“Baffled,” Carla replied sadly. “I’ve tried to explain, but she doesn’t understand. She keeps asking if one of us will call Floyd and ask him to bring home hamburgers for supper, because she doesn’t feel like cooking.”
Kristy closed her eyes against the image of that poor, bewildered woman, but it stayed with her. “Someone will be staying with her?”
“One or another of us will be here for the duration.”
Kristy sighed with relief. “That’s good,” she said.
“It’s the only option, right about now.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ll let you know if we need help,” Carla promised gently.
“Thanks, Carla.”
“You take care of yourself, Kristy. It’s no secret, what you’ve been going through, over what happened. I just want you to know that we’re on your side—the town, I mean. We all remember Tim and Louise, and they were good people.”
That time, Kristy couldn’t answer at all. She nodded and hung up.
And because she desperately needed something to do, she found an apron, tied it around her waist and began making supper.
*
THE NEXT DAY, Floyd Book was released, though the investigation would continue for months. He promptly returned to Stillwater Springs, announced his resignation and went home to look after his wife.
Logan had already handed the diary over to the state police, and he brought a copy by the library for Kristy to read. She immediately put Susan in charge and slipped into her office, alone, to devour every word.
She was desperate to understand what had happened, even though it was all in the past—so far in the past.
She read through a blur of tears how a teenage girl had seen two men she’d known all her life burying a body under a copse of trees on Madison Ranch. The handwriting was jerky and strange, the spelling that of someone much younger than a high school junior.
Freida had been spending the night by the creek, on a dare from some girls at school, by her account. And once she’d realized what it was Tim Madison and Floyd Book were actually doing, she’d been so terrified that she’d hidden in some bushes until the sun came up.
If she had ever blackmailed Kristy’s parents, she’d made no record of it in the diary, but she’d hit Floyd up for money, never revealing her identity of course, and he’d paid promptly. He’d probably never suspected a teenage girl to be behind the demands, but Kristy still wondered why he hadn’t used his resources as sheriff to run her down.
Guilt, she supposed. On some level, Floyd Book had believed he deserved to be blackmailed, maybe even that he was getting off easy.
Freida spent the initial loot on a prom dress. She didn’t say how the money was transferred.
Oddly, even as she continued to collect on what she’d seen, Freida had begun to develop a schoolgirl crush on Floyd. She wrote about how good he looked in his uniform, and how she’d like to have his children, and began to map out a plan of seduction long before he’d actually succumbed to her charms.
The most chilling entries, of course, concerned Ellie Clarkston. How she’d spoiled things by waltzing into town and stealing Mike Danvers right out from under Freida’s nose.
Freida’s description of the actual murder made the small hairs stand up on Kristy’s arms.
I shouldn’t be writing this down. But I can’t tell anybody, and I can’t hold it in, either. I killed Ellie Clarkston.
She’d underlined that last sentence, in bold strokes of her pen.
I told her Mike wanted to see her about something important, in that copse of trees between the Creed place and Madison Ranch. I was the go-between, that’s what I said. She was so smug, and spiteful. She called me “Message Girl.” Well, when she went to meet Mike, she found out she wasn’t so smart after all. I got there first, and I was waiting. I hit her in the back of the head with a rock, and when she was down, I hit her again and again, until she died. I had to take off all my clothes afterward, and wash them in the creek, and myself, too, and wait for everything to dry. She sat propped against a tree, all that time, looking at me with her dead, staring eyes. It took me three days to dig that hole, and I was scared to death the whole time that somebody would catch me, or the coyotes would drag her stupid slut carcass into plain sight and someone would find her and put it all together. I’m not sorry for what I did. I’m NOT SORRY. She brought it all on herself. Nobody—NOBODY—takes what’s mine.
“Nobody takes what’s mine,” Kristy repeated, cold to the marrow of her bones. You took Mike—you took my house—you even took my damn cat—
Sickened, Kristy stopped turning pages, pushed the stack of copy pages away, unable to read any more.
Somehow, she got through the rest of that day.
Dylan got her through the night. They didn’t make love—her emotions were too raw for that—but he held her, in the safe circle of his arms, and when she cried because terrible memories crowded around the bed like shadows, he stroked her hair and murmured that everything would be all right. They’d get through this, together.
But he still didn’t say the words that would have made all the difference in the world.
He didn’t say, “I love you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE WEDDING, as Dylan and Kristy had planned, was a civil ceremony, held in her living room. Bonnie attended, of course, wearing a lacy pink dress and little patent leather Mary Janes Kristy had hastily chosen for the occasion, and Logan, Briana, Josh and Alec were there, too.
There were no rings in evidence, though Kristy had secretly bought a broad gold band for Dylan, and tucked it away for safekeeping, just in case.
Briana had insisted on bringing flowers—bright splashes of zinnias in varying shades, charmingly arranged in a Mason jar. It’s a wedding, she’d insisted, when Kristy protested, looking askance at the bride’s simple blue polka-dot sundress and sandals.
Dylan wore jeans, his best boots and a crisp white shirt, with the cuffs rolled partway up his forearms.
Logan, the best man, brought a digital camera.
Judge John Etterling performed the ceremony, and the whole thing was over in what seemed like five minutes.
The judge accepted payment and made a hasty departure, and after he’d gone, Logan explained that Etterling would be the one to preside over Bonnie’s custody hearing.
“You heard from Sharlene?” Dylan demanded of his brother, the lawyer. It was the first thing he’d said since “I do.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you until later,” Logan admitted, with a sigh. “She wants to tell her side of things.”
“Great,” Dylan muttered. Kristy knew he wasn’t surprised, but he’d hoped for more time. So had Kristy.
“Where are you going on your honeymoon?” young Josh, Briana’s elder son, asked. “Mom and Logan went to Las Vegas.”
“What happens in Vegas,” Alec, his very precocious little brother, quipped, “stays in Vegas.”
A tender yet smoldering look passed between Briana and Logan.
“You’ve got that right, kid,” Logan said, rubbing a hand over his stepson’s bristly haircut.
Briana smiled dreamily, but the expression was quickly gone, replaced by worry. On her, even that looked good. “It’s just one thing after another in this family,” she remarked. “In this town.”
“Is there a cake?” Josh asked, cutting to the chase. The honeymoon question had gone unanswered, and not by accident.
Dylan and Kristy hadn’t even discussed a honeymoon.
“No,” Kristy said.
“Yes,” Dylan contradicted, at the very same moment.
She glanced at him, puzzled.
“Relax,” her husband—her husband—said, obviously, by the muscle twitching in his cheek, not taking his own advice. Was he already having doubts? Wishing he hadn’t married her? Wanting to give rodeoing one more try? “It’s the kind you buy in a box, in the freezer section.”
So much for champagne,
little silver bells, doves made of sugar, and tossing the bouquet, Kristy thought, a little sadly. She’d married into the Creed clan, of her own free will and with her eyes wide open, and the only guarantee was good sex and lots of it.
The rest, she’d have to figure out on her own, probably by trial and error, though Briana, with a little more experience under her belt, might have a few pointers to offer.
They ate the cake.
Kristy put a sugar-frenzied Bonnie down with her sippy cup in the playpen, for a badly needed nap, and Briana, Logan and the boys offered congratulations, and left. On his way out the door, Logan leaned to kiss Kristy’s cheek and whisper, “Hang in there, babe. He’s so crazy about you, it’s a wonder he’s got his boots on the right feet.”
Bemused, Kristy went upstairs—being alone in the bedroom still jangled her nerves, but it was getting easier—and swapped out the sundress for her usual jeans and a tank top. When she got back to the kitchen, Dylan was putting crumb-gooey cake plates into the dishwasher.
“Dylan,” Kristy said, pausing on the bottom step of the rear stairway, one hand on the newel post. “What have we done?”
*
AS SCREWED UP AS the wedding had been, from Dylan’s viewpoint, the wedding night had been a spectacular success. But with the morning, it was business as usual—Kristy ate a quick breakfast, refusing to look at him unless he stood toe-to-toe with her, which he did a couple of times, out of pure obstinacy, and dashed off to the library in her Blazer.
“Some honeymoon, huh, kid?” he asked Bonnie, after Kristy had gone.
Even Winston and Sam looked a little long in the face.
“Poop,” Bonnie said gravely.
Too late, Dylan realized the word had been a warning, not a comment on the state of her father’s love life.
After he got the kid cleaned up, the three of them, him and Bonnie and good old Sam, headed out to the ranch. Caleb had probably been and gone by then—it was nearly nine-thirty—but since he wanted to give his sketches to Dan Phillips to turn into building plans, Dylan hit the road.
It was a hell of a lot better than sitting around waiting for Sharlene to call and announce that—surprise!—she was right there in Stillwater Springs and ready, willing and able to be a mother to her child.
Caleb, as it turned out, had already fed and groomed Sundance; when Dylan arrived, he was leading the horse patiently around by a lead-rope in Logan’s front yard. For all his distractions—the custody suit, the marriage that wasn’t a marriage, the revelations about Floyd Book—Dylan was pleased to see the kid. Might be there was some hope for him after all.
“You’re late,” Caleb said.
“I got married yesterday,” Dylan answered. That was more information than he would have given most people, but he figured he owed Caleb some kind of explanation, after ordering him to be at the barn every morning at six o’clock. He took Bonnie out of her car seat, hoisted Sam down, too, and headed toward Caleb and the horse.
Bonnie toddled at Dylan’s side, holding on to one of his pant legs.
“Horsie!” she said.
It was an improvement on “poop,” anyhow.
Logan came out of the barn just then, looking way more like a rancher than the slick lawyer Dylan knew him to be.
“Why don’t you fetch that beat-up old saddle on the peg just inside the tack room door?” Logan said to Caleb, sweeping a giggling Bonnie up into his arms at the same time.
Once Caleb had gone off on the errand, Logan turned to Dylan. “For a man who just married a beautiful woman, half again too good for you, you don’t look all that happy.”
Dylan swept off his hat, slapped one thigh with it, put it back on again. “S-h-a-r-l-e-n-e,” he spelled out, for Bonnie’s sake.
Logan arched an eyebrow. “We can handle her, Dylan,” he said.
“I wish I had your confidence,” Dylan replied, as Caleb reappeared with the saddle. “But, then, it’s my k-i-d who might be taken away, not yours.”
Logan slapped his shoulder. “B-o-n-n-i-e,” he replied, with a grin, “is my n-i-e-c-e. You think I don’t have a stake in this?”
Dylan sighed. “I guess you do,” he admitted. “But s-h-i-t, I’m s-c-a-r-e-d.”
Josh and Alec burst out of the house at that moment, whooping greetings at Bonnie. Logan smiled and set her down—she was already kicking to get free—and she and the boys went back inside, each of them holding one of her hands.
Briana met them at the door, smiling.
“Can we stop s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g now?” Logan asked.
“Judge Etterling,” Dylan sputtered, resisting an urge to slap his hat against his leg again. “What if he decides in Sharlene’s favor? The man doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
“He must,” Logan joked, probably trying to lighten the mood. “He married you to Kristy Madison, didn’t he?”
Dylan spared a grin. “That’s Kristy Creed now,” he said.
“Etterling is a fair man, Dylan,” Logan went on, watching with some amusement as Caleb gamely tried to saddle Sundance, who kept sidestepping him. “I’d have requested another judge if he wasn’t.”
“If you say so, I believe you.”
“Hot damn.” Logan chuckled. “You believe me. Make a mark on the calendar—we’ll pick up a freezer cake on this day every year from now on, to celebrate.”
“Hugely funny,” Dylan said. Unable to watch the greenhorn-and-pony show any longer, he moved to take the saddle out of Caleb’s hands and show him how to put it on right.
“Can I ride him?” Caleb asked eagerly.
Dylan made sure the cinch was tight, held Sundance’s reins and spoke soothingly to him, which was an answer in itself.
Caleb mounted up—it took a couple of tries, but he finally made it—and beamed down from the saddle.
Dylan felt a surge of liking for the kid—his initial impression of Caleb had been wrong, and that was a relief to know.
“Let go of the reins,” Caleb said.
Dylan complied. “Go easy,” he warned. “And stay where I can see you.”
Caleb gave a long-suffering sigh. “All right,” he said.
“He’ll be fine, Dylan,” Logan said quietly. “I’ve been watching him since he got here. He’s serious about doing this right.” He shoved a hand through his dark hair. “Come inside for a minute. There’s something I want to show you.”
Dylan frowned. More family memorabilia? He hadn’t even had a chance to go through the stuff Logan had already given him.
But he followed his brother into the house, glancing back at Caleb and Sundance a couple of times as he went.
In the cool, shadowy living room—Briana and the kids were laughing in the kitchen, and it was a good sound, a family kind of sound—Logan went straight to his desk and pulled open a drawer. Brought out a legal-size sheaf of documents.
“What’s this?” Dylan asked, scanning the cover page. The heading read, Tri-Star Cattle Company, Inc., and there was some legalese jargoning around underneath it, in the requisite small print. The name was faintly familiar to him, but he didn’t remember why.
“I bought the Madison place,” Logan said. “The bank formally accepted my offer yesterday afternoon.”
Dylan didn’t know what to say. He was too stunned.
“You want in?” Logan asked.
“Huh?”
“Do you want to be part of Tri-Star?” Logan prompted. “It’s set up for the three of us to be equal partners, if you agree to the terms. You, me and Tyler.”
“Good luck roping Ty in,” Dylan said ruefully, wishing things were different. “He’d sooner go into business with the devil.”
Logan’s mouth quirked up at one side, meaning he was trying to smile, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “What about you, Dylan? You want to be a cattleman? Help me make something of this ranch and this family?”
Something spiky knotted itself up in Dylan’s throat, making speech impossible. So he just nodded.
Logan slapped hi
m on the shoulder.
“Good,” he said, sounding relieved. “Good.” His eyes were suspiciously bright.
“Kristy’s folks’ house,” Dylan began. “I don’t want it torn down unless she agrees.”
“Fair enough,” Logan said, his voice husky. “You’ll have as much say in what happens with that land as I do.”
“Then there’s one more thing,” Dylan answered. His eyes itched, so he ran the sleeve of his shirt across them once. The sniffle was probably allergies, he told himself. “Sugarfoot’s grave. We have a concrete vault poured and bury that horse right, and for good.”
“Agreed,” Logan replied, recovering a little.
“Are you always going to be this easy to deal with?” Dylan grinned.
Logan laughed. “Hell no,” he said. “Hell no.”
*
SHARLENE CREED—she could call herself whatever she wanted, couldn’t she, and the name suited her plans—got off the bus in Stillwater Springs, Montana, stretched her legs, and let the dumbo farm boy collect her suitcase for her. He’d been in the seat next to hers since Reno, and the damn fool thought she was going to sleep with him.
Sharlene smiled slightly. She’d as much as promised him that, of course, played the damsel in distress so he’d pay for her food when the bus stopped, carry things for her and keep the creepier passengers at bay.
Now, Jimmy what’s-his-name had served his purpose.
So long, Jimmy.
Stretching, Sharlene admired her slender figure in the front window of the gas station/convenience store where the bus had stopped. Her hair was dark that month—a drugstore dye job, but it looked good—and pulled up into a ponytail that brushed her nape and made her look at least ten years younger than she was. Her black jeans and sleeveless white eyelet top were some the worse for wear, after the long bus ride from Texas, but a shower, a change of clothes and fresh makeup, and she’d be ready for anything.
“I can’t wait to introduce you to my folks,” Jimmy Hayseed said. He wouldn’t be a bad-looking guy, if he lost forty pounds and had his teeth fixed. And ordered the magic acne cure off TV.
“Look, Jimmy,” Sharlene began, in a regretful purr, “I’ve got some things to do, so—”
Linda Lael Miller Montana Creeds Series Volume 1: Montana Creeds: LoganMontana Creeds: DylanMontana Creeds: Tyler Page 58