Montana Creeds: Tyler. Linda Miller Lael

what I’m thinking?” Dylan pressed quietly.

      “Yes,” Tyler said. “Davie’s about the right age, I guess.” He ducked his head, pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. The dog gave a little whimper and leaned in harder. “Doreen never pretended I was the only game in town, though, and I think if Davie was mine, she’d have hit me up for money somewhere along the way.”

      Dylan was silent for a long time. “Look, you’re going to need a rig. I’ve already spoken with Kristy, and she’s willing to lend you her Blazer until your truck is back on the road. We could bring it out when she gets off work at the library, if you want.”

      Pride swelled up inside Tyler, fit to split his hide, but he needed transportation. The auto shop wasn’t the kind of place that offered loaners, and rental cars were out, too, unless he wanted to go all the way to Missoula for one—which he didn’t.

      “Okay,” he said, finally. “Thanks.”

      Dylan laughed. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

      It had been plenty hard. Dylan, being a Creed himself, had to know that.

      “Don’t start thinking we’re going to buddy-up or something,” Tyler warned.

      Again, Dylan laughed, more of a chuckle this time, and the sound of it chafed at some raw places in Tyler. He’d sworn he wouldn’t be beholden to either of his brothers for anything, after that set-to at Skivvie’s following Jake’s funeral, and he’d lived by that vow. Now here he was, borrowing a Blazer like some loser who couldn’t even manage to come up with a set of wheels on his own.

      “God forbid,” Dylan said dryly, “that we should ‘buddy-up.’”

      “Whatever,” Tyler shot back, and thumbed the disconnect button.

      Two hours later—hours Tyler spent alternately pacing and fiddling around with his guitar—two rigs rolled up to the cabin, Dylan driving one, Kristy at the wheel of the other.

      Tyler left the doorway, laid his fancy, custom-made guitar in its case and hoped nobody would comment, but Dylan’s gaze swung right to it, as soon as he and Kristy stepped into the house.

      Kristy, carrying two-year-old Bonnie on one blue-jeaned hip, went straight over to admire the instrument, giving a low whistle of exclamation.

      “A Martin,” she said, with suitable reverence.

      “I like a girl who knows her guitars,” Tyler said, giving his sister-in-law a peck on the cheek and then ruffling Bonnie’s blond curls. Kristy was a looker—always had been. Legs that went on forever, and an honest-to-God brain behind that angelic face. And she had a particular glow about her, indicating a very recent orgasm, of the cosmic variety.

      Dylan, his eyes peaceful, his body moving as though his joints were greased, had, of course, been the lucky guy.

      Tyler felt a stab of pure, undiluted envy.

      Smiled to hide it, though he suspected Dylan knew exactly what he’d been thinking.

      Kristy pulled the keys to her Blazer from a pocket in her perfectly fitted jeans and jangled them under Tyler’s nose. “Here you go, cowboy,” she said.

      “Cowboy,” Bonnie repeated exuberantly, straining to come to him.

      Tyler had a weakness for kids, and took his niece into his arms. Crouched to introduce her to Kit Carson.

      The little girl giggled with delight.

      Kit licked her face.

      Tyler stood up again.

      Kristy laid the keys on the kitchen table, her dark blue eyes alight with goodwill. “It’s nice to have you back in Stillwater Springs, Ty,” she said. “We’re headed over to Logan and Briana’s for supper. Care to join us?”

      “I’m not ready for that,” Tyler said gruffly, after exchanging a glance with Dylan. He was curious about Briana and that ready-made family of Logan’s—two boys, according to Cassie—and all the work going on over at the home place, too, but Logan would be there, and that was reason enough to stay away.

      Again, Dylan’s gaze shifted to the guitar. He was probably remembering the incident at Skivvie’s, after they’d laid Jake Creed in his grave, just as Tyler was.

      “Bygones,” Dylan said, “ought to be bygones.”

      That was easy for him to say, Tyler thought, stung anew by the old fury. He’d written a song about Jake—or the man he’d needed his father to be—and Logan had torn the guitar out of his hands and smashed it to splinters against the bar.

      Tyler could still hear the dull hum of the strings.

      It had been a mail-order special, that guitar; probably hadn’t cost more than twenty or thirty dollars, even when it was brand-new. It had also been the last thing Tyler’s mother had given him, before she’d gone off to some seedy motel, evidently too weary of being a Creed wife to go on for even one more day, and swallowed a bottle of pills.

      “I’ll let you know,” Tyler finally responded, his voice tight, “when bygones get to be bygones. In the meantime, don’t hold your breath.”

      Bonnie, picking up on the change in the atmosphere, went back to Kristy, her small face solemn with worry, jamming a thumb into her mouth as she settled against her stepmother’s shoulder.

      Kristy’s expression turned troubled, too.

      “Bad vibes,” she remarked softly, looking from Tyler to Dylan and back again.

      For Kristy’s sake, and even more for Bonnie’s, Tyler worked up what he hoped was a reassuring smile, not a death grimace. “Thanks for the loan of your car, Kristy,” he said. “I do appreciate it.”

      Dylan lingered near the open door, ready to leave, now that he’d delivered the rig and thus done his good deed for the day. “If you change your mind about supper, you know where we’ll be,” he told Tyler, and then he went out.

      Kristy gave Tyler another puzzled look, then followed with Bonnie.

      Tyler waited until they’d all left in Dylan’s truck before grabbing up Kristy’s keys. “Come on, boy,” he said to Kit Carson. “Let’s go find out if I’m somebody’s dear old dad.”

       T ESS FELL INTO THE BED in Lily’s old room, the stuffed animals Tyler had won at the carnival so long ago tucked in all around her.

      “Can we stay here, Mom?” she asked, when Lily sat down on the edge of the mattress, which was still covered in the ruffly pink-and-white-polka-dot spread she’d received on her eighth birthday. “In Stillwater Springs, I mean, with Grampa?”

      Lily stroked a lock of hair, still moist from an after-supper bath, back from her daughter’s forehead. Kissed the place she’d bared. “We have a condo in Chicago,” she said. “And your grandmother Kenyon would miss you something fierce if we moved away.”

      “She could visit me here,” Tess said, with an expression of resigned hope shining in her eyes.

      The thought of Eloise Kenyon roughing it in a cow-town like Stillwater Springs brought a wistful smile to Lily’s face—the woman probably didn’t own a pair of jeans, let alone the boots or sneakers most people wore. As far as her mother-in-law was concerned, the place might as well have been in a parallel dimension.

      “Why do you want to stay in Montana, sweetheart?” Lily asked. “You have so many friends back home—”

      “It doesn’t feel lonely here,” Tess told her. She had a way of making statements like that, of pulling the figurative rug out from under Lily’s feet with no warning at all. “I like this house. It feels like it’s hugging me. And Grampa said I could help him take care of all the animals, when he goes back to