A Dry Creek Courtship. Janet Tronstad

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      A Dry Creek Courtship

      Janet Tronstad

      “I have some roses for you,” Charley said, holding the bouquet out to Edith.

      Unfortunately, she had a potted plant in her hands, so there was no way she could accept them.

      Charley pulled his arm back. “I’ll just hold them for you.”

      “Thank you. They’re lovely,” she said.

      “Not as lovely as you.”

      “That’s so kind.”

      Charley took a deep breath and made his dive. “It’s not kind. I want to marry you,” he said, all in a rush so he could breathe again.

      “Marry me? Marry me?”

      “I know it’s unexpected,” Charley said, “but I just had to—“

      “It’s very gallant of you, but there’s no need. I don’t feel bad at all anymore.”

      “You think I’m proposing to make you feel better?”

      “That’s why you’re so special,” Edith said before she turned and walked up the street.

      Charley had no idea what to do now.

      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 is a full-time writer.

      He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the Lord.

      —Proverbs 18:22

      This book is dedicated with a thankful heart

       to my wonderful editor, Joan Marlow Golan.

       She is the best.

      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

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Epilogue

      Questions For Discussion

      Chapter One

      The disturbing letter was safely hidden in the pocket of Edith Hargrove’s apron. It had arrived along with the rest of her mail in Dry Creek, Montana, early last week, but it had not seemed right to stack a letter like that with the regular mail on the sideboard in her dining room. It wasn’t a bill or a reminder for an appointment or even a notice from Social Security. So she kept it close to her, as though this might in some way tell her more about the woman who’d had the astonishing nerve to send it.

      Edith had read the letter so many times she could almost feel the texture of the paper against her fingers even when she wasn’t holding it. She kept wondering if she’d overlooked some clue.

      She was still thinking about it as she sat on a stool on her front porch waiting for her recently married daughter, Doris June, to cut her hair. The morning was overcast and a bit chilly. It was quiet in the small town of Dry Creek. Edith shifted on the stool and heard the faint crinkle of paper in her pocket.

      She couldn’t tell anyone about the letter, of course. The scented envelope had been hand-addressed to Mr. Harold Hargrove, her deceased husband. At first, Edith thought it was one of those letters that had been lost in the mail for a decade. She’d heard about letters like that and, since Harold had been dead for fifteen years, it seemed like that was the only possible explanation. But this letter had been postmarked in Los Angeles just a few days before she received it.

      There was no return address. Edith considered giving the envelope back to the post office without opening it until she remembered the days when she could barely afford to buy a stamp. Anyone who paid to mail a letter deserved to have it read by someone, even if it was just the intended man’s widow. After all these years, Edith doubted there was anything in a letter that could disquiet her anyway.

      She hadn’t counted on unfolding that piece of scented white stationery and seeing the woman’s signature at the bottom—Jasmine Hunter. Edith had felt her breath stop for a moment when she first saw the name. It was causing her to stiffen up even now just remembering it.

      “You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Doris June asked as she wrapped an old dish towel around her mother’s shoulders. The towel would keep the trimmed hairs off both of them. “You can change your mind, you know. You’ve never wanted me to cut your hair in the fall before. You always say you’re too busy to do it and that you’ll wait until the snow flies.”

      Dead leaves were scattered all over Edith’s front lawn, but snow was weeks, maybe months, away.

      Edith forced herself to relax. “I can’t run around looking like a scarecrow just because the weather hasn’t turned.”

      Doris June gave her mother a startled look. “Your hair never looks that bad.”

      Edith glanced up and gave her daughter a reassuring smile. The letter had definitely put her on edge. She thought she could still smell that envelope even though it was tucked away in her apron.

      She hadn’t recognized the scent at first. But of course it was jasmine, the strong, mysterious scent that seemed to go with a sophisticated woman in a way that Edith’s simple rose water never could. She’d avoided the perfume even before she’d heard about Jasmine Hunter, the woman Harold had—what could she say?—slept with, succumbed to, maybe even loved some forty years ago.

      After the first burst of passionate confession, Harold had refused to talk about it for weeks. He said Jasmine was moving away and that was the end of that. Of course, it hadn’t been the end of anything. The woman might have gone, but the pain of knowing Harold had betrayed their marriage vows was there to stay.

      Edith brought her mind back to the present. “All I’m saying is my hair could look better.”

      Her daughter was quietly taking the pins out of Edith’s hair. The hair itself reminded her of what she’d lost. Harold had always claimed he liked her soft brown hair pulled back in the simple bun that she wore and she’d believed him…until the affair. He’d given her the same compliments after it all happened, but she’d stopped hearing them. She’d been too proud to go chasing after a new hairstyle, but she knew something somewhere had been wrong or he wouldn’t have turned to another woman.

      Edith had never met Jasmine, but she’d always pictured her as having a fancy hairdo and some kind of exotic, sultry eyeliner. Maybe she’d even had a black hat with a sweeping wide brim. Hats were fashionable back then and elegant women were pictured wearing them in glossy magazines that Edith couldn’t afford to buy on her farm-wife budget.

      Edith had never looked good in a hat; the only ones she’d ever owned were the ones she wore for pulling weeds in her garden. She doubted Jasmine had pulled a weed in her life. She probably wore her hats to tea parties or presidential