The Creed Legacy (9 page)

“I guess I have to let you drive me, don’t I?” Carolyn said.

“I reckon you do,” Brody said. “We’ll take my truck. Somebody can bring your car to town later.”

Carolyn, feisty before, seemed bemused now, at a loss. “But what about washing the dishes and…?”

“Davis and Conner can do the cleaning up.” Brody slid a hand under her elbow and raised her to her feet, steered her away from the table and into the kitchen, Barney sticking to their heels like chewing gum off a hot sidewalk.

He squired her to the truck and helped her into the passenger seat, careful to let her think she was doing it all herself.

Barney took his place in the backseat of the extended cab.

Once he was behind the wheel, Brody buzzed his window and Carolyn’s about halfway down. She was going to need all the fresh air she could handle.

“You’re going to hate yourself in the morning,” he said easily, as they drove toward the gate and the road to town.

He’d only been teasing, but Carolyn’s sigh was so deep that it gave him a pang, made him wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

“It might not even take that long,” she said sadly. I’m—I’m not used to drinking and I—well, I’m just not used to it, that’s all.”

Brody reached over, gave her hand a brief, light squeeze. “That’s pretty obvious,” he said gently.

“I feel like such a fool,” Carolyn lamented, refusing to look at him.

“Don’t,” Brody said.

She looked down at her hand, where his had been rested for a second, and frowned, seemingly surprised to discover that he’d let go.

“You probably think I’m pathetic,” she went on, staring straight through the windshield again.

“Nothing of the sort,” Brody assured her gruffly.

“Getting drunk. Signing up for a dating service—”

Before he needed to come up with a response, she turned to look at him, straight on. And she was pea-green.

“Stop!” she gasped. “I’m going to be—”

Brody stopped, and she shoved open the door and stuck her head out.

“Sick,” she finished.

And then she was.

I
F SHE’D DELIBERATELY
set out
to make a lasting impression on Brody Creed, Carolyn thought wretchedly, as she stared at her wan image in the mirror above her bathroom sink later that evening, she couldn’t have done a better job.

First, being the proverbial bundle of nerves, she’d had too much wine at supper. Then, with ultimate glamour and grace, she’d
thrown up,
right in front of the man. Just stuck her head out of his truck door and hurled on the side of the road, like somebody being carted off to rehab after an intervention.

“Very impressive,” she whispered to her sorrylooking one-dimensional self.

With the spectacle playing out in her mind’s eye, Carolyn squeezed her eyes shut, mortified all over again. Brody had reacted with calm kindness, presenting her with a partial package of wet wipes and following up with two time-hardened sticks of cinnamon-flavored chewing gum.

She’d been too embarrassed to look at him afterward, had hoped he would simply drop her off at home and be on his way again, with his dog, leaving her to wallow privately in her regrets.

She couldn’t be that lucky.

Instead of leaving her to her misery, he’d told Barney to stay put, insisted on helping Carolyn down from the truck and escorting her not only through the front gate and across the yard, but also up the outside staircase to her door.

“I’ll be all right now,” she’d said, when they reached the landing, still unable to meet his eyes. “Really, I—”

Brody had taken her chin in his hand; sick as she was, the combination of gentleness and strength in his touch had sent a charge through her. “I believe I’ll stay a while and make sure you’re all right,” Brody had replied matter-of-factly.

Though she was painfully sober by then, Carolyn didn’t have the energy to fight any losing battles, so she merely unlocked the door and allowed him to follow her inside.

Winston, perched on the windowsill, greeted him with raised hackles and a hiss.

“Whatever, cat,” Brody had said, with desultory resignation. “I’m here, like it or not, so deal with it.”

Carolyn had hurried into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, following up with a mouthwash swish and two aspirin from the bottle in the medicine cabinet. Then she’d slipped into her room and changed her T-shirt.

And here she was back in the bathroom again, trying to work up the courage to go out there into the kitchen, thank Brody for bringing her home and politely send him packing.

He was moving around out there, running water in the sink, carrying on a one-sided chat with Winston, his voice set too low for her to make out the words. The tone was chiding, but good-natured.

Most likely, Brody was bent on winning over the cat.

The idea made Carolyn smile, but very briefly, because even
smiling
hurt.

How would she feel when the actual
hangover
kicked in?

Sobering thought.
That’s what you get for drinking,
she told herself grimly.
You
know
you’re not good at it.

All this self-recrimination, she realized, was getting her nowhere, fast. So Carolyn drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, let the air whoosh out of her lungs and forced herself to step out of the bathroom and walk the short distance to the kitchen.

Brody was leaning against one of the counters, sipping what was probably coffee from one of her three million souvenir mugs.

This one bore the image of a famous mouse and was painted with large red letters trumpeting Welcome to Orlando!

“You have quite a collection,” Brody observed, raising the mug slightly for emphasis.

“I’ve been everywhere,” Carolyn said, in a lame attempt at normality. Some of the mugs were from thrift stores and garage sales, actually, but she saw no point in explaining that sometimes she liked to pretend she’d purchased them on family vacations over the years.

Which was pathetic, because to take a family vacation, one needed a
family.

Brody gave her that tilted grin, the one with enough juice to power a cattle prod, his eyes as soft as blue velvet but with a twinkle of amusement, too. Moving to the microwave, he took out a second cup, this one commemorating some stranger’s long-ago visit to the Alamo, in San Antonio.

Carolyn had always wanted to visit the Alamo.

She caught the soothing scent of mint tea with just the faintest touch of ginger. Her throat, still a little sore from being sick, tightened with some achy emotion.

“Good for what ails you,” Brody said, setting down the tea on the kitchen table. “Have a seat, Carolyn. I’m not fixing to bite you or anything.”

She dropped into a chair, wishing she’d put the sewing machine away before she’d left for Davis and Kim’s house to have supper and campaign for fool of the year. Now Brody would probably think she was a
slob
as well as a shameless lush.

Brody waited a beat, then sat down across from her. Watched in easy silence as she took a sip of the tea, sighed at the herbal goodness of the stuff.

“You’ve been very…kind,” Carolyn managed to say, after more tea. She was recovering in small but steady increments. “Thank you.”

Brody’s eyes smiled before his mouth did. “You’re welcome,” he said. He’d finished his coffee, but he appeared to be in no particular hurry to leave.

“I’ll be fine on my own, now that I’ve had some aspirin and this tea,” Carolyn told him, hoping he’d take the hint and hit the road.

Hoping he wouldn’t.

He lingered, watching her. “I’m sure you will be,” he agreed.

“And your dog is all alone, down there in your truck.”

Brody chuckled. “Barney’s fine,” he replied.

Carolyn let her shoulders slump, and her chin wouldn’t stay at the obstinate angle she’d been maintaining since her kitchen reentry. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said, in a near whisper, without planning to speak again at all.

“Don’t be,” Brody said. “It’s obvious that you can’t hold your liquor, but that’s not such a bad thing.”

Carolyn bit down hard on her lower lip and forced herself to look Brody Creed directly in the eye. Before, she’d spoken without meaning to—now, she couldn’t seem to get a word out.

“You probably should have some soup or something,” Brody said mildly. What was it like to be so at ease, so at home, in his own skin? Was this what came of belonging somewhere, being part of a tribe? Even with all those years away, Carolyn reflected enviously, the man’s roots went deep into the Colorado soil, curling around bedrock, no doubt. “Might settle your stomach down a little.”

Carolyn shook her head quickly. The
thought
of putting food in her mouth—even soup—threatened to bring on a new spate of helpless retching.

“I couldn’t,” she managed to croak.

“Okay,” Brody said.

Oddly, his unflappable solicitude made her feel even more vulnerable to him than that infamous kiss had.

Carolyn steeled herself against what was surely a perfectly normal human need to be reassured, cared for, looked after—normal for other people, that is. Foster kids, no matter how good the homes they were placed in, had to be strong and self-reliant, tough to the core.

Always.

“You could leave now,” she suggested carefully.

Brody chuckled again. Sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “I could,” he agreed, showing absolutely no signs of doing so anytime soon.

“And as for what Kim said at supper, about my signing up for a dating service…”

“Who said anything about that?” Brody asked, when her voice trailed off.

“If I’d known she was going to tell everyone,” Carolyn said, “I wouldn’t have mentioned it to her in the first place.”

“Kim didn’t mean any harm, Carolyn,” Brody offered quietly. “Anyway, you’re a grown woman, sound of mind and…body—” He paused, and once more that special
something
sparked in his eyes. “And if you want to date potential con artists, that’s your business.”

On one level, Carolyn knew full well that Brody was baiting her. On another, she couldn’t resist taking the hook. “
Potential con artists?
Well,
that’s
cynical,” she accused, and never mind the fact that she’d had similar thoughts herself, right along.

“If you’re in the market for a man, Carolyn, it’s your call how you go about roping one in. All I’m saying is that you ought to be careful. There are some real headcases out there.”

“In the market for a man?”
She leaned forward in her chair, incensed.
“Roping one in?”
Being incensed felt like an improvement over being embarrassed, at least.

“Will you stop repeating everything I say?” Brody intoned. A tiny muscle bunched in his cheek, then smoothed out again.

“Who else would want to date me, right?” Carolyn ranted, stifling her voice so she wouldn’t yell and scare Winston. Or the neighbors. “Only a
head-case
loser who couldn’t get a woman the normal way?”

Brody laughed.
Laughed.
He didn’t lack for nerve, that was for sure.

Or sex appeal, damn him.

“There you go again, putting words in my mouth,” he said, all relaxed and affable. His gaze dropped ever so briefly to her breasts and then returned to her flushed face. “Take a breath, Carolyn. If you want to sign on with Funky Faces, or whatever that outfit calls itself, go for it.”

“
Friendly
Faces,” Carolyn corrected, hating that she sounded so defensive. Why couldn’t she, just once, get the upper hand in one of these sparring matches?

“Whatever,” Brody said dismissively, pushing back his chair—at long last—and rising. “You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m sure,” Carolyn insisted, hugging herself and not looking at him.

Funny, though. Even with her eyes averted, the man was an onslaught to her jangled senses. She was aware of Brody Creed in every part of her; he made everything pulse.

She felt angry triumph at the prospect of his leaving and, underlying that, a certain quiet dejection.

Go,
she thought desperately.
For God’s sake, Brody, just
go.

Instead of heading straight to the door, however, Brody stepped around the table, paused behind Carolyn’s chair and then leaned down to place the lightest of kisses on the top of her head.

“See you around,” he said gruffly.

Carolyn clamped her molars together, so she couldn’t ask him to stay.

To cajole her about soup and hold her.

She’d said and done enough stupid things for one day, met and exceeded the quota.

A few seconds later, Brody was gone.

The apartment, once her refuge, felt hollow without him.

She sat still in her chair, listening to the sound of his boot heels on the outside stairs, waiting for the roar of his truck engine, the sounds of driving away.

Only then, when she was sure he wasn’t coming back, did Carolyn push her teacup aside and bend forward to thump her forehead lightly against the table in frustration.

Once, twice, a third time.

Winston jumped down from the windowsill and padded over to wrap himself around her ankles, purring and offering general cat-comfort.

She bent, scooped him onto her lap and petted his silky back.

Since there was no one but the cat around to see, Carolyn finally gave in and allowed herself to cry.

“O
KAY, SO I WAS
a buttinski,” Kim allowed, with a sheepish glance at Brody.

The two of them were standing in the ranch-house kitchen.

“Ya think?” Brody retorted.

In the time he’d been out, Tricia and Conner had gone back to their place—they were probably having slow, sleepy sex at that very moment—and Davis had retreated to his saddle shop, where he was working on a custom order.

Little Bit and Smidgeon must have gone with him, because there was no sign of them.

Except for the lingering scent of homemade tamales, all signs of supper were gone. Dishes washed, leftovers wrapped and put away, counters clear.

Kim Creed ran a tight ship.

Too bad she didn’t exercise the same control over her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Kim said, reaching into the laundry basket on the table and pulling out a towel to fold. “I just thought you should know that Carolyn is…well…
looking.”

“Why?” Brody asked. “In what universe is that my business, Kim? Or yours, for that matter? Carolyn was nervous in the first place—my guess is, that’s why she was swilling wine like she was. And then you had to make everything worse by blurting out something she probably told you in confidence.”

Kim stopped folding, and tears brimmed in her eyes.

Brody ached when any woman cried, but with Kim, it was the worst. She was, for all practical intents and purposes, his mom, and he loved her accordingly.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she admitted with a sniffle. “I’ll apologize to Carolyn tomorrow.”

Brody put his arms around Kim, gave her a brief squeeze. “Maybe you could lay off the matchmaking, too, for a while, anyway,” he suggested, taking a towel from the basket and folding it.

“Trust me,” Kim said, “I’ve already had this entire lecture from Davis. If you and Carolyn are both too thickheaded and stubborn to see that you’re meant for each other, well, it’s out of my hands, that’s all. You’re on your own.”

“Thank you,” Brody said, smiling. “I’ll take it from here.”

Kim’s eyes widened, and her hands froze in mid towel-folding. “What do you mean, you’ll take it from here? Are you…?”

Brody held up one index finger and shook his head, grinning as he turned to head for Davis’s shop to bid the man good-night before heading back to the cabin at River’s Bend.

The spacious room smelled pleasantly of leather and saddle soap and the wood fire that crackled in the Franklin stove, the flames casting a dancing reflection on the worn planks in the floor. Davis stood at one of several worktables, tooling an intricate design into a strip of cowhide.