A Gentleman for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

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СКАЧАТЬ were listening until she heard a collective groan. “They ain’t even got TV there,” one of the older boys yelled out as though that automatically vetoed any decision. “Not in the middle of Montana.”

      Garth grinned. “Sure we do. Satellite. You can see educational programs from around the world.” Garth grinned again. “Even get some old Lawrence Welk reruns.”

      An expression of alarm cross the boy’s face.

      “I’m not interested in educational TV or no Welk stuff. I want to know if you get Baywatch.”

      “You’ll be too busy to watch TV,” Sylvia interjected. She wasn’t as optimistic as she sounded. Thirty teenagers and educational television. She wasn’t ready for this. “We could have lessons in the various plants and animals around the area.”

      Another collective groan erupted.

      “And maybe we can learn to—” Sylvia hesitated. What would they do in Montana in the winter? She couldn’t see the kids taking up quilting. Or playing checkers.

      “Skiing,” Mrs. Buckwalter announced grandly. “In all that snow there should be good skiing.”

      The protest this time was halfhearted and the kids all looked at their shoes.

      “That stuff’s for rich kids,” one of the girls finally muttered. “Skiing’s expensive.”

      Sylvia hated it when she could see how some of her kids had been treated. The center served a mixture of races. Some Asian, some African-Americans and a handful of whites. All of the kids felt poor, like all of the good opportunities in life had gone to someone else. The fact that the kids were right made Sylvia determined to change things.

      “We’ll have enough to rent some skis,” Sylvia promised, resolving to make the budget stretch that far.

      “Rent?” Mrs. Buckwalter snorted. “I’ll personally buy a pair of skis for anyone who learns how to ski.” She gestured grandly. “Of course, that only comes after they learn how to dance.” The older woman’s face softened with memories only she saw. “They’ll need to learn to waltz for the formal dinner/dance.”

      Garth looked at Sylvia. He could tell from the resigned look on her face that she wasn’t surprised.

      “Mrs. Buckwalter wants the camp to teach them manners,” Sylvia explained quietly to Garth.

      “And you, of course, can help.” Mrs. Buckwalter smiled at Garth. “A gentleman of your obvious refinement would be a good teacher for the boys. Opening doors, butter knives—that sort of thing.”

      “Me?” Garth choked out before he stopped himself. He already knew he’d do anything—even stand on his head in a snowdrift—if that’s what it took to have Sylvia around long enough to know her. But gentleman! Butter knives! He was becoming as alarmed as the teenagers facing him.

      “And, of course, you’ll help with the dance lessons,” Mrs. Buckwalter continued blithely.

      “I don’t—I—” Garth looked around for some escape. Butter knives were one thing. But dancing! He couldn’t dance. He didn’t know how. Still—He steeled himself. He’d flown fighter planes. He’d tiptoed around minefields. “I’d be delighted.”

      “Good,” Mrs. Buckwalter said. The older woman’s face was placid, but Garth caught a slight movement of the chin. The woman was laughing inside, he was sure of it.

      Oh, well, he didn’t care how she amused herself. Rich society people probably had a strange sense of humor. He didn’t care. He’d gotten what he wanted. Sylvia was coming to his ranch.

      Maybe. He cautioned himself. He’d been watching the kids. He knew the battle wasn’t over. As they’d listened to the older woman, their initial alarm had increased until they were speechless.

      “Manners—” the smallest boy in the group finally croaked out the words. “We’ll get beat up for sure when they find out we’ve been sent off to learn manners.”

      “We’ll show them manners,” John declared, standing defiantly. “We’ll get them for what they’ve done.”

      “There’ll be no payback,” Sylvia said sternly. “We’ll let the police handle it.”

      Meanwhile, at an early-evening meeting in Washington, D.C.

      Five men, some of them balding, all of them drinking coffee from disposable cups, were sitting around a table. A stocky man chewing on an unlit cigar worried aloud. “Would he do it? The cattle rustling is only a small part of this operation, you know. He might not want to tackle a crime organization over a few head of beef.”

      “He would do it if he got mad enough,” the youngest man said. He was on the shy side of thirty and was holding a manila folder. “His psychological profile shows he’s strongly territorial, he protects his own, has a fierce sense of fairness—”

      A third man snorted derisively. “That test was given twenty-some years ago before he got us out of that mess in Asia. What do we know about Garth Elkton today?”

      There was a moment’s silence.

      The man with the folder set it down on the table. “Not much. He pays his ranch hands well. Health benefits even. That’s unusual in a ranch community. He’s widowed—he’s got a grown son. His neighbors respect him. Closemouthed about him, though. Our agents couldn’t get much from them. Oh, and he has a sister who’s visiting him.”

      “Sister?” one of the men asked hopefully. “Maybe we could get to him that way—if he likes the ladies.”

      “No, the sister is really his sister,” the young man verified.

      “That’s not much to go on.”

      “He’s our only hope,” the young man said. “We have more leaks around there than Niagara Falls. They’ve picked off every agent we’ve put on the case. If we assign another agent, we might as well send along the coroner. If we want someone who isn’t with the agency, he’s it. Besides, he knows how to handle himself in a fight—he was in a special combat unit in the army. He missed the main action in Vietnam—too young—but he went deep into ’Nam with his unit, five, six years later to get some POWs. Top secret. Bit of a problem. The operation turned sour and he took the hit for the unit. He spent six months in a POW camp himself. Barely made it out alive. We’ve checked out all the ranchers in Montana—he’s the only one who could pull it off.”

      The third man sighed. “I guess you’re right. We may as well offer again. Most likely he’ll say no anyway.”

      “I don’t think so.” A man who sat apart from them all spoke up for the first time.

      The other four men looked at each other uneasily.

      “What have you done?” one of them finally asked.

      “Nothing yet,” the man said as he rose. As if on cue, his cellular phone rang in his suit pocket. The rest of the men were silent. They knew a call on that phone was always important and always business.

      “Yeah?” the man said into the phone. “Did you get it set up?”

      The СКАЧАТЬ