Creed's Honor Read online

  “I enjoyed having you here,” Tricia said truthfully. “So did Sasha and Natty.”

  Carolyn flashed her warm, wide smile. “I was too tired to stay and eat with the other volunteers after the sale closed for the day, but the prospect of dining alone wasn’t doing much for me, either.”

  Valentino began to tug harder at the leash. He needed a little training, Tricia thought. Maybe, when she found a permanent home for him, he could learn to heel instead of crisscrossing in front of her, nearly making her trip.

  Tricia chuckled ruefully and shook her head, and Carolyn gave a little laugh, too. “I’ll see you at the community center tomorrow?” Carolyn asked, stepping off the sidewalk and going around to open the driver’s-side door of her car.

  “Yes,” Tricia said, as Valentino yanked her into motion. “See you there.”

  “And you’ll be going on the trail ride, too?” Carolyn persisted. “The one at the Creeds’?”

  Looking back over a shoulder, Tricia nodded. Carolyn had seemed uncomfortable around Brody Creed earlier, but evidently she was over that now. Possibly, she didn’t expect to see him on the ranch the next day.

  “I’m afraid I can’t get out of that,” Tricia responded. “Sasha’s counting on some time in the saddle.”

  Carolyn’s face, like her hair, was lit with moonlight. She had, Tricia noticed, the bone structure of a model; she was one of those women who, like Natty, remained beautiful as they aged. “It’ll be fun,” Carolyn insisted. “You’ll see.”

  With that, she got into her car, shut the door and started the engine. The headlights were bright enough to make Tricia blink as the rig drew up alongside her and Valentino. Carolyn gave the horn a little toot and drove away.

  It’ll be fun. You’ll see.

  Tricia still wasn’t entirely convinced of that. Horses were foreign creatures to her, huge and disturbingly unpredictable, and not only did they shed, they’d been known to bite. Plus, it was a very long fall from their backs to the hard ground and what if she—or worse, Sasha—was not only thrown, but stepped on? Or what if something spooked the horses, and they ran away? She’d seen it happen a hundred times in the vintage Western movies her dad had loved.

  Conner Creed’s face rose in her mind in that moment and, somehow, Tricia knew—just knew—that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Sasha, or to her, or to anyone else who might be joining them on the trail ride the next day. She knew less than nothing about horses, it was true, but Conner was an expert. For that matter, so was Sasha, though, of course, she wasn’t as experienced as he was, being only a child.

  It didn’t take long to traverse Lonesome Bend from one end to the other, even on foot, and Tricia and Valentino got all the way to the old drive-in theater before Tricia decided they’d walked far enough. Farther on, the road curved dark along the edge of the river, and there was only the glow of the moon to light the way.

  While Valentino was occupied in the high grass alongside the collapsing fence, Tricia looked up at the big, ghostly remnant of the outdoor movie screen. It was faced with corrugated metal, the white paint chipping and peeling, and time had bent one rusted corner inward, like a page marked in a book.

  The projection house/concession stand was dark, naturally, and the rows of steel poles supporting the individual speakers tilted this way and that, resembling pickets in a broken fence. Or tombstones in a forgotten graveyard.

  A shiver went up Tricia’s back, then tripped back down. A graveyard? That, she decided, was an unfair analogy—the Bluebird Drive-in Movie-o-rama had been a happening place in its heyday. The sad old screen had been lit up with light and color and pure Hollywood glamour five nights a week in summer. Her dad must have told her a dozen stories about how thrilling it was to sprawl on the roof or the hood of somebody’s car, or in the bed of a truck, the sky a dark canopy overhead, liberally dappled with stars, while John Wayne headed up a cattle drive, or the Empire struck back, or Rock Hudson and Doris Day fell in love, or James Dean rebelled without a cause—

  A lump formed in Tricia’s throat. Her own memories of the drive-in were scented with buttery popcorn from the big machine on the concession counter; she recalled the scratchy sounds of music and dialogue crackling from the cumbersome speakers, designed to hook onto the car windows, and the delicious frustration of waiting for darkness to fall, so the movie could be shown to advantage.

  Still, business had already dropped off dramatically by the time Tricia began tagging along to the theater with her dad on those sultry, star-spattered summer nights, and the films were the sort that go straight to DVD or cable now, without ever hitting the big screen in the first place.

  “It’s the end of an era,” she remembered Joe McCall saying sadly, one late-August night, when the credits were rolling on the last offering of what would turn out to be the Bluebird’s final season, though Tricia hadn’t known that then. She’d been twelve at the time, not even a teenager, and scheduled to board a flight from Denver to Seattle first thing the next morning.

  “The end of an era,” Tricia repeated softly.

  Now Valentino was on the move again, making for the bright lights of town, and he pulled her right along with him.

  Tricia’s eyes burned, and she had to wipe her cheek once, with the back of one hand. Later, when she was older, and she had her dog, Rusty, and the drive-in was starting to look downright decrepit, she’d been a little ashamed of the place. “Why don’t you sell it?” she’d asked her dad once, when they’d spent a hot afternoon picking up litter, the drive-in being a popular spot for illicit parties, and mowing the grass.

  He’d laughed and said times were hard because the Republicans—or had it been the Democrats?—were in office, so nobody was spending much money, particularly when it came to commercial real estate. Then, more seriously, that sadness back in his eyes, Joe had said, “Someday, it’ll be yours—the drive-in, the campground and the rest of it. This is all riverfront property, Tricia—that’s Creed ranch land over on the other side—and when the time is right, you’ll sell it for a good price, and you’ll be glad I held on to it for you.”

  Hauled along by Valentino, now determined to go home, it would seem, Tricia glanced back over one shoulder, took in the shadowy form of the big For Sale sign nailed to the front gate next to the rickety ticket booth—the whole scene awash in the orangish shimmer of a harvest moon, partially obscured by clouds now—and sighed. Her dad had been so certain that he was leaving her something of value. If Joe had lived, though, he’d have been very disappointed in the state of his legacy, and maybe in her, too.

  Another tug from Valentino’s end of the leash alerted Tricia to the fact that she’d stopped walking again—it was as though the past had somehow reached out, with invisible hands, and held her in place.

  “Sorry,” she told the dog, getting into step.

  When they got back to the house, the downstairs lights were off, except for the one on the porch, and, Valentino at her side, Tricia climbed the front steps instead of taking the outside stairway, as she would normally have done. She wasn’t sure the door was properly locked; Natty had been overtired and she’d most likely forgotten, and Tricia and Carolyn had left the house by the back way.

  Sure enough, the knob turned easily.

  Suppressing a sigh, Tricia stepped over the threshold, as did Valentino. She took off his leash, wound it into a loose coil and stuffed it back into her jacket pocket. Valentino looked up at her questioningly and she smiled, turning to engage the lock on the front door.

  She flipped a nearby switch and the chandelier came on, spilling crystalline light into the entryway. Tricia proceeded toward the kitchen, intending to secure the back door, which she’d left unlocked on her way out, but Valentino took a detour as they passed the stairs and trotted up to the apartment, perhaps looking for Sasha, though he might just as well have been hoping for Winston’s return. He’d become attached to that cat.

  Natty was sitting at the round table when Tricia reached the kitc
hen, sipping herbal tea from one of her prized china cups. She wore a cozy blue chenille bathrobe, the front zipped to her chin, and her lovely silver hair, held back at the sides by graceful little combs, trimmed in mother-of-pearl, fell nearly to her waist, still curly and thick even after nine decades of life.

  Seeing Tricia, the old woman smiled sweetly, and her cup made a delicate clinking sound as she set it in the matching saucer.

  “I think Carolyn needs a friend,” Natty said, with a gentle smile.

  I know I could use one, Tricia thought wearily. Diana was and would always be her closest confidante, but they lived in separate states as it was, and soon they’d be on separate continents.

  “I agree,” Tricia replied, after securing the lock on the back door. She glanced toward the ceiling, and Natty read the gesture with an astuteness that was typical of her.

  “Sasha is just fine,” she said. “She got through to her parents, via the computer, and she was so excited that she came downstairs to tell me all about it.”

  “And that’s why you’re still awake?” Tricia asked, with an effort at a smile. She’d put in a long day at the community center, and she couldn’t wait to soak in a hot bath and tumble into bed for eight hours of semi-comatose slumber.

  “Heavens, no,” Natty replied. “I watched some television in my room—you know, to unwind a little—and I do like a cup of raspberry tea before I turn in.”

  “You’d tell me,” Tricia said, “if you didn’t feel well?”

  “I’d tell you,” Natty said, eyes twinkling. “You worry too much, young lady.”

  Still wearing her jacket, Tricia went to stand beside her great-grandmother’s chair, and laid a gentle hand on one of the woman’s fragile shoulders. “Of course I worry,” she responded. “I love you.”

  Natty reached to pat Tricia’s hand lightly. “And I love you, dear,” she said. Then she gave a small, philosophical kind of sigh. Her cornflower-blue eyes caught Tricia’s gaze and held it. “If anything did happen to me, you’d make sure Winston was looked after, wouldn’t you?”

  Tricia crouched next to the old woman’s chair, her vision blurred by hot, sudden tears. Despite Natty’s advanced age, and her recent health issues, the thought of her passing away was almost inconceivable. “No matter what,” Tricia said, her throat thick with the same tears that were stinging in her eyes, “Winston will be fine. I promise you that.”

  Natty rested one cool, papery palm against Tricia’s cheek. “I believe you,” she said tenderly. “But can you promise me that you will be fine as well? I’d feel so much better if you were married—”

  Tricia gave a small, strangled giggle as she stood up straight again. She felt torn between going upstairs to Sasha—it was past the girl’s bedtime—and keeping Natty company in the dearly familiar kitchen. “I can take care of myself,” she reminded her beloved great-grandmother softly. “Isn’t that better than being married just for the sake of—well—being married?”

  Natty chuckled fondly. Shook her head once. “I know you think I’m old-fashioned,” she said, “and you’re at least partially right. But it’s a natural thing, Tricia, for a man and a woman to love and depend on each other. Certain members of your mother’s generation—and yours, too—seem to see men as—what’s the word I want?—dispensable. I think that’s sad.” As tired as Natty looked, the twinkle was back in her eyes. “There’s nothing worse than a bad man, I’ll grant you that,” she summed up, waggling an index finger at Tricia, “but there is also nothing better than a good one.”

  Tricia laughed. “Duly noted,” she said. “Shall I help you back to bed?”

  “I can get myself back to bed,” Natty informed her. “Besides, I haven’t finished my tea. I may even have a second cup.”

  Tricia was moving away by then, though her pace was reluctant, shrugging out of her coat as she started for the hallway and the staircase beyond, “If you need anything—”

  “I’ll be fine,” Natty said, making a shooing motion with one hand. “You just think about what I said, Tricia McCall. Fact is, I’m not sure you’d know a good man if he was standing right in front of you.”

  Tricia stopped, turned around in the doorway to the hall, narrowing her eyes a little. Like Diana, Natty wasn’t keen on Hunter. Unlike Diana, she’d never met him.

  “If that was a reference to—”

  “It was a reference,” Natty interrupted succinctly, “to Conner Creed.”

  “I barely know the man,” Tricia pointed out, lingering when she knew it would be better—and wiser—to go upstairs.

  “Well,” Natty said, rising from her chair and picking up her saucer and empty cup, apparently having decided against a second helping of tea, “perhaps you ought to make an effort, dear. To get to know him, I mean. He comes from very sturdy stock, you know. Granted, Conner’s dad was something of a renegade, and it looks as though Brody takes after Blue, but Conner’s more like Davis, and a finer man never drew breath. Unless it was my Henry, of course.”

  The corner of Tricia’s mouth twitched. “Of course,” she said.

  Her great-grandfather, Henry McCall, had been dead for decades, but thanks to Natty, his legend as a man and as a husband lived on. Their only child, Walter, Tricia’s grandfather, had died in a car accident, along with his wife, when Joe was still in high school.

  Tricia’s dad had gone away to college the following year, then served a stint in the Army. Having met and married Tricia’s mother soon after his discharge, he’d gone to Seattle and tried hard to make a life there, while a still-spry Natty ran the drive-in and the campground for him. After the divorce, Joe had returned to his hometown and, at his grandmother’s urging, converted the second story of the old house into an apartment. He’d lived there until his own death, from a heart ailment, only two years before.

  “Good night, Tricia,” Natty said, setting the cup and saucer carefully on the countertop, next to the sink. “Sleep tight.”

  “Good night,” Tricia said, feeling as though she and her great-grandmother had just engaged in some sort of gentle contest, and Natty had come out the winner.

  Which was just silly.

  THE ATMOSPHERE IN THE community center’s kitchen was redolent with the delicious aromas of spicy chili and fresh coffee the next morning, when Tricia, Sasha and special guest star Natty McCall entered through the propped-open back door.

  The night shift—three women who had remained at the center to oversee the kettles of fresh chili simmering on the stove—reacted with delight when they spotted Natty. She didn’t even get a chance to take off her tailored black coat before they were hugging her and telling her how much they’d missed her, all of them talking at once. So far, one of the women reported, the profits from the event were even higher than last year’s had been. People had come from miles around to sample Natty’s famous chili, and sales of the donated goods were up, too. Those fancy new uniforms for the high school marching band were as good as ordered.

  “See?” Natty told her friends, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, as Tricia helped her out of her coat. “I told you the sky wouldn’t fall if I retired as head of the committee, didn’t I?”

  Sasha took Natty’s coat from Tricia and went to hang it up on the portable closet in the storage room. “There must be fifty million people lined up out front,” she said, when she returned. “Again. I can’t figure out where they’re all coming from.”

  “Everywhere,” Natty told the child, after winking at Tricia. “Henry McCall’s secret chili recipe attracts foodies from all over the United States and Canada.”

  That, Tricia thought wryly, might have been something of an exaggeration, but it was true that Natty had had several opportunities to sell the recipe over the years, not only to two different manufacturing firms, but to a well-known chain of restaurants, too. Tricia had seen the letters herself.

  Someone brought Natty a cup of coffee, once she was settled at the long table in the kitchen. Evelyn barely opened the door separating the
m from the main part of the building and peered through the crack, clucking her tongue at the size of the crowd waiting on the sidewalk out front.

  “Just imagine how many there would be if church services weren’t in session all over town,” she said. “We’d need the riot squad, or even the National Guard.”

  Natty and her friends chortled merrily at that. All of them were faithful members of their various churches, but every year when the rummage sale/chili feed weekend rolled around, they threw themselves upon God’s patient understanding and skipped a week.

  “I say it’s a good thing today’s a half day,” one of the other women remarked, after stifling a yawn with one hand. “We’re not getting any younger, ladies.”

  Carolyn hurried in through the back door just then, pulling off her jacket as she walked. “Who’s not getting any younger?” she teased happily.

  “Well,” Evelyn conceded, smiling, “you and Tricia might be. Maybe it’s time for you to take over the biggest event of the year so all us old ladies can follow Natty’s lead and put our feet up.”

  “You’d miss it too much,” Carolyn replied.

  Natty checked the wall clock above the giant coffee percolator on the nearby counter. “It’s almost time to admit the eager hordes,” she said.

  Evelyn huffed at that. “It won’t kill those people to wait a few more minutes, Natty. They bought everything they really wanted yesterday, you can bet on that, and today they’re just here to inhale every last chili bean and buy back the stuff they wish they hadn’t given up when we held our big donation drive back in August.”

  Tricia and Carolyn exchanged amused glances.

  Sasha, standing close to Natty’s chair, rubbed her small hands together. “I wouldn’t mind opening the door,” she allowed diplomatically, “if no one else wants to do it.”

  Evelyn chuckled and handed over the keys. “Wait five more minutes,” she told a beaming Sasha. “Our kitchen reinforcements haven’t arrived, and Carolyn and Tricia can’t be expected to wrangle that mob without help, either.”