A Rich Man For Dry Creek And A Hero For Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

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      Robert felt better already. All he had to do was be obnoxious. His feet were still sore, but he was sure he could be sufficiently unpleasant to raise some eyebrows.

      Confident that his troubles would soon be over, Robert slipped the cell phone back into the pocket of his overcoat and started to whistle.

      He was almost cheerful when he stepped back into the kitchen. It wouldn’t be too hard. Before long his reputation would be back where it belonged—in tatters.

      All he needed to do was find a woman to persecute.

      Robert stepped into the kitchen to find it empty of everything except steam. He walked over to the stove and looked into one of the big lobster pots. It was empty, as well.

      Good, he thought to himself in satisfaction, the party was starting. An audience would be helpful for what he needed to do.

      The dining room of the café had been turned into a girl’s dressing room and Robert walked quickly through the haze of perfume. Makeup was scattered over the table closest to the door and several pairs of high heels were lined up along the right wall.

      Robert stopped in front of the mirror taped to the inside of the door and ran a comb through his own hair. He brushed a few snowflakes off the shoulders of his overcoat. The overcoat was black. His suit underneath was black. Each cost more than most men made in a month.

      Robert nodded at his reflection with satisfaction; he looked good. Every man should look good on his way to his own public scandal.

      The first bite of the cold when he stepped out the front door made him step even faster. The café was just down the gravel road from the barn where the party was to be held and the space between was full of old cars and trucks. This part of Montana certainly wasn’t prosperous, he thought as he spied the old cattle truck that was parked next to the bus his mother had rented to haul all the teenagers around.

      He nodded to an old man who was weaving between the cars with a bottle of beer in his hand.

      “Coming to the party?” Robert looked closer at the man.

      “Ain’t been invited.” The man’s beaten face looked anxious in the moonlight.

      “Everyone’s invited,” Robert said firmly. The old man looked like he could use a good meal that didn’t slide down from the neck of a brown bottle. “What’s your name?”

      The old man looked startled. Robert didn’t blame him. He was startled himself. Since when had he cared about the names of poor old men?

      “Gossett.”

      “Well, Mr. Gossett, I hope you’ll come have some dinner with us.”

      “I ain’t dressed for it.”

      The man was wearing a beige cardigan sweater covered with what looked like cat hair and a thermal undershirt that had a yellow ring around the band. His neck was scrawny and his eyes were bloodshot. His denim jeans had grease stains on the knees. Only the man’s boots looked new.

      “This will set you up,” Robert said as he took off his overcoat and offered it to the old man. “Put that on and you’ll be right in fashion.”

      Warm, too, Robert thought to himself.

      The man’s startled look turned to alarm. “You with the Feds?”

      “The who?”

      “The FBI. They don’t think I seen them. But they’re here. Sneaking around in the dark. Watching me.”

      “They’re not watching you,” Robert said gently as he offered the coat again. “I’ve heard there’s been some cattle rustling reported. Interstate stuff. It’s been going on for some time and they can’t get a handle on it. That’s why they’re here. It’s just the cattle. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

      Robert knew the FBI was in Dry Creek. One of their agents had questioned Jenny and himself when they’d landed with the lobsters out near Garth Elkton’s ranch the other night.

      “You know who they think done it?” the man asked, leaning so close that Robert got a strong whiff of alcohol. “The rustling?”

      “No, I don’t think they know yet.” Robert wondered if he should insist the man come into the warmth of the barn. With the amount of alcohol the man was drinking, it was dangerous for him to be out in the freezing temperatures. “You’re sure you don’t want to borrow the coat? You’d be welcome to eat with us.”

      The man carefully set his bottle of beer on the hood of an old car before reaching out toward the coat. “I might just get me a little bit of something. It sure smells good.”

      The two men walked inside the barn together.

      The old man headed toward the table set up with appetizers. Robert resisted the urge to go over and visit his carrot flowers. Instead he looked around for the woman he needed.

      There was a sea of taffeta and silk. Young teenage girls with heavy lipstick and strappy high heels. Farm wives with sweaters over their simple long dresses. A couple of women who looked unattached.

      And, of course, the chef.

      If he had his choice, Robert would persecute the chef. If for no other reason than to rattle her calm and make her take off that hairnet of hers. It was a party. She could loosen up. But the only thing he could think to do was to kiss her, and that certainly wasn’t outrageous. The media would just think he’d taken another in a long line of girlfriends. They’d yawn in his face.

      No, he needed something shocking.

      He looked over the teenagers and settled on the youngest one. His kissing her would raise the hackles of the tabloid world. She looked to be little more than a child, no more than twelve. Women all across the country would raise their handbags in unison to clip him a good one and he’d deserve it.

      Robert went over to the buffet table. He’d look less threatening if he had one of those plastic cups in his hand. After all, he wanted to kiss the girl, not have her pass out in terror. She might be wearing lipstick, but twelve was still awfully young.

      He nodded to the older woman behind the table. “I’ll have some champagne.”

      The woman looked at him blankly. “I think there’s punch in the bowl.”

      Robert looked over and saw the punch. It was pink.

      “I don’t suppose there’s any bottled water?”

      The woman shook her head no. “There might be coffee later.”

      Robert nodded. He’d have to do this empty-handed. He walked over to the girl. She was leaning against the side of the barn and watching the other kids sort through some old records. Now who had those relics? He couldn’t remember ever seeing records played. Not with cassettes and CDs available.

      “Know any musicians?”

      The girl looked up and shook her head shyly. “Do you?”

      Robert nodded. He’d СКАЧАТЬ