A Creed in Stone Creek

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Can Zeke come, too?” Matt asked, stroking the animal’s back as he spoke.

  Zeke didn’t slow down on the kibble.

  “Sure,” Steven replied. “Today, anyway.”

  Matt nodded, but it was obvious that he had reservations.

  “What?” Steven asked, setting his coffee mug in the sink.

  Matt looked up at him, eyes wide with concerns that probably wouldn’t even have occurred to most five-year-olds. “Zeke can go to work with you when I’m in day camp, right? And this fall, after school starts?”

  “Right,” Steven said, reaching for the truck keys and his cell phone. “But there will be days when that won’t be possible, Tex.”

  “Like if you have to be in court or something?”

  Steven smiled, gave the boy’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Like if I have to be in court or something.”

  “But sometimes he’ll be out here all alone? Shut up in the bus?”

  Steven dropped to his haunches. Some conversations had to be held eye to eye, and this was one of them. “I plan on having the contractors put in a yard and fence it off as soon as the renovations are under way,” he said. “We’ll outfit Zeke with a nice, big doghouse and he’ll be fine while I’m working and you’re at school.”

  By then, Zeke had wiped out the kibble and moved on to lap loudly from his water bowl.

  “What if the coyotes get him?” Matt asked.

  Back home in Colorado, it hadn’t been uncommon for people to lose the occasional pet to coyotes, even in the middle of town; as their habitats shrank, the animals were getting ever bolder. Because they traveled in packs, even large dogs were often at a disadvantage in a confrontation.

  “We’ll make sure the fence is real high, so they can’t get over it,” Steven said, straightening up because his knees were beginning to ache a little in the crouch.

  “How high?” Matt persisted.

  “Really, really high,” Steven promised.

  Matt brightened. “Okay,” he said, making for the door, with Zeke right behind him. “Let’s roll.”

  Steven laughed and, fifteen minutes later, they were nosing the truck into a parking spot in the lot beside the Sunflower Bakery and Café. Recalling yesterday’s parking ticket, he made sure there were no fire hydrants within fifty feet.

  They brought Zeke as far as the front of the restaurant and secured one end of his leash to a pole with a sign on it that read, “Park pets here.” An oversize pie pan full of fresh water waited within reach.

  Steven was just straightening his back, about to follow Matt inside the café, when Melissa O’Ballivan came jogging around a corner and up the sidewalk, straight toward him.

  She wore pink shorts, a skimpy white T-shirt, and one of those visor caps with no crown. Her abundance of spirally chestnut-brown hair bobbed on top of her head in a ponytail.

  Her smile nearly knocked Steven over—even if it was focused on Matt and the dog with such intensity that he might as well have been invisible.

  Holy crap, Steven thought, because the ground shook under his feet and the sky tilted at such a strange angle that his equilibrium was skewed. He gave his head a shake, in an effort to clear away some cobwebs.

  “Morning,” Melissa said, jogging in place.

  All the right things bounced, Steven noticed, grinning down at her like a damn fool. “Morning,” he responded, after clearing his throat.

  She looked up at him with a surprised expression in her blue eyes, as though she’d momentarily forgotten that he was standing there. Or never noticed him at all.

  She apparently wanted to give that impression, anyway, and he was intrigued.

  “Would you mind opening the door?” she asked, unplugging the white earbuds attached to an armband MP3 player from her head.

  It took Steven a moment to register what that simple phrase actually meant.

  She wanted to go inside the café.

  Feeling his neck warm, Steven pushed the door open and held it, so she could jog over the threshold and across to the take-out counter.

  Morning greetings and the scents of fresh coffee, baked goods and frying bacon washed over Steven, but starved though he was, he barely noticed. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Melissa O’Ballivan’s springy, perfect little backside.

  “Over here!” Matt whooped, mercifully distracting Steven. If he was lucky, maybe nobody had seen him staring like a pervert while the county prosecutor ran in place in front of the counter, placing a breathy order for a bottle of very cold water to go.

  The boy had found a table by one of the front windows.

  Zeke, just on the other side, put his big paws up on the sill and pressed his nose to the glass.

  Steven laughed, and that broke the tension—until Melissa jogged past again, water bottle in hand. A truck driver got up from his booth and opened the door for her, and Steven felt a stab of irritation—or was it plain old ordinary jealousy?

  Outside, Melissa trotted by the window, favoring Zeke with a smile Steven wanted for himself.

  “What’ll it be this morning, fellas?” a pleasant female voice asked, and Steven turned to see Tessa Quinn, the lovely owner of the establishment, wearing a floral print cobbler’s apron over jeans and a tank top and looking gorgeous.

  He’d recognized her on sight the day before—she’d had a major role in a long-running TV series when she was younger—but evidently she’d exchanged her SAG card for a small-town café and an apron.

  Matt asked politely for a short stack of blueberry pancakes and a big glass of milk, and Steven went for coffee and the ham-and-egg special.

  Tessa smiled and said, “Coming right up,” and the smile lingered on in her eyes when she glanced up briefly at the window Melissa had just passed.

  MELISSA’S NORMAL JOGGING ROUTE took her by the B&B most mornings, but not that one.

  What was she afraid of, she asked herself, giving a wry chortle as she picked up her pace, going two streets out of her way just to avoid passing Ashley and Jack’s place. That the nude croquet game might have been moved to the front yard?

  You’re getting to be a real party pooper, Melissa O’Ballivan, she told herself.

  At home, she went through her front gate and did a few cool-down moves and some stretches on the lawn. She finished off her water, started for the porch and nearly choked, she was so startled.

  There, in the shadows of the grand old lady peony bushes on either side of the walk, their huge white blossoms already fading as June wore on toward July, sat Byron Cahill.

  Andrea was beside him, and seeing Melissa’s expression, the two kids touched shoulders, maybe trying to give each other courage.

  “Well,” Melissa said, not sure what to think. “Good morning.”

  Byron got to his feet. He was probably just being polite, and there was nothing threatening in his stance, but he was a big kid, and Melissa automatically took a step back.

  “Andrea tells me you might need somebody to mow the lawn and trim the shrubbery and stuff,” Byron said gravely. He’d filled out in jail, and he was neatly dressed in inexpensive jeans, high-top sneakers and a clean T-shirt. While he was away, his acne had cleared up, too.

  He was actually quite good-looking, though still a kid.

  Melissa had made a few noises around the office about hiring somebody to whip her yard into shape, but it had never occurred to her that Andrea was listening, let alone planning to bring her recently released boyfriend by to apply for the job.

  “Well—” she said, looking at the overgrown peony bushes.

  The grass was so deep that small animals could get lost in it, and the branches of the venerable old maple tree were practically scraping the sidewalk in front of her picket fence. Which could use sanding down and painting.

  “I can borrow a mower,” Byron said, and there was a catch in his voice. One that gave Melissa a twinge of sympathy.

  Times were tough. There weren’t a lot of jobs in Stone Creek, especially for kids with a pol
ice record.

  Andrea watched Melissa hopefully, chewing on her lower lip before blurting, “Miss Mamie and Miss Marge hired Byron to reline the koi pond in the backyard over at their place. You know, empty it out and put down new plastic and then fill it and put all the fish back in—”

  Evidently, this was Andrea’s idea of a sales pitch, but it fell away in midstream when Byron gave the girl’s hand a squeeze.

  “I thought I’d ask,” he said to Melissa. There was resignation in his tone, but his gaze was direct. If she’d stepped aside, he would have walked past her, toward the gate.

  But Melissa didn’t step aside.

  “It’s a big job,” she said, sizing him up again. “And probably temporary.” Mike Smith, the teenager who took care of Ashley and Jack’s grass and flowerbeds, usually did yardwork for Melissa, too. This year, though, Mike was attending summer school, and he was running short on spare time.

  Byron’s eyes widened slightly, and a smile tugged at a corner of his mouth. “I’m not afraid of big jobs,” he said. “As for the temporary part, I can deal with that.”

  Melissa wondered if Andrea had nagged him into asking her for work, or if he’d thought of it on his own. Either way, it took guts to come over here and make the request, considering past history.

  “When could you start?” Melissa asked. She named an hourly wage that seemed to please him.

  He shoved a hand through his sandy-brown hair. Considered his answer. “Well,” he said, “Miss Mamie and Miss Marge need to come first, since all their fish are swimming around in buckets waiting for me to clean out the pond.”

  Melissa smiled at the colorful image that popped into her mind. “Tomorrow, then?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Byron answered.

  Melissa finally moved, so he could descend the steps. He paused, facing her, Andrea still clinging to his left hand.

  He put his right out to Melissa. “Thanks,” he said.

  She hesitated only a moment before taking the offered hand. “If you screw up,” she told him, frankly but in a friendly tone, “you are so out of here.”

  He laughed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  He started toward the gate, and Andrea double-stepped behind him, looking back at Melissa and mouthing, “Thank you!” as she went.

  Hoping she’d done the right thing, Melissa went on into the house and walked straight through to the kitchen. There she popped her empty water bottle into the recycling bin and hesitated in front of her old-fashioned wall phone.

  It was Saturday morning—early Saturday morning.

  Surely no emergencies had taken place while she was out for her run—she hadn’t been gone more than an hour.

  Even prosecutors had weekends off, didn’t they?

  Melissa’s mind flashed on Steven Creed, standing in front of the Sunflower Café a little while before, when she stopped by for water, not that she expected him to call or anything.

  But hot damn, the way he looked in those rancher’s clothes she’d fantasized about seeing him in the day before. It ought to require some kind of legal permit, being that handsome.

  Melissa sighed—not being able to ignore voice mail was the curse of the competent, she reminded herself—and reached out for the receiver. If she didn’t check for messages, she wouldn’t relax and enjoy her time off.

  There had been one caller.

  Ona Frame’s recorded voice rang over the wire. “Melissa? I hope it isn’t too early to be calling you, dear, but I was just so excited when Tommy stopped by this morning and told me you were willing to fill in for me on the Parade Committee this year—” Here, the older woman paused, turned tearful. “You see, I’m going to have to have this darn ol’ gallbladder of mine removed, and there’s nothing for it, but we’ve kicked off the annual rodeo with a parade every single year for nigh on half a century now and I don’t mind telling you, it almost broke my heart to think of canceling—”

  While she was out for her run, Melissa had come up with seven or eight really good excuses for turning down parade duty, but they all flew away as she listened to Ona rant on. And on. The message lasted so long, in fact, that Ona had to call back because she’d timed out on the first run.

  The essence of it was that the committee meeting had been scheduled for three o’clock that very afternoon, all along. It was to be held in the community room over at the Creekside Academy, and since the whole crew had been planning on attending anyway, she thought it was the perfect opportunity to present Melissa as their new leader.

  “Call me and let me know if you can make it!” Ona finished off merrily. “And I do hope you weren’t sleeping in or something, and I spoiled it by calling—”

  Melissa hung up, let her sweaty forehead rest against a cupboard door while she drew slow, deep breaths.

  There was no getting out of it. She was stuck. Might as well accept the fact and move on, she thought.

  She did allow herself one indulgence before returning Ona’s call and committing herself to the job, though. Melissa took her shower first.

  DURING BREAKFAST, Steven got a call on his cell phone from the Flagstaff auto dealership he’d contacted several weeks before; the extended cab truck he’d custom-ordered was in, and they could deliver it that day if he wanted.

  Steven agreed, relieved that he’d have a backseat for Matt and Zeke to ride in now. Plus, his old rig looked like it had been driven West in the ’30s by some family fleeing the Dust Bowl, though, of course, it wasn’t quite old enough for that scenario.

  He smiled, remembering his dad’s apt description of the vehicle.

  Steven’s got himself one of those two-toned rigs, Davis Creed had told a friend, tongue firmly planted in his cheek. And one of those tones is rust.

  “Do I have to clean up my plate?” Matt asked, anxious to get outside and keep Zeke company.

  Steven was still thinking about rigs. In Denver, he’d driven a candy-apple-red Corvette—also unsuitable for carting around a little boy and a dog.

  But Melissa O’Ballivan would look mighty fine riding shotgun in the sports car, he thought. He pictured her wearing a blue-and-white polka-dot sundress, strapless, with her hair tumbling down around her bare shoulders and her lips all glossy.

  “Steven?” Matt said, waving one hand in his face.

  “Go see to Zeke,” Steven replied, with a chuckle, as he pushed away his plate. “While I take care of the bill.”

  Matt scooted away from the table and zipped to the door, and Steven waited until he saw the boy with Zeke before he turned from the window.

  A few minutes later, he joined them outside.

  “We might as well go over and see if the office is fit for human habitation,” he told Matt, shoving his wallet into his hip pocket as he spoke.

  “Okay,” Matt said, conscientiously, “but Zeke drank all the dog water.” He held up the empty pan as proof. “See?”

  Steven mussed the boy’s hair and nodded. “Good call,” he said. “You figure you’re tall enough to reach the faucet on the men’s room sink and fill it up again, then get all the way back out here without spilling?”

  Matt nodded and headed for the door, pausing only to say, “Keep an eye on Zeke while I’m gone.”

  Steven grinned and executed an affirmative half salute.

  Matt proved to be a competent water bearer, and they headed for the office on foot, since it was just down the street.

  As it turned out, the place was in fairly good shape. The property management people had had the walls painted a subtle off-white, as requested, and the utilitarian gray carpet looked clean.

  Two desks, some file cabinets and a half-dozen bookshelves had been delivered, and when Steven picked up the handset on the three-line phone his assistant would use—once he’d hired an assistant, anyway—there was a dial tone.

  “Looks like we’re in business, Tex,” he told Matt, who was busy exploring the small place with Zeke.

  There wasn’t much to explore, actually—just an inner offi
ce, a storage closet and a unisex restroom that was hardly big enough to turn around in.

  And all that was fine with Steven.

  He probably wouldn’t have all that many cases anyway, even though his services would be free. Stone Creek wasn’t what you’d call crime-ridden, after all, and that, too, was fine with him.

  It was one of the main reasons he’d chosen to come here. He’d wanted to raise Matt in a small town—a small town that wasn’t Lonesome Bend, Colorado.

  “Are we going to look at the day-camp place now?” Matt asked, once he’d peeked into every corner of the office. He didn’t sound overly enthusiastic about the prospect.

  Steven checked his watch. “The dealer said we’d have our new truck within an hour and a half,” he replied. “Why don’t we go back out to the ranch and wait for it to be delivered, then swing into town again and visit Creekside Academy?”

  Matt liked that idea, and it was settled.

  They headed back home, and when they got there and piled out of the ancient pickup, Zeke ran around and around in happy circles in the grass, glorying in his freedom or maybe just glad to be alive, and obviously a country kind of dog.

  Two and a half hours later, the new vehicle was delivered, sky-blue and shiny, with the chrome gleaming fit to dazzle the eye. A second man followed in a small car, to give the driver a ride back.

  Steven signed for his purchase, accepted the keys and waved the deliverymen off in the second car.

  Matt, meanwhile, had climbed onto the running board, probably hoping to stick his face against the driver’s-side window and peer inside. Too bad he was so short.

  Chuckling, Steven walked over, hooked the boy around the waist with one arm, and opened the truck door with the other. He hoisted Matt inside, and watched, grinning, as he plunked himself on the seat, gripped the wheel and made that time-honored, spit-flinging varoom-varoom sound kids use to mimic the roar of an engine.

  “It won’t be long,” Matt crowed, steering speedily, “until I’m old enough to drive!”