Linda Miller - Montana Creeds - Dylan

She sighed, turned to face him. He could tell that holding his gaze was an effort, but she managed it. “I came to my senses,” she said.

Now, what the hell did that mean?

“Mike is a nice man,” she went on, when Dylan didn’t speak. Although he’d come in through the front door, he was at the back now, with one hand on the knob. “He deserved to be happy.”

“He looked pretty happy to me, that night I ran into the two of you in Skivvie’s Tavern.” The vision filled his mind’s eye; he might as well have been in that darkened bar again, watching Mike and Kristy dancing to a slow song playing on the jukebox, Kristy making sure Dylan got a good look at the diamond glittering on her left hand. He could feel the sawdust and peanut shells under the soles of his boots, smell cigarette smoke and draft beer.

“I was using him,” Kristy said forthrightly. “When I realized that, I broke our engagement. A few months later, he married Julie. End of story.”

End of story? After that night at Skivvie’s, Dylan had left Stillwater Springs, his tires flinging up gravel, swearing he’d never set foot in his hometown again. He’d spent the better part of a year drowning his sorrows in cheap whiskey, dodging bill collectors and backing down from the one thing he was really good at—bull-riding.

He’d probably have drunk himself to death, in fact, if an old friend, a retired rodeo clown named Wiley Spence, hadn’t gotten him by the shirt collar one night in Cheyenne, after bailing him out of jail, and threatened to call Logan if he didn’t get his act together pronto.

Kristy wasn’t the only one with pride. Although he and Logan had been estranged back then, he’d known his big brother would track him down and probably throw him into the nearest treatment center. He hadn’t wanted Logan to see him down and out. So he’d laid off the booze, except for an occasional beer, cleaned up and gotten back into the rodeo as soon as he’d scraped together an entry fee.

None of which was Kristy’s concern.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said. And then he left.

DYLAN WAS GOOD AT LEAVING. Very good at leaving.

Kristy banged the mugs around in the sink for a few moments, then decided to wash them later, when she wasn’t apt to break off the handles.

What had she expected?

Well, she certainly hadn’t expected him to show up at her front door that evening, that was for sure. And if anyone had told her she’d—well, throw herself at him the way she had, she’d have called them crazy.

The hardest thing to face was the knowledge that if he’d kissed her, she’d have let him make love to her right there in the front hallway.

The thought made her cringe.

And yearn.

It was a wonder she hadn’t gotten pregnant, back when they were still together, as often as they’d made love.

Things would have been so different if she’d been the one to conceive Dylan Creed’s child, not this Sharlene person with the breast implants.

Her gaze swung to the blackboard, and Dylan’s number, written hard and fast and slanting to the right. Like she would call him, even if there were ten muggers in the house and the place was on fire to boot.

She marched over and resolutely wiped away the blue chalk with the palm of her hand, leaving a streaky smudge.

But erasing the number hadn’t helped.

It was already burned into her memory, like the letters on the old sign over the gate out at Stillwater Springs Ranch.

She let her forehead rest against the blackboard.

And tears came. Again.

She’d lost so much—her parents, Sugarfoot, Madison Ranch, the home and family she and Dylan might have shared, if they hadn’t been such hotheads.

Winston curled around her ankles, meowing uncertainly, and a tear plopped onto the top of his head. He looked up, in a curious way, as though wondering if it was raining.

His expression made Kristy laugh.

And laughing made her square her shoulders, dry her cheeks with the back of one hand and pull herself together.

Maybe all hell would break loose when Sheriff Book and his crew opened Sugarfoot’s grave.

Maybe Dylan Creed was back in town for good, with his child and his wicked smile and his death-to-women body.

She was no gutless wonder, and no stranger to trouble.

Whatever came her way, she’d handle it.

Somehow.

THE FIRST NIGHT IN THE ranch house was a sleepless one for Dylan, and not just because he spent half of it trying to comfort Bonnie, who’d taken to calling for her mother during their fast-food supper and hadn’t quit until she’d fallen asleep against his chest, after one last, hiccoughy sigh.

Sitting on the beat-up old couch that, like the bed and the kitchen table, had been in the place since the last Creed had lived and died there—his great-uncle, Mick—his chin propped on top of Bonnie’s sweat-dampened head, Dylan felt real despair.

He hadn’t expected raising a child to be easy; it wasn’t that. Now that the novelty of being with him was wearing off, Bonnie was missing Sharlene, and it was likely to get worse.

You’re a real tough guy, Creed, he told himself silently. When Bonnie had cried, and then wailed, he’d felt like crying right along with her. Almost called Cassie in a panic, ready to beg her for help.

Cassie? Who was he kidding?

It was Kristy he’d wanted to call.

When the hell were Logan and Briana coming back from their damned honeymoon, anyhow? Briana was a mother—a good one, from what he’d seen—and she’d surely know what you were supposed to do when a kid started crying and wouldn’t stop.

The knock at the back door startled him.

Careful not to wake Bonnie, he stood, carried her with him through the kitchen, crossing the dark place worn into the linoleum by decades of passing feet.

Tyler peered in at him through the glass.

Dylan scowled a little, then nodded.

Tyler came in. “Is that old bull in the pasture yours?” he asked, as though nary a harsh word, let alone a fist, had ever flown back and forth between them.

“Yes,” Dylan answered, whispering. “Do you know anything about kids?”

Tyler grinned. “Only that that’s about the cutest one I’ve ever seen.”

Bonnie stirred against Dylan’s chest, whimpered a little. Her face felt hot against his shoulder, even through the cloth of his shirt. He carried her into the bedroom, laid her down carefully on the bed, made sure the inked-up rubber doll with the wild hair was within reach, and sneaked back out into the kitchen.

By that time, Tyler was going through the cupboards.

“No whiskey?” he asked.

“I’m a beer man these days,” Dylan answered quietly, wondering what the unexpected visit was all about. Five would get you ten it wasn’t a social call. “In the fridge.”

Tyler opened the refrigerator door, recoiled as if he’d found a live rattler coiled inside. “The cheap brand?”

“Beer is beer. Keep it down, will you? The kid’s been screaming for three hours straight and she’ll probably start up again if you wake her.”

Tyler extracted a can from the six-pack and popped the top. His expression was unreadable. “Is she sick or something?”

“I don’t know. Her forehead felt kind of warm when I was holding her a minute ago.”

So much for the inscrutable singing cowboy. Tyler looked alarmed. He set aside his beer—hell, it was the cheap brand, anyway—headed for the bedroom and bent over Bonnie, touching the backs of his fingers to her cheek.

He frowned, gazing at Dylan, who stood in the doorway.

Back in the kitchen, Tyler said, “I think she has a fever. You got any baby aspirin?”