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       Praise for the novels of LINDA LAELMILLER

      “As hot as the noontime desert.”

       —Publishers Weekly on The Rustler

      “This story creates lasting memories of soul-searing redemption and the belief in goodness and hope.”

       —RT Book Reviews on The Rustler

      “Loaded with hot lead, steamy sex and surprising plot twists.”

      —Publishers Weekly on A Wanted Man

      “Miller’s prose is smart, and her tough Eastwoodian cowboy cuts a sharp, unexpectedly funny figure in a classroom full of rambunctious frontier kids.”

       —Publishers Weekly on The Man from Stone Creek

      “[Miller] paints a brilliant portrait of the good, the bad and the ugly, the lost and the lonely, and the power of love to bring light into the darkest of souls. This is western romance at its finest.”

       —RT Book Reviews on The Man from Stone Creek

      “Sweet, homespun, and touched with angelic Christmas magic, this holiday romance reprises characters from Miller’s popular McKettrick series and is a perfect stocking stuffer for her fans.”

       —Library Journal on A McKettrick Christmas

      “An engrossing, contemporary western romance.”

       —Publishers Weekly on McKettrick’s Pride (starred review)

      “Linda Lael Miller creates vibrant characters and stories I defy you to forget.”

      —No.1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

       Also available fromLINDA LAEL MILLER

      The Stone Creek series THE MAN FROM STONE CREEK A WANTED MAN THE RUSTLER

       The McKettricks series

      McKETTRICK’S CHOICE

      McKETTRICK’S LUCK

      McKETTRICK’S PRIDE

      McKETTRICK’S HEART

      A McKETTRICK CHRISTMAS

       MONTANA CREEDS: LOGAN

      LINDA LAEL MILLER

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      For Steve Miller—

      gifted Western artist,

      cherished friend and

      incredibly generous spirit.

      10,000 thanks for

      showing a country girl and her

      loved ones the

      Big Rodeo, in style!

      CHAPTER ONE

       Stillwater Springs Ranch

      THE WEATHERED wooden sign above the gate dangled from its posts by three links of rusty chain. The words, hand-carved by Josiah Creed himself more than 150 years earlier, and then burned in deeper still with the edge of an old branding iron, were faded now, hardly legible.

      Logan Creed, half inside his secondhand Dodge pickup—“previously owned,” the dealer had called it—and half outside, with one booted foot on the running board, swore under his breath.

      Startled, the bedraggled dog he’d picked up at a rest stop outside of Kalispell that morning gave a soft, fretful whine, low in his throat. Little wonder the poor critter was skittish; he’d clearly been from one end of lost-animal hell to the other.

      “Sorry, ol’ fella,” Logan muttered, his throat constricted with a tangle of emotions, sharp as barbed wire. He’d known the family ranch—a legacy shared equally with his two younger brothers, Dylan and Tyler—would be in sad shape. The whole spread had been neglected for years, after all… ever since they’d had that falling out after their dad’s funeral. He and Dylan and Tyler had gone their stubborn, separate ways.

      The dog forgave him readily, that being the way of dogs, and seemed sympathetic, sitting there on the other side of the gearshift, his brown eyes almost liquid as he regarded his rescuer.

      Logan grinned, settled himself back into the driver’s seat. “If I were half the man you think I am,” he told the mutt, “I’d be a candidate for sainthood.”

      The idea of any Creed being canonized made him chuckle.

      The dog responded with a cheerful yip, as if offering to put in a good word with whoever made decisions like that.

      “You’ll need a name,” Logan said. “Damned if I can think of one right off the top of my head, though.” He turned in the seat, facing forward, cataloging the fallen fences and disintegrating junk, and sighed again. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. Best get started, I guess.”

      The sign bumped the truck’s roof as Logan drove beneath it, and the rungs of the nineteenth-century cattle guard under the tires all but rattled his teeth.

      Weeds choked the long, winding driveway, but the ruts were still there, anyway, made by the first vehicles to travel that road—wagons. Mentally, Logan added several tons of gravel to the list of necessities.

      There were three houses on various parts of the property and, because he was the eldest of the current Creed generation, the biggest one belonged to him. Some inheritance, he thought. He’d be lucky if the place was fit to inhabit.

      “Good thing I’ve got a sleeping bag and camping gear,” he told the dog, leaning forward a little in the seat as they jostled up the grassy rise, peering grimly through the windshield. “You okay with sleeping under the stars if the roof’s gone, boy?”

      The dog’s eyes said he was game for anything, as long as the two of them stuck together. He’d

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