A Bride for Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

didn’t want you to be shot on my account,” Francis whispered airily as she limped toward him. “If you just let me go now, there’ll be no kidnapping.”

      “There never was a kidnapping. This was a rescue.”

      “A rescue?” Francis turned the word over in her mouth and spoke low enough so that whoever was inside the house could not hear. “Don’t you think that’s going a bit far? I don’t think anyone would believe it’s a rescue— I think we better stick with the seduction story.”

      Flint shook his head. No wonder being a hero was so difficult these days.

      “Not that they’ll believe the seduction story, either.” Francis continued to whisper. Her leg was painful, but she found it easier to limp than to stand. “I must look a sight by now.”

      The deep darkness of the night that had gathered around the pine trees lifted as Francis moved toward him. “I wonder which of the men from Dry Creek knew enough to drive out here and wait for us. Pretty quick thinking.”

      Flint held his breath. In the night, he could look at Francis and not worry about the naked desire she would see in his eyes any other time. His jacket had fallen off her shoulders under the tree, and her arms and neck gleamed white even in the midnight darkness. The sequins of that red dress glittered as she moved, showing every curve in her slender body. She was beautiful.

      “It’s not one of the men from Dry Creek,” Flint said softly. “It’s my boss.”

      Francis stopped. She’d never thought—never even considered. And she should have—there’s an order to everything, she reminded herself blindly. One needed to know the place of everything. And a kidnapping, she noted dully, required a motive and, in this case, a boss.

      Francis stared unmoving at the weatherbeaten deserted house that used to belong to Flint’s grandmother. The white paint had peeled off the frame years ago, leaving a chipped grayness that blended into the darkness. Gaping black holes marked where the glass had broken out of the windows.

      “He must think I’m a fool,” Francis whispered stiffly.

      Francis looked so fragile, Flint moved slowly toward her. She looked like a bird, perched for flight even with her sprained leg muscle.

      “No, I’m sure he doesn’t think that at all,” he said softly.

      When he reached Francis, Flint picked her up again. This time he cradled her in his arms properly, as he had wanted to each time he’d picked her up tonight. For the first time, she didn’t resist him. That should thrill his heart, Flint thought. But it didn’t. He knew Francis wasn’t warming toward him. She’d just given up.

      “And that bit about the bed.” Francis continued to fret. “I’m a middle-aged woman. He must think I’m a featherbrain—especially because he knows why you have me out here.”

      “He does, does he?” Flint asked quietly. It came as somewhat of a surprise to him that he’d rather have Francis kicking his shin with her pointed high heels than to have her lying still in his arms feeling foolish after having done something so brave.

      The angle wasn’t perfect for what he needed to do, but Flint found that if he bent his knee and slowly lowered Francis until she was securely perched on the knee, he could crane his neck and do what he needed to do.

      He bent his head down and kissed her. He knew his lips were cold and chapped by now. He knew that the quick indrawn breath he heard from Francis was shock rather than passion. But he also knew that they both needed this kiss more than they needed the air they were breathing.

      Flint took his time. He’d waited twenty years for this kiss and, planned or not, he needed to take his time. He felt the stiffness leave Francis’s lips and he felt them move against him like they used to. He and his Francis were home again.

      “Thank you.” Francis was the first one to breathe after the kiss ended. Her pulse was beating fast, but she willed it to slow. “At least now your boss won’t think I’m delusional—he’ll think you at least tried to seduce me. Middle-aged or not.” Francis stopped speaking to peer into the darkness of the broken windows. “He is watching, isn’t he?”

      For the first time since he’d bent down on one knee, Flint felt the bone-chilling cold of the snow beneath him. He might be home again, but Francis wasn’t. “You think the kiss was for my boss’s benefit?”

      “Of course. And I appreciate it. I really do.”

      Flint only grunted. He must be losing his touch. He went back and picked up his jacket to wrap around Francis.