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

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      “Elvis is dead.”

      “I thought maybe you had known him. When you were young.”

      Robert wondered if he’d fallen down a time warp. “How old do you think I am?”

      The girl shrugged. “He’s my favorite is all.”

      “He’ll always be the King,” Robert agreed gently. Maybe this girl wasn’t the one, after all. Her eyes reminded him of Bambi. He didn’t want to see the confusion in them that would surely come if a man as old as Elvis kissed her.

      “You got a camera?” he asked instead.

      “A disposable one.”

      “Do me a favor and take a few pictures of me tonight. I’ll tell you when.”

      “Sure.”

      Robert nodded his thanks. Tabloids loved pictures like that and even sweet-eyed Bambis needed a college fund. Somebody might as well get some good out of tonight.

      The lights in the barn were subdued and the whole place seemed to smell of butter and steam. Long tables were set up in the back of the barn and covered with white cotton tablecloths. Stacks of heavy plates, the kind found in truck stops, stood at the end of each table.

      Several teams of ranch hands were holding big trays with a towel draped over steaming lobsters. Robert frowned at the men. Why hadn’t Jenny asked him to help? He’d had to practically demand a knife and some carrots earlier.

      Jenny put a dozen silver tongs down on the head table and blessed Mrs. Buckwalter for requesting that they be brought to Dry Creek along with dozens of tiny silver lobster picks. Even Jenny wasn’t sure she’d tackle the lobster dinner with plastic forks and no tongs. “Can someone go back and get the last pan of butter?”

      “I’ll do it.”

      Jenny stopped arranging the tongs and looked up in panic. It was Robert Buckwalter. “But you can’t—I mean you don’t need to—”

      “Well, someone needs to.”

      “I can do it myself,” Jenny said. She could at least try to remember the difference in their social standing. He was, after all, her employer’s son. “You don’t want to spill butter on that suit. It looks expensive.” Jenny took a deep breath and smiled. Her sister owed her for this one. “I mean, it’s a tuxedo, isn’t it? Good enough to wear to a wedding.”

      “Tonight’s a special occasion.”

      “Aren’t they all?” She struggled upstream. “These receptions—nothing brings out the good suits like a reception or a wedding.”

      Robert nodded. “Or a funeral.”

      Jenny started to sweat. Being a news source was more difficult than one would think. “Funerals and weddings. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

      Robert looked at her like she’d lost her mind.

      “I mean sometimes weddings get off to a rocky start.” Boy, did her sister owe her.

      Robert nodded. “I suppose so.”

      “Been to any weddings lately?”

      Robert shrugged. “Not for a while. I’ve been away from the social scene.”

      “Oh?” Jenny looked up brightly. Now they were getting somewhere.

      “Haven’t missed it.” Robert looked toward the barn door. “It won’t take me a minute to run back to the café and get that butter.”

      Jenny nodded in defeat. “It’s on the back of the stove. Be sure and use a pot holder.” She suddenly remembered to whom she was talking. “That’s a padded square of cloth. It’ll be on the counter.”

      “I know what a pot holder is.” Robert didn’t add that he hadn’t known until five months ago.

      Jenny stood with her back to the tables and watched Robert walk out of the barn. He was limping. Now she wondered why a man who had spent five months resting would be limping.

      “Handsome, isn’t he?”

      Jenny turned to look at the woman standing next to her. Mrs. Hargrove was one of the people in Dry Creek that Jenny liked the best. She’d organized the apron brigade for Jenny, using aprons from the church. Towel aprons. Frilly aprons. Patched aprons. They’d used them all.

      “You’re pretty good-looking yourself,” Jenny said.

      The older woman had worn a gingham cotton dress every other time Jenny had seen her. Tonight she was in a silk mauve dress with a strand of pearls around her neck. A lemon scent floated around her.

      “Maybe he’ll ask you to dance,” Jenny continued. Mrs. Hargrove had said earlier that this was the first dance she’d attended since her husband died two years ago.

      “Me?” Mrs. Hargrove laughed. “I was thinking he’d ask you to dance.”

      “No time. I’ll be busy with the food.”

      “Not when the dancing starts.”

      “No, by then I’ll be busy with the pots and pans—washing dishes.”

      “Goodness, no! The dishes can wait. Tomorrow’s soon enough for that. We’ll all pitch in then. That’s the way it’s done here. I might even ask old man Gossett to help us. Be good for him to get out. You’d be doing him a favor.”

      Jenny had a sudden wish that she could dance. “But I’m not dressed for a party.”

      Mrs. Hargrove shrugged. “I’ll bet there’s a few more dresses at the café.”

      The women of Dry Creek had loaned their old prom dresses and bridesmaids dresses to the teenage girls from Seattle. For most of the girls, this was the first time in their lives they had worn a formal dress.

      “He’s back,” the older woman announced.

      Robert Buckwalter entered the barn doorway and stood for a moment. Jenny could see the blackness of the outside air. Snowflakes were scattered on his head and shoulders. His hands were carefully wrapped around the handle of the saucepan he was holding. He hesitated in the doorway as though he was shy, unsure of his place among the guests. His shyness, combined with the perfect balance of his face almost took her breath away. Maybe he did deserve to be the number one bachelor.

      He certainly didn’t deserve to carry the butter.

      “Here, let me get that.” Jenny wiped her hands on her apron and started toward him. The steam from the lobsters had made her hands clammy. “You shouldn’t have to—”

      “I can carry a pan of butter.”

      “Of course.” Jenny stopped. Of course he could. Why in the world was she so nervous around the man? It must be her sister. Making him sound so mysterious. Just because he was СКАЧАТЬ