The Creed Legacy (30 page)

Carolyn blushed slightly. “I just assumed that’s where he’d be,” she said lamely.

Primrose chuckled. “It does my old heart good,” she said. Like many older people, Primrose didn’t do segues.

Carolyn didn’t ask what the woman meant, because she already knew.

Segues weren’t always necessary, now were they?

Primrose went on to show Carolyn each of the new pieces she’d just brought in, and Carolyn’s admiration was sincere.

“What’s it like, to be able to bring people and animals to life on cloth or a canvas, the way you do?” she asked wistfully.

Primrose patted her gently on the back. “I imagine it’s about the same as being able to sew up something beautiful in no time flat, the way
you
do,” she replied. “I’ve seen your work, Carolyn. You have an eye for line and color and movement—stop being so all-fired humble all the time and own it.”

Own it.

What did that mean, exactly?

All her life, it seemed to Carolyn, she’d been trying to prove something—she was a foster kid,
but—
She’d never gone to college,
but—
She’d fallen head over heels for Brody Creed, back in the day,
but—

But what if everything she’d ever wanted was within her grasp—and all she had to do was own it?

S
ATURDAY TOOK ITS
sweet time rolling around, as far as Brody was concerned, and staying away from Carolyn in the meantime was only possible because he’d been putting in twelve-hour days on the ranch, along with Davis and Conner. There were fences to mend, strays to round up, sick cows to dose with medicine, stalls to muck out and horses to shoe, deworm and exercise.

A rancher’s work is, quite literally, never done.

Since he and Kim and the minidogs were heading out to Stone Creek Sunday morning, Davis whistled a lot, and there was a spring in his step. He was a born grandfather, and Brody knew his uncle could hardly wait for Tricia and Conner’s little one to be born so he’d have a Creed youngster readily available for spoiling.

Conner was in a fairly good mood, too, now that Tricia had agreed to stay home, let Carolyn be in charge of things at the shop and take it easy until after the baby came.

As for Brody himself, well, he was as jumpy as ice water on a hot griddle. His moods ran the gamut from woe-is-me to yee-haw, and he never knew when one mood would give way to the other.

He worked a half day on Saturday, appropriated a horse trailer to bring Moonshine back from the ranch to the new barn and, with Barney’s questionable assistance, got the gelding settled in his own stall.

To Brody’s way of thinking, Moonshine looked a bit on the lonely side, all by himself in that big place, fancy as it was shaping up to be. The stalls were finished and the water and electricity were hooked up, which was more than could be said of the house. The corral fence stood straight and sturdy, too.

“Maybe you and I ought to move in with Moonshine,” he told Barney, only half kidding. It wasn’t even June yet, and the house wouldn’t be ready to live in until mid-August, according to the contractor.

Barney trotted happily at his side, panting, as they headed toward the log cabin where he’d been living since he’d bought the River’s Bend property from Tricia.

He hated the lack of elbow room, the counter running through the middle of the building, the jury-rigged bathroom and the borrowed bed and making do with a knee-high fridge and a microwave the size of a shoebox.

Most of all, he hated that he was always alone in the place. That definitely sucked.

But, hallelujah, it was finally Saturday.

He’d had part of the contractor’s crew up at the Bluebird Drive-in for a couple of days now, cleaning up the snack bar and hooking up a popcorn machine, rented, like the projector, and he’d hired a caterer from Denver to whip up and deliver a fancy meal for two, complete with wine and candlelight.

Oh, he had definitely outdone himself this time, Brody thought cheerfully. Not that he went around revamping old drive-in theaters for one dinner-and-movie date—there had been a lot of women in his life, and he’d given some of them expensive presents, or paid their bills a time or two, but he’d never done anything quite like this before.

However things shook out between him and Carolyn, when it was all over but the shoutin’, he’d have this night to remember, and so would she.

Brody ducked into his makeshift bathroom, stripped off his work clothes and showered.

After that, he put on clean jeans, a pale blue Western shirt, socks and his second-best boots. It was still too early in the day to go with the custom-made pair, the ones he usually broke out only for weddings and funerals with the Creed brand subtly embossed into each shaft.

He ran a comb through his hair—he needed barbering, he guessed, but the more clean-cut he was, the more he could have passed for Conner, and something about that chapped his hide a little. Love his brother though he did, Brody figured it was enough that he and his twin had the same face, coloring and build.

They didn’t need the same haircut and close shave, too.

Hungry, but downright averse to the idea of yet another half-assed concoction made up of the strange assortment of stuff in his refrigerator, he decided he’d treat himself to a hamburger and a milk shake for lunch.

With that in mind, he left Barney to snooze on the dog bed, while he drove over to the Birdcage Café for a generous helping of fat, sugar and preservatives.

The hole-in-the-wall restaurant had been a mainstay in Lonesome Bend since before his dad and Davis were born, and while everybody wondered, nobody recalled why any sensible person would give a food-service establishment—even a greasy spoon like that one—such an unappetizing name.

For all that, the Birdcage served a mean burger, made from scratch, and they grilled the buns in real butter before slapping a thick patty of ground beef between them. They changed the oil in their deep-fat fryer once a week whether it needed doing or not, and the only thing better than their potato salad was Natty McCall’s secret-recipe chili, available only at the annual rummage sale in late October.

The parking spaces on the street were full, as usual, so Brody pulled into the dusty gravel lot next to the café, driving slowly so he wouldn’t get his truck too dirty before it was time to pick Carolyn up for their get-together that night.

He had some high hopes for the
together
part.

“Way you was drivin’ two miles an hour, I figured some maiden schoolmarm was fixin’ to get out of that truck,” boomed Will Carlson, one of several old-timers who took turns holding down the peeling wooden bench under the Birdcage’s front window, as Brody walked toward him.

“How many maiden schoolmarms drive extended-cab pickups, Will?” Brody retorted with a good-natured grin and a tug at the brim of a hat he wasn’t wearing.

Will eyed him from beneath the bill of a ratty old cap, his face beard-stubbled and loose-skinned. He shifted his jaw around, most likely in an effort to realign his ill-fitting dentures. “You come here to see Joleen?”

The old man’s question didn’t register with Brody until it was too late—by the time it did, he’d already pushed open the front door and stepped inside.

And there was Joleen, wearing a waitress uniform and flirting shamelessly with some out-of-towner in a business suit while she took his order.

Brody briefly considered bolting, but one, that would be a chickenshit thing to do, since this was still a free country the last time he checked and he had as much right to be there as anybody, and two, he wanted a grease-burger.

So he stayed put, feeling his neck warm up as everybody in the café turned to look at him.

Including Joleen.

Brody nodded a greeting to her and took the last stool at the counter, between two grizzled ranchers who’d lived around Lonesome Bend since the fifth day of Creation. That pair of old buzzards hadn’t spoken to each other in fifty years, it was said—something about a hand of poker and a girl—which was the only reason there was a single place to sit down.

Joleen, sly-eyed, finished writing up the suit’s order and sashayed behind the counter to stand directly in front of Brody.

“Well,” she said, almost purring. “If it isn’t Brody Creed.”

Brody reset his shoulders, set his hands on the counter, fingers interlaced. “Hello, Joleen,” he said casually. “How about a burger with everything and a chocolate milk shake?”

Joleen made no move to write down the request or relay it to the fry cook back at the grill. All the chatter had ceased, and even the jukebox fell silent.

Evidently, the folks who patronized the Birdcage had free time aplenty, if they could sit around gawking like they were, with their ears practically tilting forward, like Moonshine’s did when he was trying to decide whether or not he ought to spook.

Joleen folded her arms, underscoring her ample breasts. You probably thought I’d be long gone by now, didn’t you?” she asked, with acid sweetness.

“A man can always hope,” Brody replied mildly.

This brought a few snickers from the onlookers and made Joleen’s green eyes flash with temper.

Brody wondered idly if her eyes were really green, or if she was wearing another set of contact lenses. He didn’t plan on getting close enough to find out.

Quietly, he repeated his order.

Joleen turned around and fairly screeched it at Manuel, the fry cook.

Manuel winced, tossed Brody a glance of amused sympathy and commenced to building his famous twothousand-plus-calorie gut-buster.

After that, Joleen steered clear of Brody to such an extent that Manuel had to bring out the burger and fries himself when they were ready. As for the milk shake— well, Brody decided not to remind anybody of that, because it was too easy to picture Joleen upending the thing over the top of his head.

Gradually, folks lost interest, probably disappointed that there hadn’t been some kind of donnybrook, and went back to their own food and the conversations they’d suspended when Brody and Joleen first faced off.

Brody ate most of his meal, though he’d mostly lost his appetite, and he even pretended to enjoy it. When he couldn’t face another bite, he estimated the total for his check, since Joleen didn’t bring one, and left the money on the counter, next to his plate.

He headed for the parking lot and was just opening the door of his truck when Joleen shot out of a side door and stomped over to him.

“What about my tip?” she demanded.

Brody grinned affably. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

“It just goes to show I was absolutely right to dump you, Brody Creed, because you have
no class
what soever!”

Brody folded his arms. If Joleen wanted to rewrite history, it was okay with him. Especially if it meant she’d let him be from now on. “I guess you did the right thing for sure, that being the case,” he said. He set one foot on the running board, fixing to climb behind the wheel. “But since you wanted a tip, here it is, Joleen—move on, find yourself a big city with bright lights, because Lonesome Bend, let alone the Birdcage Café, is never going to be enough for you.”

An impish smile played on Joleen’s mouth. Some people would have been surprised by that reaction, Brody supposed, but he wasn’t. The word
mercurial
didn’t begin to describe the woman’s temperament.

“I would, if I had, oh, say, five thousand dollars to travel on,” she suggested coyly.

“Then you’d better find yourself a sucker pronto,” Brody replied easily, “because if I fork over the money, it’s going to look like a payoff, and that kind of thing doesn’t set well with me.”

The smile turned to ice, a thin layer over poison. “Since when do you care how anything looks to other people, Creed?”

Since Carolyn,
Brody thought, just then realizing it was true.

He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the town’s opinion of him, or Joleen’s. Never had, really. But it mattered what Carolyn saw when she looked at him—Conner and Davis, too. Moreover, it mattered what he thought of
himself.

“Well?” Joleen prompted, angered by his silence.
“Since when?”

“Since now,” Brody replied, very quietly.

Joleen blinked. He hoped she wouldn’t cry, but if she did, he reckoned he could endure it, since he’d be driving away here in a minute or so. “It wouldn’t be a payoff,” she finally said, her voice gone small and a little shaky now. “The five grand, I mean. It would be one friend making a loan to another. And be honest, Brody. Maybe building that big, fancy house and barn at River’s Bend is the first showy thing you’ve ever done, but that’s pocket change to you, and you know it.”

“Sorry, Joleen,” Brody said. “Writing you a check for any amount of money is a message I just don’t want to send.”

Her shoulders sagged and she scuffed at the gravel with the toe of her white waitress shoe. It wouldn’t be white for long, Brody supposed, but, then, Joleen wouldn’t be a waitress for long, either.

She had the worst case of wanderlust Brody had ever seen.

“Well,
damn,
” she said finally, and the sorrows gave way to that showgirl smile of hers. “It was worth a try.”

Brody laughed. “Good luck, Joleen,” he said, “and be happy.”

She was still smiling as he drove away, and waving one hand in farewell.

Women, Brody thought. There was just no figuring them out.

C
AROLYN ROOTED
desperately through her wardrobe for something to wear besides her normal jeans, T-shirt and boots. Bottom line, she’d shot the fashion wad with the cotton sundress she’d worn to Bill’s backyard barbecue, and recycling it for a date with Brody just didn’t seem right.

“Why don’t you wear the gypsy skirt?” Tricia asked. They’d closed the shop an hour early that day, and she’d stuck around to quiz an admission out of Carolyn—yes, she was going out with Brody that night.

It was no big deal, she’d insisted to Tricia.

“Are you kidding me?” Carolyn retorted. “The bid is in four figures. Whoever is so determined to buy that skirt isn’t looking for anything that’s already been worn.”

“They’d never know,” Tricia said.

“
I’d
know,” Carolyn countered.

“Then maybe they wouldn’t care if they
did
know,” Tricia said cheerfully.

“Fat chance,” Carolyn retorted, unearthing a black sundress with white polka dots and holding it up for a critical examination. When had she made the thing? It had to have been a long time ago, because she didn’t remember it at all.

Tricia chuckled. “And yet you would have me believe this date with Brody was no big deal,” she teased. “Why don’t you just jump in your car and come out to the ranch? We’ll ransack every closet on the place if we have to—between Kim and I, we must have
something
you could wear tonight.”

“There’s no time for that,” Carolyn practically wailed, casting a speculative glance at the gypsy skirt, draped neatly on a hanger and suspended from the hook on the back of her bedroom door.

She
couldn’t
wear that skirt.

For one thing, it didn’t really belong to her.

For another, she might spill something on it, ruin it forever.
Then
what?