A Dry Creek Courtship. Janet Tronstad

was just becoming clear to Edith, however, was that Charley was no longer making it a point to stop by her place for breakfast before settling down with the men. And he’d never forgotten her chokecherries before.

      “He’s not sick but something’s wrong,” Edith said. Maybe he knew she wouldn’t like him dating.

      Of course, Charley still came by to see her. It’s just that he never came at meal time and he never quite seemed himself. It was like he was holding something back from her. Edith knew she was keeping a secret from Charley, but for the first time she realized he might be keeping a secret from her, too. Charley was her oldest friend and—until now—she’d assumed he confided in her as much as she confided in him.

      She had a sinking feeling Charley had been trying to tell her something important for some time now. The last time he had come to her house, he had cleared his throat a dozen times, but all he’d done was repeat what he’d already said about her not driving her car outside of Dry Creek. Charley hadn’t come inside her house to deliver his opinion, either. He’d stood out on the porch even though he couldn’t have been comfortable in the early morning cold. She’d thought it was odd he’d come by only to tell her the same thing he’d told her many times before. He must have planned to tell her something else and couldn’t.

      “So, we’ll wait on the haircut?” Doris June asked as she twisted the hair back into its usual bun.

      Edith nodded. She had to pull her worries back and stop leaping ahead to conclusions. She didn’t even know why Charley had grown that moustache for sure. Maybe it had nothing to do with dating some woman.

      “Good,” Doris June said as she started putting the hairpins back in place. “That gives me time to rake up those leaves for you before I head back to the farm.”

      “You don’t need to.”

      “I’m glad to help out. You know that.” Doris June untied the dish towel from her mother’s shoulders.

      After Doris June left, Edith went out on the porch to sit. Her daughter had raked the yard and brought in the Mason jars from the garage. She’d also stored the lawn mower in the shed and checked all the windows in the small room over the garage to be sure they were tightly closed. Edith rented that room out here and there and she liked to keep it ready for use. The only fall chore remaining was the jelly.

      Edith stood up. She was tired of sitting at home and brooding. There was no reason she couldn’t go get those chokecherries herself. Pastor Matthew had recharged the battery in her old car last week so she was finally able to drive. She’d begun to wonder if she’d ever get her car working again. She must have asked every man in town for help, but all of them, except the pastor, had said they had misplaced their jumper cables and couldn’t help her.

      Now that she could, she’d just drive to the coulee over by the Elkton Ranch and pick a bucket of chokecherries. Everyone knew that was the best place to pick them, even this late in the season. Big Dry Creek ran through that coulee and the soil was good. There’d be chokeberry bushes alongside the coulee going down to the creek, and cattails by the creek itself.

      Edith turned to walk back inside her house so she could get ready. Now that she’d decided to do it, she was looking forward to it. The exercise would help clear her mind. All that berry-picking might even ease the arthritis in her hands. She’d wear her gardening hat, of course, and her walking shoes with thick, high socks so her legs wouldn’t get scratched by the thistles that would surely be around.

      Edith nodded to herself. There was nothing like a walk over some solid Montana farmland to make her remember who she was. She was a good strong woman. It was time to be reminded of that. She didn’t need to fret over the actions of any man.

      Chapter Two

      Charley Nelson sat with his empty coffee cup in one hand. A checkerboard was laid out on the table to the right of his chair. If he looked past the woodstove, he could see through the windows of the hardware store and out to the street. He’d been looking through those windows for the past twenty minutes, waiting for Elmer Maynard to finish talking about the paint job he planned for his old white Cadillac.

      Before Elmer had started talking, Charley had set up the board so they could play. Then he’d gotten a fresh, hot cup of coffee. Elmer didn’t even seem to notice the board, he was so busy debating the virtues of midnight blue and ocean blue when applied to a car. Charley was amazed a man could have so many opinions about the different shades of blue yet never have any strategy when it came to a simple game of checkers.

      Between the stillness out the window and the drone of Elmer’s voice, Charley was almost dozing when he heard a sound in the distance. At first, he couldn’t really make out the sound, but as it got louder he placed it quickly. It woke him right up. “What’s that woman doing?”

      Charley set his coffee cup down on the table and looked around him with a scowl. The hardware store was having a sale on nails so there were a dozen men leaning against the counter, wanting to make purchases. “I thought we all agreed no one was going to jump start that battery for Mrs. Hargrove.”

      Not a man dared lift his gaze to Charley and that included the salesman who was just there to bring in a new display case of shovels. He didn’t even know Mrs. Hargrove.

      Finally, Elmer jutted out his chin and said. “We didn’t agree. You told us what you wanted, but that didn’t mean we agreed with you.”

      “Yeah,” a couple of the men said.

      “Well, you should have enough sense to agree. All of you.” Charley stared down each of the men who dared to meet his gaze. He knew Edith could make most of them do anything she wanted if she put on her Sunday-school-teacher voice. But he thought he’d impressed upon them the need to stop her from driving that beat-up old car. The thing barely ran. It was a break-down waiting to happen.

      There was another moment’s silence, broken only by the crackling of the wood in the stove.

      “I’m the one who jump-started the battery for her,” Pastor Matthew finally said from where he stood behind the counter. He’d been going over the catalogue to fill out the order form for new nails. “It seemed the Christian thing to do when she asked.”

      Charley’s face got red but he figured he couldn’t very well tell the pastor to stop acting like a Christian. Everyone knew it was his job to do things like that. Trust Edith to pick the one man in town who Charley couldn’t easily scold.

      “Well, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not a good idea at all,” Charley muttered.

      “She’s not a bad driver,” Elmer said. “For a woman, that is.”

      “She’s an excellent driver,” Charley snapped back. “That’s never been the problem. It’s that car. It should have been chopped up into scrap metal years ago. The muffler is almost worn out and those windshield wipers are about to fall off.”

      “Well, then you should fix it up for her, if you’re so worried,” Elmer said.

      “It would take more money to fix that car than to buy you a new Cadillac,” Charley said, even though he knew it wasn’t strictly true. Still, it was foolish to fix up that eyesore when it would cost less to buy a reasonable used car that a dignified woman like Edith would be proud to drive.

      “She’s awfully fond of that car,” the pastor said from the counter. “It seems it was the last car Harold bought before he died. Memories, you know.”

      Charley grunted. He didn’t like to speak ill of the dead, but he couldn’t help it. “That man never could pick a car that was worth anything. I can’t understand why she’d want to keep a rattletrap around to remind her of Harold’s poor judgment when it came to cars. He always planted his wheat too early, too, but that’s neither here nor there.”

      “Well, if you’re so set on her having a new car,” Elmer said as he hooked his thumbs on his suspenders, “why don’t you just sic that nephew of yours on her? It’s Conrad, isn’t it?