The Creed Legacy

by Linda Lael Miller

  Evidently, Carolyn wasn’t ready to move on. She peered down at the shirt, then looked up at him with wide, laughing eyes, as though she suspected what was bothering him, but wasn’t quite sure. Her eyebrows rose in humorous inquiry. “Why the strange look, Brody?”

  “I was just wondering who that shirt belongs to,” he admitted, embarrassed but still feeling mighty territorial, too. “I’m over it now.”

  “It’s yours,” she told him, taking a mischievous delight in her answer. “You left it behind when you—”

  The joy drained out of her eyes as she fell silent, remembering.

  “I left it behind when I left you,” Brody said quietly, leaning to push back a second chair. “Carolyn, take that pan off the burner and sit down.”

  She turned away instead, though, shaking her head and shoveling a spatula under those eggs like she was trying to scrape road-tar off a hot surface. “That was a long time ago,” she said, her words coming out rapidfire, seeming to bounce off the cupboard doors and ricochet back at him. “Let’s forget it, okay?”

  Brody sighed again, shoved a hand through his hair. “If I could forget it,” he said solemnly, and in all truth, “believe me, I would.”

  Carolyn looked back at him then. A scorching smell wafted over from the stove, and she quickly glopped the scrambled eggs onto two plates, brought them to the table, went back to the counter for silverware.

  “For God’s sake, Carolyn,” Brody said, “sit down. Please.”

  “You said you were hungry,” she retorted, going bright-cheeked again, but she finally sat down.

  Neither of them picked up a fork, or even looked down at their plates. Their gazes had locked, and Brody saw plenty of pain in hers. Maybe, he thought, it was a reflection of his own.

  “Her name was Lisa,” he ground out. Even that much was damnably hard to say, but it was a beginning.

  Bless her, Carolyn didn’t come back with a flippant “Who’s Lisa?” the way he’d half expected her to do.

  “The woman who called that last night,” Carolyn said softly. “The one you wanted to be with—”

  Instead of me. The unspoken words hung between them.

  “Yes,” Brody replied, plowing a hand through his hair. “We met while I was rodeoing, Lisa and me, and we had sort of an affair—”

  Color flared in Carolyn’s cheeks, and her eyes flashed. “How do you have sort of an affair?” she asked.

  “If you feel some need to make this harder, Carolyn,” Brody said, “go right ahead.”

  She pressed her lips together into a hard line.

  He flashed back to the taste of those lips, the feel of them against his.

  Hot need struck him like a meteor blazing down from a clear blue sky.

  “Lisa and I had an affair,” Brody went on, putting a slight emphasis on the last word. “Nothing sort of about it. Then we broke up—I wanted to keep on following the rodeo circuit and she wanted to stay put, get married and buy a house, and there was no way either one of us was going to compromise, so we said our goodbyes and I left.”

  Carolyn waited. She looked pale now, rather than flushed, and very small inside that white shirt. Her throat worked, but she didn’t say anything.

  “I knocked around the Southwest for a while, then I ended up here. I was going to try and work things out with my family, but, as you know, when I showed up at Kim and Davis’s place, they were nowhere around. I think Conner was away, too, at the time. Anyway, once I got that first glimpse of you, standing there in my aunt and uncle’s doorway, framed in light, I couldn’t think of anything but you, Carolyn.”

  He saw disbelief in Carolyn’s face, along with something that might have been hope. Memories haunted her eyes like ghosts and she bit down on her lower lip.

  “I wasn’t sure what I felt for you was love,” Brody went on, “but whatever it was, I’d never come across anything like it before.”

  She raised one eyebrow, but still held her peace.

  “That last night, Lisa called,” Brody said wearily. “She told me she was pregnant with my baby, and if I didn’t marry her, she was going to put him up for adoption. I freaked right out—everything was going in forty different directions, and I couldn’t seem to find the center.”

  Very slowly, Carolyn reached over and put her hand in his, but her eyes were still watchful, wary.

  “Now,” Brody said, with a ragged sigh, “I wish I’d let her have Justin and give him to some nice family to raise, because both of them might still be alive if I had. Most likely, Lisa would have found a man who loved her in ways I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, and Justin, well, he’d be seven now. A normal, healthy kid. Starting second grade in the fall.”

  Carolyn swallowed, squeezed his hand, an I’mlistening sort of gesture. Some, but by no means all, of the ache in her eyes leaked away.

  “Instead, they died in a car accident,” Brody told her, when he felt like he could go on. After that, it was like somebody else was telling the story, while he stood apart, like a silent witness, listening, watching, remembering.

  But detached from the pain.

  Carolyn heard him out without interrupting, and, by the time he’d finished, she was sitting on his lap, her arms around him, her head resting on his shoulder.

  Brody felt broken inside, torn apart, as though he’d used himself up, not just emotionally, but physically, too. The old grief, which could only be held at bay for so long, washed back over him and a steely force wrenched him back inside himself.

  Without a word, Carolyn held him…for a long, long time. Then, presently, she stood up, took hold of his hand and led him back to her bed, where she proceeded to put him back together again, piece by piece.

  BRODY LEFT A LITTLE after midnight—he didn’t feel right leaving Barney alone for too long at a stretch, he said—and Carolyn, after locking the door behind him, went straight back to bed and slept a deep, healing sleep.

  The next morning, yawning, she padded into the kitchen and immediately spotted the two plates of scrambled eggs, now congealed, still sitting on the table.

  Making a face, she scraped the food into the sink and washed it down the disposal.

  By that time, Winston was making give-me-breakfastnow noises, so she gave him kibble, which he disdained at first, probably angling for sardines.

  Carolyn filled a cup with water, dropped in a tea bag and set the works in the microwave. While she was waiting for the timer to ring, signaling the end of two minutes, she thought about Brody. After last night, not thinking about him would have been quite a trick.

  The lovemaking still reverberated throughout her body, in small, intermittent aftershocks, but that wasn’t something to think about, it was something to feel. To savor and enjoy, in secret.

  No, it was all that Brody had told her about Lisa, about their little boy, about that terrible accident and how he’d lost his way after it happened, that occupied her mind now.

  She’d known intuitively that he was telling the truth, so it wasn’t a question of believing or not believing what he said. Instead, it was a matter of personal damage.

  How could a person ever come back from a tragedy like that?

  Could she come back from what she’d so thoroughly believed was a cruel betrayal, even knowing the truth?

  Some wounds, after all, never healed.

  For Brody, the experience was beyond horrific; he’d been on the phone with Lisa when the collision happened; he’d heard the deafening crash and then the silence that followed. On top of that, he blamed himself—if only he’d let Lisa put their baby up for adoption, if only he’d been at home on that wintry night instead of on the road, driving an eighteen-wheeler, he’d have been at the wheel, not Lisa.

  He might have been able to steer clear in time to avoid impact.

  If only, if only.

  Carolyn knew that phrase well. If only her mother had cared enough to stick around instead of dumping her into the foster-care system and taking off for good. If only her
dad had been the strong, steady, reliable type, like Davis Creed, willing to raise his child.

  If only pigs had wings and chickens could tap dance, Carolyn thought. One of her foster moms had said that every time she dared to express the slightest dream for the future.

  Soon, she’d stopped telling anyone what her hopes were.

  Emotionally saddened but still jubilant physically, from making love with Brody, Carolyn switched on her laptop so it would boot up while she was in the shower.

  Once she’d washed and dried herself off and gotten dressed, the computer was wide awake, icons flashing, robot voice repeating, over and over, “Somebody likes your friendly face!”

  The thing was the auditory equivalent of stone soup, like in the children’s story. It just kept right on pumping out noise. So over the whole idea of hooking up online, Carolyn zipped over to the control-panel page and blocked all further communication from the dating site.

  And then there was sweet, blissful peace.

  “That’s better,” she told Winston, who didn’t offer an opinion, one way or the other.

  A few clicks of the mouse took her to the auction site, where she’d posted the gypsy skirt. The bids were still pouring in, and the current number had Carolyn rubbing her eyes, sure she must be misreading it somehow. Nobody paid that much for a skirt, however beautiful it was—did they?

  She squinted at the high bidder’s screen name, in case it was someone she knew, or maybe one of her regular customers, but she didn’t recognize the moniker. Still, a prickle in the pit of her stomach insisted that something was amiss.

  Carolyn stared hard at the screen, as though that would unveil the mystery, but she remained in the dark.

  She was still at the computer, catching up on legitimate email, when she heard the knocking downstairs, at the front door.

  Tricia? No, she had a key, and it was still too early for her to be there, anyway.

  Brody? A little OMG thrill riffed through Carolyn, but she quickly quelled it. He’d told her he had a lot to do on the ranch, and they’d agreed to take a few days to catch their breaths.

  They had a date for Saturday night, dinner and a movie.

  In the interim, they’d play it cool.

  The knocking continued, polite but insistent.

  “Hold your horses,” Carolyn muttered grumpily, nearly tumbling headfirst down the inside stairs because Winston ran past her to be on hand for the welcoming ceremony.

  By the time she reached the entryway and opened the front door, Carolyn had assembled a smile and pasted it on her mouth.

  It fell away when she got a good look at her visitor. Bill Venable was standing there on the porch, looking worried and uncomfortable and, as always, very attractive in his jeans and sleeveless T-shirt. His biceps were almost as impressive as Brody’s.

  “Bill,” Carolyn said, unable to hide her surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” Bill said. “I know I should have called before I came over.”

  Carolyn stepped back to admit him. What on earth was he doing there, at that hour of the morning? The newspaper hadn’t even been delivered yet.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “Ellie’s all right, isn’t she?”

  Bill nodded. His beard was growing in, a sign of anxiety, maybe, since he was normally clean-shaven. “Ellie’s fine,” he said quickly. “It’s just that—well—there’s a fire, a big one, down in New Mexico, and I have to leave right away.”

  They stood in the entryway, with Winston meowing and curling between their ankles, as sleekly sinuous as a snake with fur.

  Carolyn waited, still without a clue as to why Bill was there.

  He gave a tentative smile. “We were planning on going up in my plane together, sometime soon?” he reminded her. “I didn’t want you thinking I’d forgotten. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, and I’ll probably be too busy to call and, anyway, the fire’s pretty remote, so there might not be cell service out there—” He appeared to be struggling, and Carolyn felt a stab of empathy for him. When he finally went on, what he said alarmed her a little. “There’s always a chance I won’t—I just needed to tell you face-to-face that I won’t be around for a while.”

  Carolyn’s spirits sank. It was almost as if Bill had come to say goodbye—forever—as he had reason to worry. She’d heard of pilots having premonitions of a crash or some other fatal disaster, of course.

  Was Bill telling her that he thought he might be killed fighting this fire?

  Her eyes filled and, for a crazy moment, she wanted to beg him not to go, to think of Ellie, and of Angela, and all the other people who must have loved him.

  “Will Ellie be staying with her grandparents while you’re gone?”

  Bill shook his head, still looking miserable. “Not for the next few days. A friend of theirs passed away unexpectedly, so they’ve gone to Houston for the funeral. Ellie’s staying with Angela until Charlie and Stella get back.”

  “Oh,” Carolyn said, hopeful that this meant Bill and Angela were reconsidering their breakup. They belonged together, in her opinion.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking,” Bill said quickly. “Angela’s feelings about my job haven’t changed. She hates it, and she’s furious because I refused to turn down this assignment.” He sighed, thrust a hand through his hair. “But I know she’ll take good care of Ellie, and that’s what matters most. The two of them are close.”

  Carolyn thought of her friend soaring above a burning forest in a small plane, spraying fire retardant on flames clawing at the smoky sky like gigantic red-orange fingers, and she was afraid for him. The words don’t go scrambled up into her throat and got stuck there, making her eyes sting.

  Seeing her expression, Bill smiled sadly, gripped her shoulders gently and kissed her forehead. “Think good thoughts,” he said hoarsely, in parting, and then he was turning away, walking out, closing the front door behind him.

  Carolyn didn’t move until several moments after he’d gone.

  If only she’d had the power—or the right—to call him back, make him stay right there in Lonesome Bend, where he’d be safe.

  But was anyone ever really safe, anywhere?

  The answer, unfortunately, was no. Bill’s plane could crash, plummet right into the raging, hellish heart of a forest fire, leaving Ellie an orphan and Angela—sweet, well-meaning Angela—in a state of permanent grief. But he could just as easily drop dead from a heart attack, contract some fatal disease, or be run down in a crosswalk by a speeding car.

  No one was getting out of here alive, no one had a guarantee that there would be another tomorrow, and another after that.

  Living wasn’t safe. Look what had happened to Brody’s wife, Lisa, and their baby son. They were alive one moment and gone the next.

  And as for laying the heart bare by loving another person? Why, that was the biggest, most deadly risk of all.

  The starch drained out of Carolyn’s knees, and she took a few groping steps backward and plunked herself down on one of the stairs, propping an elbow on one knee and resting her chin in her palm.

  Winston approached, purring, and snuggled against her hip, either offering comfort or seeking it—or both.

  Numbly, Carolyn stroked his glossy back with her free hand.

  Yes, indeed, she’d been right all along—it was downright dangerous to love a person, or a pet, or even a house or a town or a job. Everything could change with a single turn of the steering wheel, or a phone call, or a policeman knocking at the front door.

  But in the end, what choice did anyone have?

  Could a person choose not to love?

  They could try, of course, maybe even succeed to some degree.

  But they might as well buy a plot and a tombstone, Carolyn reflected, and stretch out prone on the grass to wait for death, while others marched on in the parade of life, laughing and crying, loving and hating, knowing triumph and defeat and everything in between.

  She might be able to kid herself that she w
as safe, but she’d also miss out on the party.

  “YOU’RE PRETTY CHIPPER TODAY,” Davis observed, that morning, with a slight twinkle, as he and Conner and Brody rode out to mend the broken fence lines Brody had taken note of the day before, while riding the lines. “Yesterday, you were traveling a rocky road.”

  Brody didn’t answer right away, but he was poignantly aware of the value of ordinary moments. Conner was in the back of the pickup, with Valentino and Barney, hoops of new wire and the communal toolbox, while Brody drove and Davis rode shotgun.

  They were working together, he and his brother and his uncle, just the way they ought to be.

  Another part of Brody wished he was back in bed with Carolyn; it was too bad a man couldn’t be in two places at once.

  “That was yesterday,” he finally replied, “and this is today.”

  Davis kept his face turned toward the windshield as they bounced and jostled over rough ground, but Brody knew his uncle was watching him from the corner of his eye. “We all racked up a whole lot of ‘yesterdays’ before you decided to go on ahead and tell me about Lisa and Justin. Why was that, Brody?”

  Brody raised and lowered one shoulder, looking not at Davis, but ahead, at the cattle-speckled terrain of the ranch that had been home to generations of Creeds. Some branches of the family tree bore good fruit—solid, honest men and women committed to giving the best of who they were and what they had to building a lasting legacy for their children and grandchildren, right on down. Here and there, though, a rotten apple cropped up, a rascal or even an outlaw.

  Most likely, by his own reckoning, he fit into the second category better than the first.

  “It was a hard thing to talk about,” he finally said.

  “Life is full of things that are hard to talk about,” Davis countered matter-of-factly. “Seems to me, if a man’s lucky enough to have a home and kinfolks who care about him, it would be better to run to them when he had troubles, rather than from them.”