A Gentleman for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad
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with her?” Garth demanded. “She’s the one who’s mixed up with those contract killers I’ve heard about.”
“I—I can explain,” Sylvia said as she took another partial breath.
“Explanations can wait,” Garth said. He didn’t like the whiteness in the woman’s face now that she was sitting. And he could feel the effort her body spent in drawing each breath. He’d taken off her coat when he’d first laid her on the sofa. Nothing separated him from her skin but the white silk blouse she was wearing. The material was cool and sleek, but he could feel her warmth beneath the material. Yes, explanations could wait. He’d just as soon hold this butterfly of a woman a minute or two longer before he found out what was making her so worried.
Chapter Two
Six weeks later, on a side street in Seattle
Garth Elkton figured he was the sorriest excuse for a man alive. He’d let his butterfly woman fly right out of his life and he’d been too tongue-tied to stop her. The fact that she was avoiding him at the time—and had avoided him most of the two days that she spent in Dry Creek—should not have stopped him.
You’d have thought it was his fault she hadn’t known those two boys had come to Dry Creek to save Glory Beckett instead of shoot her and that Glory Beckett had ended up helping the Feds cut off the distribution network for the stolen beef that was being rustled out of Montana. He had not known those things himself. He couldn’t have told Sylvia.
But that didn’t ease her coldness to him. As near as he could figure, Sylvia had been annoyed with him just for breathing the same air as everyone else. A sane man would give up on a woman so set against him. At first he’d thought it’d been the confusion about Francis. But he’d told her Francis was his sister. It hadn’t seemed to make a difference.
He told himself a dozen times he should forget her.
Still, he tapped his shirt pocket. Sylvia had lost a butterfly-shaped, gold earring when she rode in his pickup the morning he’d found her. He hadn’t noticed it until after she left Dry Creek. He’d meant to mail it to her in Seattle, but he’d found he was reluctant to part with it. He kept hoping she’d write and ask about it. But she didn’t.
He glanced down at the faded Polaroid picture that he’d taped to the dash of his pickup—he’d given Santa five bucks to take that picture of Sylvia on Christmas Eve and it was the best five bucks he’d ever spent. She’d been talking to the kids serving the spaghetti dinner that night in Dry Creek and her face was alive with laughter. Her smile had haunted him ever since she climbed into Glory Beckett’s Jeep and headed back to Seattle.
At the time, he’d thought his yearning for her would fade. He didn’t know her. He knew that. The shadows of emotions that had chased themselves across her face when he talked to her could be misread. But he had an itch inside his gut to know Sylvia Bannister, and he figured the only way to get rid of it was to do something about it.
He didn’t have a plan past returning the earring. A man needed hope to have a plan and he didn’t have any of that. Sylvia Bannister had made it clear she was a church woman and he figured a church woman would never take up with the likes of him. But plan or no plan, hope or no hope, it seemed the best way to start was to go to Seattle.
And here he was. Lost as a stray sheep on some wet Seattle street. Or maybe he was even in Tacoma. He’d dropped Matthew Curtis off so the man could do his own courting of Glory Beckett. Garth had thought he’d find Sylvia’s youth center with no problem. He’d flown missions in the army with a flashlight held to a map the size of a baseball card.
But the streets here were confusing. Too many hills and detours. Too many gang markings covering street signs. Too many empty, shelled buildings with the street numbers erased off their sides. He knew he wasn’t in the safe part of town and he didn’t like the thought of Sylvia’s center being here.
And then he saw a familiar face. One of the kids. John. The kid was half walking, half running down the street beside an abandoned building. Gray metal sheets were nailed over the windows of the building and rust outlined the doorway. Garth guessed the building used to be a factory of some kind.
Then he noticed that John’s face was as gray as the weathered sheet metal. The kid was afraid, looking over his shoulder and trotting along like some lopsided chicken.
Garth pulled over and parked his pickup. He was going to call out to John when he saw what was happening. Kids—thugs, Garth thought—were coming toward John from all directions. Instead of running faster, John slowed down like it was hopeless.
Garth reached over and opened the passenger door of his pickup truck. John could make it to the pickup if he gave one good burst of speed. Garth honked the horn and John looked up but didn’t move. Garth had seen this before. Someone so scared they couldn’t move even to save themselves.
Garth half swore. He’d have to do this the hard way. He opened his door and reached behind the seat for an old bullwhip he’d bought at an auction last week. The Gebharts were selling out and he’d paid as much for the whip as their pride would allow. At the time he wasn’t sure it’d stay together long enough for him to nail it to his barn wall.
Now he hoped the whip would hold together a bit longer than that.
Sylvia stopped her fingers from twisting together nervously. She was sitting behind her desk in the small office at the center. The other staff—Melissa Hanson and Pat Dawson—were conspicuously absent. Cowards. They were no more prepared to chat with Mrs. Buckwalter than she was.
At first she’d felt like Alice in Wonderland when Mrs. Buckwalter had called, asking to see the center. Sylvia knew of the Buckwalters. True, she never traveled in those financial—or social—circles, but she knew they existed. Just like she knew the queen of England existed. She’d just never expected to have the queen—or Mrs. Buckwalter—for tea.
The Buckwalter Foundation was not the kind of donor that usually supported the center—in fact, they were more likely to donate millions to a Seattle museum than ten dollars to a small, church-funded youth center that needed a camp.
Of course, she’d be happy to show Mrs. Buckwalter around. She’d smiled into the phone in frozen shock. Today? Yes, four o’clock would be fine.
Sylvia wasn’t off the phone for two seconds before she realized something was very wrong. She had assumed somehow in those magical minutes that someone from the staff had approached the Buckwalters about their ideas for a youth camp. The funding they had counted on had fallen through at the last minute and her first wild hope was that somehow word had gotten to the Buckwalters and they were coming to their rescue.
She realized how naive that sounded the moment she thought about it. A lion in the jungle didn’t worry about whether or not an ant had funding. She didn’t even know anyone who knew the Buckwalters well enough to get past the army of secretaries that fielded their calls. They were notorious for being difficult to contact.
Her fears were confirmed when she questioned the staff. No one had called Mrs. Buckwalter. No one even knew how to reach Mrs. Buckwalter.
That’s when Sylvia panicked. The phone call had not been a miracle—it had been a mistake. Mrs. Buckwalter must have thought she was calling someplace else. She must have looked in the phone book under Tacoma-Seattle Youth Center and dialed the wrong place.
Sylvia took a deep breath. So it wasn’t perfect. It was still a slim hope and that was better than anything else she had. After all, Jesus was an old hand at drawing a rabbit out of a hat. He had fed five—or was it ten—thousand with a few biscuits and a couple of fish fillets. If he could do that, he could help her with Mrs. Buckwalter.
Sylvia braced herself. Yes, she’d do her best pitch. She had the grant proposal. She needed to make some changes and it would be ready. Then all that remained was—
Oh, no, the office! Or more like the nonoffice. Sylvia used the room that had once been a janitor’s storage room. The room met her needs but it still