“Good to see you on a horse again,” he said.
Kristy choked up for a moment, nodded. Lingered when Briana went on inside. “How’s Lily?” she asked. As kids, she and Doc’s daughter had been summer playmates.
Doc grinned, albeit sadly. “Stubborn as ever,” he said.
A sudden pang struck Kristy as she realized how Hal Ryder had aged. He seemed thinner than usual, and profoundly tired.
Before Kristy could think of a reply, he spotted someone, over her shoulder, called out a hello and excused himself.
Kristy went on inside the house, washed up in a powder room under renovation and tracked Briana to the kitchen. There, she and Briana and Katherine Huntinghorse, Jim’s ex, busied themselves putting out the sizable spread Briana had prepared earlier in the day.
In the way of country people, folks filled paper plates and plastic cups and divided themselves by gender to visit. The men went outside, to sit on the porch steps, in the grass, under trees. The women somehow found chairs inside, though a few ventured as far as the picnic table on the patio.
All the talk was convivial—the men would be discussing politics, beef prices, taxes and the rising cost of hay and gasoline. The women praised Briana’s fried chicken and the renovations she and Logan were doing on the house, and let their gazes stray surreptitiously to the new Mrs. Creed’s still-flat abdomen.
Amused, Kristy wondered if she might be garnering a few such glances herself, though she hadn’t caught anyone at it. Briana was clearly the main focus of observation, with Katherine Huntinghorse running a close second.
Kristy was happy to be left in the dust, although between the recently discovered bodies, her budding relationship with Dylan and the option agreement she’d signed allowing Zachary Spencer first dibs on the story, she knew it couldn’t last.
Katherine nudged her as the two of them stood side by side in Briana’s kitchen, leaning against a counter and chowing down, as Dylan put it, on fried chicken, potato salad and various other tasty things. “Do you think Jim can win?” she asked.
Kristy didn’t know Katherine very well, since she was “from away,” meaning she hadn’t grown up in or around Stillwater Springs, as most of the people gathered at Logan and Briana’s place had. She was a mixed-media artist of some type, and looked the part, in her colorful, flowing skirt and sleeveless peasant blouse of cream eyelet. Her hair was long and dark, held back from her face by a silver barrette, and her eyes were silver-gray, fringed by thick lashes.
“I know Jim can win,” Kristy answered. Everybody knew Jim’s marriage hadn’t lasted; was there a reconciliation in the offing? “He’ll make an excellent sheriff.”
Jim came into the kitchen from outside just then, ducking so his small son, riding on his shoulders, wouldn’t bump his head. The boy—Kristy couldn’t recall his name, if she’d ever known it in the first place—was about four, she guessed, and looked just like his father, except that he had Katherine’s remarkable silver eyes.
A patter of neighborly applause—here’s our handsome candidate now—rose from the women in the kitchen, but Jim’s gaze, like the boy’s, went straight to Katherine and stuck.
Hmm, Kristy thought.
“Dad wants to take me for a ride on a horse!” the little boy called. “Can I go, Mom? Can I go? Please?”
“Jim,” Katherine said, “you’ll spoil your new campaign suit.”
Jim flushed; he still seemed completely unaware of everyone else in the room, save Katherine and their son. Kristy rather enjoyed feeling invisible—it would be a nifty trick next time she ran into the reporters, if she could disappear—and she was engrossed in the exchange between these two people who used to be married and weren’t anymore.
“Sam really wants that ride,” Jim said, very quietly. “And I can have the suit cleaned.”
“With all the money he’s making off those slot machines out at the casino,” one of the women noted in a kindly jab, “he ought to be able to afford ten suits like that one.”
More laughter followed this comment; Kristy joined in, though she rarely visited the local casino. It wasn’t that she had anything against gambling; she just got bored quickly at the slot machines.
Jim seemed to snap out of his reverie, at least partly. Before their very eyes, he turned into a politician, his smile engaging, his manner easy and confident. He scanned the room, found the woman who’d commented on the slot machines. “Stella Baker,” he said, making the middle-aged farmer’s wife blush a little with all that noble-savage charm of his. “I thought your game was bingo.”
“I played the slots last Tuesday night, between bingo games,” Stella said, “and I lost my shirt.”
Jim took exaggerated notice of her blue-and-white gingham blouse. The other women laughed again and Stella, pleased as a schoolgirl flirting with a new beau, blushed even harder.
“Not this one,” she said. “I will say, Jim Huntinghorse, that those machines are rigged.”
“Are you going to quit running that casino when you get elected?” another woman asked. This was Jolie Calhoun, Stella’s best friend.
Jim set Sam on his feet, then bowed graciously to Jolie and Stella. “Yes,” he said. “Being sheriff is a full-time job.”
Kristy just happened to see Katherine cross two fingers on her right hand, though whether the former Mrs. Huntinghorse wanted Jim to win and leave the casino or lose and stay there, she had no way of knowing.
Little Sam raced across the crowded kitchen and clutched at Katherine’s skirt, looking up at her, his silver eyes imploring. “Mom, I have to ride that horse, and Dad won’t let me get on alone.”
Katherine looked down at her son, visibly relented, met Jim’s gaze again and nodded. “Just be careful,” she said.
“Always,” Jim answered gruffly.
Well that wasn’t about riding a horse, Kristy thought. Then, with a little jerk, she brought herself up short. She was turning into a snoop; pretty soon, she’d be cackling away with the rest of the hens, speculating about who was pregnant, who was having an affair, who paid too much for their new car and was putting on airs.
Jim and Sam left, headed out for the promised horseback ride, and Kristy resisted an urge to go outside and see what Dylan and Bonnie were doing.
She was helping Briana and some of the others clean up when Logan burst into the kitchen through the patio door. The look on his face froze everyone in place, and Briana was the first to break the spell.
“Logan, what is it?”
He strode past her, into a bedroom off the kitchen, came out with a couple of blankets and a pillow. His face was gray.
“It’s Doc,” he said, on his way out again. “I think he’s having a heart attack.”
Kristy had no more absorbed that when she heard the first wail of an approaching siren.
She dashed outside, only a step or two ahead of Briana.
Sure enough, Hal Ryder lay on the patio stones next to the picnic table, unconscious. Dylan pumped the man’s chest while Jim Huntinghorse performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
“Everybody stay back,” Logan ordered, as he slipped the pillow under Doc’s head and covered him as best he could with the blanket.
“We’re losing him,” Jim gasped, between breaths, turning his head toward Dylan.
“No way that’s going to happen,” Dylan retorted, still working Doc’s failing heart through the thin wall of his chest. “Doc! You hear me? Hold on in there—for Lily.”
Ambulance light splashed them all with red.
“Hold on, Doc,” Kristy whispered, echoing what Dylan had just said. “Hold on, for Lily.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
DOC’S HEART WAS STILL BEATING when the EMTs rushed him away from Stillwater Springs Ranch in back of the ambulance. Kristy, holding a fitful Bonnie while Logan and Dylan and Jim Huntinghorse conferred on the patio, distractedly dazzled by the purple-gold of a spectacular Montana sunset, felt hollowed out, numb with shock.
Her own father had di
ed in a Missoula hospital, while she was holding his hand and trying, through tears, to tell him how much she loved him, and that it was okay to go on. She’d be all right.
Though she’d meant what she said at the time, the painful truth was, she hadn’t been “all right,” not totally, anyway. Oh, sure, she’d kept right on going, like that drum-beating bunny on TV, putting on a brave front, helping people choose library books, conducting story hour, renovating her house, paying her bills—in general, coping. But she’d also flipped some internal switch, effectively shutting down yet another part of herself.
It was dangerous to love people or animals.
She’d loved Sugarfoot.
She’d loved her mom and dad.
And she’d loved Dylan Creed, although not in the way she did now.
Bonnie, squirming in her arms, gave her hair a tug, most likely to get her attention.
Oh, yes, love was a perilous thing.
Kristy’s eyes burned with tears as she looked into the little face, full of trust and worry. Adult things were happening, and Bonnie didn’t understand. She seemed to be debating in that lively child-mind of hers—should she be scared? She’d take her cue from the grown-ups, of course.
So Kristy straightened her spine and summoned up a smile. “It’s okay, baby,” she said. “Everything’s okay. See? There’s your daddy.”
At that moment, Dylan looked their way. The strain in his face slackened a little; he said something to Jim and Logan, and came toward her. Took Bonnie easily, gave her a reassuring squeeze.
“Do you think Doc will make it?” Kristy asked, her tone deliberately light, for Bonnie’s sake. Children might not understand the words that passed between their protectors, but they were masters at picking up on nuances, however subtle.
Dylan turned his head toward the road, where the dust the ambulance had raised still billowed in the air. “I hope so,” he said.
“You were pretty wonderful,” Kristy ventured softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “So was Jim. Obviously, your CPR skills are up to date.”
Dylan made an attempt at a grin, but fell short. “Comes in handy on the rodeo circuit,” he said.
They were quiet for a while. Then Kristy said, “Someone should call Lily. I know the hospital will notify her, as next of kin, but—”
Dylan nodded. People were saying goodbye, starting to get into their cars and leave. “Looks like the party’s over,” he said.
“I’ll let Logan and Briana know we’re going,” Kristy volunteered, since Dylan seemed to be rooted to the patio, now that the immediate crisis had passed.
“Thanks,” he said. Burying his face in Bonnie’s fluffy, flyaway hair, he closed his eyes and breathed deep.
A few minutes later, the three of them were in Dylan’s truck, Bonnie sleeping, Dylan staring over the steering wheel at the road, Kristy wondering if she shouldn’t have insisted on driving. Instead of heading for Dylan’s place, they went to Kristy’s. She needed to pack a few things, and Dylan wanted to look at the locks on all her doors, since he intended to replace them.
Winston greeted them anxiously as they entered the kitchen, and for a shaky moment, Kristy thought someone was prowling around the house again.
As it turned out, though, he just wanted his dinner, and his water bowl was nearly empty.
Dylan laid Bonnie on the living room couch, covered her with a crocheted afghan and started checking locks.
Kristy fed Winston, troubled about leaving him alone in the house while she spent the night—and maybe longer—at Dylan’s. Putting the thought aside temporarily, she went into her study and found her address book.
She and Lily Ryder Kenyon, Doc’s daughter, didn’t correspond, except to exchange Christmas cards. It was possible—even likely—that the contact information she had was outdated, but the need to call her childhood friend was a compelling one.
After finding the number, Kristy picked up the phone on her desk and dialed. What would she say, if Lily hadn’t heard about her father’s heart attack? She didn’t know, but she had to say something—woman to woman, daughter to daughter.
One ring, two, three.
Kristy was waiting for voice mail to pick up, so she could leave her name and number and ask for a return call, when a woman answered, her voice choked with tears.
“H-hello?” Lily Kenyon said.
“It’s Kristy Madison,” Kristy answered.
“I just got a call from someone at Missoula General,” Lily told her. “My dad’s on his way there with a heart attack—?”
“Yes,” Kristy said, as Dylan appeared in the study doorway, hands resting on the framework at shoulder level. “I don’t know how bad it is, Lily. But I wanted you to know that—well—if there’s anything I can do—”
Lily thrust out a deep, tremulous sigh. “It’s pretty bad, from what the woman at the hospital said. I’ll be there as soon as I can. And th-thanks, Kristy. For thinking to call. It really means a lot.” She paused. “Were—were you there when it happened? Dad’s heart attack, I mean?”
Kristy swallowed as the image of Doc lying on the patio stones, helpless and gray, filled her mind. “Yes. It happened at Stillwater Springs Ranch—at a party. Dylan and Jim Huntinghorse gave your dad CPR until the ambulance arrived.”
“Thank God,” Lily murmured. A long, groping sort of pause followed. “I can’t seem to think straight.” After this came a heartbreaking little attempt at a laugh. “I need to book flights for Tess and me—arrange for someplace to stay near the hospital in Missoula—”
“One step at a time,” Kristy said gently, as Dylan approached.
Without prompting, Kristy handed him the phone.
“Lily? Dylan Creed—”
Kristy waited while Dylan offered to send a plane for Lily and her little girl. He had a friend, he told her, who flew a jet.
Lily must have demurred, because Dylan said gently, “Okay. Yeah, I understand—your dad told Logan and me what happened. Sure—I’ll tell her.” He reached for a pen on Kristy’s tidy desk and scrawled what was probably Lily’s cell-phone number. “See you then. Hang tough, Lil.”
He replaced the receiver. “Lily said to tell you thanks again. She’ll call as soon as she’s settled in Missoula and knows anything more about Doc’s condition.”
Kristy’s mind skipped a track. “It wouldn’t be right to leave Winston alone in the house,” she said, surprising herself, since she’d planned to say something about Lily’s arrival instead.
“What?” Dylan asked, understandably puzzled.
Kristy sighed, shook her head in frustration directed wholly at herself. Normally, she was the most orderly person on earth—just look at her desk, or her car—but these days, what with all that was going on, and Dylan in close proximity, her brain seemed hopelessly muddled. “My cat,” she said. “Winston. I can’t go out to your place and just leave him here.”
“Fine,” Dylan said, watching her closely, his eyes solemn and earnest. “We’ll take him with us.”
“You have a dog,” Kristy pointed out.
“Sam? He’s the chummy type. He’ll take to Winston right away.”
“Probably,” Kristy agreed, fondly recalling Dylan’s just-rescued dog. “But will Winston take to him?”
“One way to find out,” Dylan said, with a weary grin. “Unless, of course, you’re trying to backpedal here. If you want to stay with Bonnie and me, great. If you don’t, that’s cool, too.”
Kristy bit her lower lip. Was she looking for an escape hatch? Winston would be happy as long as she was around, since she was his person, dog or no dog, in whichever house.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay, what?” Dylan prodded, grinning again.
Kristy took a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “Okay, we’ll take Winston out to your place and see if he and Sam get along. Just let me find his crate and get a few of my clothes—”
Dylan looked relieved. “Bring something see-through, with garters,” he teas
ed, lightening an otherwise heavy moment.
Kristy gave him a poke with her fingertip and went off to find Winston’s crate, used only when he visited the vet.
And his vet was, of course, Doc Ryder.
Don’t die, Kristy pleaded silently, as she made for the basement stairs, off the kitchen, where she stored things like cat crates. Lily’s on her way.
*
OUT AT THE RANCH, after putting Bonnie to bed and feeding Sundance, Dylan crouched in the center of the kitchen floor. Winston was making a fuss inside the crate, while Sam pressed a wet, curious nose up against the wire door, ears cocked, tail switching in uncertain little jerks from side to side.
“This isn’t going to work,” Kristy said in despair.
Winston took a swipe at Sam’s nose.
Sam didn’t move, and his tail wagged faster, with more confidence.
“It will work fine,” Dylan disagreed calmly.
“Don’t open that door!”
Dylan opened the door.
Sam backed up a few steps, still wagging and sniffing like mad.
Winston waltzed out of the crate, his white tail big as the brush Kristy used to clean ceiling fans at home. He stood toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose, with Sam for a few breathtaking seconds, then strolled haughtily past the dog to explore his new surroundings.
“See?” Dylan said, rising to stash the crate in the nearby laundry room.
“It worked,” Kristy said, amazed.
“For now,” Dylan agreed. “I’m going out to get your stuff and then ride Sundance over to Logan’s. See if he’ll stay put in the barn—I’ve been thinking about those bears that feed in the orchard. You mind staying with Bonnie for an hour or so?”
“We’ll be fine,” she told him quietly. “But how will you get back here?”
“I’ll hitch a ride with Logan, or walk. It’s not that far.”
Kristy nodded.
Dylan brought in her suitcase, and then Winston’s litter box, bag of litter and food supply. She stood watching at the back door as Dylan untied Sundance, speaking quietly to the horse all the while, and slipped a halter over the animal’s head.
Linda Lael Miller Montana Creeds Series Volume 1: Montana Creeds: LoganMontana Creeds: DylanMontana Creeds: Tyler Page 48