Free Montana Creeds: Tyler by Linda Lael Miller Page A

caution.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œHis name’s Tyler Creed, Roy,” Davie piped up, obviously terrified. “We were just talking. He wasn’t doing any harm—”
    Tyler put out one hand to silence the boy.
    Roy, being a head shorter but bulky, looked up into Tyler’s face.
    â€œA Creed, huh?” he said. “Know all about that outfit.”
    Tyler folded his arms. Waited.
    Roy pulled in his horns a little. “Look,” he said. “I just came to take the boy home. There’s no need for any trouble.”
    â€œHe’s not going anywhere,” Tyler answered. “Not at the moment, anyhow.”
    Roy clearly didn’t appreciate being thwarted; like all bullies, he was used to getting his way by acting tough. The trouble with acting tough was, as Jake had often said, the inevitability of running into somebody just a little tougher.
    And that could make all the difference.
    â€œI said I didn’t want any trouble,” Roy reiterated mildly. “I just want to take the boy home, where he belongs.”
    â€œWe’re still figuring out where he belongs,” Tyler said, just as mildly but with an undercurrent of Creed steel. “Right now, all I’m sure of is, he’s staying right here, and you’re not going to lay a hand on him.”
    A dull crimson flush throbbed in what passed for Roy’s neck, though his head seemed to sit pretty much square with his shoulders. He tightened one grubby fist, too, wanting to hit somebody.
    â€œYou lookin’ for a fight, cowboy?” he asked Tyler.
    â€œNope,” Tyler said. “But I won’t run from one if the opportunity happens to present itself.”
    The flush spread into Roy’s hound-dog face.
    Evidently, Tyler reflected, Doreen had given up on teaching men how to treat a woman. This guy had no clue how to treat anybody.
    Roy rubbed his beard-stubbled chin, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. Thought, Tyler figured, was probably painful for him, and thus avoided except in the most dire circumstances.
    â€œYou talked to Jim Huntinghorse,” Roy speculated peevishly. He glanced down at Davie, his expression so poisonous that the very atmosphere seemed polluted by it.“The kid lies. I never done nothin’ to him he didn’t deserve.”
    Out of the corner of his eye, Tyler spotted Doreen, peering around one of the slot machines edging the restaurant. On the one hand, he felt sorry for her. On the other, he was furious that she wouldn’t step up and protect her own child. She’d probably never had two nickels to rub together, but she’d had spirit once, she’d lived by her own rules, and she hadn’t just survived, she’d thrived . She’d had tattoos, for God’s sake, in an era when women simply didn’t do things like that. She’d traveled with biker gangs and rock bands. She’d taught him to use his fingers and his tongue in ways that bordered on sacred knowledge that had stood him in good stead ever since.
    What the hell had happened to her?
    The same thing that had happened to his mother, he supposed, in the next moment. Life had simply beaten her down. She’d taken one too many hard knocks, one too many disappointments.
    Roy must have seemed like the last train out of town.
    Damned if that wasn’t depressing.
    â€œCome on,” Roy barked, gesturing to Davie.
    Davie started to get out of the booth. Then, at a glance from Tyler, he stayed where he was.
    â€œHe’s not going anyplace,” Tyler said.
    â€œI ought to knock your teeth down your throat,” Roy replied. It wasn’t clear whether he was addressing Tyler or Davie.
    â€œYou’re welcome to try,” Tyler told him cordially. “You ever fight a man, Roy? Or just kids and women?”
    Roy looked apoplectic. “You ain’t heard the last of me,” he said.
    â€œNot only tough,” Tyler observed, “but original, too.