Part 24 (1/2)

He reached Creekside Academy within a couple of minutes, and Elaine Carpenter brought Matt out, holding his hand as they came down the front walk.

Matt, a big piece of drawing paper in his free hand, glanced in Steven's direction then turned his attention back to Elaine.

Steven shut off the truck and went to meet them at the curb.

”I made a picture!” Matt crowed, as Steven leaned down to scoop the boy up.

Elaine smiled. ”As first days go,” she said to Steven, ”this one rated an A-plus.”

”Thanks,” Steven said to her.

”Don't you wanna see the picture?” Matt all but shouted.

With a chuckle, Elaine turned and headed back into the school.

”Sure,” Steven told Matt, ”but let's get into the truck first.”

He carried the boy to the rig and buckled him into his safety seat. Matt waved the piece of paper in Steven's face the whole time.

”All right, already,” Steven said, laughing. He took the paper and looked at it.

Three stick figures-man, woman, little boy. A stick dog and a stick horse stood with them, in front of some kind of building leaning hard to the right.

Something fluttered in Steven's heart. It wasn't sorrow, exactly, but it wasn't happiness, either. If he'd had to put an adjective to the emotion, he would have said bittersweet. bittersweet.

”That's you,” Matt said, stabbing an index finger into the chest of the stick man, but soon moving on to the woman. ”And that's Melissa.” He, of course, was the child, and the dog was Zeke. The horse was evidently there as a reminder.

”That's-great,” Steven said, after a moment or two. He kept thinking he'd get used to things the boy said, but so far that hadn't happened. A glimpse inside Matt's mind always choked him up and, sometimes, like now, it made him afraid. He searched for the right words, a way to warn the little guy not to get his hopes up as far as Melissa was concerned without shooting down all that bright-eyed faith.

Nothing came to him.

”Next time I see Melissa, I'm going to give her this picture as a present,” Matt said, as Steven set him on his feet.

Steven's throat ached, and he couldn't quite look at the boy. ”Matt-”

”I know, I know,” the five-year-old broke in sunnily, ”you and Melissa aren't married yet, and I shouldn't get carried away and make all kinds of plans-”

Steven could picture himself married to Melissa-though he hadn't really tried before now-but there was no telling what her her take on the matter might be. take on the matter might be.

Sure, they'd had a great time in bed together, but he hadn't forgotten the hurt he'd seen in Melissa's eyes, during the interlude between bouts of lovemaking, when they'd sat at his table eating take-out meat loaf. The last guy she cared about had done a serious number on her, and she wasn't over it.

On top of that, she had a career, a house, a life, life, quite independent from his own. What would someone like Melissa O'Ballivan really have to gain by tying herself down at this point? quite independent from his own. What would someone like Melissa O'Ballivan really have to gain by tying herself down at this point?

s.e.x? She didn't need marriage for that, any more than he did.

”Dad?” Matt jolted him out of the thought tangle by tugging at the fabric of his s.h.i.+rt.

Steven blinked, looked down at his son. ”What?”

Matt was pointing in the general direction of the ranch house. ”Whose truck is that?”

Seeing that old beater was like taking a punch in the gut. The black Dodge, dented and sc.r.a.ped and still sporting Wile E. Coyote mud flaps, even after all these years, belonged to none other than Brody Creed.

”Stay here,” Steven told Matt, putting out a hand briefly to emphasize the point before striding off toward his cousin's truck.

The kid might as well have been born a Creed as get adopted into the family, because he never listened. Steven got all the way to Brody's truck, which sat in the high gra.s.s with its windows rolled down, before he realized that Matt was right behind him.

”Didn't I tell you to stay put?” Steven asked the boy.

Matt folded his arms and looked up at him, that stubborn glint in his eyes. ”You might need some help,” he pointed out manfully.

Steven sighed and shoved a hand through his hair in frustration. Then he stepped up onto the running board on the driver's side and looked in.

Brody lay across the seats, his hat over his eyes and his knees drawn up.

Steven jerked the door open, causing it to give way under Brody's booted feet, and he scrambled upright, ready to fight, as always. He shoved the hat back, so he could see, and an instant grin spread across his face.

”Dammit, Boston,” he said, ”you scared the h.e.l.l out of me.”

Steven was glad to see Brody-no question about it-but there was some anger there, too. The man disappeared for years at a time, with nothing but a ratty Christmas card, always arriving in mid-January, to indicate that he was still alive.

”You look just like Uncle Conner,” Matt marveled, his piping voice a much-needed reminder that there was a child present and that meant no more swearing and no landing a fist in the middle of Brody's face. ”But you're not, not, are you?” are you?”

Brody got out of the truck, resituated his hat, which, like everything else he owned, had seen better days. ”Nope,” he said, putting out a hand to Matt. ”I'm his brother. Name's Brody. And who might you be?”

”Matt Creed,” Matt responded, gazing wide-eyed up at Brody.

They shook hands solemnly.

”The rodeo,” Steven said, ”is still three weeks away.”

Brody swung his ice-blue gaze to Steven. It was unnerving how much he looked like Conner, though it shouldn't have been. They were identical twins, after all. ”Don't you worry, Boston,” he said, in a slow drawl, tucking in his s.h.i.+rt. ”I'm not here to stay-just pa.s.sin' through.”

”How come he calls you 'Boston,' Dad?” Matt wanted to know.

”I'll explain later,” Steven said, ruffling the boy's hair and handing him the key ring. ”You'd better go let Zeke out of the bus. He's probably crossing his hind legs by now.”

Matt glanced once more at Brody, eyes full of curious interest, then dashed off toward the bus.

Once he and Steven were alone, Brody folded his arms. ”Quite a spread you have here,” he said.

It might have been a jibe, considering the state of the house and barn, but Steven didn't know for sure, so he let the comment pa.s.s with a quiet, ”Thanks.”

”Look,” Brody said, rubbing his chin, which was bristly with dark gold stubble, ”if you want me to hit the trail, just say so.”

Steven laid a hand on the front fender of the truck, and he smiled as youthful memories rose in his head, brightly colored and glowing around the edges. ”You're welcome here, Brody,” he replied, ”and you d.a.m.n well know it.”