A Rich Man for Dry Creek and A Hero For Dry Creek: A Rich Man For Dry Creek / A Hero For Dry Creek

Jenny had made a big mistake. She should never have promised hors d’oeuvres to go with the lobsters she was serving tonight.

The ranching community of Dry Creek, tucked up close to the Big Sheep Mountains in southern Montana, was absolutely delightful. But any sane chef would have insisted the menu be switched to chili dogs and corn chips the minute she discovered the only store in town sold ten kinds of cattle feed and not one single thing for a human to eat.

Jenny had not been able to buy any of her last-minute supplies.

She’d turned for help to the couple who ran the café but they were only set up to serve hamburgers, biscuits and spaghetti. They had sugar packets, squeeze bottles of honey and those plastic packets filled with ketchup. There was not one obvious hors d’oeuvre in sight.

She was doomed.

Jenny heard an impatient grunt on the other end of the phone.

“Sorry, but if you ask me, Mr. Buckwalter is so sane he’s almost comatose.” Jenny had tried earlier to make conversation with the man. No luck. “Stuffed-shirt kind of sane. Think Dad.”

“But Dad’s fifty years old!”

“Well, Robert Buckwalter acts like he’s a hundred.” Jenny still felt a twinge of pique. The whole world knew that her employer’s son, Robert Buckwalter, was a ladies’ man. He was supposed to flirt with all women.

Jenny had expected to dodge a compliment or two on the flight over. But the man had sat in the pilot’s seat next to her the whole flight and not said anything at all once he’d made sure she’d fastened her seat belt. For which, she told herself firmly, she should be grateful. And she should be fair to the man. “Of course he’s most helpful—especially when he’s got an apron around his waist.”

“He’s got an apron on!”

“Well, he’s helping me with the hors d’oeuvres. We’ve got a hundred people coming for dinner—Maine lobsters—and I’ve had to improvise with the hors d’oeuvres.”

Improvise was putting it lightly, Jenny thought. Try egg salad on toast—which wouldn’t be so bad if she could at least find something to sprinkle on top of it.

“Robert Buckwalter the Third is cooking for you—and he has an apron on!” Jenny’s sister couldn’t let go of that thought.

“Well, it’s only some carrot stubs. It’s not like he’s whipping up a soufflé or anything complicated.”

“But he doesn’t even grill. It says that in his bio. My word, do you know how much money the man has?”

The question was obviously rhetorical and Jenny didn’t answer.

She had enough to do pushing aside spice tins hoping for some paprika.

The Dry Creek café had been abandoned years ago and left empty until a couple of teenagers had reopened it this past December on the night of the town’s first annual Christmas pageant. The original owners must have decided some supplies weren’t worth hauling out of Dry Creek because stray cans and tins had been left behind to sit quietly, collecting dust, for all those years.

“A little kitchen work never hurt anyone,” Jenny said. You’d think she was exploiting children or something. The idle rich were not a protected species.

“You’re not bossing him around, are you? Please tell me you’re not bossing him around.”

“He volunteered!”

“Good, because he is Robert Buckwalter the Third.”

“Give me some credit. I know how it is with the rich.”

Jenny didn’t have to remind her sister that, when they were kids, it was the fancy cars of the rich people who had always come to the suburban area near them to drop off their unwanted pets.

Apparently her sister not only remembered the cars, she also remembered that Jenny had been the one to shake her fist at the drivers as they sped away. “Look, Jenny, it’s important that you’re nice—you know, give him a chance to like you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Well, maybe he’ll talk to you. Tell you things. I could use some help here. I think the only reason I got my job is because you are working for the Buckwalters and my boss thought you’d be able to tell me stuff for the paper. Like this list of one hundred bachelors we’re working on. Buckwalter’s at the top, so far, and I’m counting on you to tell me about him.”

Jenny sighed. “You shouldn’t have taken the job then. It’s not right. Besides, I don’t have anything to tell. I hardly know the man.”

“He answered your phone.”

“This isn’t my phone. It’s the Buckwalter business phone. It’s supposed to be for business calls only. I’m surprised the main office gave you the number.”

A dim lightbulb hung down from the ceiling and Jenny had to squint to see the top shelf where restaurant-size spice containers were shoved behind several cans of what must be lard even though the labels were so faded they were hard to identify.

“Well, I may have said something about business—”

“What business?”

“Well, this is a business question. Something’s wrong. I’ve been working it out. The man is either crazy or secretly married. He’s always been in the tabloids. I know—I almost crashed my computer doing a word search on him. Dozens of pieces. This party. That woman. The next party. The next woman. And then—bingo—it all stops. Our top sources couldn’t even get the man to return a phone call! And they’re his friends.”

“His friends spy on him?”

“Well, you know how it is with the rich. They all do that. But that’s not the point. The point is that no one’s seen him. There’s been nothing for the last five months.” Jenny’s sister paused and then continued. “I’m hoping you know why. My editor is getting nervous. We need to decide if we’re going to make Robert Buckwalter number one on our bachelor list. Do you know what that means to be number one? Men would kill for that spot. You can make a million just endorsing stuff—shaving cream, shoes, clothes. It’s a gold mine. But we certainly don’t want to give the title to Buckwalter if he’s wacko or married. We’d look like fools who didn’t even know what was going on in the world.” She sighed. “Do you really think he could be married?”

“I doubt it—surely, he’d tell his friends if he got married.”

“Not if she was unsuitable.”

Jenny paused. She remembered she wasn’t the only one to protest those rich cars when they were kids. Her sister was there, too. “You don’t need to worry. It’s not like he married a kitten who grew up to be too much trouble. Even the rich don’t treat their wives that way.” Well, usually not, she added silently. “Besides, I thought that anything goes with the rich these days—look at that blond singer. Underwear in public. Pierced tongues. There’s not much left to be unsuitable.”

“She could be poor.”

Jenny’s lips tightened. “If that bothers him, then he shouldn’t have married her in the first place.”

“Is he wearing a wedding ring?” her sister asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you know? Goodness, Jenny, don’t you even look anymore? Talk about him being comatose. You’re turning positively ancient yourself.”

“I am not! Twenty-nine is young.”

“If you don’t look at the ring finger, believe me, you’re old.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure he didn’t have a ring. I remember giving him the knife, and I always check for rings—some people like to take them off so they don’t get wet.”

“You’re getting him wet! Robert Buckwalter the Third.”

“Even rich people need their vegetables washed.”