A Gentleman for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad
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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 man started to grin as he listened. “What did I tell you? Some of these things go down easy.” The man snapped his cell phone shut. Revenge was sweet. “I’ve taken care of it. If Garth Elkton’s anything like his old man, he’ll say yes.”
“You know the family personally?” The stocky man removed his cigar.
“About as personal as it gets.”
The stocky man grunted. “Well, see that it doesn’t get in the way.”
The man with the phone didn’t answer. He couldn’t stop grinning. Leave it to Mrs. Buckwalter to make the deal sweeter. He’d sure like to see Garth Elkton stumbling around a dance floor. Let him see how it felt to be clumsy in love with no hope in sight.
Chapter Three
Sylvia stood on the steps of the Seattle police station, as close to swearing as she was to weeping. She’d almost gotten them away. If she’d taken Mrs. Buckwalter at her word and gathered the kids under her wing yesterday and run off to Montana, she wouldn’t be climbing these steps now on her way to try and bail them all out of jail.
The irony was she’d worked through her resistance to the idea of staying on Garth’s ranch and decided she would do it. She had no other options for the kids.
She’d take the kids to Montana she decided—at least the ones for whom she could get parental consent. Likely, that would be all of them as long as she promised to only keep them for a month. A month wasn’t long enough to interfere with any government support their parents were getting for them. And they’d get permission from the schools. Both of her staff were teachers as well as counselors and gave individual instruction to the kids.
Even a month would let the kids start to feel safe. She’d learned early on that a month’s commitment was about all the kids could make in the beginning. They couldn’t see further into the future than those thirty days. So that’s how she started. Once one month was down, she’d ask for another. Lives were being changed one month at a time.
But the kids getting arrested made everything so much more difficult. Some of the boys were on probation. A couple of the girls, too. The others had probably walked close enough to the edge of juvenile problems to be placed on probation with this latest episode. They might not have the freedom to decide what they wanted—not even for a month.
What, she thought to herself in exasperation, had possessed these kids to tackle a dangerous gang? But she knew—gang thinking was vicious. It made war zones out of school grounds and paranoid bush soldiers out of ordinary kids. She was lucky it was the police station she was visiting and not the morgue.
Sylvia swung open the heavy oak doors that led into the station’s waiting area. There were no windows, but the ceilings were high and supported a dozen fans that slowly rotated in an attempt to ventilate the place. Even with the fan blades buzzing in the background, the cavelike room still smelled slightly on days that weren’t wax days.
On Thursdays, when the janitors did an early-morning wax job on the brown linoleum floors, the room smelled of disinfectant. On other days the odor was people—too many, too close together and stuck there for too long.
Benches lined the room and there were two barred cashier cages on one side. The other side funneled into a long aisle that led into the main part of the police station. Sylvia’s friend, Glory Beckett, worked as a police sketch artist and her workroom was down that hall and off the main desk area.
Sylvia started in that direction.
Glory might know a shortcut to get the kids out. The two of them had worked the system before. Sylvia said a quick prayer that Glory would be in her office. Yesterday morning Glory had called, worried about having dinner last night with Matthew Curtis, the minister who’d come to Seattle from Dry Creek to ask—Sylvia sincerely hoped—Glory to marry him. In Sylvia’s opinion, it was about time. Glory hadn’t been herself since they’d come back from Dry Creek after Christmas.
The door to Glory’s workroom was closed and a note had been taped to the front of it. “She’ll be in later today—try back again. The Captain.”
Well, Sylvia thought, so much for some friendly help. She glanced at the police officer who was sitting at the desk in the open area across from Glory’s workroom. She wondered how late Glory would be. It was almost ten o’clock now.
“Do you know—” she began.
“I don’t know anything, lady,” the officer said, clearly busy and exasperated. “All I got is what you see. I can’t be answering questions every five minutes. You’ll have to wait just like the other guy.” He glared down the hallway.
“The other guy?” Sylvia’s eyes followed his gaze.
The bench was at the end of the hall and a square of light shone in through a side window. That was the only natural light. In addition a row of ceiling lights burned weakly, leaving more shadows than anything. A man sat on the hall bench, staring at the brown wall across from him. Sylvia was too far away to see his face. But she didn’t need to see it to know who he was. How many gray Stetson hats were there in Seattle in February?
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