Montana Creeds: Tyler. Linda Miller Lael

place, sleeping on her living room floor or in the teepee out in her yard. Only Logan had been immune to Jake’s temper, maybe because he’d always been the old man’s favorite—the one who might “amount to something.”

      The coffee started to perk.

      Kit Carson ambled out onto the porch and lay there letting the sun bake his bones, like an old dog ought to be allowed to do.

      “I’ll give you a ride back to town,” Dylan told Davie, once some time had gone by. “The new sheriff’s a friend of mine. There might be something he can do about Roy.”

      Davie’s face seized with fear, quickly controlled, but not quickly enough. “Nothing short of a shotgun blast to the belly is going to fix what’s wrong with Roy Fifer,” he said. “Why can’t I just stay here? I can sleep outside, and I’ll work off the food I ate, chopping wood or something.”

      Tyler knew he couldn’t keep the boy; he was a loner, for one thing. And for another, Davie was a minor child, no older than thirteen or fourteen. For good or ill, his living arrangements were up to his mother. “That wouldn’t work,” he said, with some reluctance.

      What would he and Dylan have done, all those nights, if Cassie had turned them away from her door? If she hadn’t faced Jake Creed down on her front porch and told him she’d call Sheriff Book and press charges if he didn’t go away and sober up?

      “I’ll work,” Davie said, and the desperation in his voice made Tyler’s gut clench. “I could take care of the dog and chop firewood and catch all the fish we could eat. I’ll stay out of your way—won’t be any trouble at all—”

      “I might not be around long,” Tyler said, his voice hoarse, unable to glance in Dylan’s direction. “And you can’t stay here alone. You’re just a kid.”

      Davie looked as near tears as pride would allow. “Okay,” he said, shoulders sagging a little.

      Dylan pushed back his chair, stood. Sighed. He had to be remembering all the things Tyler remembered, and maybe a few more, since he’d been the middle son, not the youngest, like Tyler, or the smart one, like Logan. No, Dylan had been wild, the son who mirrored all the things Jake Creed might have been, if he hadn’t been such a waste of skin.

      “I’ll have a word with Jim,” he told Tyler.

      Tyler merely nodded, numb with old sorrows. Shared sorrows.

      As kids, he and Dylan and Logan had fought plenty, but they’d always had each other’s backs, too. Logan, mature beyond his years, had made sure he and Dylan had lunch money, and presents at Christmas.

      When had things gone so wrong between the three of them?

      Not at Jake’s funeral. No, the problem went back further than that.

      Passing Tyler’s chair, Dylan laid a hand on his shoulder. “You know my cell number,” he said quietly. “When your truck’s ready to be picked up, give me a call and I’ll give you a lift to town.”

       L ILY AWAKENED at sunset, to the sound of familiar voices—her daughter’s and her father’s, a novel combination—chatting in the nearby kitchen. Outside somewhere, perhaps in a neighbor’s yard, a lawn sprinkler sang its summer evensong— ka-chucka-chucka-whoosh, ka-chucka-chucka-whoosh.

      Sitting up on the narrow bed in what had once been her mother’s sewing room, Lily smiled, yawned, stretched. Slipped her feet into the sandals she’d kicked off before lying down. She’d intended to rest her eyes; instead, she’d zonked out completely, settling in deeper than even the most vivid dreams could reach.

      For a little while, she’d been mercifully free of ordinary reality.

      The guilt over Burke’s death.

      The wide gulf between her and the man she had once called “Daddy.”

      The gnawing loneliness.

      She sat for a few moments, listening to the happy lilt in Tess’s voice as she told her grandfather all about story hour at the library. It had been too long since Lily had heard that sweet cadence—Tess was usually so solemn, a little lost soul, soldiering on.

      Hal chuckled richly at one of Tess’s comments. He’d always been a good listener—until he’d simply decided to stop listening, at least to Lily. When she’d called him, after the divorce, desperate for some assurance that things would be all right again, he’d brushed her off, or so it had seemed to a heartbroken child, grieving for so many things she could barely name.

      Lily stepped into the kitchen, found Tess and Hal setting the table for supper. Spaghetti casserole—the specialty, Lily recalled, of Janice Baylor, her dad’s longtime receptionist. Tess’s small face shone with the pleasure of the afternoon’s adventure at the library with Kristy.

      Lily bit back a comment about the fat and cholesterol content of Janice’s casserole and smiled. “Something smells good,” she said.

      “Mrs. Baylor brought us sketty for supper,” Tess said cheerfully.

      Hal watched Lily, probably expecting a discourse on the wonders of tofu. “You look a little better,” he said. “Not so frazzled.”

      Lily nodded. She needed a shower and more sleep—would she ever catch up?—but she needed a hot meal more, and her father and daughter’s company more still.

      “How about you?” she asked Hal. “Did you rest this afternoon?”

      Hal grinned. Here at home, he didn’t look so wan and gaunt as he had in the hospital. The expression of frenzied dismay in his eyes had subsided, too. He’d decided, Lily thought, to live.

      “As much as I could, with half the town stopping by with food,” he answered. “The doorbell rang at least a dozen times.”

      Lily was horrified. She hadn’t heard a thing. Hadn’t stirred on the hard twin bed in the sewing room. What kind of caretaker was she, anyway?

      Her thoughts must have shown in her face; Hal winked and said quietly, “Sit down, Lily. You’re home now.”

       You’re home now .

      Kristy had said something similar, earlier that day.

      It was a nice fantasy, Lily supposed, but once her father was well enough to carry on alone, she and Tess would be returning to their old lives in Chicago, to the condo, and Tess’s private school, and Lily’s job as a buyer for an online retailer of women’s clothes.

      Burke’s mother, Eloise, who doted on Tess, would be lost without their weekly tea parties—just the two of them, if you didn’t count Eloise’s maid, Dolores. They used the best bone china, Eloise and Tess, and wore flowered hats and white gloves with pearl buttons. Eloise took Tess to museums, and bought her beautiful, hand-made dresses, and invited her for long weekends at the Kenyon “cottage” on Nantucket.

      The place had three stories, fourteen rooms, each one graced with exquisitely shabby antique furniture. Priceless seascapes graced the walls, and even the rugs were either heirlooms or elegant finds from the finest auction houses in the world.

      Tess, Eloise never hesitated to point out, was all she had left, with her husband gone and her only son killed in the prime of his life. The accusation went unspoken: if Lily had just been a little more tolerant of Burke’s “high spirits,” a little more patient—

      Lily’s own mother seemed to have no time for her, or even for Tess, she was so busy gracing her powerful husband’s arm at swanky parties up and down the eastern seaboard.

      Resolutely, she shook off the reverie, went to the kitchen sink and washed her hands. Then she sat down to a “sketty” supper with her family.

      “I like that man with the dog,” Tess announced, midway through the meal.

      Lily felt a little