A Gentleman for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

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      Sylvia decided Mrs. Buckwalter was going senile. The older woman couldn’t know who Garth Elkton was. She had him confused with someone else. “He’s not from around here,” Sylvia offered gently.

      “I know that, dear,” Mrs. Buckwalter said smoothly.

      Sylvia wondered if another member of the Buckwalter family would be showing up soon to escort their mother home. The older woman was sweet but obviously not all she used to be mentally. That must explain her bizarre fixation on manners.

      “I ranch in Montana, just outside of Miles City,” Garth said to Mrs. Buckwalter. He brushed off the Stetson and sat it squarely on his head.

      “A large place, is it?” the older woman asked conversationally as she smoothed back her hair.

      “A good piece,” Garth agreed as he looked around him. Two of the windows—the only two windows in the room—were shattered. “Don’t anyone go near all that glass until I get it cleaned up.”

      “I’ll get it cleaned up,” John said as he rose from his crouch on the floor.

      Garth nodded his thanks.

      “I’d like to buy some of it,” Mrs. Buckwalter said as though it were a settled agreement.

      “Huh?” Garth was looking at the glass. There were little pieces everywhere. “You want to buy what?”

      “The land. Your land,” Mrs. Buckwalter repeated. “I’d like to buy some.”

      “I’m not planning to sell any of it,” Garth said politely as he noted a broom in the corner. What would a city woman like her do around Miles City?

      “I can pay well.”

      Garth thought a moment. He wasn’t interested, but some of his neighbors might be. Still, he had to be fair. Sometimes there were items in the news that were misleading. “There’s no oil around there—least none that’s not buried too deep for drilling.”

      “I’m not looking for oil.”

      “No dinosaur bones, either.” Garth added the other disclaimer. Ever since those dinosaur bones had been discovered up by Choteau, tourists thought they could stop beside the road and dig for bones.

      “I’m not interested in bones. I’m looking for a campsite.”

      Sylvia stifled a groan. If they set up the camp there, she’d never be able to sleep again. “Montana would never do. These kids are all used to the urban situation.”

      “I thought you wanted to get them out of the city.” Mrs. Buckwalter waved her arm to indicate the windows. “They don’t have drive-bys in Montana.”

      Garth had already started to join John, but he turned back. “You’re talking about a camp for these kids?”

      Mrs. Buckwalter nodded emphatically. “Sylvia and I were just talking about it.”

      Some opportunities in life came from sweat and hard work. Others drop from the sky like summer rain. When Garth figured out what was happening—he’d heard Sylvia talk about her camp when she was in Dry Creek—he knew he wasn’t about to let this opportunity get away. “I could rent some space to you for the camp—fact is, I’ll give you some space for the camp. No charge.”

      “But it’s not that easy—” Sylvia was feeling cornered. She didn’t like the glow on Mrs. Buckwalter’s face. Granted the woman was senile, but one never knew whether or not the rest of her family would indulge the woman and let her play out her fantasy of teaching inner-city kids to use salad forks. Not that Sylvia was fussy. She’d thought more along the lines of rock climbing than etiquette, but she’d welcome a camp no matter what classes she needed to offer the kids. But not Montana. Not close to Garth. “We’d need to have dormitories—and classrooms—it’s not just the land, it’s the facilities.”

      “I’ve got two bunkhouses I never use and a couple of grain sheds that could be cleared out and heated,” Garth persisted. He tried not to press too hard. He didn’t want to make Sylvia bolt and run. He knew from riding untamed horses that it was best not to press the unwary too hard. “And it would only be temporary, of course, until you can locate another place that you like.”

      “We’ll take it,” Mrs. Buckwalter announced eagerly.

      “But we have staff to consider.” Sylvia stood her ground. “We’ve got Melissa and Pat, but we’ll need another one, maybe two counselors. I can’t just move them to Montana at the drop of a hat.”

      Mrs. Buckwalter waved her hand, dismissing the objection. “There are people in Montana. We’ll hire them.” She pointed at Garth. “We could hire him. He could teach these boys what they need to know to be men.”

      Garth swallowed. He couldn’t claim to be a role model for anyone. His relationship with his son wasn’t one he’d brag about. And he wasn’t proud of some of the things he’d done in his life. Now that Dry Creek had a pastor, he’d thought about going back to church, but he was a long way from role-model material. Still, he heard himself say it anyway. “I’ll do it.”

      Sylvia looked at him skeptically. “But we can’t just hire anyone. They need to be a licensed counselor. Besides, I’m sure it would be too much trouble for Mr. Elkton. He can’t possibly want twenty or thirty teenagers around.”

      Garth didn’t bother to think about that one. He might not want thirty teenagers around, but he wanted Sylvia around, and if he had to take thirty teenagers as part of the deal, he’d welcome them. After all, he’d had killer bulls in his corrals and free-range stallions in his fields. How much trouble could a few kids be?

      “Besides, there’s the matter of the rustling—” Sylvia remembered the fact gratefully. This was her trump card. No one would suggest putting down in the middle of a crime circle a camp to get kids out of crime.

      “They’ve been quiet for a bit.” Garth squeezed the truth a little. He knew for a fact the rustlers were still there. He’d even been asked to help tip the Feds off on their whereabouts. He’d told the Feds he knew nothing. He didn’t. But he knew instinctively the rustlers were still there. He suspected they were just regrouping their distribution efforts before swinging back into operation.

      “These kids aren’t interested in stealing cows,” Mrs. Buckwalter interrupted impatiently. “Mr. Elkton’s ranch is the place for them. Besides, if you wait to find the ideal camp, you’ll be waiting three, maybe four years.”

      And in three years who knows who will run the Buckwalter Foundation, Sylvia thought to herself in resignation. It surely wouldn’t be Mrs. Buckwalter. Sylvia doubted the older woman would be allowed very many of these eccentric fundings.

      Sylvia steeled herself. She needed to put her own nervousness aside and at least consider the options. If the kids were going to have a camp anytime soon, they would have to do it Mrs. Buckwalter’s way. And there were some pluses—the facilities were ready. She could take the kids away now. Especially John.

      She knew the codes that the gangs lived by and, even though the Seattle gangs weren’t as territorial as some, she knew that gangs lived and died by their reputations. Whoever was after John would want him even more now that they’d been stopped.

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