Easter In Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

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      Of course, that was nonsense, she told herself as she stepped back then, and instinctively slammed the door closed. He had ordinary eyes even if they were a startling icy blue.

      “What’re you doing that for?” her father asked, grumbling as he limped across the kitchen floor in his slippers. “We got company.”

      “It’s Clay West,” Allie said, leaning back against the door.

      “Well, so what?” her father asked, his chin up like he was ready to argue. He held a rolled-up magazine in his hand.

      “Clay West,” she repeated. “You remember—he’s the foster kid who lived here. He’s the reason Mark is where he is today.”

      “You don’t need to tell me who he is,” her father said. “I was here.”

      “I was, too,” Allie protested. She still remembered the night the sheriff had come to their door after midnight. Mark was already in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Clay sat in the back of the sheriff’s car, handcuffed and silent. He never looked up at her.

      The sheriff told Allie her brother had been drunk on tequila, but she assured the officer that Mark had never taken a drink of hard liquor in his life. She would know if he had, she’d explained. She was a year younger than Mark, but she’d always been more responsible than he was. As her mother lay dying, she had asked Allie to watch over Mark and make sure he didn’t start drinking alcohol. The family was unusually susceptible, she’d said. Mark might have gotten the beer that night, but the empty tequila bottle found in the pickup had to belong to Clay. Allie didn’t know why Clay’s alcohol blood level wasn’t that high, but she knew that the tequila had to belong to him.

      Allie’s father reached for the door handle. “Clay’s probably hungry. He’ll want some bacon with his eggs. He’s my new ranch hand. And they say he’s an artist—sort of like Charlie Russell.”

      Her father waved the magazine at her.

      Allie wondered if her father had started drinking again. He had promised he wouldn’t. His fondness for whiskey had nearly ruined their family when she was young. There were no other indications her father had started drinking again, but the possibility had to be examined. She lived too far away to monitor him very well now, but she remembered the past. Alcohol always turned her father’s mind fuzzy. He’d get foolish ideas and act on them. And what he said now was preposterous.

      “We can’t—” She started talking to her father, but he was paying attention only to the man standing outside their door.

      Allie had thought she’d never lay eyes on Clay again. It wasn’t fair that he walked around every day a whole man while Mark was lying in a convalescent bed staring at the ceiling and struggling to form a coherent sentence.

      And now Clay was here—on their porch—and looking better than he had any right to be.

      Her world had just turned upside down, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

Chapter Two

      Clay looked through the screen into the shadows of the kitchen, and his heart sank. For a moment he had thought it was Allie inside the room. Now he saw it was only Mr. Nelson reaching toward the door wearing denim overalls hooked over his white long johns. The unshaven man held a magazine in one hand and fumbled with the catch to open the screen with the other. A lock of his gray hair fell across his brow as he bent his head in concentration. There were lines in the man’s face that Clay did not remember being there and dark circles under his eyes.

      “Here, let me help you,” Clay said as he jiggled the handle on the door from the outside. He had figured out how to make that latch work years ago. A person had to press it just right and it moved smooth as butter.

      “You came,” the older man said as Clay pushed the door open.

      Clay nodded as he stepped into the warmth of the kitchen. It was just as well it was only the two of them. Maybe then the man would tell him why he’d sent for him. When Clay had been convicted of armed robbery, Mr. Nelson told him never to come back to Dry Creek. The old man had meant it that day. People didn’t just change their minds for no reason. Maybe the church had put pressure on Mr. Nelson to bring Clay back.

      “I can’t take your job under false premises—” Clay started, suspecting the rancher would be happy to end this charade, too. He likely hadn’t wanted to make the offer in the first place. “So if you plan—”

      “Hush,” the older man whispered. Then he turned and gave a worried glance at something behind the door. “We can talk later.” The man’s voice returned to normal. “You’ll want breakfast first. Right?”

      Before Clay could answer, he heard a feminine gasp.

      “Allie?” Clay whispered as he turned to the side. The main part of the kitchen was filled with shadows, but he’d know the sound of her voice anywhere.

      In the darkness, he saw her. She stood off to the side by the refrigerator with a beat-up metal spatula braced in her arms like it was a sword and she was a warrior queen ready to defend her kingdom. She used to love to pretend at games like that. Garden rakes became horses. Leaves made a tiara. She’d told him once that she had wanted to be an actress when she was little. Of course, that was before she fell in love with horses. Then all she wanted was to work on this ranch for the rest of her life.

      Clay wished he had a pencil in hand so he could sketch her. A thin glow of morning light was coming through the window, and it outlined her in gold. Her posture showed her outrage and her resolve. She wasn’t looking at him, though. Instead, her eyes were fastened on her father.

      “I’m not cooking for him,” she announced as she jabbed the long-handled spatula in Clay’s general direction. It was a dismissive gesture. Then she crossed her arms, letting the metal implement stick out.

      Well, Clay thought, trying to hide his smile, at least someone in Dry Creek believed in telling the truth as she saw it. He should be upset, but he couldn’t take his gaze off Allie. She’d always fascinated him. Gradually, however, as he studied her, he realized the young teen he’d known was all grown up. The girlish lines of her face were gone, and she had the sleekness of a sophisticated young woman even in the faded apron she wore tied around her denim jeans. Her auburn hair was thick and as unruly as he remembered, although she’d tried to pull it into some order and knot it at the back of her neck. The pink in her cheeks was no doubt due to the cold that had come in from the opened door, but it made her look impassioned.

      “I don’t need to eat.” Clay spoke mildly, and then he swallowed. This new Allie made him feel self-conscious. He wished he had taken time to get a haircut before he left the prison. “I do have something to say, however—”

      “It’ll do no good to say you are sorry,” Allie interrupted as she stepped closer and stood in the light of the open door. She gave him a withering look. “Words won’t make one bit of difference to Mark. And you should close the door.”

      “Sorry,” Clay said as he reached behind him and did so. “But I wasn’t going to apologize.”

      No one answered, and the tension in the room jumped higher. Clay figured a new haircut wouldn’t have made him look much better.

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