Montana Creeds: Dylan. Linda Miller Lael
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Mavis finished the haircut without mentioning Dylan again, which was a mercy, and Kristy rushed back to the library to grab a sandwich in her tiny office behind the information desk. It was Wednesday, and business was slow enough that her two volunteer helpers, Susan and Peggy, could handle the traffic.
Story hour was coming up at three, though, and it was Kristy’s baby. She still hadn’t chosen a book, and that stressed her a little. She was a detail person, and few details were more important to her than doing her job well.
So she finished her sandwich and went out into the main part of the library, headed for the children’s section. It was always tricky, deciding what story to read, because the kids who gathered in a circle under the mock totem pole in the tiny play area ranged in age from as young as three to as old as twelve. The rowdy ones came, after swimming lessons over at the community pool, still smelling of chlorine and sunshine and always a little soggy around the edges, and the ones with working mothers invariably arrived early.
Harried, Kristy went from book to book, shelf to shelf.
Finally, she fell back on an old standby, one of the Nancy Drew mysteries she’d loved in her own youth. The boys would snicker, and the little ones wouldn’t understand a word, but she knew just listening was part of the magic.
Yes, today, it would be The Secret in the Old Clock.
It would do the girls good to hear about smart, proactive Nancy and her lively sidekicks, George and Bess. And it wouldn’t hurt the boys, either. Call it consciousness raising.
The time passed quickly, since Kristy stayed busy logging in a pile of returned books, and when she looked up from her work, she saw at least a dozen kids gathered in the play area, waiting.
“Showtime,” Susan whispered, smiling. “I’ll finish the returns. And I can stay right up till closing time tonight, too. Jim’s off to Choteau with his bowling league.”
Susan, in her midfifties, was supercompetent. Her staying meant Kristy could leave at five o’clock, instead of nine, like a normal person, and paint at least part of her kitchen before she nuked something for supper and tumbled into bed with Winston to read awhile and then sleep.
“Thanks,” Kristy said, giving her friend a shoulder squeeze.
Carrying The Secret in the Old Clock, she made her way to the play area, took exaggerated bows when the kids clapped and cheered. They always did that, mainly because they liked to make noise in the library, where it was normally forbidden, but Kristy got a kick out of the whole routine anyway.
She settled down on the floor, cross-legged. “Today,” she announced, “Nancy Drew.”
True to form, the boys groaned.
The girls giggled.
The latch-key kids were just happy to see an adult.
Kristy made a production of opening the book. That, too, was part of the show. Always a flourish—kids liked that. Her own mother had made reading—and being read to—so much fun, using a different voice for each character and sometimes even acting out parts of the story.
And when she looked up, ready to begin, her heart jammed itself into the back of her throat and she couldn’t say a single word.
Dylan Creed had appeared out of nowhere. He was sitting, cross-legged like Kristy, at the edge of the crowd, holding positively the cutest little girl Kristy had ever seen within the easy circle of his arms.
Kristy swallowed.
There was no doubt the child was his—the resemblance made Kristy’s breath catch.
Dylan’s blue eyes danced with mischief as he watched her.
She cleared her throat. “Chapter One,” she began.
And then she froze up again.
One of the bigger boys started a chant. “Nan-cy! Nan-cy!”
All the other kids picked it up. Even the angelic being in Dylan’s lap clapped her plump little hands together and tried to join in.
Dylan let out a sudden, piercing whistle.
Silence fell.
The little girl turned and looked up at him curiously.
“The lady,” Dylan said, “is trying to read a story. So you yahoos better settle down and listen.”
Somehow, Kristy managed to get through three chapters of the book, but it was a lackluster performance, for sure. Her gaze kept straying to Dylan and the little girl, and every time that happened, she felt her neck heat up.
At last, mothers started wandering in and collecting their charges. Kristy tried to look busy, but that was hard, given that she was still sitting on the floor with nothing but a book to fiddle with. Worse, her legs had gone to sleep, and she knew if she stood up too suddenly, she’d probably fall on her face.
In front of Dylan Creed.
Why didn’t he just leave, like everybody else?
“Nice job,” he said, and Kristy was startled to realize he was sitting right beside her. The little girl was playing with the large plastic blocks the Friends of the Library had provided for the play area.
Was he making fun of her?
Kristy swallowed again. Gulped, was more like it.
“She’s beautiful,” she croaked, inclining her head toward the child.
Dylan nodded. “Her name is Bonnie,” he said.
What do you want? That was what Kristy would have asked if she hadn’t been too chicken, but what tumbled out of her mouth was, “I heard you were passing through.”
Great.
Now he’d think she’d been panting for any Dylan Creed news that might come her way.
“I’m not passing through,” Dylan replied, watching Bonnie with a soft light in his wicked china-blue eyes. “I’m planning to stay on—tear down that old house of mine, now that Briana and her boys don’t need it anymore, and build a new one. I’m going to have a barn, too, and some horses. Maybe even run some cattle with Logan’s herd.”
Why was he telling her all this? Did he think she cared?
Did she care?
No, no, a thousand times no.
Get a grip, she told herself.
Okay, so Bonnie could have been her little girl, as well as Dylan’s, if things had turned out differently. But they hadn’t, and that was that.
She had a house and a job and a perfectly good cat.
An excellent life, damn it.
“That’s nice,” she said, easing her legs out straight and giving them subtle shakes to get the circulation going again so she could stand up and walk away with some degree of dignity. Go about her business. Tell Susan she had a headache and wasn’t staying until five.
But that would be a lie.
It was her heart that ached, not her head.
“How have you been, Kristy?” Dylan asked.
What was this, Be Kind to Former Lovers Week? “Fine,” she said.
One corner of his mouth tilted upward in a sad little grin. “Up until the last time I talked to Logan, I thought you were married to Mike Danvers.”
The name fell between them like a lead weight.
Kristy recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. Something moved in Dylan’s eyes while she was coming up with her response, even though it only took a split second. “It wouldn’t have worked out for Mike and me,” she said.
“Like it didn’t work out for us,” Dylan said, and try though