A Gentleman for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad
Читать онлайн книгу.
tion>
“I’d never hurt you.
“You don’t need to be afraid of being close to me,” Garth said.
Lord, he must think I’m a ninny. I’m not afraid of him.
It took a moment for the realization to sink even further into Sylvia’s mind. She checked the nerves in her stomach. Yes, she thought, she was not scared of Garth. It must be that she had just never been forced to live with her fears long enough to conquer them before. She’d never had to sit in a man’s lap until the trembling stopped. That must be it.
It must be. Because the alternative—that she had special feelings for Garth that made her fears disappear—that maybe she was even a little bit in love with the man—was starting up a trembling all of its own. And this trembling rocked her to her foundations.
JANET TRONSTAD
grew up on a small farm in central Montana. One of her favorite things to do was to visit her grandfather’s bookshelves, where he had a large collection of Zane Grey novels. She’s always loved a good story.
Today, Janet lives in Pasadena, California, where she works in the research department of a medical organization. In addition to writing novels, she researches and writes nonfiction magazine articles.
A Gentleman for Dry Creek
Janet Tronstad
And it shall come to pass in the day that the Lord shall give thee rest from thy sorrow, and from thy fear, and from the hard bondage in which thou wast made to serve.
—Isaiah 14:3
Dedicated with love to my two sisters, Margaret Enger and Doris Tronstad. How fortunate I am to have both of you in my life.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed the story of Sylvia and Garth. I wanted to show a woman who—like most of us—has struggled with fear in her relationships. It would have been easy for Sylvia to listen only to those fears. But, in doing so, she’d have missed out on the gift of love Garth was offering.
If you have similar fears in your life, I pray you will not let them stop you from accepting the love of others, whether it be the love of a friend, a family member, or the love of that special man. In the beginning of the book, I chose the words of Isaiah 14:3 to remind us that God can give us rest from our fears. Once our fears have been put to rest, we can accept the gift of love and friendship others have for us.
May we all love well and fearlessly.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Sylvia Bannister checked the rearview mirror, not because there was likely to be any traffic on this one-lane road outside of Miles City, Montana, but because she had anxiously checked the mirror every few minutes all the way here from the airport in Billings. Between checking the mirror and praying, she didn’t notice that the snowflakes were falling thicker and the temperature was dropping.
She was worried. She kept expecting a pulsing red light to fill the back window of her rental car. She’d asked the police to flag her down if they found out anything new about K.J. and John—anything at all.
But the window stayed dark except for the snow that gathered around the edges. The two boys could be anywhere between here and Dry Creek, Montana. And they probably didn’t have warm jackets with them. Or anything more substantial than a candy bar to eat. And certainly not a map—Sylvia stopped herself. The two boys would be fine. They’d faced tougher odds on the streets of Seattle. The teenagers were two of the gang members her center was pledged to help. She’d had such hopes for these two boys. She knew their background—in one of the deadliest gangs in the area—but she knew kids and she’d pinned some hopes on these two.
That’s why, when she’d found out they had been offered money to kill someone in Dry Creek, Montana—and then had bought plane tickets to Billings—she barely had time to activate the center’s prayer chain before she rushed to the airport, flew to Billings and then rented this car to drive the rest of the way.
She’d chase those two boys to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took to snatch them back from a life of crime.
She looked in her rearview mirror again. She wondered just how far away Dry Creek, Montana, could possibly be. She’d driven down Interstate 94 and turned off at the exit that said Dry Creek. It was dark outside, but her headlights had shown the sign clearly. She couldn’t have made a mistake. Still, she’d expected to be in Dry Creek by now. So far, she hadn’t seen any buildings, and the road she was driving on was little more than a path over a washboard of foothills.
Sylvia opened the window and a fine flurry of snow blew in her face. She loved the soft touch of snow. Besides, the wet coldness of the flakes kept her awake. She was sleepy. She didn’t realize she didn’t have a firm grip on the car’s wheel until she was jarred by a bump in the road and automatically swerved. With all the snow it was hard to tell, but she felt like she hit something. She was on the bank of an old creek bed and she needed to pull the car back on the path. She twisted the wheel, but the car spun to the right. Something was wrong. Then she realized the something she hit must have had a sharp point to it. She had a flat tire.
She pulled harder, but the red Buick was already tilting. She couldn’t control it. She was going down the bank. She barely had time to whisper a prayer as she tipped. She felt a stabbing pain as her head hit the windshield.
Her last thought was that she’d freeze to death if no one found her soon.
And who would find her? It was four o’clock in the morning and she hadn’t seen another car for twenty long miles.
Dear Lord, what have I done?
Garth Elkton sat crouched down in the cab of his ranch pickup and peered out his window at the Buick Skylark. Someone had driven the car right down the side of the creek bed and lodged it into a snowdrift.
Looked like a fool’s mistake.
Trouble is, there weren’t that many fools around Miles City. Not with the tourists all down in California at this time of year. Even drunks had better sense than to venture out in the middle of winter—and if they did, they didn’t end up in his cow pasture half-buried in a snowdrift.
No, something wasn’t right.
The early-morning light was still hazy, so he carefully checked the snow-covered ground in all directions. He was looking for boot marks or hoof prints. Rustlers had been hitting this part of Montana, and he’d even heard rumors of contract killers coming into the Billings airport yesterday.
But there were no prints around the car. He didn’t see anything but frostbitten sage and, in the distance, the low rolling hills of the Big Sheep Mountain range. He could make out the smoke coming from the fire in one of the