Ultrasilly, she thought. She’d already told someone—Dylan—and Sheriff Book knew that, because she’d put her cell phone on speaker at Dylan’s house that day, and the two men had talked to each other.
Besides, Floyd had been her father’s best friend.
He’d come to her college graduation, stuffed into a suit he probably hadn’t worn since his own college days.
He was kind to animals.
He fetched books to and from the library on a regular basis, because his invalid wife loved to read.
He was not a monster.
Kristy had just come to all these perfectly sensible conclusions when she heard a footstep directly overhead, in one of the guest rooms.
Get out now, her practical side warned.
But Kristy had another side—the stubborn one. This was her house, damn it, and she was more angry than she was afraid.
“Who’s there?” she called, moving to the foot of the main stairway.
Still nothing.
“Hello?”
More footsteps, running ones, clattering down the hall, headed for the back stairs, leading to the kitchen.
She bounded in that direction.
There was a shout, followed by a crash, and then a figure in a black running suit landed in a heap at Kristy’s feet.
Freida Turlow.
Stunned, Kristy nonetheless bent over Freida’s huddled form. “Are you all right?”
Freida sat up. “I’m—I’m okay, I think,” she said sheepishly.
Kristy put her hands to her hips. “Next question—what the hell are you doing, prowling around in my house?”
Tears streaked Freida’s dusty cheeks.
Kristy bent to help her up.
“You never changed the locks,” Freida said.
“Don’t try to make this about me,” Kristy replied, taking the woman by the arm and leading her to a chair at the kitchen table.
Freida hobbled a little. “I think I sprained my ankle,” she said.
“Sit down,” Kristy ordered.
The other woman sank into a chair. “I know this seems weird—”
“Seems weird?” Kristy countered, though now that the fine hairs on the back of her neck had lain down again, she was a little calmer. “Freida, you scared me half to death!”
“I’m sorry.” Freida sniffled. “I was just—”
“Just what?”
“Homesick, I guess. I wanted to see my old room.”
“You could have knocked on the door and said that, instead of creeping around like some—some burglar.”
Freida’s smile was dreamy, and singularly odd. “You’ve changed it,” she said. “My room, I mean. Taken out the window seat, pulled up the carpet—”
To keep herself busy, since she wasn’t, it turned out, as calm as she’d thought a moment earlier, Kristy filled the electric teakettle and plugged it in, got tea bags and cups down from a cupboard. “You knew I was remodeling, Freida,” she said. “I would have given you the tour if you’d just asked.”
Freida sniffled again. Her strong shoulders stooped a little, under her sweat jacket. She’d always been athletic, running in marathons, lifting weights. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Oh, Kristy, I don’t know what possessed me to—to trespass—”
Kristy softened a little. Her heart had stopped pounding, and she was breathing at a normal rate again. “I guess you’ve been under a lot of stress,” she said kindly. “What with Brett getting into trouble and everything.”
Freida’s face tightened. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Brett. My baby brother. He’s in treatment in Billings, you know.”
“I knew he was in treatment,” Kristy said. “It must be a relief, knowing he’s getting the help he needs.”
“I shouldn’t have treated Briana Creed the way I did,” Freida muttered, though her expression belied her words. “At the reading-group meeting, I mean.”
Kristy didn’t speak. She plopped tea bags into the cups and waited for the kettle to whistle out steam.
“You like her, don’t you?” Freida prodded.
“Yes,” Kristy said, peering out the window over the sink, hoping to catch a glimpse of Winston. She prayed he hadn’t run away, or gotten hit by a car.
“Do you like me?”
It was such a strange question that Kristy turned to look at Freida, frowning. Did she like Freida Turlow? The answer was no, but she didn’t dislike her, either. They had little in common, and there was a big difference in their ages.
“I’ve known you all my life, Freida,” she hedged.
Freida seemed mollified. “Everything’s changing,” she remarked. “Mama and Daddy are gone. I don’t live in this house anymore—and Brett—”
The kettle shrilled. Relieved, Kristy poured water into the two cups she’d set out and brought one to Freida. Sat down across the table from her.
“I hear there’s someone else interested in the ranch,” Kristy ventured. “Besides Zachary Spencer, that is.”
For a moment, Freida’s expression hardened, and Kristy didn’t think she’d answer.
But she did, in her own good time. “It’s a money game, real estate,” Freida said, with a verbal shrug. “Some outfit called the Tri-Star Cattle Company put in a bid.”
“Tri-Star Cattle Company,” Kristy echoed. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“I hadn’t, either, before some lawyer called from Las Vegas and doubled Zack’s last offer.”
Zack?
Of course. Zachary Spencer.
Evidently, Freida and the movie star were chums, as well as business associates. Probably neither here nor there, Kristy concluded, but she filed the tidbit away in the back of her brain anyway.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Freida sighed. “Because I regretted being so mean about it before,” she said. “Okay, I lost my parents, and my home. But so did you, Kristy. I shouldn’t have taken my own emotional problems out on you.”
This was either the new Freida or a clone from outer space. “Did the bank accept Tri-Star’s offer?” Kristy asked.
“They will if Zack doesn’t top it within twenty-four hours,” she said. “And I don’t think he’s going to. He said something about a place on the other side of Missoula, one that wouldn’t need so much work.”
“How much are these Tri-Star people willing to pay?”
Freida finally bristled. “Why should I tell you that?”
“Because I caught you sneaking around in my house, and I could have called the sheriff, but I didn’t. You owe me a favor, Freida.”
“Fair enough,” Freida agreed, but only after mulling it over for a few moments. “Madison Ranch is a big chunk of land, with a lot of water and good grass for grazing. Tri-Star offered eight figures.”
Eight figures. Even if she sold her family’s story to Zachary Spencer, she wouldn’t have enough to top an offer like that, and if she had, Tri-Star would probably just keep bidding.
The ranch was lost for good, and she might as well face it.
Freida stood, her tea untouched. “I’d better be going,” she said. The strange tone was back.
A little shiver ran down Kristy’s spine. “You’re not yourself, Freida. Should I call someone?”
Freida gave a bitter little laugh. “Like whom? I’m all alone in the world, Kristy. Just like you.”
Just like you.
Kristy took the high road, though it was hard. “Let me drive you home,” she said, starting to rise.
“I’d rather walk,” Freida said.
Kristy wasn’t going to argue. She saw Freida to the back door, watched the other woman head for the gate in the garden fence, step onto the sidewalk beyond.
“Winston?” Kristy called, when she was sure Freida was gone.
He came then, rushing at her, winding himself around her ankles, purring apologetically. Kristy scooped the neutered tom up in her arms, nuzzled his neck.
“It’s okay,” she told him. “You’re safe.”
He answered with a doubtful and rather plaintive meow, and wriggled out of her grasp, landing on the floor with a graceful thump. Then he stood looking back at her, with his blue Persian eyes, oddly reminiscent, for a fraction of a second, of Dylan’s.
The cat walked a little way, then stopped, looked back at her.
Kristy fumbled to fasten the dead bolt. Since Freida obviously still had a key, she’d get the locks changed first thing in the morning.
“Meow,” Winston said, waiting.
Kristy approached him.
He led the way up the rear steps, skirting the crumpled painting tarp Kristy had forgotten there. She gathered it up, grateful Freida hadn’t broken her neck when she tripped over the thing.
At the top of the stairs, she folded the tarp, set it aside.
Winston stood in the shadow-draped hallway, as if waiting for her again.
Was he trying to lead her somewhere?
“Way too Disney,” Kristy told herself, primarily because she needed to hear another human voice, even if it was her own.
“Meoooow,” Winston repeated insistently.
“All right,” Kristy said. “I’m coming.”
He proceeded straight into the room that must have been Freida’s once—it was the only one where she’d torn out the window seat, and her visitor had definitely mentioned that.
An eerie feeling came over Kristy as she switched on the light in that empty room, its fine hardwood floor bare of the ugly lavender shag carpet she’d torn up even before tackling the master bedroom.
Winston sat, tail switching, in the center of the room.
“What?” Kristy asked, irritable now, and still on edge.
Winston got to all fours again and strolled toward the closet.
Kristy followed, frowning. Turned on the single bulb dangling inside the walk-in.
And gasped.
The drywall at the back had been torn out, to reveal the framework and insulation behind it. The crowbar Freida had used to do the damage was still lying on the floor, covered in a layer of fine gray dust.
A picture came into Kristy’s mind—Freida, man-strong, wielding that crowbar. Her stomach pitched; she imagined waking up in the night, seeing the woman standing over her bed, ready to bash her to a pulp with the heavy iron tool.
“Oh my God,” Kristy whispered, dropping to her knees, suddenly unable to stand. “Oh my God.”
Winston brushed against her again, meowing softly now, as though to comfort her.
Call the sheriff, she thought.
Clearly, Freida had been looking for something. Why else would she rip out a wall?
But what could it have been? Kristy would have gladly turned over any forgotten possession.
Gripping the closet doorjamb, Kristy pulled herself to her feet. Swayed slightly.
She couldn’t call Sheriff Book, she decided belatedly—she was afraid to be alone with the man.
She waited, leaning against the woodwork, until she could trust her legs to support her. Then, every motion deliberate, she made her way into her own room, sat down on the edge of the bed, reached for the phone and dialed a number she’d tried to forget.
And when he answered, all she could get out was, “D-Dylan?”
CHAPTER NINE
THE INSTANT Dylan’s name came out of Kristy’s mouth, she wished she hadn’t called him in the first place, and seriously debated whether to go on with the conversation or hang up.
It was too late, of course, to do that.
“Kristy? Is that you?”
She heard honky-tonk music in the background, laughter and the ring of bottles and glasses and the click of colliding pool balls. All of it coalesced, in Kristy’s mind, transporting her to a smoky, neon-lit Skivvie’s Tavern.
“Yes—I—” Kristy stopped, shoved a hand through her hair, groping for an excuse. “I’m sorry—I must have gotten your number mixed up with—”
The lame attempt was met with a frostbite silence on Dylan’s end.
“I’ll just say goodbye now and—” What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she complete a simple sentence?
Because she’d found a prowler in her house, that was why. And that prowler, a person she’d known all her life, had torn out the back of one of her closets with a crowbar. And because she didn’t dare call Sheriff Book while she was home alone.
“Did that guy do something to you?” Dylan asked. He sounded sober, but he was Jake Creed’s son. That man could have drunk half the county under the table, and never slurred his words.
“What guy?” Kristy asked, a split second before she realized that, of course, he meant Zachary Spencer. “Oh. No—no, it’s nothing like that.” She paused, struggling with herself, and finally lost the battle. “Are you at Skivvie’s?”
The place was a dive—it should have been condemned long ago, in Kristy’s admittedly librarianesque opinion. She’d seen more marriages break up because of that joint than she could count.
“Yes,” he answered flatly, and there was a dare in his tone. He might as well have said, What of it?
“Okay,” she said, sounding half again too perky.
“Jim Huntinghorse is here—campaigning,” Dylan told her. “Logan and I decided to stop by and talk politics for a while. Briana’s taking care of the kids.”
Why was she still on the phone? Calling Dylan had been a mistake—he was going to think she was hysterical or hormonal or…something.
“Well, like I said, I called you by accident so I’ll just say—”
“Cut the crap, Kristy,” Dylan broke in. “I know when you’re upset—and when you’re lying. What’s going on?”
She closed her eyes. “You’re going to think I’m an idiot.”
“Try me.”
“When I got home from the café tonight, I found Freida Turlow in my house. She said she just wanted to see her old room again, but I—well—It scared me, Dylan.”
“Did you call Floyd?” Dylan’s voice was taut.
“Of course I didn’t,” Kristy whispered, as though Floyd Book might be hovering just outside her bedroom door, ready to pounce. Another shiver trickled ice-cold down her back. “Do you think I want to be murdered?”
Dylan laughed. “Yo, Kristy. Get a grip. You’ve been checking out too many thrillers from the library. Floyd is the sheriff, and he’s a good man.”
Kristy flushed. “I have not been reading thrillers,” she lied. The truth was, she couldn’t get enough of them, and the gorier they were, the better she liked them. “And you yourself said you wouldn’t turn your back, the way Floyd did, if you thought your best friend had killed someone—”
“I’m coming over there.”
“Dylan, no, I really—”
He hung up.
Kristy replaced her bedside phone in its cradle. Sat forlornly on the side of her bed, staring at the wall. “Are you deliberately trying to get yourself seduced?” she asked aloud. “Dylan, plus you, minus everybody else on the planet, equals sex.”
Skivvie’s wasn’t very far away—nothing was, in a town of less than ten thousand people—and hardly five minutes had passed when she heard Dylan’s truck pull up outside. Before she could hike down the front stairs, he was pounding on the front door.
She let him in. “I suppose you think I want sex,” she said.
Dylan stared at her.
She was pretty surprised herself. The heat of embarrassment suffused every part of her. “I didn’t mean—”
“What’s going on between you and the movie star?” Dylan demanded, shutting the front door behind him.
“Nothing!” Kristy retorted, then wished she hadn’t taken the bait so easily.
Dylan folded his arms. His hair was a little rumpled, but he didn’t look or smell drunk, so maybe he really had been talking politics with Logan and Jim over at Skivvie’s, not trying to live up to his father’s reputation. “You went out to dinner with him,” he said slowly, but she saw uncertainty in his eyes. “He’s famous and—”
/> “He’s not my type, Dylan.”
Dylan thrust out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Kristy,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked. It was none of my business.”
Inside, where she hoped it wouldn’t show, Kristy was delighted. Dylan was jealous? “You can go now,” she said quickly, because various parts of her anatomy were on the verge of meltdown. “Finding Freida here kind of freaked me out, that’s all. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”
He took a step toward her.
“Don’t you have to go home and look after Bonnie?”
“She’s spending the night with Briana and Logan,” Dylan said. And moved closer.
“Oh,” Kristy said. “Logan and Jim must be expecting you back at Skivvie’s pretty soon, then.”
“The party broke up when you called,” Dylan answered. His eyes were serious, hungry—and such a perfect blue that Kristy thought she could get lost in them, like a bird surrounded on all sides by nothing but sky, not knowing up from down or left from right. “There’s nothing between you and the movie star?”
Kristy couldn’t speak. She was afraid she’d ask Dylan to make love to her, then and there, if she did. She seemed to have no control over her vocal cords at all—everything that entered her mind immediately popped off her tongue.
He reached out, hooked a finger in the waistband of her jeans and tugged. The snap gave way, and then she was pressed against him. He was hot and hard. He was—Dylan.
All man. Uncompromisingly so.
Kristy gave a soft groan.
Dylan plunged the fingers of his left hand into her hair, tilted her head back and kissed her so thoroughly that her knees almost buckled. “Yes or no, Kristy,” he rasped, when their tongues untangled and their mouths broke apart. “Yes or no.”
If she’d had her wits about her, Kristy would have pretended she didn’t know what he was talking about. But she couldn’t pretend, and she couldn’t say no.
Not to Dylan Creed.
That, of course, left only one alternative. “Yes,” she whispered.
He lifted her into his arms, carried her up the stairs, Rhett Butler style.
“Where?” he asked gruffly, when they reached the second-floor hallway.
Linda Lael Miller Montana Creeds Series Volume 1: Montana Creeds: LoganMontana Creeds: DylanMontana Creeds: Tyler Page 43
