A Gentleman for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

felt Sylvia stiffen. Good Lord, she’s been shot!

      Garth turned to his side. He ran his hands quickly down Sylvia’s back. What was she doing wearing a sweater? Blood would soak into a sweater. Her breathing seemed fainter and fainter. And he didn’t like the fluttering heartbeat. She felt like a frightened bird. He wondered if shock was setting in. He needed to find the bullet hole.

      He slipped his hand under her sweater. If she was limb shot, they could deal with that later. But if the bullet had hit her internal organs he needed to act fast. His hand slid over the smoothness of her back. Her muscles tensed and her breathing stopped. He’d run his hand up and down her back twice before he convinced himself there was no blood.

      “Where does it hurt?” he demanded.

      A warm ember settled in his stomach. Her skin was softer than sunshine on a spring day. The faint scent of peaches was reaching his nostrils, too, and he noticed her hair. Luxurious strands of midnight-black hair were nestled near his neck. For a moment, he forgot why she lay curled inside his arms. It was enough that she was there.

      “Ummmph.” A muffled noise came from near Garth’s heart and he realized Sylvia was trying to talk.

      “Oh, excuse me—I didn’t—” Garth pulled away from Sylvia. Her skin was white. He felt a sudden surge of anger at the thugs outside that had frightened Sylvia. “I shouldn’t have led them here. They frightened you.”

      “No, you did,” Sylvia answered automatically. One of the things she’d been taught in her battered-wife course ten years ago was to be honest. “You frightened me.”

      Sylvia took a deep breath and looked up at Garth Elkton, at least as nearly up as she could. He still had her half-encased in his arms and she saw more of his chin than his eyes. She took another breath. Calmness was the key. “You need to let me go now.”

      Give a directive, Sylvia reminded herself. Be calm. Expect them to obey. Keep your mind focused. Count to ten. One. Sylvia stared at Garth’s neck. Two. She saw his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallowed. She saw faint strands of hair curled around his shirt collar. Three. Remember to breathe.

      The skin around his collar was a little lighter than the tan on his face. He obviously got his tan the hard way instead of in a tanning booth. Another breath. Then she smelled him. He smelled of wet wool from his jacket, and forest pine. She breathed in again for the sheer pleasure of it. He smelled like Christmas and reminded her of Dry Creek. She’d thought about him often since she’d left that little town in Montana. More accurately, she hadn’t thought about him as much as she’d dreamed about him. Little secret segments of sleep that left her restless when she woke in the morning.

      His arms loosened around her. “I was only—” Garth protested as he moved away from her. He untwined his leg from around hers.

      “I know,” Sylvia said quickly. She didn’t need to be so prickly. He couldn’t know about her problems with men. Or those unwanted dreams. “You meant well.”

      Garth wasn’t sure what he had meant. But he sure hadn’t meant to frighten her.

      “I was only—” Garth had rehearsed this line in his head and he had to spit it out. “I mean since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d return your earring.”

      “Earring?”

      “In Dry Creek. You lost an earring,” Garth patted his shirt pocket until he found the little bit of metal. He fumbled inside his pocket and brought out the earring.

      “Would you look at that!” The voice came from the far side of the room and bounced off all of the walls. Even the kids instinctively turned toward Mrs. Buckwalter. “He not only saved your life, he returned your jewelry. What a gentleman—and a hero!”

      “Well, no, I,” Garth protested as he handed the earring to Sylvia, “I wouldn’t say that….”

      Mrs. Buckwalter walked toward Garth and Sylvia like a general chasing away a retreating foe. Her tweed suit bristled with command. “You certainly are, young man, and I’ll hear no more about it.” Mrs. Buckwalter stood in the center of the room and looked down at Garth’s Stetson. A small smile softened her mouth as she picked up the hat. “Quite the gentleman. A fine example of chivalry if I’ve ever seen one, Mr…?”

      “Elkton. Garth Elkton,” he supplied. Something about the way that woman was smiling made him uneasy.

      “I rather thought so,” Mrs. Buckwalter said smugly as she walked over to Garth and offered him the hat.

      Sylvia decided Mrs. Buckwalter was going senile. The older woman couldn’t know who Garth Elkton was. She had him confused with someone else. “He’s not from around here,” Sylvia offered gently.

      “I know that, dear,” Mrs. Buckwalter said smoothly.

      Sylvia wondered if another member of the Buckwalter family would be showing up soon to escort their mother home. The older woman was sweet but obviously not all she used to be mentally. That must explain her bizarre fixation on manners.

      “I ranch in Montana, just outside of Miles City,” Garth said to Mrs. Buckwalter. He brushed off the Stetson and sat it squarely on his head.

      “A large place, is it?” the older woman asked conversationally as she smoothed back her hair.

      “A good piece,” Garth agreed as he looked around him. Two of the windows—the only two windows in the room—were shattered. “Don’t anyone go near all that glass until I get it cleaned up.”

      “I’ll get it cleaned up,” John said as he rose from his crouch on the floor.

      Garth nodded his thanks.

      “I’d like to buy some of it,” Mrs. Buckwalter said as though it were a settled agreement.

      “Huh?” Garth was looking at the glass. There were little pieces everywhere. “You want to buy what?”

      “The land. Your land,” Mrs. Buckwalter repeated. “I’d like to buy some.”

      “I’m not planning to sell any of it,” Garth said politely as he noted a broom in the corner. What would a city woman like her do around Miles City?

      “I can pay well.”

      Garth thought a moment. He wasn’t interested, but some of his neighbors might be. Still, he had to be fair. Sometimes there were items in the news that were misleading. “There’s no oil around there—least none that’s not buried too deep for drilling.”

      “I’m not looking for oil.”

      “No dinosaur bones, either.” Garth added the other disclaimer. Ever since those dinosaur bones had been discovered up by Choteau, tourists thought they could stop beside the road and dig for bones.

      “I’m not interested in bones. I’m looking for a campsite.”

      Sylvia stifled a groan. If they set up the camp there, she’d never be able to sleep again. “Montana would never do. These kids are all used to the urban situation.”

      “I thought you wanted to get them out of the city.” Mrs. Buckwalter waved her arm to indicate the windows. “They don’t have drive-bys in Montana.”

      Garth had already started to join John, but he turned back. “You’re talking about a camp for these kids?”

      Mrs. Buckwalter nodded emphatically. “Sylvia and I were just talking about it.”

      Some opportunities in life came from sweat and hard work. Others drop from the sky like summer rain. When Garth figured out what was happening—he’d heard Sylvia talk about her camp when she was in Dry Creek—he knew he wasn’t about to let this opportunity get away. “I could rent some space to you for the camp—fact is, I’ll give you some space for the camp. No charge.”

      “But it’s not that easy—” Sylvia was feeling cornered. She didn’t like the glow on Mrs. Buckwalter’s