Janet Tronstad - A Gentleman for Dry Creek

“The other guy?” Sylvia’s eyes followed his gaze.

The bench was at the end of the hall and a square of light shone in through a side window. That was the only natural light. In addition a row of ceiling lights burned weakly, leaving more shadows than anything. A man sat on the hall bench, staring at the brown wall across from him. Sylvia was too far away to see his face. But she didn’t need to see it to know who he was. How many gray Stetson hats were there in Seattle in February?

The hall seemed far from the hub of the station and the noises that filled the rest of the building were muffled here. Sylvia was aware of the sharp snap of her heels as she marched down the hall.

Garth Elkton was the last person she wanted to face today. Correction. He was the second to the last. Mrs. Buckwalter was the absolute last, and as friendly as the two of them had been when they parted yesterday, she wasn’t sure that what one discovered wouldn’t be shared soon enough by both of them.

Ordinarily she wouldn’t mind. She didn’t have anything to hide. But this… She shook her head. She knew it would not look good to their potential sponsor to find all thirty-one kids from her center behind bars this morning.

As eccentric as Mrs. Buckwalter appeared, even she could hardly think this was a good beginning to their plans. Sylvia only hoped the woman wouldn’t find out about the arrests. The older woman had made a verbal commitment yesterday. But nothing had been put in writing. Everything could change if Mrs. Buckwalter knew about the kids being in jail and had sent Garth to find out whether the arrests were justified.

Sylvia was halfway down the hall when the hat moved.

Garth didn’t know why someone would put a stone bench in the hall of a police station. He’d perched on mountain rocks that were more comfortable. Not that anything about the building had been designed for comfort. Made a man feel as if he was locked up behind bars already. Guilty before he was even sent to trial.

The only good thing about the building was the hard linoleum floor. He loved the sounds of a high-heeled woman walking across a hard surface. Something about the tip-tap was thoroughly feminine. He hoped Sylvia would walk right up to him before she started to talk.

She didn’t.

“What are you doing here?” Sylvia was a good five feet from him. The question could have been friendly. But it wasn’t.

Garth eyeballed her cautiously. Sylvia had more quills than a porcupine and, unless he missed his guess, she’d just as soon bury them one by one in his hide. Slowly. He’d seen what tangling with a mad porcupine could do. He’d just as soon save his skin.

“Glory called me,” Garth answered quietly. That much he could tell her. He wasn’t sure her pride would want to know Glory had asked him to help keep Sylvia calm until she got there. “Asked me to meet her here.”

Garth watched Sylvia’s face. She might have porcupine quills, but her eyes were the tenderest blue he’d ever seen. And right now he wasn’t sure whether they were snapping with anger or tears. Maybe both. Her cheeks were red and he noticed she hadn’t pinned her hair back, instead sweeping her coal-black tresses back into a scarf.

“That’s the only reason?” Sylvia eyed him doubtfully.

Garth smiled. “Well, she did tell me they had coffee here. I haven’t seen any yet, but she said she’d get me a cup. Almond flavored.”

Sylvia seemed to relax. “Glory does like her flavored coffee.”

Garth decided disarming a porcupine wasn’t such a difficult task. He moved over on the bench and Sylvia sank down beside him. He took a deep breath. How was it she always smelled of peaches? Made him think of a summer orchard even though it was raining outside and the humidity was so high that the concrete walls were sweating.

If it wasn’t for the echo in the hallway, Garth would whistle a tune. He was that happy. Sylvia was sitting down beside him. She hadn’t thrown any barbs at him. Life was good. Forget the echoes in the hallway, he thought. A good whistle would cheer everyone up. Garth drew his breath and then it came.

“I thought maybe Mrs. Buckwalter had sent you,” Sylvia said quietly. “I thought she’d asked you to spy.”

Garth choked on the whistle. “What?” His tongue was still tangled. How did she know about Mrs. Buckwalter? The older woman hadn’t told him until he walked her to her car yesterday that she had a message for him from the FBI. She’d asked him again about infiltrating the rustling ring as a spy. He was going to dismiss the idea just as he’d done before—when she reminded him of the kids. The kids made him pause. Still, Sylvia could not know about the FBI’s offer. He himself was sworn to secrecy. That was the way these things worked. Anyone who watched television knew that much.

“I don’t know anything to spy about,” Garth answered carefully. He wondered if Mrs. Buckwalter had told Sylvia. He always thought it was a mistake for the FBI to use civilians. They never knew when to keep quiet.

“So Mrs. Buckwalter doesn’t know?” Sylvia said, relief evident in her voice.

Garth eyed her. Sylvia had leaned against the bench’s stone back and actually appeared comfortable. Garth decided there was one advantage to the stone. The pitted beige texture made Sylvia’s hair look silken in contrast. The black strands softly caught in the roughness of the concrete and flew around her head like a halo.

“About—?” Garth left the question to dangle.

Sylvia straightened up and looked at him critically.

Garth nervously tipped back his hat. He’d taken it off earlier, but then put it back on.

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell,” Sylvia said seriously.

Garth half smiled. She reminded him of a school-child when she said that. He raised one hand in oath. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Sylvia smiled back faintly, so quick and slight Garth would have thought he’d imagined it if her eyes hadn’t flashed, too.

Then she was solemn and worried. “The kids have been arrested.”

Garth wished he could take the worry off her face. Taking care of some thirty kids was too much for anyone, even Sylvia. “Glory told me there was trouble,” Garth said. “Actually, Matthew told me—he seemed in a hurry and didn’t tell me much. He’d called from the hotel lobby before he left this morning.”

Sylvia nodded. “I’m waiting to see the kids. But first I wanted to talk to Glory and see what chances we have—maybe a kindhearted judge will help us.”

Quick footsteps came toward them and Garth heard them before Sylvia. “Help is on the way.”

“We’ve got to hurry,” Glory Beckett said as she rushed down the hall and stood beside Sylvia. “I’ve got ten minutes on Judge Mason’s calendar—now.”

“Well, let’s go.” Sylvia stood. She and Glory had been through this drill before.

Judge Mason sat behind the bench in his courtroom. On another day, Sylvia would have appreciated the carved mahogany molding in the room. The court reporter was present as well as a lawyer from the D.A.’s office.

“Just so we’re clear.” Judge Mason looked over a list he held in his hand and then looked directly at Sylvia. “We’ve got an assortment of assault charges. Aiding and abetting. You want to post bail for all thirty-one of these juveniles?”

Sylvia nodded. “If I can. I have this.” She held up the watch Mrs. Buckwalter had given her yesterday. “I’m hoping it’ll be enough.”

“A watch?” The judge looked skeptical.

“Diamonds,” Sylvia assured him as she twisted the watchband so it would sparkle.

The judge grunted. “Doubt it’ll be enough for all thirty-one. But I tell you what. I’m going to keep it low—ten thousand dollars apiece on the assault and five thousand dollars on the rest. I’m going to overlook the probation violations. You can bail half of them out with the watch.”