Montana Creeds: Logan. Linda Miller Lael

around them. Logan wondered how anybody could work in the place, with all the noise.

      “I’m off at six,” Jim said, as they parted. “Want to play some pool, swig some beer and catch up?”

      “Not tonight,” Logan answered, remembering the unexpected invitation to have supper at Briana’s. She’d clearly been pissed off when he mentioned Dylan, and then she’d turned right around and offered him a meal. There was no figuring women. “Already made plans.”

      “Soon, then,” Jim said. “I promise—no combat stuff. Unless you count a detailed description of my divorce as a war story, that is.”

      Logan laughed, slapped Jim on the shoulder. “Any time after tonight,” he said. “You know where I live. Stop by when you get a chance.”

      Jim nodded, and then Logan headed for his truck, and Jim went back inside the casino to do whatever the general manager of a casino did.

      SO, BRETT TURLOW thought, just getting into his car after a brutal all-night poker game in which he’d lost his ass, he wasn’t the only one who’d returned to the old hometown after a long absence. Difference was, he’d come back with his tail between his legs. Logan Creed looked a mite too cheerful for that to be the case with him.

      Brett slid behind the wheel of the dented Corolla he’d borrowed from his sister. Watched as Creed climbed into a respectably battered pickup truck, ruffled his dog’s ears and started the engine.

      Most likely, Logan meant to sell the ranch, since nobody appeared to give a good goddamn about the place, and get on with his life.

      That would be a good thing, if he left.

      If Creed stayed, on the other hand, it meant trouble, pure and simple.

      Bleary-eyed, half-sick because he hadn’t eaten in twelve hours and he’d gambled away most of his unemployment check, Brett made a mental note to ask around a little. Find out what Creed’s intentions were.

      In the meantime, he needed to crash.

      BRIANA STAYED clear of the coffee shop until Logan was gone. Then she wandered nonchalantly in to say hello to Millie, the sole waitress on duty, and snag a nonfat latte to keep her going through the morning.

      She’d been up late the night before, on a jangling java-high, worrying that Vance would show up on Saturday, worrying that he wouldn’t. She needed caffeine, fast. Hair of the dog that bit her, so to speak.

      The boys were still at home, warned on pain of death to stay away from Cimarron and the orchard, where there might be bears.

      “Did you see that guy talking to Jim?” Millie enthused, automatically starting the latte. “Mucho cute.”

      Briana felt a sting of proprietary annoyance and a boost to her spirits, both at once. “The cute ones are deadly,” she said lightly.

      “Yeah,” Millie answered, looking back at Briana over one shoulder while the milk foamed under the sputtery nozzle on the fancy coffee machine, “but what a way to go. I’m going to ask Jim what his name is.”

      “No need,” Briana said. “It’s Logan Creed.”

      Millie’s eyes widened. “As in Stillwater Springs Ranch?”

      “As in,” Briana confirmed. Like her, Millie was relatively new in town. She’d heard about the Creed brothers, though; they were almost folk heroes, like certain outlaws in the old west.

      Famous for raising hell, mostly, from what Briana had been told.

      “So you know him, then?” Millie fished, handing over the latte.

      “I live on the ranch,” Briana reminded her friend. “That makes us neighbors.” She hugged the rest of the story—that Logan was having supper with her and the boys that night—close, like some delicious adolescent secret.

      Silly.

      Just then, Briana’s radio, buckled to her belt, crackled to life. A disembodied voice informed her that someone had just hit a jackpot on the newest bank of slot machines—time to attend to business.

      She thanked Millie for the latte and hurried off.

      The jackpot was a big one, it turned out. A little blue-haired lady off the senior citizens’ bus had struck gold on the Blazing Sevens, and Briana spent the next forty-five minutes handling the paperwork.

      Jim, being the manager, paid out the booty in crisp hundred-dollar bills, beaming for the camera right along with the lucky winner.

      After all the hoopla died down, Briana pulled her boss aside for a word. “I need Saturday off, if that’s possible,” she said.

      Jim frowned. He was a good man, serious about his work and goal-oriented. There was even some talk that he might run for sheriff, if old Floyd Book retired early, on account of his heart condition.

      “Saturdays are pretty busy,” he reminded her.

      “I know,” Briana said.

      He flashed her the grin that made a lot of women’s knees buckle. She and Jim had gone out a couple of times, after their separate divorces, but there was no spark, and when he got promoted to his present lofty position, they’d decided to stop dating and be friends.

      “Hey,” he said. “I know you. If you’re asking for time off, it’s important.”

      Was it important? Vance was supposed to arrive on Saturday, and she was nervous about his spending the day with the boys without her there. There was no physical danger—Vance had never raised a hand to her or their sons—but Alec and Josh could so easily be hurt in other ways.

      “My ex-husband is coming back then,” she confided.

      Jim’s grin faded. “Oh.”

      Realizing what he was thinking—that there was a reconciliation in the offing—Briana blushed. “It’s nothing like that,” she said quickly. “I’m just worried about the boys being alone with him all day. Alec is suffering from a bad case of hero worship, and God knows what ideas Vance might put in his head, and Josh told me he’d rather run away—”

      Jim put up a hand. “You can have Saturday off,” he interrupted. “I’ll fill in for you myself. But you owe me an extra shift.”

      Briana nodded, deeply relieved. “Thanks, Jim.”

      He smiled, but his dark eyes were worried. “Josh threatened to run away?”

      Jim knew Briana’s sons, since they were in the casino coffee shop so often, and he’d been remarkably tolerant of their presence. Lots of bosses wouldn’t have been so understanding, but Jim had a boy of his own. Four-year-old Sam lived with his mother now, in Missoula, and didn’t visit often.

      Briana patted his arm. “I don’t think Josh would really hit the road on his own, but I’d rather not take the chance.”

      Jim heaved a heavy sigh, shoved a hand through his longish, blue-black hair. “Kids do stupid things sometimes,” he said.

      Briana thought of the bull in Dylan’s pasture, and the bears that apparently fed in the orchard on occasion. She glanced at her watch. It was almost lunchtime; she’d call home from the employees’ lounge behind one of the casino’s three restaurants and make sure Alec and Josh were following orders.

      “Yeah,” she agreed belatedly. “Sometimes they do.”

      She and Jim parted, and she headed for the lounge, went straight to the pay phone. She needed a cell, but it wasn’t in the budget.

      Josh answered on the third ring. “Alec is a buttface,” he said, without preamble.

      “Be that as it may,” Briana answered, used to the running battle between her sons, “he’s your brother. What are you two up to?”

      “Alec is doing his math, and I was on the Internet until you called. Wanda ate