For a second, as Doris June stood in the doorway, framed in the light, her face showed clearly.

Curt had not realized that he hadn’t really seen Doris June since she’d been home. If he had thought about it, he would have assumed her face would have softened over the years with wrinkles and the slight paleness that comes from getting older. He would have been wrong.

She did not glow like the young girl she used to be, but she had a confidence that made her seem even more alive. She was beautiful.

Last night he thought he knew who she was in her conservative pantsuit and sensible shoes. But the vision before him made him forget all his assumptions. He’d been ten kinds of a fool to have spent the day thinking to mend Doris June’s broken heart. She’d obviously mended that heart of hers and moved on past him. For all he knew, she didn’t even remember that years ago they had packed their bags and headed out for an elopement.

JANET TRONSTAD

grew up on a small farm in central Montana. One of her favorite things to do was to visit her grandfather’s bookshelves, where he had a large collection of Zane Grey novels. She’s always loved a good story.

Today, Janet lives in Pasadena, California, where she is a full-time writer. In addition to writing novels, she researches and writes nonfiction magazine articles.

A Match Made in Dry Creek
Janet Tronstad

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.

—Exodus 20:12

Dedicated with love to my younger sister, Doris, who shares her name with Mrs. Hargrove’s daughter, but who is her own person. If there is any resemblance in character between my Doris and Mrs. Hargrove’s daughter, other than the name and the faith they both share, it is coincidental.

Of course, I have no objection if my Doris were to meet her Curt and have a happily ever after, but that will be her own story.

Dear Reader,

When I picture Dry Creek, I often also picture my hometown of Fort Shaw, Montana. I particularly thought of the church in Fort Shaw when I wrote about the Mother’s Day tradition of giving pansies to all the mothers in the church. This is a tradition that has been upheld in the Fort Shaw church for decades—thanks, in particular, to the efforts of a longtime church member, Norma Olsen.

Norma, like Mrs. Hargrove, decided long ago that mothers need a thank-you, and for years she has supplied the church with enough pansies so that each mother attending receives one. As a child, I remember the pansies being passed out in church and my mother later planting hers in a flower bed beside the house. I know how special these flowers were to the women in the church back then and still are today.

I hope there is someone like Norma in your home church who helps you honor the mothers around you. If not, maybe you could be that person. It’s good that we spend one day remembering how important mothers are to our world. I hope that, in some small way, this book will be a reminder to us all of the value of the mothers in our churches.

If you are a mother, have a happy Mother’s Day this year. If your mother is not living, adopt a mother for the day and wish her a happy Mother’s Day. May we all be blessed as we do this.

Sincerely yours,

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Winter and guilt didn’t go well together in Dry Creek, Montana. Not even for Mrs. Hargrove, who, after decades of living in the small town, was used to the icy snow that sometimes trapped a person alone inside her house for days with only her own thoughts for company.

Mrs. Hargrove had lived her life with few regrets, so she generally spent the snowy days peacefully chopping vegetables for soup or putting together thousand-piece puzzles. This past winter she hadn’t been able to do either of those things, however. Her conscience was troubling her, and she lacked the focus needed to figure out a puzzle or decide what to put into a pot of soup.

Instead, she sat and stared at the pictures on the mantel over her fireplace. There was the picture of her and her late husband, taken on their wedding day. And then there was a picture of her daughter, Doris June, taken when she graduated from high school. It wasn’t a particularly good picture because, even though Doris June was smiling, she had a certain stiffness in her face that Mrs. Hargrove hadn’t noticed until recently.

The graduation picture had been a last-minute idea and had been taken in a department store instead of at the high school like the pictures of the other students. Doris June hadn’t seemed to care about a picture, but Mrs. Hargrove had wanted one even though, for years now, she had expected to exchange that graduation picture for a glowing picture of Doris June on her wedding day.

The wedding picture was going to be the real picture on the mantel place. It was what Mrs. Hargrove was waiting for.

But that wedding day never came. This winter, as she sat on her sofa looking at the picture she did have, Mrs. Hargrove finally accepted the truth. Doris June was not going to get married. The one huge miscalculation Mrs. Hargrove had made in her life had come back to haunt her and she couldn’t stop fretting about it. She had unknowingly pushed away the only man Doris June had ever loved. For years, Mrs. Hargrove had hoped God would take care of everything in His own time, but He had not.

It had all come crashing back into Mrs. Hargrove’s awareness in early January when she and Charley Nelson had sat down at her kitchen table to begin writing a history of their small town. The two of them were the oldest of the two hundred some residents of Dry Creek, and, when the state tourism board asked the town to write a section for an upcoming guidebook, everyone said she and Charley were the natural ones to write it. Both of them agreed to do the work, thinking it would be a good way for them to pass the cold winter months pleasantly.

It didn’t take them long to realize what kind of trouble they were in, however. They knew it as soon as they opened the large white envelope the state tourism board had sent in care of the local café. Mrs. Hargrove and Charley had not known until then that the guidebook was being called Stop at One-Stop-Sign Towns in Southern Montana. Each town was supposed to begin their two pages of history and visitor attractions with an opening paragraph telling what made their particular old red stop sign unique.

It was a clever advertising idea and the state had invited several high schools in the area to help them with the tourism guide so the whole thing was a worthy project. Some art students were even going to take pictures of the signs and make a collage. Mrs. Hargrove and Charley were both one-hundred percent in favor of anything that helped students learn.

However, the stop sign in Dry Creek was the last thing either one of them wanted to write about.

Mrs. Hargrove wished people would just forget about that old sign.

Dry Creek’s one stop sign was at the south end of town next to the Enger home place. Twenty-five years ago two local teenagers had hit the sign with an old blue pickup truck as they were beginning their elopement to Las Vegas. The passenger side of the truck had bent the signpost until it looked like the smashed half of a valentine. Both being responsible individuals, the teens had reported the damage to the sheriff who then called their parents. From there, everything spun out of control until eventually the eloping couple were torn apart.

No one knew whether it was because of the broken-heart shape of the sign or the gossip about the two thwarted teens, but the story of the stop sign was told and retold until it became as close to a legend as anything Dry Creek had. A local musician even wrote a song about the heart sign and it played on the radio for a while so that people here and there throughout the state knew the story.

To this day, people would periodically place fresh flowers at the base of the rusted sign or carve their initials on the bent post. Every once in a while, there was talk of fixing the sign or even just pulling it down since the intersection it guarded was scarcely used any longer. But no one in an official capacity seemed able to make a decision to disturb the sign after its crooked form became part of the history of Dry Creek.

Charley had his elbows on Mrs. Hargrove’s worn oak table and his right hand was curled around a cup of her fine brewed coffee. “You would have thought someone died when that sign was hit.”

The contents of the envelope were sitting in front of him on the table. It was dusk and enough light was coming in the windows of Mrs. Hargrove’s dining room that she hadn’t turned on the overhead light yet.

“Sometimes a tragedy of the heart stays with people longer than a death,” Mrs. Hargrove said after a moment or two. She didn’t even notice that the light was fading. Her voice sounded tired to her own ears. “Look at Romeo and Juliet.”

Charley grunted. “It was the parents in that one, too. Everybody always blames the parents for not understanding.”

The two sat in silence as the room got a little darker.

Finally, Mrs. Hargrove said. “Well, we understood. We didn’t approve, but we knew what was what. And, at least we never tried to cover it up or anything. It was all out in the open. Everyone who was here twenty-five years ago knew it was Doris June and Curt who hit that sign. At least, we’ve never denied anything.”

Curt was Charley’s son. He was the one driving the pickup when it hit the sign as he was eloping to Las Vegas with Doris June.

Mrs. Hargrove looked down at her coffee cup. “If things had turned out differently, the story of them and that sign would be a funny family story—just the kind of thing we’d laugh about as we bounced our grandbabies on our knees.” Mrs. Hargrove stopped to sigh. She had no grandchildren. Still, she had a daughter who needed her. “As it is, I doubt either Curt or Doris June would like to see a reminder of that day in print anywhere and I’m not sure I have the stomach for it, either.”

“If only they hadn’t been so responsible and gone to the sheriff about the sign,” Charley said. “We raised those kids to have values, and that’s why it happened the way it did.”

“Doris June always did tell the truth.”

“Curt, too,” Charley paused. “Of course, we couldn’t let them get married once we knew what they were planning. Not at their ages.”

Mrs. Hargrove lifted her cup of coffee and took a sip. “Who would think a little stop sign could change so many lives?”

Charley nodded. “It broke my son’s heart.”

Mrs. Hargrove looked up from her coffee cup at that. “It didn’t break it so bad he didn’t marry that New York woman the first chance he got.”

“She wasn’t from New York,” Charley protested. “It was Chicago. And he didn’t marry her until after he spent those four years in the army.”

Mrs. Hargrove waved away the discrepancy. “All I know is she wasn’t from here and she kept Curt away from here. He should have been here beside you running your farm all those years instead of waiting until you decided to retire. Besides, Doris June, at least, showed her affections were sincere. She might have just turned seventeen, but she always did understand loyalty. She wasn’t off marrying someone else. Once she made up her mind, she kept it made up.”

“Some folks call that being inflexible.”

“And some call it being solid and reliable.”

“Well, whatever they call it, I didn’t notice you giving Doris June and Curt your blessing on that day, either,” Charley said. “It wasn’t only the Nelson family that was up in arms.”

Mrs. Hargrove nodded. He was right. “What else could we do? Doris June had just turned seventeen. I wanted her to go to college and have a chance at the world. You know I didn’t object to Curt himself, it was just the timing of things.”

“Yeah, me, too. I loved Doris June like the daughter I never had. But I thought I was being a good parent. What did two seventeen-year-old kids know about getting married?”

“They were just too young,” Mrs. Hargrove said, and Charley nodded.

They spent the next five minutes drinking their coffee and trying to think of something else they could use to show the tourism board that Dry Creek was an exciting town worthy of visitors.

“Who wants to look at an old stop sign anyway?” Charley finally said.

Mrs. Hargrove nodded. “It’s too bad I’m not still planting the field of pansies every spring. There’s a place in southern California that charges people to look at its field of flowers—ranunculus, I think—we could have the same sort of thing here for free. Maybe I should just plant the field like I used to. That would give something for tourists to see.”

“You mean the field in back of your farm?” Charley asked with a frown. Mrs. Hargrove lived year-round in her house in Dry Creek these days and no longer spent the summers on the farm she’d worked with her late husband. “You leased that land to Curt, remember? I think he wants to plow it up this spring and plant it with wheat. I don’t think he’d like people tramping through his wheat.”

“It’s the hillside on the edge of the field that I’d use. It’s too steep for wheat. You’d never get a combine in to harvest a crop. Besides, I was only saying if. If doesn’t mean when.”

The two of them stopped to drink a little more coffee and think. Mrs. Hargrove finally noticed how dim it was and stood up to pull the chain on the light over the table.

Charley grunted in appreciation of the light. “Those pansies of yours were always something.”

Mrs. Hargrove used to love to plant her field of pansies in the early spring. It had been a tradition in the Dry Creek church for the past forty years to give out pansies to the local mothers on Mother’s Day. When the church started giving out the pansies, Mrs. Hargrove grew all of the flowers. Now her arthritis bothered her and she had given up raising the flowers ten years ago when she had stopped moving to the farm for the summers. No one else in Dry Creek had volunteered to do the planting, so the church bought tiny blooming pansies in paper cups from some store near Billings.

It was a poor substitute in Mrs. Hargrove’s opinion. “A flower should be grown with love—and big enough to see. Those paper cup ones are puny. A wind would blow them over.”

“Still, we can’t stop giving out the pansies,” Charley said. “It’s thankless enough to be a mother, we can’t take away their pansies. I remember when my wife used to get one of your pansies. She would talk about where to plant that thing for days before she actually got it. She had me digging holes all over the place.”

“Not many towns give out pansies to every single mother who shows up in church. Now, that’s tradition for you,” Mrs. Hargrove said with satisfaction. “It could also be an attraction for visitors if we had a flower field. Folks love to look at flowers.”

Charley grunted. “There might even be a picture in something like that. The guidebook people said they’d like a picture for the students to use.”

“Maybe if we focus on the pansies, that tourist board will forget about our stop sign,” Mrs. Hargrove said. “After all, the sign is all rusted out. It would make a terrible picture. It’s a wonder the thing hasn’t fallen down by now.”

Charley nodded. “It would be a blessing if it did. I think it would fall down if folks stopped piling rocks around the bottom of it.”

Neither one of them said much more. Mrs. Hargrove offered Charley some oatmeal-raisin cookies to go with his coffee and he only ate two, explaining his appetite just wasn’t with him. Mrs. Hargrove said she understood.

The information for the guidebook wasn’t due until June, so Mrs. Hargrove and Charley decided to let the matter rest for a while.

Over the next couple of months, Mrs. Hargrove’s mind kept going back to the fateful day when the Nelsons and the Hargroves had forbade their children to marry.

Mrs. Hargrove knew she and her late husband had had good intentions just like the Nelsons had. Mrs. Hargrove had thought she was doing the best thing by sending Doris June off to Anchorage to live with her aunt and refusing to give Curt the address when he asked for it.

Mrs. Hargrove had no idea Doris June would never marry and that Curt would get so angry at his folks for interfering that he’d sign up with the army just to leave home and later make a disaster of the one marriage he entered into.

As the winter wore on, Mrs. Hargrove and Charley felt so miserable about the mess they’d made of things all those years ago that they could barely face each other. Mrs. Hargrove lost her appetite and stopped cooking for herself. Every once in a while, she would open a can of soup without even checking the label, but that seemed to be all she could do. Charley missed the cookies Mrs. Hargrove used to make for him. Finally, they both knew something had to be done to set things right again before they wasted away.

“If we could unmatch them back then, we should be able to match them up again now,” Charley finally said one morning after church. He and Mrs. Hargrove were putting the hymnals back in place, so they were the only ones left in the main part of the church.

“It won’t be that easy.” Mrs. Hargrove didn’t need to ask who Charley was talking about and she felt relieved that he had finally suggested they do something. She’d been praying about the situation, but she hadn’t gotten any ideas about anything solid that she could do.

“It might be easier than we think to get them together. It’s not like either one of them is seeing someone else,” Charley said. “And they’re not shy.”

Mrs. Hargrove stopped moving hymnals and thought a minute. “It’s not a matter of shyness. We’d have to get them in the same place at the same time. That’d be the challenge. I’ve never seen two people more determined to avoid each other. Doris June won’t even visit me unless it’s the middle of summer or harvest season when she knows Curt is too busy to come into town.”

“I don’t think they’ve even talked to each other in all these years,” Charley said.

“Well, certainly not while Curt was married to that woman. Doris June was furious.”

“Did she say that?”

“She didn’t have to. I know my daughter.”

“Well, she doesn’t need to worry about the woman Curt married. She ran off with some man the day after she put Ben in kindergarten. The only time Curt heard from her after that was when he got the divorce papers. You’d think she’d at least contact her own son over the years, but she hasn’t and here Ben just turned fifteen last month. A boy like that needs a mother.”

Mrs. Hargrove bent to straighten another hymnal. She wouldn’t say it, but she knew Ben needed a grandmother, too. “He’s a good boy. I’m sure Doris June would like to get to know him better. I don’t know what would make her agree to be in the same room with Curt, though.”

Charley thought a minute. “One of us could pretend we were dying. They’d both come to see us then.”

Mrs. Hargrove stood still and thought a moment. She almost wished she could do it, but she knew better. “Nothing good ever comes of telling a lie.”

“Well, maybe we don’t need to be dying,” Charley conceded as he rubbed his chin in thought. “But we could still need some help—after all, we’re both in our seventies. That should be reason enough to give us some help if we needed it.”

Mrs. Hargrove started going down another row of pews. “I’ll not be asking Doris June for money. She already tries to give me more than she should.”

“No, money won’t work. Besides, it’s too easy to write a check. She wouldn’t even need to come home to do that.”

Mrs. Hargrove picked a hymnal up off a pew. “But what else do we need help with except money?”

Charley thought a moment. “Lifting. What we need to do is find something that needs lifting.”

“Doris June will just tell me to save the lifting until she comes in the fall.”

“Well, maybe it’s something that needs to be lifted before fall gets here.”

“The pansies,” Mrs. Hargrove said with a smile. “If I get some seeds in the ground soon, we’d have them by May.”

“A pansy’s not very heavy,” Charley said skeptically.

“They will be if we do pansy baskets this year,” Mrs. Hargrove said. Her eyes started to shine with excitement. “I saw some gardening show on television a few months ago and it showed these big beautiful pansy baskets. I thought at the time how impressed everyone would be if we could hand out baskets like that for Mother’s Day. And it’s not just the baskets. If we grow the pansies from seed there will be lots of heavy work. There’ll be bending and lifting—and digging. Besides, the pansies could be a tourist attraction, too.”

“Maybe so. That hillside used to be something to see when you grew the pansies in the past,” Charley said. “My wife used to call it a carpet of lavender. Pure poetry it was.”

“There’s nothing like the color of a pansy,” Mrs. Hargrove agreed. She was pleased Charley had noticed her flowers. Not all men did. “To fill up those big baskets, I’ll need to plant even more pansies than I used to plant. And the week before Mother’s Day, we’ll need to dig up hundreds of pansies and put them into baskets. Lots of dirt and shoveling. And me with my arthritis. How can Doris June not come?”

“And Curt would never let you do that kind of work, regardless of whether or not Doris June comes,” Charley agreed with a slow smile. “Of course, if she does come, they’ll have to see each other. A person can’t dig in a flower bed next to someone and not say hello. You know, this just might work—if Doris June comes.”

Mrs. Hargrove grinned. “Oh, she’ll come.”

“Won’t Doris ask why Curt doesn’t just do all the baskets for you? She knows he’s back on the farm.”

Mrs. Hargrove shook her head. “Oh, no, she’d have to mention his name to ask and she never does that—not even if I mention it first.”

Charley frowned. “You mean she’s never asked about him?”

Mrs. Hargrove shook her head. “Not even before he got married.”

Charley looked even more troubled. “Maybe that means she’s not interested in him. It was a long time ago.”

Mrs. Hargrove was silent for a minute. “Well, we don’t know if Curt is still interested, either.”

“He might not admit it, but he’s interested,” Charley said. “Ever since he moved to the farm three years ago, I’ve noticed that the month of June is torn right off the kitchen calendar every year—before the month even starts it’s gone.”

“Curt was the only one who used to call Doris June just plain June,” Mrs. Hargrove said. “Remember, he called her his June bug.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Charley said. “He must have been six or seven when he started calling her that. He used to love to tease his June bug.”

“I think they might have always loved each other,” Mrs. Hargrove said. “And if Curt is still worried about a word on a calendar, there’s hope.”

Mrs. Hargrove smiled. It was time to plant her pansies. She’d wait until the seeds were sprouted to ask Doris June to come help her. She didn’t want her daughter to fret about this trip for any longer than necessary, and fret she would, especially when she realized that the pansies were being grown on land Curt was now leasing.

In the meantime, there were things to do.

It wouldn’t hurt for Doris June to do some shopping before she came. Of course, she’d never go shopping for herself if her mother suggested it. No, Mrs. Hargrove decided, the only thing to do was to ask Doris June to go shopping for something for her mother.

Doris June would love that. She had never liked the gingham housedresses that Mrs. Hargrove usually wore. Of course, the housedresses were perfectly fine. They were easy to wash and most of them had a zipper in the front so Mrs. Hargrove didn’t need to fumble with buttons when her arthritis was acting up.

Besides, in Mrs. Hargrove’s opinion, Doris June had no right to complain about the fashion of others, not when all she ever seemed to wear were business suits. It was a frustration to a mother when she had a daughter as beautiful as Doris June, who seemed determined to hide that fact from everyone.

To begin with, Doris June had good bones and good posture. She stood tall and confident. Her hair was a honey-blond and she didn’t make the mistake of bleaching it lighter, hoping it would become that Hollywood blond that actresses seemed to favor. Doris June’s skin was clear and her blue eyes looked straight ahead at life. She didn’t wear much makeup, but she didn’t need to.

Doris June was a classically featured woman. Sometimes, though, Mrs. Hargrove worried that her daughter didn’t look as young as she should. Before all of that elopement business, Doris June had looked like every other teenage girl. She’d bounced. She’d chattered. She’d even worn some kind of bright blue fingernail polish at the time. But after the elopement—well, Doris June just didn’t seem the same. She stiffened up.

She walked instead of bouncing. She was patient and long-suffering. Mrs. Hargrove couldn’t help but notice that her daughter had started to dress like an old lady. Not that she wore housedresses like Mrs. Hargrove did. She would never do that. But Doris June stopped wearing anything that seemed youthful. She still had all the looks she needed to grab the attention of any man she wanted. It’s just that, once she had their attention, they were more likely to think of her as a good neighbor or a good employer than a romantic partner.

Mrs. Hargrove decided it was too late to worry about the bouncing. At forty-two, Doris June would have outgrown that by now anyway. But Mrs. Hargrove figured she could do something about the suits Doris June always wore. She had suits in black, gray, and navy, and she wore them with white blouses. She always looked crisp, but even Mrs. Hargrove knew clothes like that encouraged a man to think of a tax audit rather than a candlelight dinner.

Mrs. Hargrove felt too guilty to ever talk to Doris June about the kind of clothes she wore, but a mother noticed certain things even if she didn’t know what to do about them. Maybe she could do something now, though, if she had Doris June go shopping for her. If she wanted to get Doris June to buy some new clothes for herself, she had to get her into different stores than the ones where she usually shopped, so she wouldn’t ask her to buy more gingham dresses. No, she’d ask Doris June to get her a spring dress or two that had some style.

While she was there, Doris June might even pick up some high heels for herself. It wouldn’t hurt to remind Curt that Doris June had nice legs.

Yes, Mrs. Hargrove thought, this just might work.

Chapter Two

Doris June Hargrove looked up from the contracts she had in front of her. She managed the advertising traffic in the main television station in Anchorage and she often had ad contracts on her desk. Usually, she knew exactly what contracts were in front of her, but ever since the telephone call from her mother two hours ago she hadn’t been able to concentrate.

She had suspected for months that something was wrong with her mother. After Christmas, her mother had sounded depressed in their twice-weekly telephone calls and then, in the last couple of months, her mother had sounded too cheerful. Doris June asked her mother if the doctor had given her any new prescriptions and her mother had said no, so Doris June decided her mother must have just had cabin fever and was growing happier as spring started to take hold in Dry Creek.

Doris June hadn’t spent a winter in Dry Creek for years, but she remembered the bitter cold well enough to understand how her mother’s mood might improve as everything started to thaw. Even Anchorage tended to be milder than southern Montana in some winters.

Of course, the winter wouldn’t explain everything. Her mother still wasn’t eating right. These days, if Doris June asked her mother what she’d had for lunch, her mother would say she had a can of soup; and she wouldn’t even know what kind of soup it was. That wasn’t like her mother.

Doris June wished she had a penny for every time her mother had told her that there was too much salt and too little nutrition in canned soup and that it didn’t take much time or trouble to make a pot of vegetable soup so there was no excuse for just opening a can.

It was the endless cans of soup that made Doris June start to worry that her mother was sick. But then, in this latest call, her mother had asked Doris June to go shopping before she flew home. She had already bought a ticket for May tenth at her mother’s request so she didn’t see any problem in picking up a few things for her mother.

Doris June had shopped for her mother before and knew just where to find the housedresses that her mother liked. She even knew the colors her mother liked; they never varied. Nothing about her mother’s wardrobe varied. But this time her mother didn’t want a gingham house dress; she wanted a frilly, spring dress.

“In cotton?” Doris June had asked, bewildered.

“No, cotton’s too plain.”

Cotton’s too plain, Doris June had wondered if she’d heard right. Her mother swore by cotton. It’s all she ever wanted to wear except for an old wool suit that she brought out for weddings and funerals. She’d never asked for anything else.

“I’m thinking of some of that floaty material you see people wearing in magazines these days,” her mother continued.

“You mean like chiffon?”

“Yeah, something like that,” her mother said. “Something that swishes and swirls when you turn. In some pretty colors. Maybe rose or violet.”

“You mean like the stuff they use when they make prom dresses?”

“Yeah, that would work.”

“It doesn’t sound very durable,” Doris June said. And what had happened to navy gingham housedresses with zippers?

“Well, goodness, we don’t always need to be practical. A woman needs a pretty dress or two. And buy something for yourself while you’re at it—something that isn’t a suit. Something that floats.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come home before the tenth?” Doris June asked after a moment. Her mother had already asked her to come and help with the traditional Mother’s Day pansies in church. Doris June didn’t understand why her mother needed help with a few plants, but if her mother asked for help, Doris June would drop everything to go. She had a plane reservation to leave next Tuesday, but she could change her plans.

“Oh, don’t come early.” Her mother sounded alarmed. “We won’t be ready for you.”

“We?”

“Well, Charley’s going to help me start the baskets. I won’t need your help until the tenth.”

Doris June was dumbfounded when she hung up the phone after the conversation ended. When she combined the mood swings with the erratic behavior and the talk of dresses in chiffon material, she finally realized what it all must mean.

Her mother wasn’t sick: she was going senile.

That must be why her mother had stopped cooking for herself and had become obsessed with planting pansies.

Come to think of it, her mother had said months ago she and Charley were going to put off the work they had to do for the tourism board. Doris June hadn’t heard a mention of it since. Her mother wasn’t the kind of woman to keep anyone waiting for months for a few pieces of information, especially not an official group like the state tourism board. The woman who raised Doris June would turn that work around in a heartbeat.

Yes, something was wrong.

Even the pansies seemed to be an odd idea now that Doris June thought about it. Her mother hadn’t planted pansies for the past ten years. And, with her arthritis, why start again now? Was her mother having some kind of a flashback to a happier, simpler time?

Doris wondered if her mother had been showing other signs of confusion. Her mother hadn’t been putting together any puzzles lately, either. She used to do dozens of puzzles every winter. Maybe the thousand-piece puzzles were suddenly too hard for her.

Doris June made a mental note to pick up some hundred-piece puzzles while she was out shopping. A few puzzles that weren’t too challenging for her mother were certainly better things to buy her than some chiffon dress. Where would her mother even wear a dress like that?

Doris June decided she would also stop by her doctor’s office and see if they had any information on the signs of early dementia. Maybe there were some mental exercises her mother could do or some special vitamins she could take.

Doris June knew her mother didn’t have severe problems. If she were exhibiting really bizarre behavior, it would be obvious to everyone and someone from Dry Creek would call Doris June and tell her about it.

Doris June took a deep breath and made herself relax. It wasn’t anything earthshaking. Older people often found themselves a little confused. Her mother was probably at the place where she needed to start making adjustments in her life. It was nothing to cause any major alarm. It was simply a part of the aging process. Her mother believed in being practical about such things, and Doris June had no doubt her mother would take her diminished sharpness in stride.

Doris June was just glad she would be able to give her mother some more help during the whole process. It might even bring her and her mother closer together, Doris June decided. Her mother had been the strong one her whole life; it was natural that the positions would reverse themselves and Doris June would become the one who was strong for her mother, instead.

The next week, on the Nelson farm just outside of Dry Creek, Charley pulled a chair up to the old table that stood squarely in the middle of the kitchen. Over the years, the stove in the kitchen had been replaced twice and the refrigerator three times. The cupboards had been refaced and the floor retiled. The one thing that hadn’t changed, though, was the table. He had sat down to breakfast at the same table in the same chair for the past forty years.

For some of those years, Charley had wondered if his life was in a rut. A man ought to see some change over the years, he figured, or there was no point in being alive.

When his son, Curt, moved home to take over the farm duties, Charley thought about relocating to someplace else, like maybe Florida or even just into the town of Dry Creek itself. He got maps and a book on the best places to retire. Then he realized he had everything he wanted in this small piece of Montana farmland and there was no reason to move anywhere else.

He’d had no reason since then to regret his decision to stay.

Watching the haggard look leave Curt’s face and seeing Ben fill out like a normal healthy teenager was something Charley wouldn’t miss for all the beaches in Florida. The big city of Chicago had taken its toll on his son and grandson, and Charley was glad they had returned to their roots.

Breakfast was Charley’s favorite meal because all three Nelson men sat down together just like they were going to do this morning. It was seven o’clock and Ben was just coming in the kitchen door after feeding the horses. Curt was standing in front of the stove getting ready to flip the eggs.

Charley hated to catch Curt in a moment when he needed his concentration, but sometimes a man had to think about the greater good even if it meant a yolk got broken.

“I just wish Ben could have been alive to see you making your traditional Mother’s Day breakfast for his grandmother,” Charley said. “You did it every year. A boy should know what his family’s made of.”

“No big secret there. We’re probably made of fried eggs and pancakes by now,” Curt said as he turned one of six eggs on the same griddle he’d used a little earlier to make pancakes. Fried eggs and pancakes were about as advanced as the cooking got at the farm, although Curt could make a good bowl of chili as well.

“If I remember right you made some fancy French toast one Mother’s Day. What was it you put in it?”

Curt grinned. “I put cinnamon on top of it. I thought I was really the gourmet chef.”

Charley smiled. “And you had some real maple syrup. Your mother talked about that syrup for days. She couldn’t figure out where you’d gotten a bottle of the stuff.”

“Billings,” Curt said as he turned another egg with a flourish. “I bribed Mr. Dennison and he brought it out for me when he did the mail route.”

“How come we never have French toast?” Ben grumbled as he pulled his own chair out. He’d just washed his hands and he wiped some of the dampness on his jeans before he sat down on the chair and pulled it close to the table.

“I only made it that one time for Mom,” Curt said as he reached up into the cupboard and grabbed a platter.

“I wish I’d been there,” Ben said quietly.

Charley had never seen a more wistful boy than Ben. Charley had thought Ben would outgrow it when he was on the farm, but he hadn’t yet. The boy always looked like he was missing something. And he was too quiet. He didn’t yell and shout like most teenagers, not even at basketball games.

“I wish you’d been there too, son,” Curt said as he put the turner under a couple of eggs and slid them onto the platter. The pancakes were keeping warm in the oven. “I wish it more so you could have met your grandmother than because my French toast was anything special.”

“Your grandmother was real tickled when you were born,” Charley added. One of the sad facts of his life was that his wife had died a few months after Ben was born and, due to her sickness, had never seen Ben. If the boy’s grandmother had lived, she would have known what to do to make Ben feel he had whatever it was he was missing.

“I always like to think Grandma would have been something like Mrs. Hargrove,” Ben said.

Curt set the platter of eggs and pancakes in the middle of the table and pulled out his own chair. “Your grandmother was not quite as opinionated as Mrs. Hargrove.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a woman having opinions,” Charley said. He knew Curt still had hard feelings for all of the Hargroves, but he kept hoping someday Curt would soften his views on Mrs. Hargrove. Charley counted the woman as one of his best friends and it rankled that his son didn’t respect her as he should.

Curt grunted. “She can have opinions as long as she keeps them to things she knows about.”

“I can’t imagine that there’s much that Mrs. Hargrove doesn’t know about,” Charley said. She had tended his broken leg and made him a salve that killed the pain better than the pills the doctor had given him. She didn’t just have book learning, either; she was a woman who knew her Bible. That had to count for something.

Curt snorted. “I can think of a thing or two she doesn’t know.” Curt stopped and looked over at his son. Curt swallowed and his voice was milder when he spoke again. “Of course, we all respect her for what she does for the community.”

Charley nodded. He was glad Curt could rein in his annoyance. “Mrs. Hargrove has a way with children.”

“She’s always nice to me,” Ben said. “I like her.”

Ben was looking at his father with a big question in his eyes and Charley could see that Curt was holding his tongue. Charley was glad that he and Mrs. Hargrove had decided to do something to try and fix the hard feelings they had caused all those years ago. If Curt’s feelings about Mrs. Hargrove were anything to go by, there were still some unresolved issues.

“The Hargroves were always our best and closest neighbors,” Charley finally said.

Curt clenched his jaw briefly before relaxing it. “And Mrs. Hargrove always charges me a fair price for leasing her land.”

Charley nodded. “She’d rather rent that land to you than anyone.”

“It’s good land.”

Charley thought he’d begun his conversation satisfactorily. He didn’t want to force Curt in any direction; he just wanted to give him time to think. “We have a lot to be grateful for—including these eggs.”

Curt looked at his father and took the cue. “Well, let’s pray then so Ben isn’t late catching the school bus.”

After taking a moment to let his irritation quiet down, Curt began to pray. Curt figured God knew his heart when it came to the Hargroves and that would have to do for now. There were other things to think about. “Lord, thank you for all you give us today and every day. For food, for work, for family and friends—we thank you. Keep us safe and help Ben in school. Amen.”

Curt decided he would eat his pancakes and forget about the Hargroves. There was a minute’s worth of silence when he thought his strategy was working.

“I bet Mrs. Hargrove can make French toast,” Ben said as he slipped a second pancake onto his plate. “She’s probably got a recipe and everything.”

“I’m sure she does,” Curt said as he took the platter that Ben passed his way and looked up at the clock. “You’re going to have to get ready for the bus soon.”

“I’ve got time,” Ben muttered. “I’d even have time to eat French toast for breakfast if we ever had it.”

“Well, Mrs. Hargrove has offered to cook us dinner when we help her with those Mother’s Day baskets,” Charley said from the other side of the table. “If we wanted to make it French toast, I’m sure that would be fine.”

“We don’t want to waste one of Mrs. Hargrove’s dinners on something I can make myself with a few pointers,” Curt said as he cut into the pancake on his plate. “I still remember the lasagna she used to make.”

Curt wasn’t sure exactly when he had agreed to help Mrs. Hargrove plant her pansies, but he wasn’t sorry that he was doing it as long as he could do it without having to spend too much time in her presence. He had plowed the plot for her six weeks ago and covered the whole thing with a heavy plastic that kept the warmth inside.

Mrs. Hargrove had some solar lights out there and the whole thing made a low-lying greenhouse. He’d been skeptical that it would work until he remembered that Mrs. Hargrove had found a way to grow her pansies years ago in the old days when she didn’t even have the solar lights.

“She’d have to drive into Billings to find the ingredients for her lasagna,” Charley said. “And you know her car’s been having some trouble so she’s not driving it that far these days.”

“Well, I could drive her into Billings.”

Charley looked down at his pancake. Things were working out better than he had hoped. “Wouldn’t hurt to make the trip count twice. Someone needs to pick Doris June up this evening.”

“Doris June’s coming?”

Charley nodded.

“Here?”

Charley nodded.

Curt told himself he should have seen this coming. He knew Doris June didn’t usually come home for Mother’s Day, but this was a special Mother’s Day for Mrs. Hargrove if those pansies were anything to go by. He supposed Doris June would want to spend the day with her mother. He couldn’t begrudge her that.

“I’ll be happy to lend my pickup to Mrs. Hargrove,” Curt said. “No point in two people making the trip to Billings.”

Charley nodded. “I’m sure the two of you can work something out.”

Curt looked over at his father. The man was innocently eating a second pancake and looking as if he hadn’t been anywhere around when the noose had been thrown around Curt’s neck.

“Linda from the café might be able to drive Mrs. Hargrove to Billings—she can use my pickup,” Curt added. He’d be willing to pay Linda a prime wage to do just that. Doris June liked Linda. She’d be happy to have a ride back to Dry Creek with the young woman. Curt knew Doris June wouldn’t like to see him meeting her at the airport. In fact, she might stay on the plane rather than get in a pickup that he was driving.

When Curt moved back to Dry Creek four years ago, he had assumed he would see Doris June again. He had even hoped they might have a nice, quiet conversation about what had happened all those years ago. He knew a hole had been burned through his world the day their elopement fell apart, and he couldn’t believe it hadn’t affected Doris June as well. There was no ignoring that hole, but maybe if they talked about what had happened, they could become friends again.

At the very least, Curt would like to apologize. He’d been impatient back then when he had pressed Doris June to elope with him. He’d been wrong to pressure her and then wrong to run off and join the army when everything fell apart. He’d started to write her a letter many times, but he never found words that said how very sorry he was if he had hurt her.

He knew he’d hurt himself with his hot-tempered actions. He’d lost the best friend he’d ever had in his life.

Curt knew better than to hope that someday they could be more than friends. He was a man who believed in the power of prayer to heal things, but even he couldn’t believe Doris June would forgive him to that extent. He knew Doris June. She was a very organized woman, and if she had moved him to the “undesirable” section in her mind, she wouldn’t likely budge from it later. She had been furious with him when they parted twenty-five years ago, and her silence since then told him all he needed to know about how she felt.

Of course, it hadn’t all been his fault. Curt often wondered if Mrs. Hargrove ever told her daughter how many times he had asked for Doris June’s address in Alaska and been refused. When he thought about it much later, he couldn’t believe that Doris June had forbidden her mother to give him the address, so he laid the blame squarely at Mrs. Hargrove’s feet.

And the older woman was still at it. The fact that Doris June went out of her way to avoid seeing him when she came to Dry Creek was not lost on Curt. When she came to visit her mother, Doris June always seemed to know where he was—at least, he assumed she must know where he was because she was never at the same place as he was and, in a town the size of Dry Creek, that could only be intentional. Even if Doris June had not asked her mother back then to refuse to give him her address, she was certainly asking her mother to help her avoid him these days.

It was too bad, Curt told himself as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood up to go get the rest of the pancakes that were in the warm oven. It was definitely too bad. There had been many times over the past twenty-five years when he could have used a friend like Doris June. He liked to believe that she missed his friendship as well. Even if she could never love him again, he wished she could forgive him enough to sit down with him and ask him how his life was going.

Of course, for her to do that she would have to talk to him again and that didn’t seem likely. Once Doris June made up her mind about something, it stayed made up. She was one stubborn woman. Just like her mother.

Chapter Three

Doris June waited for the airplane to come to a complete stop at the Billings airport before she unfastened her seat belt. It was dark outside except for the lights on the runway. Other passengers had started to reach for their overhead luggage, but Doris June was content to live by the rules and stay seated. She had a bag of puzzles in the overhead compartment and she’d wait for the line of people to pass before she pulled it down. She’d gotten to the airport at six o’clock this morning anyway and she was tired.

She could also use the few extra minutes to go over in her mind what she intended to say to her mother about the quite understandable possibility that her mother’s mental agility was compromised and that her mother might want to be open to receiving some help. Help that Doris June fully intended to give even if she had to pretend to take a series of short vacations to Dry Creek, Montana, to give it.

In her checked luggage, Doris June had a whole packet of information about how to deal with what she had decided to call “senior confusion.” She hoped that “confusion” was a friendly, befuddled term that would not hurt her mother’s dignity. The one thing that stood out every time she read one of those brochures was that Doris June, being the primary caregiver in the event of anything, should realize her mother needed help and that it should be given as naturally as it would be if her mother had a physical limitation that meant she couldn’t walk or see or hear anymore.

There was no cause for shame because a person faced a change in mental ability and Doris June intended to see that that message got through to her mother. Her mother was a proud woman and deserved to keep her pride.

Doris June knew that she was limited in how much help she could give her mother from a distance and she was perfectly willing to spend more time with her mother if that was what was needed. Doris June’s job was going smoothly, and she could afford to take a week off every three months or so. She had already mentioned the idea to her boss, and she had his full support. He knew Doris June was all her mother had and he understood the importance of family obligations.

There was nothing to prevent Doris June from flying back to Dry Creek regularly to help her mother with odds and ends—things like filling out the form for the state tourism board or maybe doing her taxes. Even if all she did was make pots of soup for her mother to freeze, Doris June would be happy to do it.

She was even prepared to make the big move and leave her job in Anchorage so she could relocate to Dry Creek. She had thought about doing that anyway before he moved back—not that she was exactly staying away because Curt Nelson was back, but she sure didn’t want it to look like she was moving back home because he was there all single and available.

If Doris June did move back to Dry Creek, she would want it clearly understood that she was moving back there to do her duty to her mother and for no other reason. The people of Dry Creek had a tendency to gossip about their own and Doris June didn’t want to have any speculation that she was coming back to ignite a love that had died decades ago.

She’d had enough pity stares over the years to last her a lifetime. She didn’t know why the people of Dry Creek had been so interested in the breakup between her and Curt. People broke up all the time even in a small town in southern Montana.

Besides, Curt had married that woman from Chicago. What was her name?

Not that it mattered, Doris June decided. The only thing important about that wedding was that it should have put a complete end to any speculation about her and Curt. She certainly would never have chased a married man. And, not only because she knew God would be appalled if she did, she also knew that she’d be so mad at a cheating man that she wouldn’t be able to respect him much less love him even if she did snag his interest.

Doris June picked her purse up from under the seat in front of her.

The real problem was that even though the speculation had died down, the pity hadn’t gone away. During the year or so after Curt announced his marriage, the people of Dry Creek treated Doris June as if she was a recent widow. The more sympathy people gave her though the more irritated she got. Her life hadn’t turned out the way she’d thought it would, but she didn’t need a crowd of people around her reminding her of the fact. She could remember it very well on her own.

She would have stopped going to church when she visited Dry Creek those first years after Curt got married, except she refused to give people there anything else to say about her. She did stop going when she was at home in Anchorage, however. At first, she told herself that she was too tired on Sunday morning and she just needed a break until the busy times at work let up. Finally, when the pace at work slowed and she still didn’t want to go though, she faced the truth of it. She was mad at God. He had let her down and she didn’t know what to do about it.

She knew she couldn’t stop believing in Him; that would be like refusing to acknowledge that her mother was alive. She knew God existed; she had felt Him in her soul and there was no undoing that. She even continued to believe that He had some sort of a plan for her life. What she couldn’t believe any longer, however, was that He placed any value on her heart.

She felt betrayed. She had lived her life by His rules. She had honored the wishes of her parents when it came to leaving Curt. Honor thy father and thy mother, the Bible said, and she had done it. She had trusted that God would fix things if she kept her part of the bargain. After all, she knew her parents followed God’s ways as best as they could. They all prayed. They all believed. She’d had faith that God would work things out. She had been patient. And then—boom—Curt had married someone else. That’s when she knew she shouldn’t have listened to her parents or to God. They had all let her down.

Her heart was broken and it was because she had obeyed someone else’s rules.

Of course, she could not live her life with her face turned away from her parents any more than she could renounce God. She wished she could say she’d had an epiphany of understanding somewhere along the line and that she had forgiven God and her parents; but it wasn’t like that. Life had just inched up on her.

Her father had his first heart attack and Doris June had to stay in close contact with her parents, even if she wasn’t talking to God. Finally, she became tired of avoiding God, too. There was no undoing what had been done and she was the only one suffering. She missed going to church and talking to God in prayer, especially when she was worried about her father. She had no real choice but to return to God. It was a bitter decision, however, and the dryness never really left her heart.

Her struggle with God had been very private though. She didn’t want others to know how hard it had been for her. It was humiliating that she had cared so much about a man who had not cared enough about her to wait.

She might not have been able to live without talking to her parents and to God, but she could live without talking to Curt again.

Although, it wasn’t easy to keep anything from the people in Dry Creek. Many of them mourned with her over Curt and she knew it. Dry Creek was small enough that the loss of one was the loss of all, whether it was a house that burned down or a crop that was lost due to hail.

All the pity for her lost love became awkward, however.

Doris June wished there was a no-sympathy-needed card she could send to others to say that she was fine now and that, while she appreciated their sentiment, she didn’t need special treatment. Unfortunately, there was no such card. There also didn’t seem to be any time limit on the sympathy. People still treated her as if she had reason to be upset at any mention of Chicago or brides or weddings.

In fact, Doris June usually didn’t get a wedding invitation in the mail like everyone else. Instead, it would be delivered by hand to her mother with instructions to only give it to her if her mother thought she could handle it.

If there was any justice anywhere in the world, the people of Dry Creek would forget all about the day she and Curt had started to elope only to end up in the sheriff’s office with a bent fender on the Nelsons’ old field pickup and a swirl of angry parents buzzing around them.

Curt hadn’t even been going fast when he hit the signpost. Neither one of them knew there was a signpost there. They found out later that the highway maintenance crew had just come into Dry Creek the day before to put up the sign as a precaution.

Fortunately, the sheriff who had helped them that night had retired years ago, moving to Florida. He had been the only one to witness the tears she had cried when Curt, angry with his parents for what he saw as their interference, had stomped off and left her at the sheriff’s office alone to face the remaining questions about the accident. She didn’t want to ride back home with her parents and had asked a classmate to come and get her. That classmate had proved a poor choice and within days the story of how Curt had left Doris June sitting at the sheriff’s office was all over the school.

Doris June hoped the gossip about that day was dead and buried. Twenty-five years seemed long enough to make it a forgotten subject.

Besides, by now everyone in Dry Creek probably expected her to move back to help take care of her mother. They knew Doris June took her duties in life seriously and they would assume she would fulfill this one when the time came. Hopefully, she was old enough that people would no longer think she was interested in marriage.

Of course, Doris June didn’t exactly know what she would do with all her time if she did move back to Dry Creek. She had her master’s degree in business and was accustomed to the pace of a multimillion-dollar sales department; she could hardly spend her days doing nothing more than dicing vegetables and making soup.

Maybe she could start a small business helping people do their taxes or something. There were enough ranchers in the area to bring in a fair amount of that kind of business and Doris June thought she’d enjoy it. She’d grown up on a small ranch and would enjoy helping ranchers with their books. Maybe she could even offer them some suggestions to improve their operations.

The airplane was completely stopped and people were moving down the aisle to the exit by the time Doris June smoothed back her hair and stood up. She had looked in a mirror in Seattle so she knew she looked competent in her white blouse and navy pantsuit.

Doris June had never been able to get away with the breezy flyaway-hair look that was so popular. On other women, the style made them look like they were having spontaneous fun; on her it just made her look a little startled or a little sick or both.

It was a pity really, Doris June thought as she watched a young woman with that style look up to share a smile with the man beside her. Smiles like that never seemed to come to competent-looking women in suits.

Of course, Doris June reminded herself, she had had her wild romantic adventure when she was seventeen and look how it had turned out. It was a disaster. She wondered if that man smiling down at the young woman had any more staying power in him than Curt had had years ago.

The aisle was almost cleared by the time Doris June reached up and got her bag of puzzles from the overhead bin and then started walking toward the exit.

“Excuse me, miss,” someone said when she was halfway down the aisle.

Doris June looked down and saw a frail-looking older woman. “Can I help you?”

“I was wondering if your airline will give me my full frequent flyer miles since I started in Seattle.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not a flight attendant,” Doris June said as she looked down at her clothes. Maybe navy and white wasn’t the best thing to wear today. “There’s a flight attendant by the door as we leave though.”

Doris June offered a hand to the older woman to help her stand.

“Why, thank you, dear,” the woman said as she stood. “You’d make a lovely flight attendant, you know.”

Doris June smiled. There was nothing wrong with being seen as someone who helped others. She hoped her mother would be as grateful for a little assistance as this other older woman was.

Doris June knew where the luggage-claim area was and she knew the area outside the terminal doors where she always met her mother. Her mother had promised she would have someone come with her to the airport. Billings was too far away from Dry Creek for Doris June to feel comfortable with her mother making the trip alone, especially at night. With her possible confusion, she might take a wrong turn and get lost.

Not that Doris June would mind waiting for her mother, but she knew her mother would be distressed if she wasn’t at the airport when she had said she would be. Her mother liked to be very precise about things like that.

Doris June was surprised when her mother had quickly agreed to have someone come with her to the airport. It showed how fragile her mother had become. Usually, her mother insisted on doing everything herself.

Doris June stacked her two suitcases on a rolling cart and had them with her when she spotted her mother outside the terminal door. She walked through the wide door and hugged her mother.

Doris June tried to keep the anxiety out of her eyes as she gave her mother a once over. To her relief, her mother didn’t look like she’d lost weight and her eyes were clear of the confused look Doris June had feared she’d see. Maybe all of her worrying had been unnecessary, Doris June hoped.

“We’re parked in the lot over there.” Her mother pointed vaguely to the right as she seemed to develop a sudden fascination with Doris June’s suitcases. “That green’s a nice color. Easy to spot on the luggage carousel. They look heavy, but that won’t be a problem. Curt said he’d keep an eye out for us and bring the pickup around front when he sees you’ve come out of the airport.”

Doris June froze. Her mother knew that Curt was the last person Doris June ever wanted to see again. Her mother couldn’t have forgotten what had happened, could she?

Maybe her mother really was getting senile, Doris June thought as she looked up. She hadn’t really believed it was possible until now. But that was the Nelson pickup all right. She recognized it because it was what Charley always drove to church when Doris June visited Dry Creek. Curt never came on those days. Doris June felt they had a truce of sorts. She avoided him and he avoided her. He would never violate that by expecting her to ride with him from Billings to Dry Creek. Her mother must be wrong. “Don’t you mean it’s Charley who came with you?”

“Oh, no, dear. Charley doesn’t drive long distances anymore. The road from his ranch to Dry Creek is as far as he usually goes.”

It was a warm spring night, but Doris June felt cold.

“Isn’t Charley’s grandson—what’s his name? Ben—isn’t he about the age when he can drive?”

The pickup was turning into the lane and making its way toward them.

“Ben’s only got his learner’s permit.”

The pickup was still coming toward them. “Maybe I could find a cab.”

“Don’t be silly,” her mother said as she waved at the pickup. “That would cost a fortune.”

Doris June nodded. She needed to think more logically. There was a solution. “I could get a rental car though.”

A car passed the pickup and the light from its headlights let Doris June see through the windshield of the pickup. She could tell it was Curt at the wheel. She hadn’t seen the man for twenty-five years, but she’d know his face in her sleep. Not that she ever saw him in her dreams, of course. She might have glimpsed him a time or two in her nightmares, but that was all. She was completely over him.

Curt wished he was anyone else. It might be night out, but Doris June was standing under a security light and he saw the dismay on her face before she turned to say something to her mother. She had obviously just heard who had driven her mother to the airport to pick her up. When you’ve been childhood playmates with someone, you learn to read their body language. And Doris June was holding herself so stiff she looked like she would break.

It was because of this very thing that he’d asked Mrs. Hargrove to take his pickup and go to Billings. Mrs. Hargrove had been a rancher’s wife and Curt had been sure the older woman would remember how to drive a pickup with a stick shift, but she had looked so confused when she asked which pedal was the clutch that he hadn’t dared encourage her to drive. He’d gone over to the café and offered to pay Linda and tend her place in her absence if she would only drive in with Mrs. Hargrove for him. Linda had shown little remorse as she let him down, even when he offered to sweeten the deal with an extra fifty-dollar bill.

So here he was pulling up to the curb beside Doris June and her suitcases. She had changed since the last time he’d stopped to pick her up twenty-five years ago. Back then, she’d thrown an old flowered duffel bag in the back and given him a knee-bending kiss before climbing into the passenger side of the old Ford pickup his father used to have for hauling small amounts of feed around.

Curt had been granted the use of that pickup when he turned sixteen and he had planned to drive it to Las Vegas with no hesitation. As he recalled, he hadn’t even known the thing had no insurance. Not that something like that would have stopped him and Doris June back then. They were in love and impatient to be married. Practical concerns like insurance and finishing high school hadn’t entered into their minds.

Curt could still remember the intensity of the feeling though it had been twenty-five years ago. The only time he had come close to that overwhelming feeling of love was the first time he’d held his son in his arms.

Curt couldn’t help but wonder if Doris June remembered the feeling like he did. He swore they could have lived on that feeling for the rest of their lives if things hadn’t gone so bad so fast.

After he’d hit the stop sign while trying to steal another kiss from Doris June, everything had changed. The only part of it that he had ever been able to make right was to pay for the repairs to the fender of his dad’s pickup. He had sent the money home from the first pay he had received in the army. He knew his father might not use the money to fix the fender, but Curt felt good knowing he had paid for it anyway. He only wished the other problems of that accident had been as easy to resolve.

“Curt was kind enough to drive me in to get you,” Mrs. Hargrove chirped as Curt stepped down from the cab of the pickup and walked around the front of his vehicle. He wondered what made the older woman try so hard to be cheerful. The Mrs. Hargrove he knew never put on an act and he couldn’t help feeling that her upbeat voice was forced.

“I could have rented a car at the airport,” Doris June said stiffly. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to bother.”

“It was no bother.” Torture maybe, Curt thought, but bother? No.

If it was just him and Doris June in the pickup, Curt would have used the darkness of this ride to tell her that he was a hundred kinds of sorry. But, as sorry as he was, he wasn’t about to bare his soul in front of Mrs. Hargrove. A man had to have some dignity.

Mrs. Hargrove had about run out of things to say and the pickup hadn’t even passed the sign that signaled the exit from the airport. It was a bonus that the pickup only had the one seat and Doris June was forced to sit between her and Curt, but Mrs. Hargrove did admit that it made the conversation somewhat strained as Doris June insisted on looking straight ahead. On her lap, Doris June kept the large shopping bag that she’d carried off the plane, so it was almost impossible for Mrs. Hargrove to look over and see Curt’s face.

Charley would have been much better at this part of it, Mrs. Hargrove fretted as she remarked for the second time that the night was unusually dark and that it looked like the moon was covered with clouds so maybe it would rain tomorrow. Unfortunately, Charley was back at his ranch playing a board game with his grandson and so the conversation fell to Mrs. Hargrove.

Mrs. Hargrove was never one to shirk her duty, no matter how unpleasant, but it was very difficult to keep a conversation going all by herself. If it wasn’t so important to set the tone for Doris June’s visit home, she would have been content to let her daughter and Curt sit there without a friendly word between them.

“Curt has been helping me with the pansies,” Mrs. Hargrove finally said. “I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

“It’s no problem,” Curt mumbled.

“I wish you would have let me come earlier,” Doris June said with a quick smile to her mother. “I’m happy to help you with whatever you need.”

Mrs. Hargrove nodded and patted her daughter’s arm. “And I appreciate it. You’re good to me.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to handle the pansies,” Doris June said. “Curt probably has other work he needs to do this time of the year.”

“I’m not that busy,” Curt said.

“Yes, but—” Doris June began.

“The pansies are too heavy,” Curt added. “We’re going to be digging them up and putting them in my wheelbarrow before taking them into the old house to put in baskets.”

“But they’re only flowers,” Doris June protested. “How heavy can they be?”

Curt grunted. “I’d never hear the end of it from my father if I let the two of you dig up those pansies and pack the baskets by yourselves.”

“Well, we will pay you then,” Doris June said crisply. “Let us know your rate.”

“I don’t have a rate. The baskets are for the church. And for Mother’s Day! You don’t think I’d take money for doing something like that, do you?”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Hargrove said hastily. She had tried to let the two of them handle the conversation, but they seemed determined to bury it. “And we appreciate it. Don’t we Doris June?”

Doris June murmured something that could be an agreement.

Mrs. Hargrove couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Everyone was silent. The only sound was the pickup engine as it kept humming along.

Doris June tried very hard not to move. She had worn the navy slacks that went with her suit, but the material didn’t seem heavy enough when her leg was pressed against Curt’s leg. It had been years since Doris June had ridden in the middle place in a pickup and she had forgotten how the gears forced the person in that position to lean their leg against the driver’s leg. She could almost feel the texture of the denim of Curt’s jeans.

Doris June used to love to ride this close to Curt. Back then, she’d snuggled even closer to him although there was no one sitting on the other side of her like her mother was tonight. For the first time that evening, Doris June found something for which to be grateful. She was glad her mother hadn’t just sent Curt in alone to get her from the airport. She wouldn’t have had a clue what to say to him if they had been alone.

Doris June hoped the darkness inside the pickup cab hid the flush to her face. She was a highly paid professional; she shouldn’t be caught in situations like this, stuck where she didn’t want to be. She had a feeling it was going to be a long time until the baskets were ready for Mother’s Day.

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