Creed's Honor

by Linda Lael Miller

  It touched Tricia, the way Conner acted with Valentino. The way he seemed to care so much about the animal’s feelings.

  Tricia held her tongue, afraid she’d say something foolish if she allowed herself to speak just then. Conner lifted his head and looked straight at her. And that was when the something-foolish tumbled out of her mouth, despite her best efforts.

  “Stay,” she said. Then, flustered, she clarified, “F-For lunch, I mean.”

  “All right,” he replied, after a pause. “But if we’re having grilled cheese sandwiches, I’d better make them.”

  Tricia laughed, relieved. Ridiculously happy. “No worries there,” she said. “I’m fresh out of cheese. And butter. And bread. Basically, I’m out of food.”

  “Well, then,” Conner answered, with a smile in his eyes, “I reckon we’ll have to go out. Maybe hit the drive-through, since the dog’s bound to raise a fuss if we leave him behind so we can sit in some restaurant.”

  “Unthinkable,” Tricia said, practically diving for her purse and coat. She hadn’t been this excited about fast food since—well—ever.

  “Assuming that old rattletrap Brody calls a truck can make it to the other side of town,” Conner replied, “we’re on our way to grease-burger heaven.”

  Valentino barked happily then, as though he’d understood, and turned in joyous circles, making it a challenge for Tricia to fasten his leash to his collar. Conner finally had to take over the job.

  The snow was coming down in earnest when they got outside, already dusting the sidewalks and the road and frosting the limbs of trees. For Valentino, it was an adventure—all the way to the pickup he leapt at the flakes, trying to catch them in his teeth.

  Brody’s truck, being so old, had a single bench seat.

  “Hope it starts again,” Conner said, after hefting the dog into the cab of the vehicle. “Valentino is going to be pretty disappointed if we don’t go someplace, now that he’s gotten his hopes up.”

  “We can always take my car,” Tricia pointed out, but she got into the truck on the passenger side and made Valentino scoot over a little so she could fasten her seat belt—the old-fashioned kind that didn’t have a shoulder harness.

  “Let’s see what happens,” Conner responded, and shut the door behind her.

  Once he’d walked around the truck and climbed behind the wheel, he cranked the keys in the ignition and the motor started with a lusty roar. Tricia cheered, and Valentino joined in with a string of short barks that would probably have translated as, Let’s go, let’s go!

  They made it to the burger place, Conner ordered at the drive-through, and a clerk handed out a grease-blotched paper bag, along with two cups of cola, and Valentino was practically beside himself at the smell of that food.

  Eating in the truck would have been impossible, with the dog crammed in between them, so Conner suggested that they head for River’s Bend. If it was too cold to eat outside at one of the picnic tables, they could take refuge in the office.

  Tricia agreed, though her feelings about returning to a place that wouldn’t be hers anymore, after tomorrow, were decidedly mixed. On the other hand, a visit seemed fitting, a sort of goodbye.

  Since both the wind and the snowstorm had picked up some momentum, even in the short time since they’d left Natty’s, they ended up going inside. It was only marginally warmer there, so Conner built a fire in the stove before the three of them tucked into their meals. Except for the snapping of that blaze and the sounds Valentino made, snorking up a rare treat—his very own cheeseburger—the office was quiet. In fact, with the snow falling, the whole world seemed quiet, in a luminous kind of way.

  Tricia, who managed to chew and swallow about a third of her monster burger before she was full, rose from the desk chair where she’d been sitting and walked over to look up at an old map of Lonesome Bend, hand-drawn and colored, the campground marked with a lopsided star.

  She’d made that map herself, the summer she turned eleven, sketching it out carefully on butcher paper, making the river vivid blue and the land a pale, milk-paint green. There were little trees around the campground, and outsized fish in the water, and in the lower right-hand corner, she’d carefully inscribed, “To Dad, from Tricia.”

  She touched the chipped wooden frame, remembering her father, how proud he’d been of her, of that drawing, of River’s Bend and the Bluebird Drive-in. The original people-person, Joe McCall had enjoyed dealing with campers and moviegoers from late spring until early fall, and even though he’d never made much money, Tricia knew he’d considered himself a success, particularly as a father.

  So had she.

  “I asked my dad, once upon a time, if he’d ever wished I’d been a boy,” she mused quietly, aware that Conner was watching her and listening in that focused way he had, as if everything a person said was important. “And he said he wouldn’t trade me for a thousand boys.”

  “You miss him,” Conner observed, standing behind her now, resting his hands on her shoulders.

  She nodded. She did miss Joe McCall, but she’d done her grieving, reached a place of simple gratitude that he’d been her father. She could celebrate the part he’d played in her life, celebrate his humor and his steadiness and the easy constancy of his love.

  Partly because she’d always been so sure of Joe’s affection, she was strong enough to let go. Strong enough to move on. Just as he would have wanted her to do.

  “I suppose I ought to take all these pictures down,” she said, reaching up to lift the map off its hook. She’d be leaving behind all the furniture and office equipment, such as it was, but she wanted to keep the framed photos. So, primarily because she thought she might cry, and she was sick of crying, she set the map on the floor, leaning it carefully against the wall, and reached for the shot of Joe on the dock, with the kayak.

  Conner let her take down and stack half a dozen dusty frames before he stopped her, turned her gently around, and pulled her close.

  “Shh,” he said, even though she wasn’t making a sound.

  She rested her forehead against the hard flesh of his shoulder—his shirt was still damp from the snow—and slipped her arms loosely around his lean waist. Let out a long, shuddery breath.

  “I’m okay,” she said, but she didn’t pull back out of Conner’s embrace. “Really.”

  Conner curved a finger under her chin and lifted, looking directly into her eyes. “If you want to do this now,” he said, indicating the photographs with a slight nod of his head, “I’ll help you. If you don’t feel up to it, that’s okay, too. Brody will understand.”

  I love you, Conner Creed.

  The words rose so suddenly and so vividly in Tricia’s mind that, for a split second, she was afraid she’d said them aloud.

  She trembled, tried to look away.

  But Conner cupped her face in his hands now—she loved the calloused roughness of his palms, in contrast to the near-reverent gentleness of his touch—and held her gaze. “Tricia?”

  “I-I’d rather make a clean break,” she said, and was immediately caught up in a backwash of regret. “With River’s Bend, I mean,” she added anxiously.

  Conner chuckled, and his hands remained where they were. “That’s a relief,” he said. And then he kissed her.

  The kiss was deep, and it sent a tingling rush of sweet, vibrant energy through Tricia, from her head to her feet, but it wasn’t the same as the passionate, near-frantic kisses they’d exchanged in Conner’s bed that morning.

  No, this kiss wasn’t a prelude to lovemaking. It was an assurance, a promise, as if Conner were telling her, without words, I’m strong. And I’ll be here, when you want somebody to lean on.

  He was the one to end the kiss, as it turned out. He went on holding her, though, and there wasn’t any need for words.

  After a minute or two, they separated. Conner disappeared into the storage room and returned right away with a couple of large, empty boxes.

  They were both quiet as they took down
all the pictures, one by one, wrapping them in old newspaper, also from the storeroom, and setting them carefully inside the boxes.

  Valentino, meanwhile, lay curled up in front of the stove, blissfully content to be warm, full of cheeseburger and in the presence of his two all-time favorite humans.

  TAKE IT SLOW AND EASY, you big dumb cowboy, Conner told himself, an hour later, after he’d delivered Tricia and Valentino back home and lugged in both boxes of pictures, along with the framed map.

  He wanted nothing more than to spend the night right there in Tricia’s apartment—in her bed, actually—making love to her. He knew she’d let him stay—it was in her eyes—but he also knew she’d be going against her own better judgment if she did.

  “I need time,” she’d told him, while they were rattling back from River’s Bend in Brody’s clunker, the dog looming like a hairy mountain between them. “You know—to figure things out.”

  “Okay,” he’d responded, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. What kind of things? he’d wanted to ask. Hell, he’d wanted to demand an answer. But he’d restrained himself, because this was important.

  Tricia was important.

  This was no time to go off half-cocked and ruin everything.

  So he stood there, coatless, in Tricia’s kitchen, with one hand resting on the doorknob, looking his fill of the woman, memorizing the dark, silken fall of her hair, the flushed smoothness of her skin, the glow in her eyes, as hungrily as if the memory would have to last him for a long, long time.

  I love you, Tricia McCall, he thought.

  She glanced over at Valentino, who was stretched out on his dog bed, with his blue chicken tucked under his muzzle, ready for a nap. So much for Brody’s matchmaking theory.

  When Tricia’s gaze returned to Conner’s face, he felt as though the floor had gone soft under the soles of his boots.

  “You could stay,” she said, very softly.

  He wanted to do just that, big-time. But there was a delicate process going on here and, whatever it was, he wasn’t about to complicate the situation.

  Besides, he was a rancher.

  “I’ve got horses and cattle to feed,” he said.

  Tricia nodded. They were standing a few feet apart, and he was tempted to backtrack far enough to kiss her, but he didn’t give in to the urge, because he knew that if he did that, if he touched his mouth to hers, there would be no leaving after that.

  And the livestock did need to eat. Six generations of Creeds would roll over in their graves if he let the animals go hungry, even for one night, and he sure as hell couldn’t depend on Brody to make sure the work got done.

  “Go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asked, opening the door a crack to remind himself that he had to leave, whether he wanted to or not. “Without the dog?”

  She smiled one of those light-up smiles. “I’d like that,” she said.

  Pleased beyond all reason, Conner nodded, promised to call her the next day, and forced himself out of the warmth of her home and her presence and into the bitterly cold twilight of a wintry day.

  The snowstorm was beginning to look more like a blizzard as Conner nosed that old truck toward home. Though it had worked just fine earlier, when Tricia and Valentino were riding with him, the rig choked and lurched and backfired its way along the nearly invisible highway.

  It died at the bottom of the driveway, just inside the main gate, and Conner, wishing he’d remembered his coat, put his head down and slogged uphill toward the light glowing from the ranch house windows.

  Brody was in the kitchen, frying up chicken, when Conner came inside, soaked to the skin and shivering.

  “Thanks for taking off with my truck,” he said, through chattering teeth. He reached for his warmest coat, the leather one lined with sheepskin, and jammed an arm into one of the sleeves. “Yours just gave up the ghost, by the way. Down by the road.”

  Brody lifted the lid off a pot and peered in at whatever was cooking. “Spuds are almost ready,” he said, as though Conner hadn’t said anything about the dead truck. “Take off your coat and stay awhile, little brother. I’ve already done the barn chores. Clint and Juan and I fed the range stock, too.”

  Conner knew how to be irritated with his brother, but he’d forgotten how to deal with the rough-edged kindness Brody sometimes showed—always at the most unexpected times, of course. The minute a person got to expecting anything from Brody Creed, he’d shoot off in the opposite direction, just to be contrary.

  Slowly, stuck for an answer, Conner took off the coat. Hung it on its peg again.

  “Davis and Kim got back a little while ago,” Brody went on. “You ought to see our old uncle with those two pint-sized dogs they bought. He’s crazy about them, right down to the pink bows in their topknots. Even lets them ride in his coat pockets.”

  Brody was working at the electric stove, but the woodstove was going, too, and Conner went over to it, to warm himself up a little.

  “That must have been a sight to see,” he said.

  “It was.” Brody laughed, shook his head, went on turning pieces of chicken over in the skillet. The food smelled half again better than good. “Kim’s complaining that they’re supposed to be her dogs, not Davis’s.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Since when do you cook?” Conner asked.

  This was as close to a civil conversation as he could remember having with Brody since before Joleen. It felt fragile, like something that could break apart at any time.

  “I like to eat,” Brody replied. “Therefore, I cook.”

  Conner felt his back molars clamp together. He unclamped them so he could talk. “Why’d you take my truck?” he asked for the second time.

  Brody looked at him over one shoulder. The chicken sizzled and the pot lids rattled and the whole setup was homey as all get-out.

  “I wanted to see if Tricia could tell us apart,” Brody replied, his tone easy, like his manner.

  Brody’s blunt honesty could be as much of a surprise as his kindness, and Conner was taken aback.

  “She can,” Brody added, with a wicked grin. “Fancy truck or no fancy truck, she knew I wasn’t you.”

  Conner swallowed hard, warning himself to be watchful, not to let himself be suckered in. His brother was, after all, a master at hooking fools and reeling them in for the kill. Still, it made something leap inside Conner, hearing those words. Knowing that, to Tricia at least, he wasn’t interchangeable with his twin.

  “What if she hadn’t known?” he finally asked. His teeth had stopped chattering, but he sounded hoarse, like he was coming down with something. “What if Tricia had thought you were me? What would you have done?”

  Brody pushed the skillet off the burner and turned to face Conner squarely. “Nothing,” he said, quietly but with a tinge of anger. His jaw worked, then he ground out, “Dammit, Conner, you’re my brother.”

  “You were my brother when I thought Joleen and I were going to get married and raise a family together,” Conner heard himself say, his tone mild and matter-of-fact. “How was that different?”

  “I was a kid,” Brody growled. “So were you, and so was Joleen. But she knew, even if you didn’t, little brother, that both of you were too young to think about marriage, let alone making babies.”

  Conner wasn’t cold anymore. He walked over to the table, hauled back a chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor, and sat down. His shirt and jeans felt clammy against his skin, and he would have sworn that even his socks were wet.

  “I trusted you,” he said, without looking at Brody.

  “And you were right to trust me, brother, because I didn’t sell you out. Not with Joleen or anybody else.”

  The truth of that hit Conner like a wall of water. Cold water.

  “All this time, you let me think you and Joleen—”

  Lightning fast, Brody took hold of the front of Conner’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. They were practically nose to nose, Brody already
furious, Conner getting there fast. In a moment, they’d be tying into each other, right there in the kitchen, butting heads like a couple of rutting bulls.

  “You believed I’d do something that low-down and chicken-shit,” Brody seethed. “So don’t go talking to me about selling out!”

  Conner knocked Brody’s hand away, but the fight had gone out of him and it must have been plain to see. He felt that old-time sensation of having switched bodies with his brother, of seeing himself through Brody’s eyes. “You could have denied it!” he rasped.

  “I was too insulted to deny anything!” Brody yelled. “I shouldn’t have had to deny it, because you, Conner, you of all people, ought to have known what the deal was!”

  “You didn’t go to bed with Joleen,” Conner said, in a slow, let-me-get-this-straight voice.

  “I sure as hell didn’t,” Brody snapped, breathing hard but no longer yelling. He paused, shoved a hand through his hair in exactly the same way Conner had done, and then he grinned. “Not back then, anyhow,” he clarified.

  Conner laughed.

  Brody laughed.

  “Let’s have ourselves some fried chicken,” he told Conner. Then he frowned. “Maybe you ought to change clothes, first, though. It would be a hell of a note if you came down with pneumonia just when we’re getting so we can stand to be in the same room.”

  Conner nodded his agreement and left the kitchen for his room upstairs. The bedcovers were still tangled from his and Tricia’s lovemaking, and he caught the faintest scent of her skin as he headed for the bureau.

  Armed with a pair of jeans and a warm sweatshirt, he went on to the bathroom, set the clothes on the counter, stripped off what he was wearing, and stepped into multiple sprays of hot water, coming at him from every direction.

  Because he was hungry, because there was so much to tell Brody and so much to ask him about, Conner made quick work of his shower, dried off, dressed again and swiped a comb through his hair a couple of times.

  By the time he got downstairs, he was beginning to think he might have imagined the confrontation with Brody, but there was his brother, with the table set properly and the food steaming fragrantly in the middle.