A Bride for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

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      There was a light on in old man Gossett’s house, and Francis struggled to scream through her gag. She knew the man was home since he never went to community gatherings. He was a sour old man and she wasn’t sure he’d help her even if he knew she was in trouble. Through the thin curtains on his window, she saw him slowly walking around inside his kitchen. Unless he’d grown deaf in these past years, he must have heard her. If he did, he didn’t come outside to investigate.

      Flint didn’t give her a second chance to scream. He threw her over the back of the horse, slapped his jacket on her shoulders and mounted up.

      Ever since then she’d been bouncing along, facedown, behind his saddle.

      Finally, the horse stopped.

      They had entered a grove of pine trees. The night was dark, but the moon was out. Inside the grove, the trees cut off the light of the moon, as well. Only a few patches of snow were visible. From the sounds beneath the horse’s hoofs, the rest of the ground was covered with dried pine needles.

      The saddle creaked as Flint stood to dismount.

      Francis braced herself. She’d been trained to cope with hostage situations in her job and knew a person was supposed to cooperate with the kidnapper. But surely that didn’t apply to criminals one knew. She and this particular criminal had slow danced together. He couldn’t shoot her.

      She’d already decided to wait her chance and escape. She had a plan. Flint had made a mistake in putting the mittens on her. The wool of the mittens kept the cord from gripping her wrists tightly. When Flint stepped down on the ground, she would loosen the tie on her wrists, swing her body around and nudge that horse of his into as much of a gallop as the poor thing could handle.

      Flint stepped down.

      The horse whinnied in protest.

      “What the—” Flint turned and started to swear.

      Francis had her leg caught around the horn of the saddle. She’d almost made the turn. But almost wasn’t enough. She was hanging, with one leg behind the back of the saddle and one hooked around the horn. She’d ripped the skirt of her ruby sheath dress and all she’d accomplished was a change of view. Her face was no longer looking at the ground. Instead, she was looking straight into the astonished eyes of Flint L. Harris.

      Francis groaned into her gag. She’d also twisted a muscle in her leg.

      And she’d spooked the horse. The poor thing was prancing like a boxer. Each move of the beast’s hooves sent a new pain through Francis’s leg.

      “Easy, Honey,” Flint said soothingly as he reached out to touch the horse.

      Francis saw his hands in the dark. His rhythm was steady, and he stroked the animal until she had quieted.

      “Atta girl.” Flint gave the horse one last long stroke.

      Flint almost swore again. They should outlaw high heels. How was a man supposed to keep his mind on excitable horses and bad guys when right there—just a half arm’s length away—was a dainty ankle in a strappy red high heel? Not to mention a leg that showed all the way up to the thigh because of the tear in that red dress. He was glad it was dark. He hoped Francis couldn’t see in his eyes the thoughts that his mind was thinking.

      “She’ll be quiet now.” Flint continued speaking slow and calm for the horse’s benefit. “But she spooks easy. Try to stay still.”

      Even in the darkness inside the pine grove he could see the delicate lines of Francis’s face behind the gag. Her jaw was clenched tight. He hadn’t realized—

      “I know it’s not easy,” he added softly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

      A muffled protest came from behind the gag.

      Francis had worn her dark hair loose, and it spilled into his hands when he reached up to untie the gag. Flint’s hands were cold, and her hair whispered across them like a warm summer breeze. He couldn’t resist lingering a moment longer than necessary inside the warmth of her hair.

      “It’s not how I meant to say hello again,” Flint said as he untied the bandanna. And it was true. What he’d say when he met Francis again had gone from being a torture to a favorite game with him over the years. None of his fantasies of the moment had involved her looking at him with eyes wide with fear.

      “Don’t pretend you ever meant to see me again.” Francis spit the words out when the gag was finally gone. Her voice was rusty and bitter even to her own ears. “Not that it matters,” she quickly lied. “I—”

      Francis stopped. She almost wished she had the gag in her mouth.

      “That was a long time ago,” Francis finally managed.

      “Yes, it was,” Flint agreed as he finished unraveling the cord he’d used to tie Francis’s hands behind her. It might seem like a long time ago to her. To him it was yesterday.

      “Cold night out,” Flint added conversationally as he stuffed the cord into his pocket. He needed to move their words to neutral territory. Her wrists had been as smooth as marble. “Is it always this cold around here in February?”

      “It used to be,” Francis answered. She’d felt Flint’s fingertips on the skin of her wrists just at the top of her mittens. His fingers were ice cold. For the first time, she realized the mittens on her hands must have been the only ones he had. “Folks say, though, that the winters lately have been mild.”

      “That’s right, you don’t live here anymore, do you?” Flint asked as he put his hand on Francis’s lower leg. He felt her stiffen. “Easy. Just going to try and unravel you here without scaring Honey.”

      Flint let his hand stay on Francis’s leg until both his hand and that section of her leg were warm. He let his hand massage that little bit of leg ever so slightly so it wouldn’t stiffen up. “Don’t want to make you pull the muscle in that leg any more than it looks like you’ve already done.”

      Flint had to stop his hand before it betrayed him. Francis was wearing real nylon stockings. The ones like they used to make. A man’s hands slid over them like they were cream. If Flint were a betting man, he would bet nylon like this didn’t come from panty hose, either. No, she was wearing the old-fashioned kind of nylons with a garter belt.

      This knowledge turned him first hot then cold. A woman only wore those kind of stockings for one reason.

      “You won’t be dancing any time soon,” he offered with deceptive mildness as he pressed his hands against his thighs to warm them enough to continue. “So I suppose that boyfriend of yours will just have to be patient.”

      “He has been,” Francis said confidently. “Thank you for reminding me.”

      Francis thought of Sam Goodman. He might not make her blood race, but he didn’t make it turn to ice, either. He was a good, steady man. A man she’d be proud to call her boyfriend. Maybe even her husband. She almost wished she’d encouraged him more when he’d called last week and offered to come for a visit.

      Flint pressed his lips together. He should have thought about the boyfriend before he took off with Francis like he had. It had already occurred to him that he could have simply returned her to the good people of Dry Creek. Instead of heading for the horse, he could have headed for the light streaming out the open barn door and simply placed her inside. If it had been anyone but Francis, he would have.

      But Francis addled his brain. All he could think of was keeping her safe, and he didn’t trust anyone else—not even some fancy boyfriend who made her want to dress in garters and sequins—to get her far enough away from the rustlers. He had to make sure she was safe or to take a bullet for her if something happened and those two kidnappers got spooked.

      Still, a boyfriend could pose problems. “I suppose he’ll be wondering where you are,” Flint worried aloud as he slowly turned the saddle to allow Francis’s leg to tip toward him.

      Francis