White Christmas in Dry Creek

“I guess you could always get one of those vests that the police wear,” she added when he didn’t say anything. “I don’t know where you buy them, but Sheriff Wall would know.”

Rusty turned and looked at her for some time. “You’re really worried about me, aren’t you?”

He sounded astonished.

“Just because I don’t want to see you dead doesn’t mean I care,” she snapped back at him in a not-so-nice way. Which made her feel bad.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been under a lot of strain lately.”

He held his hand up again with that ridiculous peace gesture. She wished he’d say something, but he just sat there.

Well, Renee told herself, this was turning into one uncomfortable drive.

She scrambled to find something else to talk about. “Did they feed you breakfast before they let you go?” His silence was making her feel rattled. She was only trying to show a little human compassion. He didn’t need to be so difficult.

The best way to treat this man, she decided, was to pretend he was nothing but another ranch hand. He was younger than most of the men Mr. Elkton had working for him these days and certainly better-looking, but he probably liked to eat as much as any of them. The truth was that some of the men could spend hours describing the perfect pancake. And then they’d start in on the different kinds of syrups they liked to have with their perfect pancakes.

“The nurse gave me a biscuit and some coffee,” Rusty said without enthusiasm. “Cream for the coffee.”

“Well, that’s not enough,” Renee protested congenially. In addition to talking about food, the ranch hands loved to complain about it. “You lost a lot of blood. They should have fried you some beef liver or something.”

“For breakfast?” he protested.

Renee nodded. “It’s got lots of iron. Beets do, too.”

“That doesn’t mean I want beets for breakfast.”

“Well, oatmeal, then—with raisins.”

By the time they finished talking about what kinds of food were appropriate for the breakfast of a man who had been wounded and half-frozen the night before, they were turning off the freeway and heading into Dry Creek.

There was more snow on the road now and Renee was glad all the Elkton pickups had four-wheel drive. She’d also chosen the one that had a back bench, so there was lots of room for Tessie’s booster seat. Her daughter didn’t officially need it anymore, but she’d only just turned five and she was small for her age.

“Don’t they ever change that sign instead of just repainting over the numbers?” Rusty scowled as he nodded his head toward the green metal sign that read Welcome to Dry Creek. “I think it said population one-oh-eight when I was here last. Now, eight years later, it’s population one-oh-two. The two looks funny.”

Renee loved that sign. In the spring, someone always planted gladiolus bulbs in the dirt beside it and the flowers bloomed in all kinds of colors for almost a month. It reminded Renee of English tea shops and elegant nurseries. Not that Dry Creek had either of those, but somehow, she told herself, they had the same spirit.

“Just because someone moves away is no reason to throw out a perfectly good sign,” Renee said as she took a firmer grip on the wheel and sat up straighter in the driver’s seat. “Don’t know why anyone would want to leave, but some do.”

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