Dry Creek Sweethearts

Phil was so involved in making notes in his planner that he didn’t pay any attention to where they were anyway. Which was fine with Duane. He turned the ignition off and stretched a minute. Then he stood up and took one of the blankets draped over one of the seats and walked toward the bed area they had in the back of the bus. He was going to get some sleep. If Phil wanted to stay up all night and plan the church visit, that was fine. Let the man have his fun.

Duane lay down in the back of the bus and wrapped the blanket around him. Sleep never sounded so good.

Ten hours later, Duane heard a horn honking. He turned over and squinted at the soft light coming in the windows of the bus. It wasn’t even full day yet. And his throat was on fire. So, he pulled the blanket over his head to block the emerging sun and hoped that Phil would go talk to whoever was outside. Phil was good at reasoning with people who were annoyed and that honking sounded as if someone was upset about something.

Linda stared at the big bus stuck in the middle of the Enger driveway. There were enough tinted windows in the thing to make it look like a caricature of a Mafia car. Only twenty times as big, of course. She wondered if a gamblers’ tour to Las Vegas had gotten blown off course in the storm last night. There was no sane reason she could think of for a bus like this to be parked in a Dry Creek driveway. So much mud was spattered along the side of the bus that she couldn’t read the name of the tour company. Sometimes tour buses came through here on the way to the park where Custer’s Last Stand happened and this could be one of them.

Of course, there would be dozens of people milling around outside if that were the case. Once in a while, a tour bus would stop at the café and she knew tourists were never quiet. No, it couldn’t be a tour bus.

Maybe Lucy was right about everything needing a name, after all. There was something unsettling about seeing things and not knowing their name. She didn’t have a clue about where the bus came from or what it was or why it was here. That’s why she’d pulled off the road and come in to check it out. Maybe Duane had decided to repair the old homestead and had sent a bus up filled with supplies. No, that didn’t make any sense, either.

Linda’s heart sank. Maybe Duane had sold the place. He certainly hadn’t advertised for a buyer around this part of the country so that meant the new owners were probably from Hollywood. They’d probably tear the old house down and build some ugly mansion. Boots would be totally lost if they did that. He still walked over to the old house every day just to smell the familiar things. Not that Duane had probably bothered to find that out.

It was just like Duane to sell the house without checking with anyone in Dry Creek. But that must be what happened. This bus surely made it look that way. That bus was even big enough to serve as temporary lodging for workmen while the mansion was being built.

There was one of the workers now. Linda saw a man open the door of the bus and step down. He didn’t look very strong, but she supposed Hollywood builders might have enough sophisticated tools that they didn’t need to be strong to do their jobs.

“Can I help you?” the man said as he closed the door to the bus and stepped closer to her. “We’re not blocking anything, are we?”

“No, not a problem,” Linda said as she tried to give the man a cheerful smile. “Sorry if I woke you up. I suppose you’re with the new owners?”

The man blinked at her. “Maybe.”

“Oh.” Linda swallowed. That was a clear “none of your business” answer. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help you, let me know. And welcome to Dry Creek.”

“I could use some help finding the church.”

“Oh, well, that’s easy.” Linda turned to point. “It’s the white building on the other side of town. You see the cross?”

The man nodded.

“You can usually find Pastor Curtis at the hardware store during the mornings. He works there some. If you need to talk to him, that is.”

“Oh, we’ll need to talk to him,” the man said. “The Jazz Man is on a pilgrimage.”

“Jazz—you mean?” Linda looked frantically at the bus. She wished she could see in those tinted windows. Or wipe the mud off the side of the bus and read what it said.

The man nodded proudly. “He’s going to meet God, right here in Dry Creek, his childhood home.”

“He’s here?” Linda asked. She took a step forward involuntarily and then took two steps back. “Here himself.”

She wondered if there was another Jazz Man who had grown up around here.

The man continued to beam and nod. “Isn’t it great?”

Linda swallowed. Great wasn’t the word she would use to describe it. Astonishing, maybe. But great, no.

“We’ll have to start making arrangements, of course. Are there any hotels around? We’ll need to reserve some rooms.”

“Mrs. Hargrove has a room she rents out sometimes. It’s over her garage.”

The man frowned, but he took out a notebook from his pocket and opened it up. “I suppose it will have to do. What is the name of her place?”

“Name?” Linda was finally one hundred percent convinced that Lucy was right and that every business needed a name. “I don’t think it has one yet.”

“Oh.”

“But you can find it easy enough. It’s just down the street from my café.”

“You own the café? Are you serving breakfast yet?”

Linda nodded. “As soon as I get there and open up.”

“I’ll be there. I don’t suppose you have soup on the menu?”

She shrugged. “I could heat some up for you. It’s leftover from yesterday, though. Vegetable beef.”

“Perfect. I’ll stop in before I go over to the church. Or should I go to the church first? That sounds more pious, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. The reporters aren’t here yet. Besides, it’s Duane Enger who’s found religion. Not me.”

Linda was speechless. What was the man talking about? She didn’t mean to be skeptical about another person’s faith, but the Duane she knew hadn’t spared a thought for God. Duane had gone to church to please his great-aunt and that was all. “You’re talking about the real God? Not some strange guru cult thing?”

The man drew himself up to his full height. “Of course I’m talking about the real God.”

“Oh, well then—” Linda stammered. She could have asked the man if he used real butter and gotten the same reaction. “Congratulations.”

The man nodded. “I think we’ll have Duane sing a solo for church to celebrate his return to the faith. That should make for some good pictures. You have choir robes, don’t you?”

Linda nodded her head. That settled it for her. The Duane she knew would never wear a choir robe. “Sort of. But they’re old. And faded. They’ve been packed away for a couple of years. No one usually wears them for a solo anyway.”

“What color are they? I hope they’re not a metallic gray. That doesn’t show up so well in pictures.”

“They’re blue with white collars.”

“Good.” The man nodded. “Blue is good for pictures. And it looks so religious, if you know what I mean. You always see it in the old religious paintings. Why do you suppose that is?”

“You really should be talking to Pastor Curtis about this. I think those robes would need to be cleaned if anyone was going to wear one.”

“I’ll do that. Right after breakfast.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say so Linda nodded. Maybe the man was crazy. She’d been looking at those tinted windows for five minutes now and she didn’t see any movement inside the bus. Maybe the man was some kind of stalker who went to the childhood homes of celebrities and told everyone the celebrity was inside a bus when it was really empty. It would be kind of creepy, but—

Suddenly, Linda realized she and this man were the only ones standing here in the middle of the Engers’ driveway. “I should get to the café.”

The man smiled. “I’ll be there for breakfast in a few minutes.”

Linda turned. “You might want to stop at the hardware store first.”

She started walking back to her car.

There were always lots of men sitting around the old woodstove in the hardware store early in the morning before the café opened. Charley Nelson and Elmer Maynard particularly made that a habit now that they’d retired from ranching. They sat there and waited for the café to open. Both of them had lived enough years on this earth to be able to spot a crazy person if they talked to him for more than a minute. She’d stop and warn them to be on guard.

And, just to be on the safe side, she’d bring out her heavy metal spatula from the kitchen when she served this man his breakfast. She could slip it into the pocket of her big apron; it wouldn’t look as much out of place as the butcher knife would. Besides, the man didn’t look tall enough to overpower her, so the spatula should keep her safe and secure enough. A solid rap with that should discourage him.

In a way, she told herself as she got in her car and drove the rest of the way to her café, she hoped the man was crazy. That meant Duane Enger wasn’t anywhere near Dry Creek. Even a spatula wouldn’t do much to protect her from Duane.

She’d opened the café door before she remembered she had something even stronger than a kitchen utensil to rely on here. She had the power of prayer. She was still new in her faith and she had to confess she was too used to solving her own problems. She needed to learn to ask God for help more; Mrs. Hargrove and Pastor Curtis had both told her that.

“He wants you to turn to Him, dear,” Mrs. Hargrove was forever saying. “You’re His child now. He cares about you.”

So, after Linda went into the kitchen part of the café to start the coffee, she took her Bible out of her purse and started to read the Psalms. The words did make her feel better.

After all, if God could keep someone safe in the valley of the shadow of death, He could protect her from a man having delusions of grandeur in a mud puddle in the Enger driveway. She’d still carry the spatula for backup insurance, though. The Bible talked about wise and prudent women, too. There was no point in being foolish and going off unprepared for problems.

Chapter Three

Duane woke up several hours later and squinted. Enough light was coming in the tinted windows to let him know it was midmorning. He wished it was still dark. His eyelids felt as though they were coated with sandpaper. Fortunately, the fire in his throat was gone and he could swallow without pain. He tried to say his name and an encouragingly full voice came out briefly before turning to a squeak. If he had some coffee, he might actually be able to talk normally.

Something had pulled Duane out of his sleep and he couldn’t figure out what it was. Phil was obviously not in the bus. The rain must have stopped, because Duane couldn’t hear it. No one was around. He knew the bus was stuck in the mud at his great-aunt’s place. It couldn’t have been the sound of another vehicle coming up to the bus that had awakened him. Nothing but a tow truck could get in and there were no tow trucks in Dry Creek. If anyone was here, they had walked down the driveway.

Then he heard it. A quick, decisive knock on the door of the bus.

Phil wouldn’t ordinarily knock, but maybe he had his hands full with something and couldn’t pull the door open. The thought encouraged Duane since that probably meant his manager was on the other side of the door holding several cups of coffee.

Duane ran his hand through his hair as he walked down the aisle of the bus toward the door. He’d have to find Mrs. Hargrove and ask about getting the key to his great-aunt’s place. Well, it was technically his place now, although he never thought of it that way.

Great-Aunt Cornelia would be the first one to tell him to get his hair combed before he went out and he had a stubborn spot that resisted his finger combing. If he could get inside the house, he could take a shower. The water would be cold, but it would be better than nothing. It should, at least, tame his hair. Maybe he’d be able to turn the utilities on without too much trouble.

Duane stepped down toward the bus door and pushed it open.

“Oh.”

Duane grunted and took another swipe at his hair. The sun was bright outside and it hurt his eyes. He blinked anyway. What was she doing here? He always thought that when he saw her again, he would be looking good. Like maybe coming off a heart-pounding concert where there were screaming fans on the sidelines and reporters taking pictures.

Instead, he suddenly remembered the ketchup stain on his T-shirt from the hamburger he’d eaten outside of Salt Lake yesterday. A T-shirt he’d just slept in. And he hadn’t shaved since he left San Pedro. Or even brushed his teeth last night. There wasn’t a fan in sight. And his hair looked wild.

“You’re really here,” Linda said to him as she narrowed her eyes and examined him suspiciously.

Duane winced. She would have given a warmer welcome to a spider crawling up her arm. And she hated spiders.

“My bus,” Duane croaked out. His voice was not as strong as he had hoped or he would remind her it was also his land. The people in this part of the world might not be impressed by rock stars, but they were big on the rights of someone who owned land to be on that land, even if they were stuck in the mud and looked as if they’d slept on a park bench during a hurricane.

Right now, Duane couldn’t speak all of the words he’d need to explain that he didn’t usually look like this. That he was successful and had money in the bank. In two banks, in fact. He even had gel that would tame his hair if he just had a chance to get to it.

Linda held out a brown bag. “Your friend, Phil, asked me to bring this out to you.”

He saw the forced smile Linda gave him. Her face was thinner than he remembered and her hair was definitely more subdued. She’d let it go back to her natural brown color and it looked good, all sleek and shapely. She was wearing jeans and an oversize chef’s apron that covered a white T-shirt. Of course, there were no ketchup stains on her T-shirt. No hair problems, either. She could have stepped off the cover of a gourmet food magazine.

Duane needed coffee. There were two containers in the bag and as long as one of them was coffee he was okay. He’d drink almost anything if it’d give him his voice back so he could talk to Linda. “Thanks.”

Linda stiffened. “No need to thank me. There’s some hot soup there, too.”

Duane reached out and took the bag while he had the chance. “How much?”

“It’s already been paid for.”

“Oh.” Duane looked at the clutter tray he kept near the driver’s seat. He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill that was curled up there between several singles.

He offered the twenty to Linda. “Tip.”

Linda’s eyes snapped as if he’d insulted her. “You don’t need to give me that kind of money.”

Okay, so Linda was finally talking to him.

Duane’s head hurt. Giving someone a generous tip was supposed to be a good thing and, when he got his voice back, he intended to tell Linda that. He would try to tell her now, but the sun was shining down on her and he just wanted to take another minute to look at her.

“Your hair—” Duane said. The sun was turning strands of her brown hair into gold. It was beautiful. She should have let it go natural years ago.

Linda flushed. “I know it’s nothing like it used to be. I don’t take time to streak it anymore. I have to get Lucy off to school before I get to the café and—well, you don’t want to know all about that. You probably don’t have to worry about getting anyone anywhere, not even a dog.”

“But—”

“Sorry, it’s none of my business who you live with, dog or otherwise,” Linda interrupted, looking determined to be polite. “So, Phil tells me you’ve come back here to sing a big, dramatic solo in our church.”

“What?” The word started with a squeak and ended with a whisper.

“I hope it’s not supposed to be a secret. He’s back at the café now using my phone to make some calls. Cell phone reception isn’t very good here. People don’t usually have a press conference after singing in church, but I’m sure you know what you’re doing. After all, it’s your show.”

Duane shook his head. His voice might be gone, but he didn’t want Linda to believe what Phil said about him giving a show. The agreement last night was that Duane would visit the church—visit the church—as in going to a church service and putting a big donation in the offering plate. He hadn’t agreed to call the kind of attention to himself Linda was talking about. Duane knew that people around here took their church seriously. He didn’t want to come in looking like some big shot throwing his weight around and demanding to do a solo in front of reporters.

He’d been nearly invisible when he’d been here as a teenager; the cowboys, like his friend Lance, had overshadowed everyone else. Duane hadn’t expected any big attention from the church back then and he certainly didn’t expect it now. He’d played guitar for people in the café and that was it. He’d always wanted to keep a low profile in Dry Creek anyway. He wasn’t really accepted here and he knew it. He saw no reason to remind everyone else of the fact. Besides, they all knew he hated church; that much had been obvious.

Linda moved slightly. “Well, I need to get back to the café.”

The one person who had seemed to really accept him in Dry Creek had been Linda. She’d opened her heart to him when he’d been a lonely boy and never turned it away from him. He’d later thought she was like sunshine after a long Chicago winter.

And then he’d made the mistake of asking her to marry him. He never should have done that. He was in some dreamlike fog when he asked, but he should have known better. A man like him had no business thinking of having a wife or a family. Especially not a sweet wife like Linda. He’d grown up in a car, for pity’s sake. A car that reeked of alcohol. His only friend back in Chicago had been a homeless man named Pete who had taught him to play jazz songs on the guitar. Duane figured he had nothing to offer a family.

Still, seeing Linda here today in the sunshine made him long for a future with her anyway, even if he couldn’t have it.

“Don’t go,” Duane tried to say, but he couldn’t make any sound and Linda just turned to walk away.

Duane looked down at the coffee he held in his hands. He hoped it gave him his voice back because he needed to speak to Phil. And then he needed to talk to Linda.

Linda looked back at the bus when she reached the main road. She’d walked over to the bus instead of driving and she was glad she had. It gave her a few minutes to pull herself together before she got back to the café.

She stood a moment at the bent-heart stop sign that marked the gravel road crossing by the Enger driveway. There were several plastic red flowers planted in the dirt at the bottom of that sign as a reminder of the love of the eloping couple from twenty-six years ago.

Linda had to blink to stop from crying. One miracle in the love department was probably all that would happen in Dry Creek for a while. Besides, she couldn’t stand here all day. Even if Doris June Hargrove and Curtis Nelson had their happily-ever-after, that didn’t mean God was going to give one to her and Duane. Linda didn’t even have the hope needed to pray for one.

The day was still overcast and the ground was damp as she kept walking back to the café. Everything smelled musty, like wet earth. She hadn’t worn a jacket and she crossed her arms to warm herself. The day had turned chilly. Or maybe it was just her. There had been nothing in the day when she got up to warn her that her worst nightmare was coming true.

Apparently Phil wasn’t crazy after all. Duane was back there in his black tour bus, looking very much like the rock star he was. She wished she had believed he was really in the bus, because then she would have used the walk over here to think of something clever to say to him.

Instead, she’d sounded like what she was—a delivery person from the local café. And, a bit of a shrew. She couldn’t believe she’d practically asked if he was living with someone. His private life was certainly none of her business. Technically, it wasn’t even any of her concern if he had gotten a dog to replace Boots.

Thinking of Boots reminded her that she’d have to give Mrs. Hargrove a call and warn her that Duane was back in town. She hoped Boots wouldn’t be as shocked to see Duane as she had been. Then she’d have to call Lucy. It was Saturday and her sister was at home, but she’d never forgive Linda if she missed a chance to see the Jazz Man up close and in person.

She wondered how long Duane would be here.

Linda shook her head. She had always thought that, if she saw Duane again, she would say something to make him regret leaving Dry Creek. Make him regret leaving her. She certainly didn’t think she’d be taking a righteous stand about some mammoth tip he wanted to give her. Now that she had a moment to think about it, she decided her reaction had made her sound as if she had needed the twenty dollars and had been too embarrassed to accept it.

Linda knew God didn’t care more about some people than others because they had larger bank accounts. And, truthfully, she was happy with the money she made in her café, especially now that they’d started setting the pie money aside for Lucy’s college fund so that worry was covered.

It’s just that Linda didn’t like the feeling that Duane might look at her and be glad he wasn’t married to her. Of course, if he did it probably would have nothing to do with money. Cold hard cash was only the beginning of the differences in their lives now. Duane was probably relieved not to be with her because she’d grown old and boring while he’d turned into a glamorous rock star without a care in the world. He probably knew without asking that she didn’t own one designer pair of jeans, but had three old fuzzy bathrobes instead.

Linda had known since her visit to Hollywood that she wouldn’t fit in with Duane’s road trip life, but she hadn’t known until this morning that she’d turned into the same kind of disapproving adult she and Duane had complained about all those years ago. She probably would never have to admit it to him, but she didn’t even like the rock music he played anymore. It was too loud and it made her want to turn the volume down.

She shook her head. She had indeed turned into her mother. It wasn’t a happy thought.

There were several people on the porch of the café when Linda walked up and she doubted it was because she was serving Irish oatmeal for breakfast this week.

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