Montana Creeds: Dylan. Linda Miller Lael

but you didn’t do things like that with a kid around. Not if you’d grown up in an alcoholic cement mixer of a home, like he and his brothers, Logan and Tyler, had, jumping at every thump and bump. And there was more to it than that: besides the fact that he didn’t want to scare Bonnie, he felt a strange undercurrent of exhilaration.

      He seldom saw his daughter, thanks to Sharlene’s gypsy ways—though she always managed to cash his child-support checks—and being separated from Bonnie, never knowing what was happening to her, ached inside him like a bruise to the soul.

      Bonnie settled into his lap, laid her head against his chest, gave a shuddery little sigh. Maybe it was relief, maybe it was resignation.

      She’d probably had one hell of a day, given how the night was shaping up.

      Dylan propped his chin on top of her head for a moment, his eyes burning and his throat as hot as if he’d tried to swallow a red-ended branding iron. He leaned forward, turned the key in the ignition, shifted gears.

      Logan. That was his next thought. He had to get to Logan. His brother was a lawyer, after all. And while Dylan had the money to pay any shyster in the country, and he and Logan were sort of on the outs, he knew there was no one else he could trust with something this important.

      Bonnie was his child, as well as Sharlene’s, and by God, she deserved a stable home, decent clothes—the getup she was wearing looked as if it had doubled as a dog bed for a year or two—and at least one responsible parent.

      Not that he was all that responsible. He’d been a rodeo bum for years, and now he was a poker bum. He had all the money he’d ever need, thanks to a certain shrewd investment and a spooky tendency to draw a royal flush once in practically every game, and he’d done some high-paying stunt work for the movies, too.

      Compared to Sharlene, for all his rambling, he was a contender for Parent of the Year.

      He didn’t find the note and the shabby duffel bag on the backseat until he got out to South Point, his favorite hotel. Holding a sleepy Bonnie in the curve of one arm while he stood waiting for a valet to take the truck, he read the note.

      I’m having some problems, Sharlene had scrawled in her childlike handwriting, slanting so far to the left that it almost lay flat against the lines on the cheap notebook paper, and I can’t take care of Aurora anymore. Aurora, now? Jesus, what next—Oprah? I thought giving her to you would be better than putting her in foster care. I went that route, and it sucked. Don’t try to find me. I’ve got a boyfriend and we’re hitting the road. Sharlene.

      Dylan unclamped his back molars, shifted Bonnie’s weight so he could take the ticket from the parking guy and then grab the duffel bag. He’d have his own gear sent over from Madeline’s place, where he usually crashed when he was passing through Vegas. Madeline wouldn’t like it, but he wasn’t about to take his two-year-old daughter there.

      South Point was a sprawling, brightly lit hotel. Dylan stayed there whenever he came to the National Finals Rodeo—if Madeline, a flight attendant, was on one of her overseas runs or seeing somebody else at the time—and the establishment was family-friendly.

      He and Bonnie were family.

      There you had it.

      After he’d booked a room with two massive beds, he ordered room-service hamburgers, French fries and milk shakes. While they waited, Bonnie, only half-awake, lay curled on her side on the bed farthest from the door, her right thumb jammed into her mouth, her eyes following every move he made.

      “You’re gonna be okay, kiddo,” he told her.

      She looked so small, and so vulnerable, lying there in her ragbag clothes. “Daddy,” she said, and yawned broadly before pulling on her thumb again, this time with vigor.

      “That’s right,” Dylan answered, turning from the phone to the duffel bag. Inside were more clothes like the ones she was wearing, a kid-size toothbrush with the bristles worn flat and a naked plastic baby doll with Ubangi hair and blue ink marks on its face. “I’m your daddy. And it looks like we’ll be doing some shoppin’ in the morning, you and me.”

      There were no pajamas. No socks. No real shoes, for that matter. Just two more pairs of overalls, two more sad-looking T-shirts, the doll and the toothbrush.

      Rage simmered midway down Dylan’s gullet. Damn it, what was Sharlene doing with the money he sent to that post office box in Topeka every month? He knew by the way the substantial check always cleared his bank before the ink was dry that her grandmother picked it up for her, the day it came in, and overnighted it to wherever “Sharlie” happened to be.

      He had his suspicions, naturally, regarding Sharlene’s spending habits—cocaine, animal-print spandex, tattoos for the fathead boyfriend du jour, if not herself. Bonnie, most likely, had subsisted on fast food and frozen pizza.

      Dylan’s jaw tightened to the point of pain; he consciously relaxed it. None of this was Bonnie’s doing. Unlike him, unlike Sharlene, she was innocent, forced to live with the consequences of other people’s mistakes.

      Not anymore, he vowed silently.

      Much as he would have liked to put all the blame on Sharlene, he knew it wouldn’t be fair. He’d known who—and what—she was when he’d slept with her, nearly three years ago, after a rodeo, in a town he couldn’t even remember the name of now. They’d holed up in a cheap room and had sex for a week, then gone their separate ways. A few clueless months later, Sharlene had tracked him down and told him she was expecting his baby.

      And he’d known it was true, long before he’d even laid eyes on Bonnie and seen her resemblance to him, the same way he’d known he wasn’t alone in the parking lot behind the Black Rose.

      Listless with fatigue and probably confusion, Bonnie merely nibbled when the room-service food came, and then fell asleep in her overalls. Was she still on formula or something? Should he send a bellman into town for baby bottles and milk?

      He sighed, shoved a hand through his tangled hair.

      In the morning, he’d take Bonnie to a pediatrician—after buying her some decent clothes so the doc wouldn’t put a call through to Child Protective Services the minute they walked in—for a routine exam and to find out what the hell two-year-olds actually ate.

      When he was sure Bonnie was sound asleep, the bedspread tucked around her, he called Madeline. She’d be expecting him, though to her credit, not at an even remotely reasonable hour, since theirs was a sleep-over-when-you’re-passing-through kind of arrangement.

      He needed his clothes, and his shaving gear, and his laptop.

      “It’s Dylan,” he said, to Madeline’s hello.

      “You winnin’, sugar?” She’d cultivated a Southern drawl, but every once in a while, the Minnesota came through, with its faintly Scandinavian lilt.

      “I always do,” Dylan murmured, looking at his sleeping child.

      “Then we ought to celebrate,” Madeline crooned. “Find us a sexy movie on pay-per-view and—”

      “Look, Madeline, I can’t make it over there tonight. Something—er—came up—”

      “Where are you?” There was a snap in Madeline’s tone now. She wasn’t possessive—he’d have driven fifty miles out of his way to avoid her if she had been—but she had turned down other offers for the duration of his stay in Vegas, she’d made that abundantly clear, and she clearly wasn’t happy about being stood up.

      “I’m at South Point,” he began.

      “Damn you,” Madeline said, downright peevish now, “you picked up some—some woman, didn’t you?”

      “Not exactly.”

      “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

      “I’m with my daughter, Madeline,” Dylan said, patient only