Janet Tronstad - Dry Creek Sweethearts

Maybe that’s why he was drawn to Dry Creek. He’d known what he wanted from his music when he was here.

“We’ll say it’s a pilgrimage thing,” Phil said. “People like that kind of thing. A spiritual quest in the church of your childhood. This might work.”

Duane passed the last house in Dry Creek and then saw the driveway to his great-aunt’s house. There were no lights in the house, of course, because no one was living there now. Still, Duane felt satisfaction when he drove past the bent stop sign and turned the bus onto the driveway. He was back on Enger land at last. His grandfather had farmed this land. Coming to this place had made him feel, for the first time as a boy, that he wasn’t just drifting through life. Granted, at the moment, it was muddy Enger land, but Duane’s roots were here even if they were buried deep.

The bus was about halfway down the driveway when Duane felt the tires start to spin. He pressed on the gas and the tires spun some more. After the third time on the gas pedal, he was well and truly stuck in the mud. He didn’t think Phil even realized what had gone wrong and Duane didn’t have the voice to explain it all to him so he just said it was time to rest.

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.”