Montana Creeds: Tyler (13 page)

And yet Logan had married Briana and taken on a couple of stepchildren in the bargain, and Dylan had made Kristy Madison his wife, set out to raise two-year-old Bonnie, too.

What did his brothers know that he didn't?

Or were Logan and Dylan just whistling in the dark? Taking a chance, throwing the dice, hoping against hope that things would work out—but well aware that, being Creeds, they were a pair of emotional time bombs, programmed to morph into the old man when some mysterious switch was flipped in their brains?

Did they wake up in a cold sweat at night, wondering when it would all come crashing down around them?

Both his brothers had been wild men when they were younger—Logan had been married at least twice before Briana, and Dylan hadn't been a real father to Bonnie until he'd been forced into it, after finding the toddler in his truck one night in Vegas, abandoned by her mother.

Tyler left the graveyard, got back into the Blazer, started the engine and headed for his cabin.

He'd put off going back because he knew Lily's absence would echo in the place, that the sheets would be imprinted with her singular scent. Now, because of the dog, and because Kristy or Dylan or both would be dropping Davie off first thing in the morning, he couldn't wait any longer.

Kit Carson was ridiculously glad to see him. After some ear-ruffling and reassurances, Tyler took the dog outside. Without Lily to distract him, Tyler heard all the night
sounds this time—the frogs croaking at the mossy-green edges of the lake, the crickets, an owl or two. Even fish breaking the surface of the water and splashing as they made re-entry.

For all the burdens he carried, Tyler loved that ramshackle old shack, ugly and small though it was. Jake had rented it out for a fishing cabin while he was growing up, but the old man had promised that when the time came, and the ranch was split between him and Logan and Dylan, Hidden Lake and some three thousand acres surrounding it would be his.

Promise-keeping had been a rare thing for Jake Creed, but he'd kept this one. Six months after his death, and the debacle at Skivvie's that had put an end to so much, an official-looking letter had caught up with Tyler, somewhere on the rodeo circuit, along with a document granting him full title to one-third of Stillwater Springs Ranch.

Tyler and Kit Carson walked to the end of the ancient dock, watched the moonlight dance on the surface of the water. He'd just married Shawna when that letter arrived, and for weeks they'd talked of coming back, spending a “just-the-two-of-us summer,” and maybe conceiving a baby.

But before the winter was over, Shawna, returning from a visit with her folks, had hit a patch of ice on the long, twisting road between Carson City, Nevada, and Reno, and rolled her truck. According to the EMTs called to the scene by a passing motorist, Shawna had died on impact.

The one thing that had kept Tyler sane was knowing she hadn't suffered.

But there would be no summer at Hidden Lake.

No baby.

No anything.

Tyler had grieved, not just for Shawna, but for all they'd planned, all the things that would never happen.

The guilt had been even worse than the grief—because while Tyler had
liked
Shawna, he'd soon realized that he'd never really loved her, and the fear that she might have known that all along ate at him whenever he allowed his thoughts to wander down that particular trail.

Which wasn't often.

Although he hadn't consciously recognized it when he'd first met Shawna, behind the chutes at a rodeo in Cheyenne, she'd borne a certain casual similarity to Lily. Same compact but lushly feminine build, same blue eyes and blond hair.

He sat down on the end of the creaky old dock—like everything else on the property, it needed replacing—and Kit Carson huddled up close and leaned in.

Tyler put an arm around the dog, trying to reassure the poor critter. They were together for the duration, him and ole Kit Carson, two veterans of a hard-knock world, home at last.

He tried to pinpoint the moment he'd decided to marry Lily; figured it must have been right around the time she'd hung her damp panties on the passenger-side mirror of Kristy's Blazer. The memory made him smile.

Did he love Lily?

He wasn't sure. Growing up Creed the way he had, he wasn't sure he'd know love—the real thing—if it bit him in the ass.

He sure as hell felt
something,
though. Something deep and undeniable and completely unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

It wasn't just the sex, though God knew
that
was good.

He watched, pondering, as moonlight played on the still, dark water, putting on the kind of show he'd missed in the big city, for all the bright lights. New York, Las Vegas, L.A.—he'd tried to put down roots in all three of those places, but he'd never been able to find a soft spot in all that concrete.

No, he needed rich Montana dirt under his feet, and that fabled Big Sky over his head.

He needed Lily.

Maybe he even needed his brothers, though he wasn't quite prepared to admit that, just yet.

The question was, did Lily need
him?
She'd responded, body and soul, to every touch of his hands, every brush of his lips, every caress and whispered word and hard, deep thrust of his hips. But there was a lot more to the far side of a wedding than sex; even a marriage-challenged Creed like himself knew that much.

It was possible she'd been telling the truth when she'd informed him, in so many words, that she'd only gone along with the whole thing because she wanted to get him out of her system. And she'd seemed pretty adamant, as they drove back to her dad's place: the whole night had been about getting off, to hear her tell it.

In the beginning, Tyler had believed that, too. That taking Lily to bed was a way of scratching an old itch. In retrospect, he knew that during their first simultane
ous climax, it hadn't been just their bodies that had connected and then fused in a flash of fire. It had been some other, more elemental dimension of their beings.

Or, at least, that was how it had been for him.

He turned his head, disturbing the leaning tower of dog a little, and looked back at the cabin. From the looks of that house, it might just fall over on one side at any minute, its beams finally giving out under the pressure of too many deep-snow winters weighing down on its roof. Too many hard winds battering its walls, rattling its windows. Too many glaring summer suns warping its timbers.

It was time to tear down and rebuild, the way Dylan was doing on his section of the ranch. Like Dylan, Tyler felt no sentimental attachment to the structure itself; it was the
land
that mattered to him—the land generations of Creeds had walked on. Good Creeds and bad ones, strong ones and weak ones—a long and winding line of them reaching all the way back to old Josiah himself.

Suddenly, it was as if the ghosts of all Tyler's ancestors rose up out of that good Montana soil, a horde of them, demanding their due.

We fought for this land,
they seemed to say.
We lived and died and sweated and bled here. We raised our children and buried our dead, and laughed and wept and shook our fists at heaven itself when the crops failed and the cattle died. And like it or not, you're one of us. We're in your blood. No matter where you go or what you do or who you try to turn yourself into, you're still a Creed.

“Damn it,” Tyler muttered, shoving a hand through his hair.

But the words echoed in his mind.
You're still a Creed.

Kit Carson whimpered, concerned.

“You're going to have to tough up, dog,” Tyler told him, ruffling the animal's floppy ears. “You're a Creed now.”

Slowly, Tyler got to his feet, made his way back down the dock to the shore, made himself go inside the cabin. He knew he wouldn't sleep in the bed he'd just shared with Lily—those few square yards would feel like an acre of frozen river—so he crashed downstairs on the cot he'd set up for Davie.

He woke to sunlight reddening his eyelids and somebody banging around in the general vicinity of the cookstove.

Raising himself on one elbow, Tyler blinked.

Logan was there, building a pot of coffee, and Kit Carson, who would obviously never go down in the annals of history as one of the great guard dogs, was practically glued to the intruder's heels, tail wagging, tongue lolling, ears perked.

“Mornin', little brother,” Logan drawled, as though he had every right to invade another man's house while he was sleeping. “Nice to know you're not dead. You must have had yourself one hell of a night.”

“What are you doing here?” Tyler snapped, sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. He'd hauled off his shirt at some point, and slept in his jeans.

“Well, dumb-ass,” Logan answered easily, “what does it
look
like I'm doing?”

“It looks,” Tyler snarled, “like you're
trespassing
.”

Logan grinned. “That, too,” he agreed. “But mainly I'm making coffee. Maybe a cup will restore your
friendly attitude.” He paused, shook his head. “
That's
right,” he corrected himself. “You never
had
a friendly attitude in the first place.”

“What the hell
time
is it, anyhow?” Tyler growled. He'd left his watch upstairs, and there wasn't a clock in the whole damn place.

“Around six,” Logan said, rustling up a couple of mugs and setting them on the table. “Half the day's gone. If you were any kind of rancher, you'd know that.”

Tyler shook his head. Stumbled into the john, used it, washed his hands at the sink and came out again.

Logan had drawn back a chair and sat down to wait for the java to brew, just as if he was welcome in that house.

“Time we talked,” he said.

“We've got nothing to talk
about,
” Tyler grumbled. Kit Carson was at the door, so he let him out.

“I'm sorry I busted your guitar,” Logan said.

The words were simple ones, but something about the proud, quiet way his brother said them got to Tyler in a way that made him reinforce his anti-Logan force-field.

“Too little, too late,” Tyler grumbled, glaring at the coffeepot, willing it to perk so he could get some caffeine flowing through his veins.

Logan rolled his eyes, but the set of his mouth was grim. Determined. “God
damn
you're stubborn,” he said. “I'm your
brother,
Ty.”

“Spare me the ‘I'm your brother' crap,” Tyler said. “Five years ago, we decided to go our own ways—with good reason. Let's keep it like that, okay?”

“You plan on staying here on the ranch?” Logan
asked, and Tyler would have thought his brother hadn't heard a word he'd said, if it hadn't been for that familiar muscle bunching in Logan's jaw. That always happened when he was annoyed.

“Maybe,” Tyler ground out.

“Then how do you expect to avoid Dylan and me?”

“There must be a way,” Tyler said.

Logan chuckled. “Haven't you ever done anything you wished you could take back?” he asked.

There were
plenty
of things Tyler regretted, but he wasn't inclined to share them, especially with Logan. “What do you want?” he demanded, clearly enunciating each word, dragging back a chair and sitting down opposite his brother. After all, it was
his
house. Why should he stand, while Logan lounged at his table?

“Another chance,” Logan answered. This time, he sounded hoarse.

“Why?” Tyler asked, honestly puzzled.

Logan didn't reply to that. He just folded his arms and sat there looking at Tyler like he was two feet over the border between smart and stupid.

“You're not going to leave this alone, are you?” Tyler rasped.

“Nope,” Logan said.

“Okay, I forgive you for smashing the guitar. Are you happy now?”

“I'm
real
happy,” Logan shot back. “Don't I
look
happy?”

“You look butt-ugly,” Tyler said. “Now, will you please leave? I'm not a morning person.”

Logan laughed again, reached out, tapped a stack of
papers with the tip of one finger. Tyler hadn't noticed the documents until then. He frowned.

“What—”

“I assume you can read,” Logan said.

Smart-ass son of a bitch.

Tyler picked up the documents, scanned the face page. Something about a corporation called Tri-Star Cattle Company.

“We're trying to run a ranch here, Dylan and me,” Logan told him. “A third of it's yours. Are you going to sign on or not?”