Dylan nodded. “Thanks, Doc,” he said. “What do I owe you?”
“You’ll get a bill,” Doc replied, squatting in front of Sam to examine him. “You look a whole lot better, fella,” he told the dog, “now that you’ve had a bath and a good meal or two.”
Sam tried to lick his face.
Doc dodged the dog tongue with affectionate grace and another chuckle. Ruffled Sam’s ears before straightening to his full height, knee bones popping like muffled gunshots in the room.
“I’m getting too old for this stuff,” he lamented good-naturedly. “Too bad I don’t have a son to take over the practice, so I could retire like Floyd is about to do.”
Dylan and Logan exchanged amused glances; Doc had been threatening to retire since they’d lost their baby teeth.
“Guess I’ll die with my boots on,” Doc said, sounding resigned.
“How’s Lily?” Logan asked. Lily was Doc’s daughter, his only child. She’d visited every summer after her parents’ less-than-amicable divorce, a wistful little girl, always on her dad’s heels.
“Made me a grandfather six years ago,” Doc said, somewhat sadly, “not that I ever see her or little Tess. Lily was always more her mother’s girl than mine.”
Dylan, the father of a daughter himself, felt a pang at this. Only denial had kept him from missing Bonnie every moment he’d been away from her. Denial and poker and stunt work.
Gossip though he did, Doc didn’t commonly open up about his personal life. That day, he looked smaller than usual, and more stooped. He really was getting old, and the thought saddened Dylan, blew over him like a chilly wind on a lonely winter night.
“Tyler was crazy about Lily,” Logan reflected thoughtfully. Dylan recalled their youngest brother’s crush on Lily Ryder well. Around the time they both hit high school, though, Lily’s mother had remarried, and the happy couple had moved back east somewhere, taking Lily with them. After that, she hadn’t made many more long summer visits, as far as Dylan recalled.
Doc nodded, hand resting on the doorknob, eyes far away. “Wild as Tyler was, I’ve often wondered if Lily wouldn’t have been better off with him than that flyboy she married. He was a piece of work—had himself a pretty little flight attendant stashed in every city on his route.”
“Was?” Dylan asked.
“Flying for a major airline wasn’t enough for him,” Doc answered, coming back into himself with a visible start, giving a little shudder. “Burke Kenyon had to barnstorm on the weekends, in some jerry-rigged little plane he built himself. Crashed it right into a viaduct one day.”
Neither Dylan nor Logan spoke. If Doc needed to vent, they’d listen.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Doc said, with a haunted expression and a smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “I guess it just wears on me, knowing Lily blames herself for Burke dying the way he did.”
Dylan swallowed hard.
Logan cleared his throat, cast a nervous glance in Dylan’s direction. “Why would she do that?” Logan asked gruffly.
“She’d served Burke with divorce papers when it happened,” Doc answered. “Lily doesn’t confide in me much, but I think she believes he might have crashed that plane deliberately because she was leaving him.”
By that point, Logan was looking at Dylan, not Doc, and the expression in his eyes, one of painful reluctance, set off some alarms in Dylan’s head.
Doc said his goodbyes and left.
Bonnie toddled off into the living room, followed by Sam, and when Dylan checked on her, he found her curled up on the couch, sound asleep. Sam rested dutifully on the floor, as close to her as he could get.
Dylan went back to the kitchen. He’d been chomping at the bit to talk to Logan about filing for custody of Bonnie, but he knew now that something else was up. Something big.
“What’s going on, Logan?” he asked his brother.
Logan stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on his hips, elbows sticking out. “It’s about Dad,” he said.
Dylan’s back molars clamped together; he consciously relaxed his jaw. Jake Creed was a sore spot between them, for all their separate efforts at being real brothers again, and if Logan was going to start up on the old man, the way he had after the funeral, they’d be back at square one.
“Save it,” he said.
“I can’t,” Logan replied grimly. “It’s too important.”
“What?” Dylan snapped. Whatever was coming, he knew he didn’t want to hear it. He also knew he didn’t have a choice.
“Sit down,” Logan urged, drawing back the chair he’d occupied when he and Doc were jawing earlier.
Dylan scraped back a chair of his own, sank into it. Glared at Logan as he sat down, too.
“Brett Turlow didn’t kill him, Dylan,” Logan said. Their dad had been a logger, tough as the trees he’d felled for a living. Brett Turlow was the boss’s son, jealous of Jake, and everyone—including Sheriff Book—had always suspected Brett of cutting the chain that released the truckload of logs that had fallen on Jake, though Turlow had always sworn it was an accident.
Dylan didn’t say a word. The memory of that loss scoured and scalded inside him, painful enough to take his breath away. He’d seen Jake lying in the intensive-care unit of a Missoula hospital, shortly after his death, hopelessly crushed, lying amid a tangle of recently disconnected tubes and wires. In his weaker moments, he pictured the so-called accident that had taken his father’s life, heard the thunder of those rolling logs, the sound of splintering bones. He saw the blood and imagined the pain Jake must have experienced.
Logan moved as if to lay a hand on his shoulder, then plucked an old piece of paper out of his shirt pocket instead. Handed it over.
Dylan shook his head. Knew his eyes wouldn’t focus on the words written there.
So Logan read them aloud.
Blood pounded in Dylan’s ears; he heard the letter in bits and pieces.
“‘If you’ve looked this far—’” Logan paused to explain that he’d found the note in a box of family pictures “‘—you’re ready to read this pitiful missive from your soon-to-be dearly departed father—’”
Dylan closed his eyes, endured while Logan read on.
“‘I tried, but I could never get the hang of living.’” Logan stopped, cleared his throat, then went mercilessly on. “‘It was just too damn hard. So today, I mean to go up on the mountain, just like always, and rig a logging chain—’”
The rest was apology.
Excuses.
As if the old man had ever given a shit how his actions affected anybody else in the universe.
“He killed himself,” Dylan ground out, when Logan finally fell silent, refolded the paper, and tucked it back into his pocket. “The rotten, selfish son of a bitch killed himself.”
Logan didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“Does Tyler know?” Dylan asked presently.
Logan nodded. “I told him,” he said, hoarse with the memory.
“Where is he now?” Protecting their little brother was an old habit with Dylan. Even when they were pissed off at each other—the three of them had been known to stand back to back, in the middle of a brawl with each other, and take on all comers.
“I don’t know,” Logan replied wearily. “I’d gone to Dad’s grave. I heard somebody behind me, turned around, and there was Tyler. He sucker punched me, and I went down.”
“And then you told him Dad committed suicide. Why, Logan? Out of spite, because he hit you?”
“Give me some credit, Dylan,” Logan rasped. “I told him because I knew he’d take off and I might not get a chance to talk to him for another five years.”
“If you hadn’t broken his guitar after Dad’s funeral—”
Logan shut his eyes. Opened them again. “Do you think I don’t regret that, Dylan? I was drunk. You were drunk. Hell, we all were, and Tyler kept playing that damned song, making Dad out to be some kind of fallen hero—”
/> “Maybe he needed to believe that, Logan. Did that ever occur to you?”
Logan sighed. “Not then,” he admitted.
Dylan was still seething, but Jake was at the root of his anger, not Logan. “And you just dropped it on him, at Dad’s grave, of all places? He had to be told, I know that—but shouldn’t we have done that together, you and me?”
“I wasn’t sure we’d have that option,” Logan answered. “Like I said, he’s gone.”
Dylan glanced back over one shoulder, and through the living room doorway, he saw Bonnie still napping away on the couch. Pre-Bonnie, he would have been in his truck by then, bent on finding Tyler before he did anything stupid, but now he was a father. Bonnie depended on him. He couldn’t just take off and leave her, no matter how urgent the mission seemed.
“You do recall,” he said fiercely, “that Tyler’s mother killed herself and he didn’t talk for a year after that?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Logan said, looking as dismal as he sounded.
“Shit,” Dylan said.
Neither of them spoke for at least five minutes.
During that time, Dylan thought about Tyler, and about Jake, about the whole dysfunctional mess they called a childhood. But he also thought of Bonnie. If things were going to be different for her than they’d been for him and Logan and Tyler—and by God they were—he’d have to set aside his anger with Logan and ask for his help.
So he told Logan, quietly and calmly, about Sharlene, and Bonnie’s birth, and how he’d found her in his truck that night in Vegas. The story poured out of him and, pride or no pride, he couldn’t hide his desperation to keep and raise his daughter from the brother who knew him so well.
“Do I have a chance in hell?” he asked, when he’d finally finished.
“A fairly good one,” Logan said. “If you’ve still got the note Sharlene left, saying she couldn’t take care of Bonnie any longer.”
Dylan let out a sigh of relief so deep that it left him a little light-headed. “I’m pretty sure I could buy Sharlene off,” he said, keeping his voice down, though Bonnie probably wouldn’t have understood what he was saying, even if she hadn’t been asleep. “But once the money ran out, she’d be back. And if I didn’t give her what she wanted, she might snatch Bonnie. Then there’s the boyfriend—Logan, I’ve got no idea what kind of man he is—”
“We’ll file in the morning,” Logan said. “Where’s the note?”
Dylan had stashed Sharlene’s scrawled excuse in a jelly glass at the back of one of the cupboards. He got it out, handed it to Logan.
Logan read it, gave it back. “Put this in a safety-deposit box at the bank,” he said. “There was a breakin when Briana lived here, if you’ll remember, and we can’t lose this. It’s the best proof we have that Sharlene is unfit to raise a child.”
“Leaving Bonnie in the truck isn’t enough?” Dylan asked.
“From the judge’s perspective, that will be hearsay. Your word against Sharlene’s. If she decides to fight for Bonnie, you can bet your ass she’ll show up in court dressed like a Sunday-school teacher and ready to make you out to be a rodeo bum. A lot of touching tears will flow. The judge might see through it. Or he or she might fall for the whole thing and grant Sharlene sole custody.”
“I can’t let that happen, Logan.”
“I’ll do what I can. Except for the note, Sharlene’s holding the high cards, Dylan. She’s Bonnie’s mother, and she’s bound to say she just got overwhelmed trying to raise a child by herself, without any help from you. If anything happens to the note, she could even claim you stole Bonnie from her.”
“Damn it, I’m Bonnie’s father, and I’ve paid child support ever since she was born!”
“A lot of family-court judges are still pretty old-fashioned,” Logan reminded him. “Especially in rural Montana. They usually sympathize with the mother. I’m not saying things will shake out that way, but you’ve got to face facts here. Sharlene might roll over, especially if there’s a settlement involved. She might also decide to play the wronged single mother, struggling to raise a child on her own, or even demand that you marry her.”
Dylan opened his mouth, closed it again. He could protest all he wanted, but Logan was right. A clever attorney, should Sharlene be smart enough to hire one, paying the retainer out of the money he’d just sent her, could make him look pretty bad. And while no one could legally force him to marry the woman, he knew he’d do even that to keep Bonnie.
He was a former rodeo cowboy, with no visible means of support.
He was single.
He’d been a chronic womanizer since he and Kristy broke up—bimbos would come out of the woodwork, prepared to testify that he was a party animal, a boozer and a brawler, just like his old man.
And plenty of people around Stillwater Springs would agree with that assessment.
He braced his elbows on his thighs, splayed his fingers and shoved them into his hair, his head hanging.
Logan’s hand landed on his right shoulder, squeezed. “There’s one thing working in your favor,” he said.
Dylan didn’t look up. Or shake off his brother’s hand, as he might have done any other time. “What?”
“I’m the best damn lawyer since Clarence Darrow,” Logan replied, with a grin in his voice. “And I play to win.”
Dylan lifted his head, met Logan’s gaze. “You’d damn well better win,” he said.
*
KRISTY MET ZACHARY SPENCER at the Marigold Café, as agreed, as soon as she left the library that night. He’d brought the papers along, outlining their option agreement. The check he’d given her earlier, in her office, was tucked carefully in her wallet, between two twenty-dollar bills, where it seemed to give off some kind of vibratory energy.
Thus far, she hadn’t seen any reporters or newspeople in town, but that didn’t mean they weren’t lurking behind telephone poles or speeding in her direction.
Zachary stood when she entered the café.
Everybody in the place watched as she walked to his table, waited while he pulled back her chair, and sat down.
“They’re staring,” she whispered.
“They’re jealous,” Zachary answered. “Of me. You are one good-looking woman, Kristy Madison.”
The compliment didn’t register; Kristy was too nervous for that. At the edge of her vision, Kristy spotted Mike and Julie Danvers, dining with their two perfect children, both of whom were sporting huge Mike Danvers for Sheriff buttons.
Mike pushed back his chair, straightened his tie and approached Kristy’s table, while Julie seethed visibly behind a rigid campaign smile.
“Kristy,” Mike said. He was a chubby man, not overly tall, with a broad, guileless face. While Kristy had no doubt of his integrity, she didn’t think he had the toughness it would take to be a good sheriff. Except for their breakup, things had gone his way all his life. It was different with his opponent, Jim Huntinghorse, who’d grown up poor on a local reservation.
“Hello, Mike,” she said, smiling. She nodded toward Zachary. “Mike Danvers, this is Mr.—”
Mike flashed a smile and stuck his hand out to the movie star, who rose from his chair as gracefully as if they’d met in a swanky L.A. restaurant instead of a diner in Stillwater Springs, Montana. “I know Zachary,” Mike boomed, as the two men shook hands. “I wanted to thank you personally for that contribution you made to my campaign.”
Zachary cleared his throat diplomatically. “Well, you’re welcome, Mike,” he said. “But I’d be less than honest if I didn’t tell you that I wrote a check to Jim Huntinghorse for the same amount.”
Mike’s confidence seemed to wane a little, but he recovered quickly enough. “I appreciate it just the same,” he said.
Zachary nodded affably. Sat back down at a nod from Mike. “If I can ever manage to buy a chunk of land around here,” Zachary said, “I mean to become a local, at least part-time. I’ve got kids, and good law enforcement matters to me.”
M
ike nodded, at something of a loss. He looked at Kristy, who was pretending to study the menu. As if she didn’t know it by heart, since the Marigold was the only non-drive-through in town, and she ate there often.
“You coming to hear Jim and me discuss the issues tomorrow night, Kristy?” Mike asked hopefully.
Kristy looked up at him. With all that had been going on, she’d forgotten about the Great Debate, to be held at the high school gymnasium. Until Floyd Book had found two bodies in her horse’s grave, the campaign for the sheriff’s job, along with Dylan’s return to Stillwater Springs and Logan’s recent marriage, had been the biggest topic of conversation going.
“I’ll be there,” she said mildly. In truth, she planned to vote for Jim Huntinghorse, but she prided herself on keeping an open mind. And she didn’t want anyone saying she was hiding out, trying to escape the fallout brought on by Sheriff Book’s discovery.
If indeed it had been a discovery, and not something he’d known about all along, and decided to reveal only because the possible sale of the land, and subsequent moving of Sugarfoot’s poor remains, left him with no other choice.
She’d found it easy enough to avoid her dad’s old friend over the last few days, but she knew it couldn’t last. Stillwater Springs was too small a town for that.
“Julie and I just wanted you to know,” Mike told Kristy lamely, after glancing back once at his clearly unhappy but still smiling wife, “that we don’t think for one minute your dad would murder somebody.”
Mike might think that. Julie would not be so generous.
Kristy put her smile on high beam. “Thank you, Mike,” she said. “That’s good to know.”
At last, Mike said goodbye and went back to his family.
“He’s nuts about you,” Zachary observed, with dry amusement.
“He’s married,” Kristy said, in a tone calculated to put paid to the subject of Mike Danvers.
The waitress came.
Zachary ordered a steak, rare, grilled asparagus and a baked potato with the works.
Kristy asked for the same thing she always did—a chef’s salad with Thousand Island on the side.
Linda Lael Miller Montana Creeds Series Volume 1: Montana Creeds: LoganMontana Creeds: DylanMontana Creeds: Tyler Page 41
