A Creed in Stone Creek

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Come and join us,” Mr. Winthrop said, rising from his seat. “We’re playing gin rummy, and I’m afraid we’ve all known each other so well, for so long, that there just aren’t any new tricks.”

  I’ll just bet there aren’t, Melissa thought, but not with rancor. Initial embarrassment aside, she liked these people. They had spirit. Imagination. Wrinkles. Lots and lots of wrinkles.

  “I can’t stay,” she said, and the regret in her tone was only partly feigned. She enjoyed gin rummy and, heck, everybody was dressed, weren’t they? “I’m having company tonight, so I came by to borrow a few things.” She waggled her fingers at them, backing toward the swinging door. “Enjoy your game.”

  “Don’t take the roast duck,” one of the women sang out, shuffling the deck for another hand of cards. “Your sister promised that to us. It’s Herbert’s favorite, and he’s turning ninety tomorrow.”

  “Hands off the duck,” Melissa promised, palms up and facing the group at the table, and then she slipped out. She was smiling to herself as she headed for the large storage room, off the kitchen, where Ashley had two huge freezers, invariably well-stocked.

  One was reserved for desserts, one for main courses.

  She selected a container marked Game Hens with Cranberries and Wild Rice, Serves 6, Ashley’s graceful handwriting looping across the label. Melissa hoped that Matt liked chicken, as most kids did, and would therefore accept a reasonable facsimile.

  For dessert, she purloined a lovely blueberry cobbler.

  Best with Vanilla Ice Cream, Ashley had written on the sticker. It was almost as if she’d known, somehow, that her twin would be breaking into her frozen-food supply soon and would need guidance.

  Melissa set the food on the counter, went back to the inside door to poke her head in and say goodbye.

  The card players were still clothed and so normal-looking that she could almost believe she’d imagined the notorious backyard croquet game. Maybe she really was going nuts.

  “See you,” Melissa said stupidly, her face strangely hot as she backed away from the door.

  She turned, grabbed the food containers and boogied out the back door, glad she’d parked her car in the alley, so she wouldn’t have to walk around front, where she might have to stop and chat with one of her sister’s neighbors. She wasn’t feeling very sociable at the moment.

  She made a quick stop at the supermarket for ice cream and a premade spinach salad, then hurried home.

  When she got there, Byron was working, shirtless, in the front yard, pruning shears in hand, snipping errant branches off the maple tree and stemming its invasion of the sidewalk.

  Nathan Carter, a local dropout with a history of misdemeanors to his credit and not much else, sat cross-legged in the as-yet-unmowed grass, watching him.

  “I thought you couldn’t come until tomorrow,” Melissa said, addressing Byron but shooting a curious glance at Nathan as she spoke, then grappling with Ashley’s plastic containers and the stuff she’d bought at the store. “Something about relining the Crocketts’ koi pond?”

  Nathan returned her look, smirking. She’d never liked the kid; a sort of latter-day James Dean type, he seemed to fancy himself a rebel without a cause.

  He was also without a job, a house or a car, as far as she knew. He came and went, turning up every so often to bunk on his cousin Lulu’s screened-in side porch and stir up whatever trouble he could.

  Byron, sweating, paused and pulled an arm across his forehead. His eyes were wary, and oddly hopeful, as he watched Melissa and nodded once. “Got that done,” he said. “Those fish are back in the pond, swimming around like they had good sense. I’ll be back in the morning to finish up around here, but I thought I’d whack off some of these branches tonight.”

  Melissa looked from Byron to Nathan and back to Byron, tempted to take her temporary yard man aside and remind him that he ought to be careful who he hung around with, given that he was on parole.

  “Byron, here,” Nathan put in helpfully, “is a little short on cash.”

  “I could advance you a few dollars,” Melissa said.

  Nathan and Byron responded simultaneously.

  “Awesome,” Nathan drawled, his tone oily, like his mouse-brown hair and his filthy T-shirt and jeans.

  “I wouldn’t feel right taking money,” said Byron, with a decisive shake of his head. “Not when I haven’t finished the job.”

  Had this kid changed in jail, Melissa wondered, or had she misjudged him, way back when? There had never been any question of his guilt, that was true, but maybe Velda had been right.

  Maybe she should have tried for mandatory treatment in a drug and alcohol facility instead of time behind bars…. No. She had considered every angle, consulted experts, lain awake nights. She’d done what she thought was right and there was no use second-guessing the decision now.

  She turned her thoughts to her supper guests—Steven and Matt Creed. Nathan dropped off her radar, a nonentity.

  And she immediately felt better.

  The containers of frozen food, now beginning to thaw, stung like dry ice through the front of Melissa’s top and she still wanted to tidy up the house a little, choose an outfit—nothing too come-hither—do something with her hair, and put on some makeup. A touch of mascara, some lip gloss, that was all.

  Maybe a little perfume.

  The message she wanted to send was, Welcome to Stone Creek, not, Hey, big guy, what do you say we hire a sitter, slip out of here, and go find ourselves a place to get it on?

  She blushed, because the second version wasn’t without a certain appeal, then realized she hadn’t responded to Byron’s last statement. “Okay, then,” she told him, ignoring Nathan, tugging open the screen door with a quick motion of one hand and holding it open with her hip. “See you tomorrow.”

  Byron nodded and went back to snipping branches off the maple tree.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BY 5:59 P.M., MELISSA WAS ready to serve supper—the game hens, warming in the seldom-used oven, filled her small, bright kitchen with their savory aroma. The cobbler, already thawed and heated through, sat cooling on the counter nearest the stove, covered by a clean dishtowel. The antique table, which too often served as a catchall for newspapers and junk mail, looked like something straight off the cover of Country Living magazine.

  Melissa took a moment to admire the crisp white tablecloth, the green-tinted glass jar in the center, spilling over with perfect white peonies from the bushes on either side of the front steps. The plates, purchased on impulse in, of all places, an airport gift shop, were decorated with checks and flowers and polka dots.

  She tilted her head to one side, considering the look. Fussy, yes. Feminine, definitely. Cheerful, to the max.

  But was it too fussy, feminine and cheerful?

  After all, this wasn’t a reunion of her high school cheerleading squad; she was entertaining a little boy and a grown man.

  And what a man. There should have been a law.

  Melissa chewed briefly on one fingernail, fretting. With the exception of the flowers in the jar, none of this was at all like her—the fancy dishes had been gathering dust in the cupboard above the refrigerator for a couple of years, she hadn’t cooked the food and she had exactly one tablecloth to her name—this one. It didn’t even have any sentimental value, that tablecloth—it hadn’t been passed down through generations of O’Ballivans, like the various linens Ashley and Olivia so prized. No, Melissa had bought it on clearance at a discount store, just in case she might need it someday—her share of the heirlooms were stored in a chest, out on the ranch. Did she have time to drive out there and grab some?

  Deep breath, she instructed herself silently.

  Just as she drew in air, a rap sounded at the front door. They’re here.

  No time to tone down—or tone up—the decorations now, obviously.

  Melissa, feeling especially womanly in her summery dress, a multicolored Southwestern print with touches of turquoise
and magenta, gold and black, went to greet her company.

  Matt stood on the porch with his nose pressed into the screen door, his damp hair already beginning to rebel against a recent combing, springing up into a rooster tail at the back of his head and swirling into little cowlick eddies here and there.

  Melissa’s heart melted at the sight of him; a smile rose up within her and spilled across her face, warm on her mouth. Of course she was aware of Steven, standing behind the boy—how could she not have been aware?—but she didn’t make eye contact right away.

  No, she needed a few more deep breaths before she could risk that.

  So she concentrated on Matt—unlocking and opening the screen door, stepping back so he could spill into her house, all energy and eagerness and boy.

  “You look very handsome,” she told the child, resisting a motherly urge to smooth down the rooster tail with a light pass of her hand.

  Matt’s smile seemed to encompass her, like an actual embrace. “And you look beautiful!” he responded.

  “Amen,” Steven said huskily. That single word coursed right over Matt’s head to lodge itself in Melissa like a velvet arrow.

  Her throat caught, and her gaze betrayed her, going straight to him long before she was ready.

  Steven wore jeans, a little newer than the ones he’d had on earlier, along with polished black boots and a white, collarless shirt of the sort men favored back in the Old West days. His hair was damp from a recent shower, like Matt’s, but there were no cowlicks and no rooster tails, and he smelled like a field of newly sprouted clover after a soft rain.

  A free-fall sensation seized Melissa, buffeted the breath from her lungs, as though she were skydiving without a parachute, or riding a runaway roller coaster.

  The feeling was stunning. Terrifying, in fact.

  And categorically wonderful.

  “I hope you’re both hungry,” she heard herself say, and the normality of her tone amazed her, because on the inside, she was still being swept along, helter-skelter, like a swimmer caught in a fast current.

  “We’re starved,” Matt answered, looking around the living room, as alert as a detective scanning for clues.

  Steven smiled and cleared his throat slightly, raising one eyebrow when Matt turned to look up at him.

  “Well, we are,” the boy insisted, folding his small arms.

  Steven grinned, unwittingly—or wittingly—sending a charge of electricity through Melissa. His eyes, so very blue and with a touch of lavender to them that reminded her of summer twilights and late-blooming lilacs, ranged idly over her, pausing here and there, lingering to light small fires under her skin. It seemed lazy-slow, that look, but she knew it couldn’t have lasted more than a fraction of a moment.

  “Then let’s get you some supper,” Melissa told Matt, extra glad he was there, and not just because she was already so fond of him. If she’d been alone with Steven Creed, considering her strange state of mind, she might have jumped the man’s bones right there in the living room.

  Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration. But she was definitely attracted to him, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was on dangerous ground.

  Remembering her duties as a hostess, she led the way into the kitchen.

  Matt started toward the table the moment they entered the room, but Steven caught the child lightly by one shoulder and stopped him.

  “Where do we wash up?” Steven asked, looking at Melissa.

  She pointed toward the hallway just to the left of the stove. “The bathroom is that way,” she said.

  The Creed men disappeared in the direction she’d indicated, then returned a couple of minutes later.

  Melissa was just setting out the main course. Since she didn’t own a platter, she’d left the food in Ashley’s freezer-to-oven casserole dish.

  “Are those chickens?” Matt asked, eyeing the halved game hens dubiously.

  Steven chuckled. “Yes,” he said mildly. “They’re chickens.” And then he caught Melissa’s eye, waiting for something.

  After an awkward moment, Melissa pointed to one of the chairs. Steven pulled it back, let Matt scramble up onto the seat.

  “Can I eat with my fingers?” Matt wanted to know.

  Steven answered without taking his eyes off Melissa. “Thanks for asking,” he said, in an easy drawl. “But no, Tex, you can’t eat with your fingers.”

  It finally came home to Melissa that Steven wasn’t going to sit down until she was seated. She moved toward the middle chair, oddly embarrassed, waited for Steven to pull it out for her and sat.

  She noticed a sparkle in the man’s eyes as he joined her and Matt.

  “I don’t think those are really chickens,” Matt said, in a tone of good-natured skepticism, peering into the casserole dish in the center of the table.

  Melissa began to wish she’d served something little-boy friendly, like pizza or hamburgers or hot dogs.

  Steven, perhaps hoping to put her at ease, speared one of the game hens with the serving fork, dropped it onto his plate, and began cutting it into bite-size pieces. His movements were quick and deft, with a subtle elegance about them.

  Don’t think about his hands.

  Melissa blinked, snapping out of yet another mini-daze.

  Steven switched plates with Matt, who nibbled at a bite, then began to eat in earnest.

  “Slow down,” Steven said, helping himself when Melissa didn’t move to dish up a portion of her own.

  Matt nodded, chewing and swallowing. “You’re a good cook,” he told Melissa.

  Melissa felt heat pulse under her cheeks, longing to fib and take all the credit—and completely unable to do so. She was terminally honest; it was her personal cross to bear.

  “My sister Ashley is,” she clarified. “I—well—sort of borrowed supper from her.”

  Steven’s eyes danced with blue mischief, but he didn’t offer a comment. He did seem to be enjoying Ashley’s culinary expertise, though.

  Everybody did.

  “Oh,” Matt said. Having taken the edge off his appetite, he paused, looking across the table at Steven. “Do you think Zeke is okay?” he asked.

  Zeke? Then Melissa remembered the dog.

  “Zeke,” Steven said easily, “is just fine.”

  “I wanted to bring him with us,” Matt confided to Melissa, who, by then, had begun to eat, however tentatively. “But Dad wouldn’t let me. He said it wouldn’t be polite to do that.”

  Melissa smiled, willing herself to relax. Steven Creed, with his broad shoulders and his quiet confidence and his mere presence, seemed to fill that small kitchen, breathing all the air, absorbing the light.

  Absorbing her. The experience, though disquieting, had a certain zip to it, too.

  “Zeke,” Steven repeated, his eyes smiling as he looked at Matt, “is just fine.”

  “You could bring him next time,” Melissa said.

  Next time? Who said there was going to be a “next time”?

  Matt cheered at the news.

  “Bring it down a few decibels,” Steven instructed.

  Matt grinned. “I’m too loud sometimes,” he said to Melissa, in a stage whisper.

  She laughed and stopped just short of ruffling his hair. “That’s okay,” she whispered back.

  After that, a companionable silence fell.

  It wasn’t until the meal was over, and they were contemplating dessert, that Matt got down to brass tacks.

  “Are you married?” he asked Melissa bluntly. “Do you have any kids?”

  Steven, so far unflappable, it seemed to Melissa, reddened slightly. Narrowed his eyes at Matt and started to speak.

  Melissa cut him off before he could say a word. “No,” she told Matt. “I’m not married, and I don’t have any kids.”

  Matt’s smile was glorious, like dawn breaking after a cold and moonless night. “Good!” he said. “Then you could marry my dad and be my mom. We’d help with the cooking, so you wouldn’t have to keep borrowing s
upper from your sister, and even do the laundry.”

  “Matt,” Steven said, fighting a smile.

  Without thinking about it first—if she had, she would surely have stopped herself—Melissa rested a hand on Steven’s forearm. Felt the muscles tighten and then ease again under her fingertips.

  “It’s okay,” she said, very softly.

  Matt looked from Steven to Melissa, and his small shoulders stooped a little. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that stuff about marrying Dad and me,” he admitted.

  “Ya think?” Steven asked.

  Melissa smiled, anxious to reassure the child. “Know what?” she said, addressing Matt, finally removing her hand from Steven’s arm.

  “What?” Matt asked.

  “If I’m ever lucky enough to have a little boy of my own, I hope he’ll be just like you.”

  It came again, then. That beaming smile.

  When this kid grew up, he was going to be a heartbreaker, no doubt about it.

  “Really?” Matt asked.

  Steven shifted in his chair, but said nothing.

  “Really,” Melissa confirmed. “Now, who wants ice cream and cobbler?”

  MATT RESTED OVER STEVEN’S right shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. Once the kid hit the proverbial wall and gave himself over to sleep, that was it. His surroundings didn’t matter—he was down for the count.

  Melissa, looking better than any dessert ever could have, walked out to the truck alongside Steven, hugging herself against the chill of a high country night.

  There was hardly anything to that sundress of hers, which was fine with Steven, except that he didn’t want her catching pneumonia or anything.

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly, pausing on the sidewalk, turning toward her.

  He wanted to kiss Melissa, but holding Matt the way he was, the logistics were just plain off.

  Melissa smiled, reached past him to open the rear door of the rig.

  Matt mumbled something as Steven set him in the car seat and began buckling him in but, true to form, he didn’t wake up.

  “He’s terrific,” she said softly.

  “I agree,” Steven told her, after Matt was secured. They stood facing each other now, on that darkened sidewalk. “Of course it would be a real plus if he’d stop proposing to women.”