A Bride for Dry Creek (5 page)

Flint stood by helplessly and watched the transformation of Francis. She'd gone from being a bewitching damsel in distress with handfuls of silken hair to a very competent-looking executive who wouldn't tolerate a hair out of place or a thought that wasn't useful.

“You don't need to make it right with me, if that's what you're thinking.” Flint didn't want to have this final conversation with Francis. He was quite sure the executive Francis didn't approve of that long-ago Francis who had run off to be married. “Whatever happened on that day to make you change your mind, it is okay. I've made my peace with it.”

“But that's not the way it was at all,” Francis protested.

Francis buttoned the wool jacket around her. Mrs. Hargrove was several sizes larger than she was, and Francis liked the secure feeling the too-large jacket gave her. She must look a sight with the green plaid jacket on top of her skirt of pink crepe paper and red sequins.

“Speaking of the inspector, where is he?” Flint knelt to test the knots on the three men sitting patiently on the floor. He looked at Francis briefly. “Thought he was coming with you.”

“He was. He got a call from the sheriff saying he had a flat tire down the road a piece. The inspector went to help him.”

Flint grunted as he finished checking the knots. “He just wants to avoid the paperwork with these guys.”

The door opened, and a square of cold midnight was visible for a moment before the inspector stepped inside the old barn and brushed a few stray snowflakes off his coat. “Did I hear you say paperwork? Don't worry about that. I'll do it.”

Flint had never heard the inspector volunteer to do the paperwork.

“You'll maybe want to…” The inspector had walked over to where Flint knelt and inclined his head slightly in the direction of Francis.

So much for privacy, Flint thought. But if he talked to Francis here, the inspector wouldn't be the only one listening. “I'll talk to her later.”

“That's too late.” The inspector leaned down and whispered, “You better do it now before—”

The door to the barn opened again, and the inspector groaned. “Too late. He's here.”

Flint looked at the open doorway but didn't see what the problem was. It was only the sheriff. The man looked decidedly uncomfortable, with patches of snow stuck to his jeans and his parka pulled close around his head. Tonight wasn't the best night for getting a flat tire.

Then the sheriff stepped all the way inside, and Flint noticed two other people crowding in the door behind him.

They both had big city stamped all over them. The woman was tall, lean and platinum. Her face was pinched with cold, but that didn't take away the look of expensive makeup. Definitely uptown.

The man was more downtown. Flint would peg him as a banker. Maybe vice president or loans officer. He had the look of a bean counter, but not the look of command. He was wearing a brown business suit and lined leather gloves. Expensive gloves, Flint thought a little jealously, wondering what snowdrift his own gloves had ended up in tonight.

“Robert!” the woman exclaimed loudly and started walking to the man Flint knew to be Robert Buckwalter.

So that was it, Flint thought as he stood up quickly. The inspector must be worried that the woman would interfere with Mrs. Buckwalter's secret cover.

No one knew that Mrs. Buckwalter was working with the FBI on this rustling business, not even her son. Until they found out the identity of the person serving as the informant for the rustling outfit, they couldn't be too careful about strangers. Especially strangers who wanted to cozy up to FBI operatives and their families.

Ordinarily Flint wouldn't seriously suspect the
woman. Not because she looked flimsy, but because he was pretty sure the informant had to be someone local. Only a local would have a cover good enough to have escaped everyone's notice and still have access to the information the rustlers would need.

Flint intercepted the blonde's path just before she reached Robert. “I'll need to see some identification.”

The woman momentarily flushed guiltily, and Flint looked at her more closely. She was up to something.

“Identification?” She stopped and schooled her face into blankness. “I don't need identification. I'm with him.” She pointed to Robert.

Flint couldn't help noticing Robert flinching as the other man protested. “Now, Laurel, you know that's not—”

Flint almost felt sorry for the man. He'd seen Robert earlier, working as a kitchen helper to the young woman chef his mother had sent out here with a planeload of lobsters for the party tonight. Flint had seen Robert land his small plane near Garth's ranch a few days ago in the early morning hours. A man as rich as Robert—with the whole Buckwalter fortune at his feet—would have to be besotted to slice radishes for two hours. “She's with you?”

“I wouldn't say with.” Robert stumbled. He glanced at the young woman standing next to him
in apology. “I know Laurel—of course I know her—our families are—well, my mother knows her better, so, no—I wouldn't say with.”

“It was with enough for you on Christmas!” Laurel staged a pout that would do justice to a Hollywood starlet.

“Well.” Flint backed away. He would have liked to help Robert out—he seemed like a decent man—but the FBI couldn't arrest a woman for flirting.

It wasn't until Flint turned that he realized his tactical mistake. The inspector wasn't worried about the woman. He was worried about that man who was walking to Francis with a determined look in his eyes that demanded she welcome him.

“You must be the boyfriend,” Flint said as he walked to Francis. It was inevitable. The evening had been doomed from the start.

“I hope I'm more than a boyfriend,” the man said, a little smugly, Flint thought, as he reached Francis and leaned over to peck her on her lips. “Now that she's had time away to think about things.”

“Sam.” Francis marveled that her voice sounded calm. She felt a growing urge to scream. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I got to thinking. It's time you came back—how much thinking can a woman do?” The man laughed a little too heartily. “So I flew up to get you.”

“Now's not a good time.”

“Oh, I know. The inspector was telling me there's been lots of excitement here tonight. Seemed to think I'd be better off going back to Billings for the night, but I told him it was nonsense. It would take more than a few bad guys to rattle my Francis. She's the most sensible woman I've ever known.”

Flint thought the man must be blind to think “sensible” summed up a woman like Francis. Didn't he see the shy warmth in her eyes when she first met someone? Hadn't he felt the slight tremble of her lips when she was kissed?

“Known a lot of women, have you?” Flint asked the man. He refused to think of the man as Sam. As far as Flint was concerned, the man had no name. And no future.

“Huh?”

Flint admitted the man didn't look like he could have known many women, but that didn't stop Flint from resenting him. “Just checking up on your background.”

“Flint's with the FBI,” Francis said, tight-lipped with annoyance. “He checks up on everybody.”

“Oh, well, that's okay then.” The man smiled at Flint and held out his hand. “Always nice to meet one of our nation's security men. Men like you keep us all safe.”

Flint grunted. The man made it sound like Flint was a school crossing guard. Important enough for
someone who did that sort of thing. Flint wondered if Francis actually loved the guy. He glared at the man until the man dropped his hand.

“You own a house?” Flint knew women loved big houses.

“A bedroom loft condo in downtown Denver,” the man said with pride. “The Executive Manor complex.”

Flint grunted. Close enough. The only house he could claim as his own was sitting just north of here on five desolate acres only chickens could love.

“Francis would want a tree or two.”

The man looked startled. “I told her we could get a few ficus plants. They'd do.”

Flint nodded. Francis just might settle for them, after all. Suddenly, Flint felt old. He had lived too hard and fast. At least the man standing before him looked stable. Maybe that was enough.

“You ever kill a man?”

“I beg your pardon?” The man was looking at Flint in alarm.

“It's a simple question—ever been in the military?”

The man shook his head. “Bad feet.”

“Ever been arrested?”

“Of course not.” The man was indignant. “And I certainly don't see the point of these questions—if I'm under suspicion for something I have a right
to know. And if you're planning to arrest me, I demand a chance to call my attorney.”

Flint smiled wryly. He almost wished he could arrest the man. “No, I'm just checking up on you.”

“Well, I'll let it go this time,” the man said pompously. “Mostly because the inspector here said you'd rescued Francis from those hoodlums. I should be thanking you for helping my fiancée, not sitting here arguing.”

“Fiancée.” Flint felt a cold draft down his neck. It appeared the ficus had won.

“I never agreed to marry you.” Francis felt the need to sit down and start counting. Everything was unraveling. “Actually, I can't marry you.”

“Nonsense. Of course you can. I've thought about it, too, you know. Granted, we don't have some fairy-tale romance, but a woman your age doesn't expect that. We have more important reasons to get married. Stability. Companionship. There's no good reason for either of us to stay single.”

“There's him.” Francis pointed at Flint. The air inside the barn had cooled until it had an icy edge to it, and someone had dimmed the lights for slow dancing. A song of love betrayed was filling the barn with a quiet sadness, and more than one couple moved closer together.

“Him?” Sam looked at Flint like he suspected
him of being part of a police lineup. “What's the FBI got to do with anything?”

“It's not the FBI. It's him. He's my husband,” Francis whispered.

“You're joking.” Sam looked at Flint again and then dismissed him. “You don't even know him.”

“I used to know him. We were married twenty years ago.”

“Oh, well, then,” The man visibly relaxed. “He's your ex-husband.”

Flint didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. “If Francis doesn't want to marry you, she shouldn't. And there's no reason she should ever settle for companionship.”

“If you're her ex, you have no say in this at all.” Sam looked Flint over like he had been pulled out of that police lineup and pronounced guilty. “Besides, I'm sure she's realized by now that I'm the kind of husband that she should have. Solid. Steady. A man like you is okay for a woman when she's young— What we don't do when we're young.” The man gave a bark of a laugh. “Why, I was in a protest march myself once— But that was then and surely by now Francis knows your kind doesn't hold up too well over the years.”

“My kind? What do you know about my kind?” Flint forced the words out over his clenched teeth.

“I know you left her,” Sam said calmly. The brown-suited man looked smug and confident. He
glanced at Francis indulgently. “I know Francis and she'd stick by her word. So I know it's you who left.”

“She was young. And scared. And me— I must have seemed like some wild guy back then. I can't blame her for having second thoughts.” Flint gave a ragged laugh. “I would have left me if I'd had a choice. I was mad at the world for letting my parents die. Mad at school. Mad at friends. Mad at God. The only good thing about me was Francis. I can't blame her for leaving me.”

“But I didn't,” Francis said softly. “I didn't leave.”

Flint snorted. “That's not what the sheriff said.”

“I wasn't the one who had you arrested.” Francis said the words carefully. She felt like she was walking some very important, invisible line. She tried to take a deep breath, but failed. “It was my father.”

“But the sheriff said—”

“My father may have lied to him.” Francis was almost whispering. They seemed to burn their way up through her throat. “I waited for you to come back that day.”

Flint heard the words and stared at Francis. He shook his head like he was clearing his ears. What was she saying?

“But—” Flint took one more stab at understanding. He could see in her eyes that she was telling
him the truth. “But there were papers—divorce papers—”

“Had I signed them?”

Flint shook his head slowly. “I thought you'd sign them when they were given to you.”

Flint still remembered the pain of seeing those papers. At first, he'd refused to sign them, pushing them away when the sheriff brought them to his cell. But on the third day, he'd decided to give in. The sheriff said Francis was pleading with her father to get the papers signed, that she was not eating she was so upset. He couldn't bear for her to be upset. He'd bruised his fist by hitting the wall of that cell after he'd finally shoved the signed papers through the bars to the sheriff.

“You were begging me to sign them.”

Francis shook her head. “No.”

Sometimes the world tips on its axis. Sometimes it rolls completely over. Flint's world rolled over so many times he didn't know which side was up. “I don't understand. Are you saying that you never signed those papers?”

“I never even knew they existed,” Francis said softly. “I suppose my father meant to give them to me. But I left before long and—no, I never saw the papers.”

“But then—”

Francis nodded. “We're still married.”

Somehow the music had stopped again, and everyone was listening.

“Well,” Mrs. Hargrove finally said softly. “Well, if that don't beat all.”