A Gentleman for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

she was—hiding out in the bunkhouse like a coward. She shook her head ruefully as she set her suitcase on one of the chairs near the stove. Even with the stove’s heat, it was still a little chilly in the room. Sylvia took off her coat and opened her suitcase. She’d be quick. Maybe she’d put on her red blouse for courage.

      Garth swore as he rode over the hill and looked down at his house. The bus was parked in the driveway and he could hear the sounds of voices coming from the living room. Knowing Francis, she had everyone inside thawing while she fed them cookies. Garth hoped she kept everyone there for a few minutes. He wasn’t ready to meet Sylvia. She was a city woman and he didn’t think she’d appreciate being greeted by a man whose hands smelled of ammonia and whose feet smelled of cattle. Fortunately he could slip into the bunkhouse and wash up before he headed up to the house.

      Garth opened the door to the bunkhouse.

      Mercy!

      Since the time he was a small boy, Garth had been taught to close the door behind him in winter. It was a cardinal rule in these mountains. Heat was precious. But, so help him, he couldn’t move.

      Sylvia stood there. Her midnight-black hair was loose around her shoulders. Her turquoise eyes were opened in surprise. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. It wasn’t until he noticed the red start to creep up her neck that he realized she wasn’t wearing a blouse. And the lace contraption she wore for a bra made him warm even though it was cold enough inside the bunkhouse to frost the windows.

      “Excuse me,” Garth finally managed to say. His manners kicked in and he stepped inside. “I didn’t mean to let the cold air in.”

      Once he was inside, Garth kicked himself again. He’d obviously stepped the wrong way. Sylvia looked embarrassed and he certainly didn’t mean to embarrass her. “Don’t mind me. I didn’t know someone was in here. I can leave. I just came in to wash my hands.”

      Garth turned to go.

      “It’s all right. You can wash up here.” Sylvia spoke. Garth had fished on creeks with thinner ice than Sylvia had in her voice. “The sink’s in the back.”

      Sylvia wrapped her blouse around herself, waiting for Garth to pass.

      What could a man do when he’d done everything wrong so far? Garth walked down the aisle between the beds to one of the sinks at the end of the bunkhouse.

      He’d turned on the faucet before he looked up. Hallelujah! The mirror above the sink gave him a clear view of Sylvia. Her skin was golden in the light from the stove. Her hair shone like black coal. It took him a full minute to realize that Sylvia was half-frozen. He’d seen that same stiffness in fawns caught in the headlights of a tractor.

      He lowered his eyes and quickly washed his hands before turning off the faucet.

      “There’s lots of extra towels if you or the girls need them,” Garth said as he turned around. Maybe Sylvia was shy. He pointed. “In the cabinet right here.”

      “We’ll find them, I’m sure,” Sylvia said.

      Garth sighed. She had her blouse buttoned to her chin and her arms crossed.

      “Anything you need, just ask.” Garth wondered how mannerly he would need to be to make Sylvia smile at him. She certainly wasn’t smiling now. She did nod.

      “Well, okay, then,” Garth said. He thought about removing his hat, but it seemed foolish since he hadn’t taken if off when he’d first entered the bunkhouse. Instead, he nodded, too. “I guess the others are up at the house?”

      Sylvia nodded.

      Garth was defeated. He nodded again. This time he closed the door very carefully on the way out.

      The sound of teenagers greeted Garth as he stepped on his front porch. He hoped they, at least, would talk to him.

      Sylvia sat down. She was out of breath. She hadn’t had an episode like that in years. She thought she had gotten a handle on her fears about men. And usually she was all right. Her days at the youth center had helped her deal with violence and fear. But sometimes something would happen that would take her by surprise and she wasn’t in control. Like just now. With Garth. He’d appeared so suddenly and she’d thought she was alone. She hadn’t had time to steel herself, to hide her primitive reaction.

      She wondered if he knew she had been paralyzed. She hoped not. It wasn’t his fault she’d had bad experiences with men and violence. And she didn’t want to hear his apology or, worse yet, the polite questions that invited her to tell her whole sorry story. Sylvia reached into her suitcase and brought out her Bible.

      She sought the comfort of Psalm 91. The psalm had been with her for years and it always served to anchor her. “He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.” She repeated the verse. The familiar words soothed her. The psalmist was right. God was her fortress. She relied on that fact every day of her life. She hid herself in the folds of His love. He protected her. There was no other way she could have taken her fear of violence and used it to start erasing violence in the lives of the kids who came to the center.

      But lately she had begun to wonder if she could continue living in that fortress. She was safe, but she was also alone. She knew God would not want her fear to be a prison. She closed her eyes in weariness. Dear Lord, show me how not to be so afraid. Show me how to stop my fears.

      Tiny flakes of snow were falling by the time Sylvia stepped out of the bunkhouse to walk to the main house. She’d put several pieces of wood in the bunkhouse stove. It was almost dark outside even though it must not have been later than six o’clock.

      Snowflakes settled on Sylvia’s cheeks as she lifted her face in the early-night sky. She’d never seen darkness fall like this in Seattle—a blanket of thick gray covered the sky. No stars sparkled. No moon dipped in the sky. When night fell completely it would be deep black. She was glad the camp could start in the winter. It was a lovely time of year here.

      Squares of golden light showed the windows of the main house. Sylvia heard the hum of voices before she climbed the steps to the house.

      “Sylvia!” Francis opened the large, oak door before Sylvia had a chance to knock. The woman was wearing a denim skirt and tennis shoes. She had a dish towel draped over her shoulder and a plate of cookies in one hand. The smell of fresh-baked oatmeal cookies mixed with the soothing smell of real wood burning in the fireplace. “Come in. You must be frozen! I was just going to send Garth down to check on you. I just turned the gas heat on this afternoon. I wasn’t sure you’d be here tonight. It’s too cold—”

      “There’s a fire going,” Sylvia protested as she shook the snow off her hair. She looked around the room. Francis looked as friendly as she remembered. The teenagers were grouped around something in the dining room. A few squeals from the girls told Sylvia she wouldn’t get their attention soon. “It will be fine—”

      “I don’t want the girls to be uncomfortable,” Francis said worriedly. She put the plate of cookies down on a small table near the door. “I know how girls like nice things.”

      “They like cookies even better,” Sylvia said. She doubted the kids had had homemade cookies in years. Most of their mothers worked long hours. Cookies were a luxury.

      “You’ll have one?” Francis offered the plate. “I haven’t made any since Tavis—that’s Garth’s son—is away. I put in extra raisins. Kids generally like raisins.”

      “Thank you.” Sylvia took a cookie. “And thank you for the warm welcome. You’ve gone to so much extra trouble.”

      “I’ve been looking forward to everyone coming since Garth first called.”

      “And you’ve been busy. I saw that all the cots were made up.”

      Francis smiled. “We worked on the girls’ bunkhouse first. I had Garth do some rewiring so they have more outlets for blow-drying their hair, and he even put in a telephone that goes between the bunkhouse and here.”