Montana Creeds: Logan. Linda Miller Lael

is so not politically correct,” Logan said, though secretly, he agreed.

      “I don’t have to be politically correct,” Cassie retorted, with a sniff.

      She was right about that. She didn’t. And she wasn’t.

      She ducked behind the wheel of her car. “Welcome back, Logan,” she said, watching him through the open window. “See that you stay.”

      He thought of Briana Grant, her lively sons and her fat black dog. The idea of sticking around didn’t seem quite so daunting as before.

      “I guess Dylan’s been back,” he ventured. “Long enough to hire a caretaker, anyway.”

      Cassie merely nodded, waiting.

      “Is he… Are Dylan and Briana…?”

      Cassie’s brown eyes warmed with humor and understanding. “Involved?” she said. “Is that what you mean?”

      “Yes,” Logan grumbled, because he knew she was going to leave him hanging there if he didn’t respond. “That’s what I mean.”

      She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “You know Dylan. When he goes after a woman…”

      Logan’s knuckles ached where he gripped the lower edge of Cassie’s car window.

      Cassie smiled and patted one of his hands. “If you want to know about Dylan and Briana,” she said sweetly, “you’d better ask one of them. I’m just an old lady, minding my own business. How would I know what is—or isn’t—going on between those two?”

      “You know everything,” Logan said. If he hadn’t been wearing a T-shirt, he’d have been hot under the collar. “About everybody in Stillwater Springs and for fifty miles in all directions.”

      Cassie sighed. Shifted the car into Reverse. “You’d better step back,” she said, “if you don’t want me to run over your toes.”

      Logan, being no fool, stepped back.

      He watched Cassie whip the little car around and chug back down the driveway at a good clip, exhaust pipe belching blue smoke, loose parts rattling. When she topped the rise, then dipped out of sight, he looked down at the paper she’d handed him earlier.

      Dylan’s number.

      Tyler’s.

      Sidekick came down the porch steps to nudge Logan in one thigh, as if urging him to get it over with.

      Cassie had been right, of course. It wasn’t going to get any easier.

      He got out his cell phone, thumbed in Dylan’s number, half hoping he’d get voice mail.

      “Yo,” Dylan said, live and in person. “Dylan Creed.”

      Logan plunked down on the porch step, right where Cassie had been sitting earlier. Cleared his throat. “Did you check caller ID before you answered?” he asked.

      Silence.

      Then, “Logan?”

      “It’s me,” Logan said, bracing himself. Prepared for either a backlash of profanity or an instant hang-up.

      Neither one came. Dylan seemed stunned, as much at a loss for words as Logan was.

      “I’ll be damned,” Dylan said finally. “Where are you?”

      “On the ranch,” Logan replied, relieved.

      “What are you doing there?” Now there was an edge to Dylan’s tone; he sounded vaguely suspicious.

      “Not much of anything, right at the moment,” Logan said, scratching Sidekick’s ears. “The place is going to hell in a wheelbarrow. Thought I’d fix it up a little—my part of it, anyway.”

      Another silence followed, pulsing with all the things neither one of them dared say.

      “What’ve you been up to, Logan?”

      Was it brotherly interest, that question, or an accusation? Logan decided to give Dylan the benefit of the doubt. “Quit the rodeo, got married and divorced a couple of times, started a business. What about you?”

      “There are similarities,” Dylan said quietly. “I’m not rodeoing anymore, either. No wives, current or ex, but I do have a two-year-old daughter. Her name’s Bonnie—or it was the last time I heard. Her mother’s changed it half a dozen times since the kid was born.”

      Logan closed his eyes. His own brother had a child, his niece, and he hadn’t known the little girl existed. “The last time you heard? Don’t you see Bonnie, Dylan?”

      For a moment, the connection seemed to crackle, then Dylan took a breath. “Not much,” he admitted. “Sharlene’s supposed to share custody, but she doesn’t.”

      “Maybe I could help you with that,” Logan heard himself say.

      “Yeah,” Dylan retorted, and the edge was back in his voice. “You’re a lawyer. I keep forgetting.”

       I’m also your brother.

      “Look, if you decide you need legal advice, give me a call. If not, that’s okay, too. I just called because—”

      “Why did you call, Logan?” A challenge. That was like Dylan—to assume Logan must be up to something, if he’d made contact after all this time.

      “I guess being back home made me a little nostalgic, that’s all,” Logan said.

      “Home?” Dylan echoed, downright testy now. “Where’s that?”

      Logan said nothing.

      “What do you want?”

      The words hurt Logan a lot more than he would have admitted. “Nothing,” he said. “I just thought we could talk.”

      “You’re planning to sell your share of the ranch, aren’t you? That’s why you’re hiring contractors and buying lumber. So you can nick some Hollywood type for a few million?”

      Ah, the grapevine, Logan thought. Dylan knew he was fixing up the ranch house, because he still had sources in town. Asking where he was had been a formality.

      “I’m not selling,” he said evenly. “I’m here to stay. And if you’re thinking of liquidating your share of the place, I’ll match anybody else’s offer.” That train of thought led to Briana Grant, since she was living in Dylan’s house, and following it got Logan into trouble. He was a beat late realizing he’d said the wrong thing.

      “If I was going to sell my ten thousand acres—and I’m not—I sure as hell wouldn’t let you buy me out.”

      Here we go, Logan thought. “Why’s that?”

      “You know why. Because of the things you said about Dad.”

      “I was wrong, okay? I should have been more respectful—kept my opinions to myself. I’m sorry, Dylan.”

      More silence. Dylan would have been prepared for a counterattack, but the left-field apology probably threw him a little.

      “Dylan? Are you still there?”

      Dylan sighed audibly. “I’m here.”

      “And ‘here’ is where?”

      “L.A.,” Dylan said. “I had a meeting with my agent and a few studio people—I’m doing some stunt work for a movie. They’re filming up in Alberta, starting next week.”

      “You like that kind of work?” Logan asked. He couldn’t imagine why anybody would, but then it couldn’t be any more dangerous than rodeo, and they’d both taken a turn at that.

      “It’s a living,” Dylan answered. “Pays my child support.”

      Logan took the plunge,