Janet Tronstad - An Angel for Dry Creek

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 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.

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.

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

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.