood beside the counter in the hardware store and talked to her friend Frank back at the department. The fire from the potbellied stove warmed the inside of the hardware store. The air smelled faintly of this morning's coffee and fresh popcorn. The hardware store was much too homey to be a backdrop for the hesitant words she heard over the telephone from Frank's mouth.

“What'd he say?” Matthew asked, tight-lipped, when she hung up the phone.

“Sylvia called him.” Glory kept her voice even. She wondered if this was how a person in shock felt. The sense that she was not inside her own body. “Those two boys she told me about—the ones that said there was a hit out on me—didn't show at the center today. Not even for basketball. Another kid said they had flown out on business last night. Frank checked the airport. They bought tickets for Billings, Montana.”

Matthew felt the breath leave his body. It just whooshed away.
Dear God, we are in trouble. Help us.
He didn't even notice he had uttered his first prayer in two years.

“Can they ID them? Has the flight landed in Billings yet? Maybe we could contact the authorities there.”

Glory smiled. Matthew thought like a cop. “Yes, Sylvia gave pictures to the Seattle police. Frank will fax them to us with the ones of the crime scene, said he'd fax them all right away. And yes, they contacted the Billings authorities. And yes, the boys were on the plane. But they were too late. The plane had landed,
and they'd picked up their luggage forty minutes before Sylvia knew they were gone. They'd already left the airport terminal.”

“So they're here.”

Glory nodded. She felt like a guppy in a fishbowl. No matter which way she turned she was too visible. Where would she be safe now?

“Car rental agencies? Did they check with car rental agencies?”

“The Billings police have the whole airport under surveillance. But Sylvia didn't think they would rent a car. They don't have a credit card, don't even have legitimate driver's licenses.” Sylvia had added that they probably had fake licenses, since they'd gotten on the airplane, but Matthew didn't need to know that.

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “How old are these kids?”

“One's fourteen. The other's fifteen. They probably look older.”

“Great. We're doing battle with babies,” Matthew muttered as he ran his hand through his hair.

“These babies have been in a gang for the past five or six years.” Glory bit her lip. She needed to think. “They can probably kill someone with a knife quicker than they can cut up an apple—and with less mess.”

Matthew smiled wearily and started to pace. Even on his crutches, he seemed to need to move. “I know. I'm just not used to how tough children are these days. Makes me worry about the twins.”

“The twins have you. They'll be okay.”

Matthew nodded, then suddenly turned. “Kids like that—how'd they get the money for airplane tickets?”

“I don't know.” Glory hadn't wanted to tell him this. The tickets were a problem.