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Glory had finished the check by the time he finished. No wonder he had financial troubles. “I can be your guest and still pay a fair price.”
“No, there’s no need,” Matthew said.
“I insist,” Glory said as she ripped off the check and presented it to him.
Matthew raised his eyebrows at the amount of the check. He supposed it didn’t matter what amount she wrote the check for when it was going to bounce anyway, but three hundred dollars was a lot to pay for several nights’ food and lodging.
“Consider it a Christmas present,” Glory said grandly. “For the twins.”
“They’ll appreciate it,” Matthew said dryly.
Glory flipped her wallet to the plastic section. “You’ll want to see my driver’s license.”
“Henry doesn’t bother. He knows the folks here who write checks,” Matthew said as he took a sidelong look at the driver’s license anyway. He was pleased to see she was Glory Beckett. She might be a bad risk from the credit company’s viewpoint, but she wasn’t a thief. That is, unless she was so polished she had gotten a fake driver’s license to go with her story.
“He doesn’t know me,” Glory said as she moved her driver’s license so it came into Matthew’s full view. “You’ll want to write down the number.”
“All right,” Matthew said as he noted her driver’s license number.
“Good,” Glory said as she put her checkbook back in her purse and turned to walk back to her easel.
“You’re not going to cash those checks, Matthew Curtis,” Mrs. Hargrove demanded in a hushed whisper as they watched Glory sit down to her easel across the store in front of the display window.
“Of course not,” Matthew agreed as he slipped the checks out of the drawer.
Carl Wall, the deputy sheriff, was running for reelection and his campaign slogan was No Crime’s Too Small To Do Some Time. He’d happily jail an out-of-towner for writing a bad check and brag about it to voters later.
Ten minutes later, Glory repositioned the easel. Then she arranged her brushes twice and turned her stool to get more light. She was stalling and she knew it. She suddenly realized she’d never painted a portrait as agonizingly important as this one. The sketches she’d done of criminals, while very important, were meant only for identification and not as a symbol of love.
“Do you want your mother to be sitting or standing?” Glory asked the twins. The two identical heads were studying the bottom of a large display window. They each had a cleaning rag and were making circles in the lower portion of the window while Matthew reached for the high corners, standing awkwardly with one crutch.
“I don’t know.” Josh stopped rubbing the window and gave it a squirt of window cleaner. “Maybe she could be riding a dragon. I’ve always wanted a picture of a dragon.”
“Mommie’s don’t ride dragons,” Joey scolded his brother. “They ride brooms.”
Matthew winced. Susie had been adamantly opposed to celebrating Halloween and, consequently, the twins had only a sketchy idea of the spooks that inspired other children’s nightmares.
“No, sweetie, it’s witches who ride brooms.” Mrs. Hargrove corrected the boy with a smile as she picked up a cleaning rag and joined Matthew on the high corners. “Maybe you could have a picture painted of your mother praying.”
“No,” Matthew said a little more loudly than he intended. His memories of Susie praying tormented him. He knew she would be heartbroken that her death had brought a wedge between him and God, but his feelings were there anyway. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never understand how God could have answered his prayers for so long on the small things like good crops and passing tests but when it came to the one big thing—Susie’s recovery—God had let him down flat. No sense of comfort. No nothing. He’d expected his faith to carry them through always.
Matthew didn’t feel like explaining himself. His arms were sore from the crutches and he hobbled over to a stool that was beside Glory. “I want the twins to remember their mother laughing. She was a happy woman.”
“Well, that’d make a good picture, too,” Mrs. Hargrove said, and then looked at the twins. The twins had stopped wiping their circles and were listening thoughtfully. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The twins nodded.
“Okay, smiling it is,” Glory said. This Susie woman sounded like a saint, always smiling and praying and baking cookies, and Glory had no reason to resent her. None whatsoever, she thought to herself. “I assume she had all her teeth.”
“What?” Matthew seemed a little startled with the question.
“Her teeth,” Glory repeated. “If I’m going to paint her smiling, I need to know about her teeth. Were there any missing?”
“Of course not.”
“Were any of them crooked?” Glory continued. “Or chipped? Did she have a space between the front ones?”
“They were just teeth,” Matthew said defensively. Why did he suddenly feel guilty because he couldn’t remember what kind of teeth Susie had? He knew her image was burned onto his heart. He just couldn’t pull up the details. “Her eyes were blue—a blue so deep they’d turn to black in the shadows.”
“Eyes. Blue. Deep,” Glory said as she wrote a note on the butcher paper she’d stretched over her easel. “And her nose, was it like this? Or like this?” Glory sketched a couple of common nose styles. “Or more like this?”
“It was sort of like that, but more scrunched at the beginning,” Matthew said, pointing to one of the noses and feeling suddenly helpless. He hadn’t realized until now that the picture Glory was going to paint was the picture that was inside his head. He’d spent a lot of time trying to get Susie’s face out of his mind so he could keep himself going forward. What if he’d done too good a job? What if he couldn’t remember her face as well as he should?
“Pugged nose,” Glory muttered as she added the words to the list on the side of the paper. “Any marks? Moles? Freckles? Warts?”
“Of course not. She was a classic beauty,” Matthew protested.
“I see,” Glory said. She tried to remind herself that she was doing a job and shouldn’t take Matthew’s words personally. “I have freckles.”
Glory winced. She hadn’t meant to say that.
“I noticed them right off.” Matthew nodded. “That’s how I knew you couldn’t be an angel.”
“I see,” Glory said icily. Couldn’t be an angel, indeed. Just because Susie didn’t have freckles. She’d show him who couldn’t be an angel. “Any other identifying facial marks?”
“I liked the way your hair curled,” Matthew offered thoughtfully as he remembered lying on his back after his fall and looking up at Glory. “It just spread all out like a sunflower—except it was brass instead of gold.” He had a sudden piercing thought of what it would be like to kiss a woman with hair like that. Her hair would fall around him with the softness of the sun.
“I meant Susie. Did she have any other identifying facial marks?” Glory repeated.
“Oh,” Matthew said, closing his eyes in concentration. Could Susie have had freckles after all? Even a few? No, she’d made this big production about never going out in the sun because her skin was so fair—like an English maiden, she used to say. What else did Susie always say? Oh, yes. “Peaches and cream. Her skin was a peaches-and-cream complexion.”
“Well, that’s a nice poetic notion,” Glory said as she added the words to her list.
“What do you mean by that?” Matthew opened his eyes indignantly. Glory had gone all bristly on him, and he was trying his best to remember all the details just as she wanted.
“It’s just that peaches have fuzz—and cream eventually clots. The whole phrase is a cliché. It doesn’t describe anything. No one’s skin looks like that. Not really.”
“Well, no,” Matthew admitted. “It’s just hard to remember everything.”
“True enough.” Glory softened. She had gotten descriptions from hundreds of people in her career. She should know not to push someone. Often a victim would have a hard time recalling the features of their assailant. She imagined the same thing might be true when grief rather than fear was the problem. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll do it one step at a time. We’ll be done by Friday.”
“But Friday’s not the pageant. You’ve got to stay until the pageant,” Josh said solemnly. “They’ve never had a real angel before in the pageant.”
“I’m not an—” Glory protested automatically as she turned to the twins. They both looked so wistful. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. Even though I’d love to see my two favorite shepherds in their bathrobes.”
“How’d you know we’re wearing bathrobes?” Josh demanded.
“She’s an angel, that’s how,” Joey said proudly. “She’s just an undercover angel, so she can’t tell anyone. Like a spy.”
“Do you know everyone’s secrets?” Josh asked in awe.
“I don’t know anyone’s secrets,” Glory said, and then smiled teasingly. “Unless, of course, you do something naughty.”
“Wow, just like Santa Claus,” Josh breathed excitedly. “Can you get me a Star Trek laser light gun for Christmas?”
“I thought we talked about that, Josh,” Matthew interjected. “You know Santa is just a story.”
“I know,” Josh said in a rush. His eyes were bright with confidence. “But she’s an angel and she can tell God. That’s even better than Santa Claus. God must have lots of toys.”
“We’ll talk about this later,” Matthew said. He’d have to sit down with Josh and explain how the universe worked. Whether he asked God or Santa Claus for a present, it didn’t matter. Neither one of them could buy Josh a gift unless it could be found in Miles City for twenty dollars or less.
“Can you tell God?” Josh ignored his father and whispered to Glory. “I’ve been a good boy, except for—well, you know—the bug thing.”
Glory didn’t think she wanted to know about the bug thing. “I’m sure you have been a good boy,” she said as she knelt to look squarely at the boy. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you draw a picture of this laser gun and color it. That way, if you want to send God a picture, He’ll know what it looks like.”
“Me, too,” Joey asked. “Can I make a picture, too?”
“Why not?” Glory said, and included him in her smile. Even if her credit card wouldn’t live again by Christmas she could send a check to one of her girlfriends. Her friend Sylvia ran a neighborhood youth center and would be visiting that huge toy store in Seattle anyway. Even though most of the kids Sylvia worked with were more likely to own a real pistol than a water pistol, Sylvia insisted on treating them as though they were ordinary children at the holidays. The kids loved her for it.
“But…” Matthew tried to catch Glory’s eye.
“Daddy needs one, too,” Joey said. The twins both looked at her with solemn eyes. It had taken her several hours to figure out how to tell them apart. Joey’s eyes were always quieter. “But Daddy’s old.”
“No one’s too old for Christmas wishes,” Glory said.
“Really?” Joey smiled.
It was dusk by the time Glory finished her sketch of Susie and they all went home for dinner. Glory offered to cook, but Matthew declared she had already done her work for the day. Glory was too tired to resist. Sketching Susie had been difficult. Matthew had never wanted to look at the full face of the sketch, and so she’d pieced it together an eyebrow at a time. Even when she’d finished, he’d pleaded fatigue and asked to look at the sketch on the next day.
Matthew went to the kitchen to cook dinner, leaving Glory on the sofa with a Good Housekeeping magazine.
“I’ve learned to be a good cook,” Matthew said a little bleakly as he sat down a little later and leaned his crutches against the dining-room wall. The smell of burned potatoes still hung in the air even though all the windows were now open. “Dinner doesn’t usually float in milk.”
“Cereal is all right,” Glory assured him. She’d realized when the smoke drifted into the living room that dinner would be delayed.
“I like the pink ones,” Joey said as he poured his bowl full of Froot Loops.
“I always keep cornflakes for me,” Matthew said as he handed the box to Glory. “I’m afraid we don’t have a wide selection.”
“Cornflakes are fine,” Glory said. “I often eat light.”
Matthew chided himself. He should have realized. She lived on the road, likely by her wits. Of course she ate light. He should have made sure she had a decent meal.
“We’ll eat better tomorrow, I promise. Something with meat in it. And if you need anything, just ask.”
“I will,” Glory assured him, and smiled.
Her smile kicked Matthew in the stomach. The sun shone about her when she smiled. No wonder his sons thought she was an angel.
“Daddy?” Joey was looking at Matthew.
Matthew pulled himself together. It was time for grace.
“Hands,” Matthew said and offered his hand to Joey on the one side. He didn’t realize until his hand was already extended that Glory was on his other side.
“I’ll say grace,” Josh offered as he put one hand out to Joey and the other to Glory. He looked shyly at Glory. “I washed. I’m not jammy.”
“I know.” Glory smiled softly as she reached easily for his hand. His small hand snuggled trustingly in her palm. She held her other hand out to Matthew. His hand didn’t snuggle. Instead, it enveloped her. She swore her pulse moved from her wrist to the center of her palm. She wondered if he could feel the quickening beat in her. What was wrong with her? He’d think she’d never held a man’s hand before. Not that she was holding his hand now. It was prayer hand-holding. That’s all. Just because his thumb happened to caress the inside of her finger.
“Okay, Daddy?” Josh asked again, looking at his father. “It’s my turn to say grace.”
Matthew nodded his permission. What was wrong with him? Even Josh was looking at him funny. Matthew was beginning to think he’d never held a woman’s hand before. Glory’s skin was softer than fine leather. She must use some kind of lotions on her hands because of her work in paints. That must be it. Just lotions. He cleared his throat. “Sure. Go ahead.”
Josh bowed his head and carefully screwed his eyes closed. “Thank you, God, for this day and for this food and for our comp—” Josh stumbled “—comp-any. Amen.”
“Thank you, Josh,” Glory said when he looked up again. “I’m honored to be your company.”
“If there’s anything you need…” Matthew offered again.
The only thing she needed, she thought later that evening, was some more paint. The twins had been put to bed and she was sitting on the sofa reading her magazine and talking with Matthew as he sewed a button on Josh’s winter coat. The light from the two lamps made round circles on the ceiling and bathed Matthew in a yellow glow. She hated to tell the twins, but it was their father who looked like the angel. His chestnut hair waved and curled all over his head and down to his collar. Forceful cheekbones sloped down to a square chin. He was the most manly-looking man she’d seen in a long time. Not that, of course, she assured herself, there was anything personal in her admiration.
“I best get the fire banked for the night,” Matthew said.
“Let me do it,” Glory said as she set aside the magazine. “Rest your leg. Just tell me how and it won’t take a minute.”
Matthew pulled himself up by holding on to the bookshelf and then put one crutch under his arm. “No need, I can do it.”
“But I’d like to help,” Glory protested as she rose. “You’re in no condition to be banking a fire.”
“I’m fine,” Matthew said. “It takes more than a sprained knee to stop me.”
Glory looked at him. A thin sheen of sweat was showing on his forehead and it was definitely not hot in the room. “You’ve got more pride than sense.”
“Pride?” Matthew said as he hobbled over to the woodstove. “It’s not pride. It’s learning to take care of yourself. I’ve learned not to rely on others. I can do whatever I need to do to take care of me and my boys.”
“Without help from anyone,” Glory said dryly. Relying on others was the key to trust. Trust in others. Trust in God.
“We don’t need any help,” Matthew said as he lifted the grate on the stove. “It’s best not to count on anyone else. I can do what needs doing.”
“Can you?” Glory said softly as she watched Matthew reach down and pick up several pieces of wood. The fire wrapped golden shadows around his face. His frown burrowed itself farther into his forehead. She had no doubt Matthew could do everything that needed to be done in raising his sons—everything, that is, except teach them how to have faith. For how can you have faith in God if you can’t trust anyone, not even Him? No wonder the boys clung to the belief she was an angel. It would take an angel to bring healing to their little family.
The Bullet folded his socks and put them in an old duffel bag that was carefully nondescript. No logos. No fancy stripes. Just brown.
“My uncle…” the Bullet said as he added a sweater. “He’s sick. Spokane.”
Millie nodded. She’d just come back from her job at Ruby’s Coffee Shop and sat on the edge of the bed with her back straight and her eyes carefully not looking at the socks. She always looked so fragile with her wispy blond hair and slender body.
“I—ah—I’ll be back soon,” the Bullet continued. She knows where I’m going. Oh, not the location. But she knows the why. “A week or so is all.”
Millie nodded again and stood up. “Better take another sweater. It’s cold in Spokane.” She walked to the closet.
“No, let me.” The Bullet intercepted her. He didn’t want Millie to be part of any of this, not even the packing.
“Don’t go. You don’t have to go.” Millie turned to him and spoke fiercely.
“I already told my uncle I was coming,” the Bullet said slowly. It was too late to change his mind.
Chapter Three
Matthew stared at the glass coffeepot in his hand. He’d come to the hardware store at eight o’clock just like any other regular working day. But never before had the coffeepot been so sparkling clean and never before had a can of gourmet hazelnut coffee stood beside it. Old Henry was fussy about his coffee, and he always made it plain and strong. “Nothing fancy,” he’d often say. “My customers are ranchers, not ballet dancers.”
Glory and Matthew had shared a ride to the store after dropping the twins off at the church’s nursery. “I think your customers might like some of these coffee flavors,” Glory said.
“Coffee flavors?” Matthew hadn’t slept well last night and he wanted his coffee thick and black with no frills. It wasn’t the sofa that had kept him awake or even the pain in his knee. No matter how many times he turned over on the old sofa, his mind kept wandering back to dreams of Glory. Now he needed a good kick of coffee to keep him awake.
“You know, orange, raspberry, chocolate,” Glory replied as she pulled the three bottles out of her purse. She hadn’t slept well last night. She assured herself it was the creaking of the old house that had kept her awake and not the picture that stayed in her mind of Matthew adding more wood to the fire last night. She had gotten up this morning determined to make good progress on her painting today. That meant coffee.
“That’s nice,” Matthew said as he tried to hide as much of the white doily under the sugar bowl as he could. He’d have to tell Elmer and Jacob that the doily was a Christmas decoration. He expected they’d tolerate the concept of a few holiday decorations more kindly than the idea that their domain was being citified. Citified wasn’t popular here. As it was, the two old men spent half their time here arguing about the dude ranch over on the Big Sheep Mountain Ranch. Anything that smacked of change and city people was suspect. And coffee flavors. The next thing you knew she’d want a…
“Cappuccino machine—that’s what we need,” Elmer said a half hour later. He was sipping his orange-flavored coffee most politely and beaming at Glory as she set up her easel. “I’ve always had a hankering to have one of those coffees.”
“I don’t even know if they have a cappuccino machine in Miles City. We’d have to send to Billings to buy one,” Matthew protested.
What was wrong with Elmer? Once he’d complained because Henry put a different kind of toilet paper in the bathroom. And yet, here he was, wearing a new white shirt, the kind he only wore to funerals. “And no one’s complained before. You’ve always liked the usual.”
“But sometimes it’s good to have a change,” Glory said from her place by the window.
“Yeah, don’t be such an old stick-in-the mud,” Jacob said as he peered into his coffee cup suspiciously. Apparently Jacob didn’t find anything too alarming in his cup, because he took a hot, scalding gulp. “Ahh, none of us are too old to try something new.”
“I thought I’d set Susie’s sketch up in the display window, too,” Glory said. It had occurred to her last night that most gas stations wouldn’t take checks. She could use some cash. “I might get another order for a portrait.”
Matthew swallowed. He’d prefer to rearrange these receipts and dust the merchandise all morning. Anything to put off looking at the picture of Susie.
“I’ve got the sketch ready,” Glory said. She’d placed the drawing of Susie on her easel. She’d drawn Susie smiling and holding a plate of oatmeal cookies almost level with her chin.
“I see that,” Matthew said as he stood and hobbled over to the sketch. He took a deep breath. He felt the rubber band squeeze his heart. He’d been unable to cry at Susie’s funeral. He’d just sat there with that rubber band squeezing the life out of him. This time he’d take a quick look and be done with it. He felt as if he’d been called upon to identify someone in the morgue. It wasn’t a duty he wanted to prolong.
“That’s her,” Matthew said in surprise. He’d expected an identification picture of Susie, something that looked like a passport photo where you see the resemblance but not the person. But Glory was good. It was Susie’s eyes that smiled at him from the paper.
“I wasn’t sure about the cheekbones,” Glory fretted. She didn’t like the stillness that surrounded Matthew. “I think they might be a little too high.”
“No, it’s perfect. That’s Susie.”
Matthew braced himself for the inevitable second wave of pain. Susie had trusted him to save her life, trusted his faith to make her well. He’d never forgiven himself for letting her down. Somehow he hadn’t prayed hard enough or loud enough to make any difference.
“Did she have a pink dress?” Glory interrupted his thoughts. Matthew’s face had gone white and she didn’t know what else to offer but chatter. “I thought I’d paint her in a pink dress with a little lace collar of white.”
“Pink is good,” Matthew said as he turned to walk away on his crutches. The sweat cooled on his brow. He’d made it past the hard part. He’d seen Susie again. Seen the look of trust on her face. He’d promised he’d take care of her and he had failed. He had told her God would come through for them. But he’d been wrong. In the end, Matthew had bargained bitterly with God to let him die. But God had not granted him even that small mercy. Matthew kept his face turned away from everyone. He’d fight his own demons alone.
“You like pink, do you?” Elmer said as he walked over to Glory.
“Who, me? No, I’m more of a beige-and-gray type of person,” Glory said. She didn’t like the closed look on Matthew’s face or the ramrod straightness of his back when he’d turned around. But he’d made it clear he didn’t want to talk.
“Beige—gray—that’s good,” Elmer murmured as he leaned closer to Glory.
Matthew hobbled stiffly back to the counter and sat back down on his chair. The air cooled the remaining sweat off his face as he watched Elmer make his moves. The old fox. Matthew took a deep breath. Today he’d rather watch the nonsense with Elmer than hold on to his own pain. He wanted to live in today and not yesterday. It made him feel better to know he wasn’t the only one being charmed by Glory. No wonder the old man drank his orange coffee as if he enjoyed it. “No checker game this morning, Elmer?”