An Angel for Dry Creek

“There was a fire,” Matthew said. The fire had burned down the first house they’d lived in after they moved away from Havre. At the time, it felt as if the fire was just finishing the job fate had already begun. He hadn’t known the twins would miss a few pictures this much.

“Well, your father can tell you what she looked like,” Glory offered softly. For the first time, she wished she was an angel. She’d give those little boys a puppy and a cookie-baking mother, too.

“But I can’t see her,” Joey said. “Telling isn’t seeing.”

“I can help you,” Glory said without thinking.

“What?” Matthew and Dr. Norris both asked at the same time and in the same disapproving tone.

“I can help them see their mother,” Glory said, turning to Matthew. She would do it, she thought excitedly.

“Look, I guess it’s fair play after all they’ve put you through,” Matthew said indignantly. “But I won’t have you making fun of their make-believe.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Glory protested. How could such a distrustful man raise two such trusting sons? “And I can help. I’ve drawn hundreds of pictures from descriptions I’ve been given.”

“You could?” Matthew asked, and then blinked suspiciously fast. “You really could draw a picture of the boys’ mother—of Susie?”

“Yes,” Glory said. Why was it that the same dreamy quality in the boys’ eyes irritated her when it was mirrored in the eyes of their father, the man who had been married to the woman she was going to paint? She squared her shoulders. She didn’t have time to worry about a man. She was an artist now. She was going to paint a masterpiece. The face of one of God’s creations. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

“Hallelujah,” Dr. Norris said as he bent down and swabbed Matthew’s arm. Then, as he stuck a needle in Matthew’s arm, he added. “Sounds like maybe she’s an angel after all.”

Matthew grunted.

Glory swallowed her protest. She was the only one who saw the self-satisfied nod the twins exchanged.

The Bullet kept his eyes averted. He wore his cap pulled low over his forehead even though the musty darkness shadowed his face. The inside of the parked limo was damp and the rain slid silently over the windshield. A streetlight overhead cast a feeble glow inside the car, outlining the man next to him.

“You’re sure she’s a new hit?”

“Not technically,” the man finally admitted. His words were low and clipped. “But she’s as good as…the other try was nothing…a gang shooting—slid by easy.”

“I charge extra for repeats,” the Bullet said, his lips drawing together. He didn’t like it when clients tried to get gang kids to do their dirty work. “Extra for cops, too.”

“She’s no cop,” the man said impatiently. “Draws pictures. That’s all.”

“Still, they look out for their own,” the Bullet pressed further. “She got any cop training? Guns, anything?”

“Naw. She’s easy.”

The Bullet grimaced. “I’ll settle for fifteen,” the Bullet said. “Half up front.”

The client nodded and held out a paper bag full of cash. “Here’s seventy-five hundred, Mr. Forrest Brown.”

The Bullet froze. Nobody knew him by name. He was the Bullet to all of Seattle. If he knows who I am, he knows where I live. My God, he knows about my Millie!

Chapter Two

“You best behave yourself,” Mrs. Hargrove whispered to Matthew as she leaned on the counter of the hardware store. Matthew was sitting on a folding chair behind the counter with his leg propped up on a trash can. He wasn’t feeling too well, and Mrs. Hargrove’s powdered violet perfume didn’t help.

“I assure you…” Matthew started, but he didn’t have a full head of steam going and it was almost impossible to stop the older woman without one. Besides, truth to tell, he didn’t really mind her scolding him. Listening to her gave him time to watch Glory set up an easel with the twins’ help in the front of the store.

“Humph,” Mrs. Hargrove said, turning to follow the aim of his eyes before continuing, “You may be a man of the cloth—”

“What?” Matthew jerked himself back to the conversation. That was his secret. No one here was supposed to know. “What do you mean?”

Sweat broke out on Matthew’s forehead. He had hoped no one here would ever find out. How could he explain that his faith was tied in knots? He used to love the ministry, knowing he was helping people find God’s mercy. He’d known he needed to leave the ministry when he no longer believed in that mercy, when he couldn’t even pray in public anymore. That last morning, he’d just stood in the pulpit, unable to speak. Finally the choir director figured out something was wrong and had the choir start a hymn. But the hymn didn’t help. He was still mute. All he could remember were the words of the prayers he’d prayed for Susie and the confidence he’d had. The words of those prayers rose like bile in his throat. His prayers had turned to dust when she died. How could a man with no faith be a minister? “I’m not a minister. Not anymore…”

“But a man’s a man in my book,” Mrs. Hargrove continued, and pointed her finger at him. “And that woman over there is a sight more tempting than a real angel would ever be. And don’t think other people haven’t noticed.”

“What other people?” Matthew looked around. The only two other people in the store were Elmer and Jacob, two semi-retired ranchers who stopped by the hardware store every morning for their cup of coffee. They were arguing across the checkerboard Henry kept by the woodstove. When Matthew looked at them, Elmer lifted his bearded face, gave him a slow knowing wink, stood up and then started walking toward the counter.

When Elmer reached the front of the counter, he looked squarely at Matthew. “Heard you got yourself an angel.”

“She’s not an angel,” Matthew protested automatically.

Elmer nodded solemnly. “Looks like an angel to me. You lucky dog. Got an inside track with her, since she’s staying at your place.”

“Staying at my place—” Matthew echoed in panic. He hadn’t given any thought to where Glory would stay. The only hotel around was back in Miles City. That would be too far. But where would she stay at his place? He supposed she’d have to stay in his room. The old house had only two bedrooms, and the sofa was too lumpy for a guest. No, he’d have to take the sofa. Which was fine, but he worried about her up in his room. He couldn’t remember if he’d put his socks away last night or not. Last night, nothing—try the past week. Socks everywhere.

“She can’t stay at my place. I’m single,” Matthew said, relieved to remember the fact. Glory would never see his dirty socks. Or the calendar on his wall that was stuck back in September even though it was December 19. “It wouldn’t be proper, would it, Mrs. Hargrove?”

Matthew smiled confidently. Being single did have certain advantages.

“I would ask her to stay with me. She seems like a very nice lady,” Mrs. Hargrove said earnestly, and then shrugged her shoulders. “But I can’t.”

The smile that was forming on Matthew’s lips faded. “Why not?”

“The twins love the Christmas story,” Mrs. Hargrove explained. “They’d be very disappointed if they couldn’t keep the angel in their house. Besides, the doctor says there’s no way you can get up those stairs, so it’s perfectly proper.”

As though that settled the matter, Mrs. Hargrove ran her finger over the plastic jug of wrenches standing on the counter. “Doesn’t that Henry ever dust anything in here? Decent folks wouldn’t shop here even if they had any extra money.”

“Henry doesn’t notice the dust,” Matthew said. He wondered if Glory had noticed how dusty it was in the hardware store. Of course she’d noticed, he thought. He could see her frowning at the window beside her. It could use a good washing. He’d started to clean up Henry’s store now that the man was gone to his daughter’s in Florida for a long winter vacation, but Matthew had started in the back, in the stockroom.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Hargrove,” Matthew said as he reached for his crutches. “I think I best get my bottle of window cleaner and—” Matthew nodded in the general direction of Glory.

But before Matthew could stand, Glory came over to the counter.

“I’d like to buy a brush,” Glory said. The hardware store looked as if it could use some business, and she assumed they had a fine-tip brush that could serve her uses. “Make that a dozen and a can of turpentine.”

“Brushes are over there,” Matthew said, and started to rise. “Most of them are for real painting—I mean, not for artists, but there might be one or two small enough.”

“You just sit back down,” Mrs. Hargrove said as Matthew fitted the crutches under his arms. “You aren’t in any shape to be fetching brushes.” Mrs. Hargrove walked toward the shelf and returned with a dozen paintbrushes. Glory put her platinum plastic card on the counter. “I assume you take credit cards.”

“Some days that’s all we take,” Matthew said as he pulled out the credit card duplicator and picked up the phone for verification.

Matthew punched in the numbers of Glory’s credit card. He didn’t want to admit it, but hers was the first platinum card he’d ever processed. Most people in Dry Creek thought they were rich if they qualified for the gold card. “Is there something different about a platinum card?”

“Different?”