All This Time

by Melissa Tagg

  Plus, she somehow had to fit this major project around her other jobs. And since it was all outdoor work, weather would always be a factor. Too many rainy days like that summer a couple years ago when the river had flooded the town, and she could find herself sorely behind.

  “Tell me it’s not T.J.’s goofiness that has you suddenly white as a sheet, Raegan.”

  She turned to her old teacher. “This is crazy, isn’t it? Real artists would never commit to this huge of a project on this short of a timeframe.”

  “Don’t do that, my girl.”

  “Do what?”

  “Shortchange yourself. You are a real artist. You’ve been commissioned for a painting. This is meaningful and significant. Take it seriously.” He grinned then—the same wide grin he used to give her in high school when pleased with her work. “But not so seriously that you don’t have fun.”

  He patted her shoulder before turning to leave. But he paused a few feet away. “Go with the sunflower design.”

  “It’s not too Van Gogh-y?”

  “It’s bright and whimsical and perfect.”

  The sound of water sloshing against the brick building, the scratching of scrub brushes, drifted over the street. Somewhere behind her, an approaching car honked, prompting the crowd to scoot aside.

  And there went her phone dinging again.

  Work on the mural later. Hang out with me and the kids today!

  The man was relentless.

  STOP TEMPTING ME, BEAR MCKINLEY. Too much to do.

  Errands to run. Afternoon shift at the library.

  She paused. Grinned. Then added,

  Plus, at the moment, I’ve got an amorous teenager to deal with who has just asked me out for the hundredth time.

  Might not hurt for Bear to know some people didn’t hold her at arm’s length. But he didn’t miss a beat.

  Cradle robber.

  “Mr. Hill’s right, you know.” Kate.

  Raegan pocketed her phone. “About the sunflower concept? It’s my favorite, too. Except I feel like it’s missing a little something. Just don’t have any idea what.”

  “Not that. I mean, about not shortchanging yourself. I used to do the same thing with my writing. Didn’t think I’d be a real writer until I was published. And then I was published and still didn’t feel adequate. So I started thinking I’d be a real writer when I got an award or scored the right reviews. After those things happened, I thought, well, I’ll be a real writer when I write something more serious than romantic screenplays.” Kate finished off her scone. “But Colton loves to remind me that being a writer isn’t about the work I produce or what everyone else says about that work—it’s about the way I see the world. He says I process life and faith and emotion in writing—that stories help me connect with myself, with God, with other people.”

  “You know, you kinda hit the jackpot with that guy.”

  Kate’s grin reached to her eyes. “Trust me, I know. But I think it’s probably the same for you and art. And that’s what makes you an artist. Not how many paintings you’ve completed or how many people see them or how perfect they are.”

  Raegan turned away from the scaffolding to face Kate. “I think I might’ve hit the jackpot with you as a sister, too.”

  Kate pulled her into a hug. “You definitely did.”

  “Isn’t this the point where you’re supposed to return the sentiment?”

  Kate leaned back, her laughter floating on the breeze. “You’re the best sister a girl could ask for, and I’m ridiculously proud of you. I hope you know that. This mural is going to be amazing.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do. Now, as long as we’re being all sisterly and such, tell me about Bear.”

  Raegan groaned and started down the sidewalk. “Not you too.”

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

  “Can’t help it. He’s living in Dad’s house.” A flash of color emerging from Coffee Coffee caught Raegan’s eye. Sara? She moved with a natural grace, copper curls swaying over her shoulders. Raegan paused mid-step, indecision knotting through her. She’d been half-hoping to run into the woman for days. But Dad . . .

  “I’m just saying, the two of you would have awfully cute kids.”

  “Can it, Kate, or I’ll take back that jackpot comment.”

  Kate only smirked.

  Sara spotted them then, hesitance slowing her steps. She carried a Coffee Coffee cup. Raegan lifted her palm in a wave and called, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Sara smiled and started toward them.

  “What about Dad?” Kate whispered.

  Raegan ignored the question—mostly because she didn’t have an answer for it. She loved Dad; she respected him. In no way did she want to make him upset.

  But talking to Sara last week, listening to her memories of Mom, it’d been a balm for that pain-chapped piece of her heart that never seemed to heal, no matter how many years passed since Mom’s death. Of course she could talk to Dad and her siblings, but Sara had new stories, had known Mom for years before Dad ever came into the picture.

  Something about Sara was just . . . different.

  And besides, she had something to give her. Raegan reached into her messenger bag, coming up with a small, slim photo album, its cover creased and one plastic page leaning out its side. She’d gone searching for it the same night Sara had come to dinner.

  “Hi, Raegan, Kate.” Sara stopped in front of them. “How are you both?”

  Raegan’s stomach growled. She laughed. “Hungry, I guess.”

  Kate said something about being busy but eager for summer. Sara said she understood the feeling.

  “Although with opening my office—setting out the shingle, as it were—and trying to get the ranch up and going at the same time, I don’t foresee too many relaxing summer days.” She sipped her coffee before glancing at Raegan. “Have to say, that Bear is something else. In just two mornings of work, he already has the first cabin cleared out. Thanks for recommending him.”

  What, no teasing comment from Kate? No reply that Raegan, more than anybody, already knew Bear was something else?

  “I’m glad it’s working out,” Raegan said. “And I’m glad we ran into each other. I found this the other night.” She opened to the photo tilted out just slightly—two teenage girls. Even in its sepia tone, the curly hair on the woman on the right gave her away as a younger Sara. And on the left, Mom—bobbed hair, lanky teenage figure, a face so very familiar to the one that stared back at Raegan every morning when she looked in the mirror.

  Sara’s inhale was quick, sharp, her expression shifting into one of such pure longing it erased any doubt Raegan might have had about this sidewalk meeting. Sorry, Dad . . .

  “I loved your mom like a sister. If I could go back . . .” Sara shook her head as if to dislodge whatever regret she’d been about to spill. “Your father took this picture, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “We’d gone down to the bridge to snap a picture of Case and Flora. Case had just received his letter from the draft board. He wanted a nice photo to take with him.” A hint of sadness laced Sara’s tone. “Flora insisted the two of us get a picture, too.”

  Oh, how Raegan wanted to ask about the rift between Dad and Sara. But even more, she just wanted to talk about Mom. To hear more of Sara’s stories.

  Sara must have read the desire in her eyes. “I know I just came from Coffee Coffee but if you girls have time, we could . . . I was going to say ‘hang out,’ but I’m nearly sixty and those words just feel ridiculous coming out of my mouth.”

  Raegan grinned. “I could use some extra caffeine. And breakfast.”

  Kate made an apologetic excuse—Colton was waiting for her. The truth or was Kate simply better at respecting Dad’s wishes than Raegan?

  Sara turned to Raegan. “So it’s just you and me.”

  Sorry again, Dad. “It’s just you and me.”

  “Erin, you’re a regular c
owgirl.”

  Erin beamed from atop the back of a russet pony with knobby legs and a docile manner. Harley, Sara Jaminski’s full-time stable hand, walked alongside the pair, leading Penelope in a circle around the dusty arena.

  Bear had already taken a dozen pictures of Erin and the pony from his seated post on the wood fence that enclosed the ring. He’d text them to Rosa later today.

  Now, if he could just get Jamie interested.

  “All right, Jamie, tell me the truth: Do you think Penelope is as funny a name for a pony as I do?”

  The boy sat beside Bear on the fence—quiet, unengaged. Bear didn’t get it. He’d thought he’d turned some kind of corner with his nephew at the carnival last Friday. Jamie had laughed, he’d chattered. He called me Uncle Bear.

  But since then, Jamie had reverted to his former overcast state, only allowing the briefest glimpses of enjoyment in their activities during the past few days. And though he’d made no protest about coming to the ranch this afternoon, he’d barely said a word since they stepped onto the property. When Harley offered him a ride, Jamie had only shaken his head.

  “I mean, they could at least nickname her Penny, couldn’t they?”

  Jamie’s shrug said too little and too much all at once.

  “Son, if you don’t—”

  Jamie’s whole body seemed to shudder as he slid off the fence, dirt billowing around his feet when he landed. “I’m not your son.” He tramped to the arena’s entrance and marched off toward the barn without a backward glance.

  Son. Bear had hit a sore spot. Should he follow Jamie right away or give him some space first?

  His phone answered for him, blaring from his pocket. He answered without glancing at the screen, mentally kicking himself for hoping it was Raegan on the other end. “Hello?”

  He should be hoping it was Rosa. His sister-in-law hadn’t called in three days. Maybe that accounted for Jamie’s mood today.

  But neither Raegan nor Rosa answered his greeting—no one did. He tried again. “This is Bear.”

  Only silence and the unnerving sound of someone’s breathing in reply. Maybe the reception was bad out here in the country.

  Last try. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  He lowered the phone, tapped out of the call, searched his screen for the caller I.D. No luck. Unidentified Number.

  Huh. Could it have been John calling from Brazil? He’d promised to send the mission board’s application for the community center position as soon as it was available. Maybe he had news.

  Or it was nothing—just a misdialed number or prank call.

  Bear stuffed his phone in his back pocket and glanced back and forth between Erin, still having a blast on her pony ride, and the barn Jamie had disappeared into. “Erin, you okay if I go find your brother?”

  Erin squealed as Penelope flicked her mane.

  Harley shot Bear a squinted grin. “I think that’s a yes.”

  Bear had gotten to chat with Harley several times over the past days as he worked out at the cabins. Well, cabin. He’d only managed to clear one of them so far, working a couple hours on both Monday and Tuesday morning while Jamie and Erin played nearby. But Sara didn’t seem to mind his slow progress. After all, he’d promised to pick up his pace once he returned the kids to Atlanta.

  He banished the thought as he trooped toward the barn, just as he had every time it entered his mind in recent days. His niece and nephew had been in his care for a week and two, almost three, days now. What had started as a niggle of affection when he’d seen them sleeping in that shabby apartment had, with every day that passed, deepened into a hard-and-fast, intense love.

  The gaze of the afternoon sun shuttered as Bear stepped into the barn. He blinked to adjust to the dim, scouring the row of stalls on each side of the expansive space for Jamie. A rustle of movement overhead captured his attention. He moved toward the ladder leading into the haymow.

  “Jamie?”

  Just like that phone call, no reply.

  But he found his nephew easily as soon as he emerged into the barn’s upper level. His feet found the wood-planked floor, the sweet, musty scent of hay encasing him. Bales of it—some strung solidly, others half undone and strewn about the mow—covered nearly every inch of the floor.

  Jamie sat atop the highest of the stacked bundles.

  “More in the mood for climbing than horseback riding?” Bear hiked his way over hay that slid like sand until he reached his nephew. He settled beside him with a satisfied exhale. “You know what’s missing from this haymow?”

  Jamie shook his head. That was something, at least.

  “A swinging rope. I assumed every haymow in the world had one.”

  Jamie’s brown eyes journeyed the room before he finally answered. “I didn’t know it was called a haymow.”

  “Learn something every day, don’t you?”

  Quiet slanted in, like the sunlight through the cracks between boards in the barn’s roof. Bear let the hush land and stretch, searching for the right words, trying on one trite remark after another. Discarding each one before it could pass his lips.

  Maybe Jamie didn’t need comfort from an uncle he barely knew. He certainly didn’t seem to want it.

  But he needed something.

  He needs everything.

  A stable home life. Clothes that fit. A dad who cared more about his kids than his career of crime.

  A mom who remembered to call. Why hadn’t Rosa checked in since Sunday? Bear had tried calling her—twice, even three times each day this week. Had her phone plan been cut off like her utilities? Even if so, there were still such things as pay phones. Or she could borrow a friend’s.

  Maybe she was truly that busy finding a new place to live, working extra hours, fixing whatever had gone wrong with Rio’s latest activities . . .

  As if that were even possible.

  Should he be worried about her? She’d mentioned going to her father. But Luis Inez was the last person Bear could ever imagine asking for help. For as long as he could remember, the Inez and McKinley families had been on opposite sides of ceaseless turf fights. Things had only gotten worse when Rio and Rosa took up together as teens.

  And then there’d been the raid. Bear’s interference. The arrests and the short trial and Inez watching from the back of the courtroom . . .

  “At least this is better than the other times.”

  Jamie’s soft voice surprised Bear so much he jerked, kicking a wad of hay and sending it scattering. “What?”

  “It’s better than the other times we were taken away.”

  Bear’s breath caught, all thoughts of Luis Inez fading. Taken away? “By who?” But even as he asked, he knew. He’d guessed correctly—hadn’t he?—about why Rosa had been so insistent he not call the police.

  Child Protective Services. How many times? And for how long? And why? Had Rio been dealing right from home—like Dad used to? Worse, had he started cooking?

  Why hadn’t Rosa just left him? Unless—was she dealing, too? Using?

  God, it’s such a mess. And it’s not fair. Jamie and Erin don’t deserve this.

  If it was a prayer, it was one fueled by frustration. Anger. Wasn’t it enough that Bear and Rio had a crappy childhood? Did history have to repeat itself so stubbornly?

  Shouldn’t God step in and do something? Isn’t that what He was there for?

  Or was it up to Bear? An appalling thought, considering what had happened when he tried to help Rio.

  Maybe if you’d been quicker to help him in the first place . . .

  Shame, like clockwork, like always, ticked its way in. But this wasn’t about Bear and Rio. It was about Jamie and Erin.

  “Jamie—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay.” Bear waited, hesitated, then reached out his palm to settle on Jamie’s knee. For once, Jamie didn’t grimace, didn’t recoil. In fact, he seemed to ease just the slightest.

  Maybe, for right now, it
was enough.

  But he’d call Rosa again as soon as he was alone. He’d get the answers he needed. And he’d make one thing very, very clear: No chance on earth or anywhere else was he returning these kids to the life they’d known before.

  It was Sara’s advice that drew Raegan back to the mural site at the end of the day, to the building soon to become her canvas.

  The three-story building loomed large and overwhelming in front of her, its newly burnished brick rough underneath her fingertips. Swollen clouds and the scaffolding’s platform overhead muted any light of dusk.

  “So far, everyone I’ve shown my designs to likes the sunflower concept the best,” Raegan had told Sara this morning as they’d sipped iced mochas at Coffee Coffee. “I feel like something’s missing, though.”

  “Does the design have to be perfect before you can start painting?” Sara had asked.

  “Not necessarily. But considering I’ve got such a tight deadline, I’d be a lot more comfortable diving in if it was.”

  “Well, I’m no art critic, that’s for sure. But I like to think the best art in some way tells the truth. What’s the truth you’re trying to tell with this mural, Rae?” Sara had laced her fingers atop the coffee shop table.

  Raegan hadn’t had an answer.

  Sara had suggested she spend some time alone at the building. After all, she’d noted, it was the building itself—Mom’s memories attached to it—that had inspired Raegan’s project in the first place.

  Raegan stepped out from under the cover of the scaffolding. Should she attempt to climb it now? Heaven knew she’d rather make her first ascent alone rather than under the watchful eyes of everyone in town. It’d be the peak of embarrassment to discover an unforeseen fear of heights with an audience.

  A driving wind rattled the scaffolding and churned the river across the way into currents. As usual, she’d biked here tonight. She should probably head home before those grumbling clouds let loose.

  But it wouldn’t take that long to scale the metal structure. Besides, she needed to get a feel for what working from the platform might feel like.