Montana Creeds: Logan

“Sounds like a big job,” Cassie observed. “Getting on some kind of terms with your brothers—even slugging terms would be better than what you have now—that’ll be part of it.”

Logan nodded, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice beyond the three-word sentence he’d offered up last.

“I’ll give you their numbers,” Cassie said, shifting enough to extract her purse from between her right thigh and the porch rail, taking out a notepad and a pen. “You call them.”

“What am I going to say?”

For all the figuring he’d done, all the planning and deciding, he’d never come up with a way to close the yawning gap between him and Dylan and Tyler.

Cassie chuckled. “Start with hello,” she said, “and see where it goes from there.”

“I shouldn’t need to tell you where it might ‘go from there,’” he replied.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Cassie told him. She scrawled two numbers onto the notepad, quickly and from memory, Logan noted, and tore off the page to hand to him. Having done that, she stood with the elegant grace that always surprised him a little, given her size. She patted Sidekick once more and descended the steps with the slow and purposeful motion of a glacier, leaving Logan to step out of her way or get run over.

Sidekick remained behind on the porch step, but he gave a little snort-sigh, sorry to see Cassie go.

Logan opened the door of her car, like a gentleman. Why Cassie didn’t buy herself something decent to drive was beyond him—she received a chunk of the take from the local casino twice a year, as did the other forty-odd members of her tribe.

“Next time I see you,” she said, shaking a finger at him, “you’d better be able to tell me you’ve spoken to Dylan and Tyler. And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to shave and put on something with a collar and buttons.” She paused to tug at his T-shirt. “In my day, these things were underwear.”

Logan laughed. “I’ve missed you, Cassie,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Sidekick and I will stop by tomorrow—I’m taking him to the vet and I have a meeting with my contractor. I can promise the shave and the button-down shirt, maybe even a haircut, but whether I’ll have called my brothers or not… well, that’s a crapshoot.”

“Longer you put it off, the harder it will be,” Cassie said, making no move to get into the car. “Are you going to stay, Logan, or are you just blowing through to spit on your father’s grave and sell your share of this land to some actor?”

“I hope you’re not going to stand there and pretend you were the president of Jake Creed’s fan club,” Logan said.

“We had our tussles, Jake and me,” Cassie admitted. “But he was your father, Logan. In his own crazy way, he loved you boys.”

“Yeah, it was right out of Leave it to Beaver, the way we lived,” Logan scoffed. There was a note of respect in his tone, but it was for Cassie, not Jake. “I guess you’ve forgotten the year he cut the Christmas tree in half with a chainsaw. And how about that wonderful Thanksgiving when he decided the turkey was overcooked and threw it through the kitchen window?”

Cassie sighed, laid a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “What about the time you and Dylan decided to run away from home and got lost up in the woods? It was November, and the weatherman was predicting record low temperatures. The sheriff gave up the search when the sun went down, but Jake…? He kept looking. Found you and brought you both home.”

“And hauled us both off to the woodshed.”

“If he’d given up, you’d have been hauled off to the morgue. I know he took a switch to you, and I’d have stopped him if I’d been here, but it wasn’t anger that made him paddle your hind end, Logan Creed. It was plain old ordinary fear.”

“Today, they call it child abuse,” Logan pointed out.

“Today,” Cassie argued, “they’ve got school shootings and kids who can’t be graded on a test because their self-esteem might be damaged. They call in the social workers if the screen on the TV in their bedroom is too small, or their personal computer isn’t fast enough. I’m not so sure a good switching wouldn’t be a favor to some of those young thugs who hang out behind the pool hall when they’re supposed to be in class.”

“That is so not politically correct,” Logan said, though secretly, he agreed.

“I don’t have to be politically correct,” Cassie retorted, with a sniff.

She was right about that. She didn’t. And she wasn’t.

She ducked behind the wheel of her car. “Welcome back, Logan,” she said, watching him through the open window. “See that you stay.”

He thought of Briana Grant, her lively sons and her fat black dog. The idea of sticking around didn’t seem quite so daunting as before.

“I guess Dylan’s been back,” he ventured. “Long enough to hire a caretaker, anyway.”

Cassie merely nodded, waiting.

“Is he… Are Dylan and Briana…?”

Cassie’s brown eyes warmed with humor and understanding. “Involved?” she said. “Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” Logan grumbled, because he knew she was going to leave him hanging there if he didn’t respond. “That’s what I mean.”

She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “You know Dylan. When he goes after a woman…”

Logan’s knuckles ached where he gripped the lower edge of Cassie’s car window.

Cassie smiled and patted one of his hands. “If you want to know about Dylan and Briana,” she said sweetly, “you’d better ask one of them. I’m just an old lady, minding my own business. How would I know what is—or isn’t—going on between those two?”

“You know everything,” Logan said. If he hadn’t been wearing a T-shirt, he’d have been hot under the collar. “About everybody in Stillwater Springs and for fifty miles in all directions.”

Cassie sighed. Shifted the car into Reverse. “You’d better step back,” she said, “if you don’t want me to run over your toes.”

Logan, being no fool, stepped back.

He watched Cassie whip the little car around and chug back down the driveway at a good clip, exhaust pipe belching blue smoke, loose parts rattling. When she topped the rise, then dipped out of sight, he looked down at the paper she’d handed him earlier.

Dylan’s number.

Tyler’s.

Sidekick came down the porch steps to nudge Logan in one thigh, as if urging him to get it over with.

Cassie had been right, of course. It wasn’t going to get any easier.

He got out his cell phone, thumbed in Dylan’s number, half hoping he’d get voice mail.

“Yo,” Dylan said, live and in person. “Dylan Creed.”

Logan plunked down on the porch step, right where Cassie had been sitting earlier. Cleared his throat. “Did you check caller ID before you answered?” he asked.

Silence.

Then, “Logan?”

“It’s me,” Logan said, bracing himself. Prepared for either a backlash of profanity or an instant hang-up.

Neither one came. Dylan seemed stunned, as much at a loss for words as Logan was.

“I’ll be damned,” Dylan said finally. “Where are you?”