The Creed Legacy (19 page)

“I’ll be there,” Carolyn promised, wondering at her bravery.

She could count the dates she’d had, post-Brody, on one hand. And most of them had been at been mediocre at best, disastrous at worst.

The ones in between were highly forgettable.

“Good,” Bill said. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again.”

After that, there didn’t seem to be much to say, so they exchanged goodbyes and ended the call.

Carolyn exchanged Tricia’s clothes for an oversize pair of cotton pajamas, ate the cottage cheese and prayed she wouldn’t get food poisoning.

She wasn’t much of a cook, it was true. She simply couldn’t see the point in fixing elaborate meals when she’d be the only one around to eat them.

The subject of food brought Brody’s incredible soonto-be kitchen to mind; she’d noticed the gigantic professional stove, with its many burners and a space for grilling indoors, noticed the subzero refrigerator, the special built-in cooler for wine, the two oversize dishwashers and the extra sink and ceramic stove top set into the granite covering the island in the middle of the room.

It was the size of Kansas, that island.

All of which meant that Brody either liked to cook and entertain crowds, or expected any woman he took up with to do the same…or both of those things.

Smiling to herself—except for helping out with the chili feed/rummage sale last fall, she’d never whipped up any dish more ambitious than macaroni and cheese, the kind that comes in a box—Carolyn went downstairs to make sure everything was in order in the shop. Whatever
else
Tricia had done that afternoon, once she was alone with Conner, she’d remembered to lock up, shut off the computer and wrap the Weaver for delivery to Brody’s place.

Carolyn paused, the shop in semidarkness now, at the base of the inside stairs, already missing the Weaver. Like the gypsy skirt, though, it was a luxury she not only couldn’t afford, but also had no real use for.

At Brody’s, the magnificent batik would be seen and appreciated, as it should. Perhaps it would even be passed down, a cherished heirloom, through generations of Creeds, the house surrounding it becoming more and more of a testament to family continuity with every passing year. Just like its much older counterpart on the ranch.

Carolyn climbed the stairs slowly, with her head slightly lowered, her heart filled with a sort of bereft enjoyment of the thought.

From her place of honor above Brody’s living room fireplace, the Weaver would see newborns brought through the wide front entrance, see those same babies grow up, fall in love, marry and bring home children of their own. She would be a silent witness to whole lifetimes, that woman of wax and paint, there for the joys and the sorrows and the millions of ordinary moments in between those extremes.

Carolyn had coveted many an artwork in her time, but this was the first time she’d ever
envied
the piece itself.

Oh, to
be
the Weaver.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she put the back of one hand to her forehead, checking for fever. There was none, so why was she delirious?

That made her smile again.

She was suffering, she concluded, with glum humor, from a bad case of Brody-itis.

All the more reason to hedge her romantic bets.

O
NCE GOT BACK
to the ranch, Brody took the dogs inside and fed them, then headed out to the barn to tend to the horses. He planned on leaving Moonshine right there with the others until morning, when he’d figure a way to get him home to River’s Bend.

When he stepped outside, the stars were spilling across the dark sky, and the three-quarter moon looked magnified, hovering just above the rims of the mountains, like it had dipped too low somehow and gotten itself snagged on a tree or the craggy face of a cliff.

Brody sighed and lifted his hat briefly, just long enough to shove a hand through his hair, and stopped right there in the yard to admire the handiwork of a God he wasn’t sure he believed in.

God or no God, he figured, and daunting as the expanse of it could be, being there, awake and a part of the whole thing, even for what amounted to the blink of the cosmic eye, was a miraculous gift.

Lisa sure hadn’t gotten to stick around long, though, he thought sadly, and little Justin, his boy, hadn’t lived long enough to have see two candles blazing on his birthday cake.

Just like that, Brody’s throat twisted itself into a painful knot, one he could barely swallow past.

It was true that he wanted a family of his own, wanted to marry a sweet-tempered woman and fill that house at River’s Bend with their kids and pack its barn with their ponies, but when he was tired, or felt particularly lonely, like tonight, the idea scared the hell out of him.

Nothing had ever—
ever—
hurt the way losing Lisa and Justin did. What if history repeated itself? What if he had to bury
another
wife, another
child?

He was Creed-tough, thanks to all those sturdy forbearers of his and a graduate degree from the school of hard knocks, but he’d gone stark-raving crazy after that double funeral in the chapel of a mortuary in a little Montana town. He’d taken to drinking way more than too much, been on the lookout for a reason to fight, 24/7, cut himself off from the people he’d needed most— Conner and Steven and Davis and Kim.

Brody tried to shake it off, this sorry mood, made himself get moving again. Inside the house, he made sure Valentino had all he needed, told Barney it was time they headed for home and led the way out under all those stars again.

Since it was just the two of them, he let Barney ride shotgun instead of consigning him to the backseat, and drove straight to River’s Bend.

There, he remembered that he hadn’t eaten, and poked around in his minifridge for a minute or so, hoping something tasty might have created itself out of the ether.

Nothing had.

He got out the milk carton, took a sniff to make sure it hadn’t soured and was just shaking cold cereal into a bowl when he saw headlights—beams of dusty gold— sweep across the front window.

Barney, having just settled himself on his bed over by the unlighted stove, gave an anxious little whine and perked up his ears.

A car door slammed.

Footsteps crunched along the dirt path leading up to the lodge.

A knock sounded.

“Oh, hell,” Brody told Barney, setting his cereal bowl aside on the counter with a bad-tempered thump. “She’s back.”

Just then, the door opened and Joleen poked her head inside, beaming in the unfounded expectation of a warm welcome. This month she was a blonde, and her contacts turned her eyes an unlikely shade of purple.

Brody had trouble recalling what her real coloring was—Joleen was a chameleon, constantly searching for that perfect look.

“It’s me!” she sang, quite unnecessarily, strolling right in and setting a suitcase down on the floor.

“Damn it, Joleen,” Brody grumbled, “I
told
you not to come here—”

“It would just be for one night,” Joleen chimed, as though that made everything different. “And what kind of welcome is that, anyway, after all we’ve been to each other?”

“We’ve been bed partners, and that’s about it.” Stubborn, Brody folded his arms across his chest. Hardened his jawline. “You’re not staying, Joleen.”

Joleen tried the hurt expression that had always stood her in such good stead, not just with him, but probably with scores of men. “You know I can’t stay with my folks,” she said, her mouth pouty and her eyes luminous with on-demand tears. “Mrs. Collins promised I could rent that room over her garage, but it won’t be ready until tomorrow and I— It’s been a long drive and I’m worn out, Brody.”

He took out his wallet, extracted several bills and shoved them at her. “Then I guess you’d better check in over at the Sunset Motel,” he said. “But that’s
miles
from here,” Joleen practically wailed.

“It’s
three
miles, Joleen, and it’s not as if you have to hike over there. You have your car.”

Joleen eyed the fan of twenties Brody was holding out, hesitated and then took them with a quick, snatching motion, folded them and stuffed them into the pocket of her tight jeans. “I’m almost out of gas,” she persisted.

“And I’m almost out of patience,” Brody replied.

The threat of tears had subsided, Joleen having figured out that it wouldn’t work, but there was a flash of temper behind those tinted lenses. Evidently, she was a member of the contacts-of-the-week club.

“If you won’t let me stay here,” she said, “then give me the keys to the new house. I’ll camp out over there tonight.”

“No,” Brody said bluntly. “If you don’t want to go home to your folks’ place or stay with a friend, you can either sleep in your car or check in at the Sunset Motel. Your choice, Joleen.”

For a second there, he thought she might throw a hissy fit. Instead, though, she reached down and grabbed the handle of her suitcase again.

“I thought
you
were my friend,” she said, sounding not just accusatory but genuinely wounded.

Brody didn’t take the bait. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all.

“It’s Carolyn,” Joleen said, with a note of furious triumph. “You’re fooling around with Carolyn Simmons.
Again.
Did you think I wouldn’t find out, Brody? I have eyes all over this town!”

“I’m not ‘fooling around’ with anybody—not that it would be any of your business if I were. The point is,
you’re not staying here,
Joleen, tonight or any other night, and since you’ve already been here too long, I’d really appreciate it if you’d get out.”

Her lower lip wobbled, and her eyes narrowed to mean slits. “You
bastard,
” she said. “You’ve been
using
me, all this time, and now that your fancy house is almost ready to live in, and you’re planning on settling down with a wife, having some kids,
starting a life,
you have the nerve to throw me over for that—that movie star’s
castoff?
”

Brody went around Joleen, pulled open the door, was grateful for the cool breeze that blew in from outside. His temper was at flash point.

“Get out,” he said.

Joleen crossed the threshold with her suitcase, stood with stiff pride on the step and glared back at Brody over one shoulder. “If my car runs out of gas and I get murdered by some serial killer because I’m forced to walk in these shoes,
in the dark,
it will be
your fault,
Brody Creed.”

“You have a cell phone,” Brody reminded her. “And a hundred dollars of my money. If you get stranded on the road, call the auto club.”

With that, he closed the door.

He heard Joleen give a furious, strangled scream of frustration on the other side.

But then she stomped away.

Her car door slammed again.

The motor started with a roar.

Brody flung a meaningful look at Barney, who was calm again, now that Hurricane Joleen had changed course.

She laid so much rubber getting out of there that Brody could smell burning tires, even through the closed door and the walls.

“I have always had a way with women,” he told Barney.

Barney lay down, shut his eyes and dozed off.

Well, at least
somebody
would get some sleep that night, Brody thought.

C
AROLYN ROOTED THROUGH
her closet the next morning until she found a breezy pink cotton sundress she’d made years ago, in one of her I-enjoy-being-a-girl moods.

The garment was wrinkled, from hanging for so long, and it could use freshening, too.

Carolyn took it downstairs to the laundry room, tossed it into the machine, added a little soap and set the washer to the gentle cycle, with cold water.

She had a date that night, after all, and even if Bill
had
said to dress casually, she wanted to look her best.

She nearly tripped over Winston, who had trailed her from upstairs.

“What?” she asked archly, meeting the cat’s thoughtful amber gaze. “I
do
wear dresses sometimes, you know. Of course, this means I’ll have to shave my legs—”

“Reoww,” Winston said, stepping out of her path.

“I know,” Carolyn replied. “It’s a major bummer.”

“Hello?” The voice was Tricia’s, coming from the main part of the house, where the shop was. “Carolyn? Are you here?”

Carolyn crossed the kitchen and pushed open the door leading into the shop. “I’m here,” she confirmed cheerfully, with a glance at the antique clock on Natty’s front-room mantel. “And you’re early. We don’t open for another hour, remember?”

“Oh, we’d better open right now,” Tricia said, stashing her purse under the counter and smiling at Winston, who went purring to greet her. “Primrose Sullivan called me while I was making breakfast. She wanted us to have a heads-up—seems she spotted three tourists’ buses in the parking lot out at the Roadside Diner.”

“Yikes,” Carolyn said. There went a new batch of goats’ milk soap. Then, speculatively, “Maybe they’ll just go right on past.”

“Nope,” Tricia answered matter-of-factly, picking up the telephone receiver to check for voice mail. For a watermelon smuggler, she looked very businesslike, especially after she popped her reading glasses on and began scribbling down notes. “You know Primrose. She stopped and snagged one of the travelers and asked where they were headed. Ultimately, the casino up at Cripple Creek, but the next stop? Us. Primrose is rushing over with a few new pieces just in case there are some big spenders in the crowd.”

Carolyn looked at her friend in wonder. How could she listen to voice mail, carry on a conversation
and
take down names and call-back numbers, all at the same time?