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An Angel for Dry Creek
Janet Tronstad
A REAL LIVE ANGEL IN DRY CREEK, MONTANA?Not quite. But from the first sight of Glory Beckett framed in the light of her car's high beams, Matthew Curtis could have sworn that she was a heavenly gift sent to heal both his faith and his heart. And what's more, so could the whole town! The pressures of being angelic were downright stressful. But how could Glory resist Matthew's smile or his adorable twin boys? And it looked as if it would take a miracle to convince anyone in town that she wasn't the least bit celestial, let alone that her presence in Dry Creek might even put them all in danger!
Matthew stood behind Glory, positioning her halo.
Glory looked so much like an angelic bride as she stood there that Matthew couldn’t help himself. He leaned closer and pressed his lips very lightly to the back of her neck. His kiss was more of a breath than an act.
“My hair’s falling down.” Glory tried to reach her arm up to her neck.
“You’re fine.”
“Yeah, men always say that, even when we have broccoli in our teeth.”
“You don’t have broccoli in your teeth.”
Matthew knew they still had a half hour before the performance started, but he also knew that he’d better get Glory to her place before he gave in to the urge to kiss her again. Not even that growing stack of cookies on the counter would distract the church women if they happened to look over to see him kissing the Christmas angel.
JANET TRONSTAD
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 works in the research department of a medical organization. In addition to writing novels, she researches and writes nonfiction magazine articles.
An Angel for Dry Creek
Janet Tronstad
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
—Hebrews 13:2
This book is dedicated with love to my parents, Richard and Fern Tronstad.
First they gave me roots and then they gave me wings.
Who could ask for more?
Dear Reader,
Thank you for visiting Dry Creek with me. Although Dry Creek is a fictitious place, it is inspired by dozens of small communities in rural Montana. In many of these areas there is a church that adds strength to the whole community. I was privileged to grow up in one of these churches, the Fort Shaw Community Church in Fort Shaw, Montana. If you have a chance, stop in and visit the good people there. (Sunday services at 11:00, but you’ll want to go for Sunday school, too, at 9:45.) You will find a group of people who are faithful to God and each other.
When God asks us to “gather together in His name,” I believe He does so more for our good than for His. Old-fashioned fellowship—with friendships and commitments that have spanned years and even decades—strengthens our faith and enriches us deeply. Troubles shared are troubles made lighter with prayer and comfort. Joys shared are joys made brighter with common rejoicing—especially during the Christmas season when we all have reason to celebrate.
So, if you’re currently part of a church family, cherish those ties. If you are not, my hope and prayer for you is that you find one soon so that you can rejoice in the Christmas season with them.
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 One
Glory Beckett peered out her car window. She’d driven all day and now, with the coming of dusk, snowflakes were beginning to swirl around her Jeep. The highway beneath her was only a faint gray line pointing northeast across the flatlands of Montana. Other than the hills and a few isolated ranches, there had been little to see in miles. Even oncoming traffic was sparse. For the first time in three days she questioned her hasty decision to leave Seattle and drive across country.
She must be a sight. For ease, she’d given up on curls and simply pushed her flaming auburn hair under a beige wool cap her mother had knitted one Christmas long ago. Her lips were shiny with lip balm and she’d forgotten most of her makeup in Seattle. She considered herself lucky to have remembered her toothbrush. She hadn’t had time even to pray about the trip before the decision was made and she was on the road. She’d let the captain scare her for nothing. He’d been a cop too long. Just because a stray bullet had whizzed by her last Wednesday, it was no reason to panic and leave town.
Ever since he’d married her mother last month his worrying had grown worse. She’d reminded him she’d picked up a lot of street savvy in the six years she’d been a sketch artist for his department, but it didn’t help.
And maybe he was right. She could still feel the stress that hummed inside her, not letting up even when she prayed. The bullet was only part of it. It was the shooting she’d witnessed that was the worst of it. Even though she’d seen this crime with her own eyes instead of the eyes of others, it still rocked her more than it should. Crimes happened. She knew that. Sometimes she spent a long time in prayer, asking God why something happened. God had always given her peace before.
But prayer hadn’t been able to calm her this time. Her nerves still shivered. She didn’t feel God was distant. No, that wasn’t it. He comforted her, but He didn’t remove the unease. Not this time. Since Idaho she’d been thinking maybe stress wasn’t all there was to it. Her nerves didn’t just shudder, they itched. Something was pushing at her consciousness. Something that she should remember, but couldn’t. Something to do with what she’d seen that afternoon at Benson’s Market when the butcher, Mr. Kraeman, had been killed. Dear God, what am I overlooking? The kid who had shot Mr. Kraeman had been arrested and taken to the county jail. The investigation was closed, awaiting nothing more than the trial. The killer had been caught at the scene. She should relax.
Maybe this cross-country trip would help. She’d always wanted to just take off and drive across the top of the United States. Idaho. Montana. North Dakota. Minnesota. Right to the Great Lakes. And now that her mother had married the captain, there was nothing holding her back. It was odd, this feeling of rootless-ness.
In a small town farther east on Interstate 94, the bare branch of an oak tree rested lightly against an upstairs window. Standing inside and looking out through the window, a man could see the soft glow from the security light reflected on the snow in the crevices of the old tree. The snow sparkled like silver dust on an angel’s wing.
The midnight view out this second-story window was appreciated by his young sons, but Matthew Curtis didn’t get past the glass. All he saw was a window without curtains and his own guilt. If Susie were still alive, she’d have curtains on all the windows. If only Susie were alive, the Bible verses the twins memorized for Sunday school would have some meaning in his life. If only Susie were still alive, everything would be different. If only…Matthew stopped himself. He couldn’t keep living in the past.
“Is so angels,” Josh was saying as Matthew helped him put his arm into the correct pajama opening. Tucking his five-year-old twin sons into bed was the best part of the day for Matthew. “Miz Hargrove said so. An’ they got a big light all round ’em.” Josh was fascinated with lights.
Mrs. Hargrove, the twins’ Sunday school teacher, was the closest thing to a mother the two had these days. She was one of the reasons Matthew had put aside his own bitterness and rented the old parsonage next to the church when they’d moved to Dry Creek, Montana, six months ago. He wanted the twins to be able to go to church even if he didn’t. In Matthew’s opinion, a man who wasn’t talking to God during the week had no business pretending to shake His hand on Sunday morning just to keep the neighbors quiet.
“I’m sure Mrs. Hargrove is thinking of the angel Gabriel,” Matthew said as he smoothed down Josh’s hair. Josh, the restless one, was in Power Rangers pajamas. Joey, the more thoughtful twin, was in Mickey Mouse pajamas even though he didn’t really like them that much. Joey wasn’t enthused about anything, and Matthew worried about him. “And that angel definitely exists.”
“See,” Josh said to no one in particular. “And my angel can have ten wings if I want and a Power Ranger gun to zap people.”
“Angels don’t carry guns,” Matthew said as he scooped the twins into bed and tucked the quilt securely around them. The weatherman on the news had predicted a mid-December blizzard. “They bring peace.”
“Peace,” Josh said. “What’s peace?”
“Quiet,” Matthew said as he turned down the lamp between the twins’ beds. “Peace and quiet.” And a reminder. “No guns. Angels don’t like guns.”
Matthew kissed both twins and turned to leave.
“I want to see my angel,” Joey whispered. The longing in his voice stopped Matthew. “When can I see her?”
Matthew turned around and sat down on the edge of one of the beds again. “Angels are in heaven. That’s a long way away. Most of the time it’s too far—they can’t come down and see people. They just stay in heaven.”
“Like Mommy,” Joey said.
“Something like that, I guess.” Matthew swallowed.
“Miz Hargrove said that when God took our mommy, He gave us a guardian angel to watch over us,” Josh explained.
“I’m here to watch over you.” Matthew pulled the covers off his sons and gathered them both to him in a hug. He blinked away the tears in his eyes so his sons would not see them. “You’ve got me—you don’t need an angel.”
“We got one anyway,” Josh said matter-of-factly, his voice muffled against Matthew’s shoulder. “Miz Hargrove says.”
The night road was sprinkled with square green exit signs marking rural communities. Glory had pulled off at a rest stop close to Rosebud and slept for a few solitary hours, curled up in the back seat of her Jeep. Finally, around four in the morning, she decided to keep driving. It was quiet at that time of night even when she came into Miles City, where over 8,000 souls lived. Once she left Miles City behind, the only lights Glory saw were her own, reflected in the light snow on the ground. If all of this darkness didn’t cure her stress, nothing would.
Glory needed this time to think. The shooting at the grocery store, and the long minutes afterward when she waited for the paramedics to arrive, reminded her of the accident that had changed her own life six years ago. Gradually, sitting there in the grocery store, all of the old feelings had surfaced. The terror, the paralyzing grief and the long-lasting guilt. Her dreams had stopped the night of the car accident that took her father’s life. That night Glory stopped being a carefree college graduate and became a tired adult. She’d awakened in the hospital bed knowing her life was forever changed. Her father was dead. Her mother was shattered. And the words inside Glory’s head kept repeating the accusation that it was all her fault. She’d had the wheel. She should have seen the driver coming. It didn’t matter that the other driver was drunk and had run a red light. She, Glory, should have known. Somehow she should have known.
There was nothing to do. Nothing to bring her father back.
She tried to put her own pain aside and comfort her mother. Her mother had always seemed like the fragile one in the family. Glory vowed she would take care of her mother. She would do it even if it meant giving up her own dream.
Glory didn’t hesitate. Her dream of being a real artist wasn’t as important as her mother’s happiness. She took the job as a police sketch artist and packed away her oils. Right out of art school, Glory had wanted to see if she could make it in the art world, but the accident had changed all of that. Dreams didn’t pay the bills. She’d be willing to live on sandwiches while she painted, but she couldn’t ask her mother to do that with her.
But now, seeing her mother happy again, Glory could start to breathe. She no longer felt so responsible. The captain would take care of her mother. Maybe, Glory thought, she could even dream again. She’d always wanted to paint faces. All she needed to do was give her notice to the police department and take out her easel full-time. She had enough in savings to last awhile. When she put it that way, it sounded so simple.
The more miles that sped beneath the wheels of Glory’s Jeep, the lighter her heart felt. Maybe God was calling her to paint the faces of His people. Faces of faith. Faces of despair. All of the faces that showed man’s struggle to know God. She needed to rekindle her dream. For years she’d been—
“Dry…” Glory murmured out loud as she peered into the snow at the small sign along the interstate. Even with the powerful lights of her Jeep she could barely read it. “Dry as in ‘Dry Creek, Montana. Population 276. Five Miles to Food and Gas.”’
Glory turned her Jeep to the left. A throbbing headache was starting between her eyes, and her thermos of coffee had run out an hour ago. It was five-thirty in the morning and she wasn’t going to count on there being another town along this highway anytime soon. There was bound to be a little café that served the ranchers in the area. She didn’t have much cash left, but her MasterCard had given her a healthy advance back in Spokane and it would no doubt be welcomed here, too. She’d learned that roadside coffee was usually black and strong—just the way she liked it.
Matthew woke with the dawn and went to check on the twins. Ever since Susie had died, he’d been aware of how easy it was for someone to simply stop living. He couldn’t bear to lose one of his sons. So he stood in his slippers and just looked at them sleeping in their beds. The security light from the outside of the old frame house shone through the half-frosted window and gave a muted glow to the upstairs bedroom. He pulled the blankets back up on Joey. The electric heater he’d put in the twins’ bedroom kept the winter chill away. But the rest of the house was heated with a big woodstove, and he needed to light it so the kitchen would be warm when the twins came down for breakfast.
There were no windows in the hall and the dawn’s light didn’t come into the stairway that led down to the living room. He took one sleepy step down the stairway. Then another. He needed to add a light for the stairway. Just one more thing in the old house that needed fixing. Like the—Matthew stepped on the loose stair at the same time as he remembered it. The board’s edge cracked and his foot slipped. All he could think of as he tumbled down the stairs was that the twins would have no one to fix their breakfast.
Matthew clenched his teeth and fought back the wave of black that threatened to engulf him. Thank God he was alive. “Josh, Joey,” Matthew called in a loud whisper. The pain the words cost him suggested he’d broken a rib. That and maybe his leg. “Boys—”
He didn’t need to call. They must have heard his fall, because almost immediately two blond heads were staring at him. “Go next door.” Matthew said the words deliberately, although his tongue felt swollen. Pain continued to swim around his head. “Get help.”
Glory left her Jeep lights on so she could see to make her way to the door of the house next to the church. She had stopped at the café long enough to see that the Closed sign had fly specks on it. It didn’t look as if a meal had been served there in months. By then she needed some aspirin for her headache almost more than she needed her morning coffee. When she saw the lights on inside the house that must be the parsonage, she was relieved.
Matthew relaxed when he heard the knock at the door. The twins must have already gone for help. Maybe he’d blacked out. That must be it. Someone had turned the lights on.
Glory heard a rustling behind the door and then she saw it open slowly. She had to look down to see the small blond head, covered by the hood of a snowsuit, peek around the edge of the door. The boy must be going out to play before breakfast. “Is your father here?” she asked as she pulled off her cap. “Or your mother?”
“Who are you?” Another blond head joined the first one. This one had a scarf tied around his neck, even though his Mickey Mouse pajamas didn’t look warm enough for outdoor playing.
“My name’s Glory. But you don’t know me.” And then remembering all the warnings children received about strangers, she added, “Don’t worry, though. And don’t be afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid.” The boy in the snowsuit echoed her words slowly. Glory watched his eyes grow big. “Where are you from?”
Glory decided they didn’t get much company around here. They’d probably never heard of Seattle. She pointed west. “A long way away—over those mountains.”
“Do you like guns?” the boy in the pajamas demanded.
“Guns? No, I don’t approve of guns. Not at all.”
“And she’s got a big light behind her,” the other boy said. “Just like Miz Hargrove said. A glory light.”
“Those are my Jeep headlights. Special high beam,” Glory explained. “They’ll turn off in a minute. If I could just see your father. All I want is an aspirin and maybe a little peace and quiet…and then—”
“Peace and quiet.” The twins breathed the words out together as their faces started to beam. “She came.”
“Boys,” Matthew called weakly. Who were they talking to? He couldn’t make out the words, but surely it didn’t take that long for someone to figure out he needed help.
“We need you,” the twins said as they opened the door wide and each reached out a hand. Glory noticed they were both in slippers. “Our daddy’s hurt.”
Matthew decided he’d blacked out again, because a woman’s face was staring at him. She had hair the color of copper, and it fanned out around her face like a halo. He’d never seen her before. Maybe he was hallucinating, especially because of that sprinkling of freckles that danced across her nose. No one could have freckles like that. So pretty. He tried to concentrate, but felt the darkness closing in on him. He wondered what the perfume was that she wore. It smelled like cinnamon. Cinnamon and something else. That reminded him he hadn’t fixed breakfast for the twins. And his job at the hardware store—old Henry would be fretting mad if he called in from his vacation in Florida and no one answered the phone at the hardware store.
Glory looked down at the man in dismay. She could see he’d fallen down the stairs and his leg was at an awkward angle.
“Where’s your phone? We’ve got to call 911,” she said as she turned around to the twins. “We’ll need an ambulance right away.”
The boys just looked at her expectantly. The one had already taken off his scarf and the other was halfway out of his snowsuit. “Can’t you just make daddy all better?” one of them finally asked.
“I’m not a doctor,” she said quickly as her eyes scanned the living room. Old sofa, wooden rocker, plaid recliner, Christmas tree with lights but no ornaments—ah, there, on the coffee table, next to a magazine, was a phone. She dialed the numbers: 911. Nothing. Glory shook the phone. She must have dialed wrong. She tried again: 911. Still nothing. What was the matter? There was a dial tone. Surely—then it dawned on her. There was no 911 here. Probably no ambulance, either.
“Who’s your nearest neighbor?” Glory put down the phone and turned to the boys. She could already feel her hair flying loose as a result of the static from taking off her cap earlier.
“Mr. Gossett,” the boy in the Power Rangers pajamas finally said, but then he leaned closer and confided, “But you won’t like him. He drinks bottles and bottles of whiskey. I seen them. Miz Hargrove says he’s gonna go to hell someday.”
“Well, just as long as he isn’t planning to go today,” Glory said as she pulled her knit cap over her head and walked toward the door.
The next time Matthew woke up he was in the clinic in Miles City. He’d recognize the antiseptic smell of a clinic anywhere. And the gruff voice of Dr. Norris in the background.
