Jack took the cards and letters. "Do you think they'll come to you?"
"How? They don't know where I live, they have no transportation—"
"They have your address."
"But they're kids."
Jack and Sam exchanged glances. Kids were capable of a lot. Sam said, "Do they know how to get in touch with you?"
She nodded, not looking at him. "I gave them all my phone numbers when I dropped them off at the ranch."
Ellen returned with the water, her dark eyes huge as she handed the glass to her aunt. "You don't think someone snatched them, do you, Sam? The Stock-wells are rich, and Henry and Lillian have been in the news because their mother's a woman governor and so young—"
Kara gasped, though, Sam knew, it had to be something she'd considered on her drive south to San Antonio. "Ellen, no one…I'm sure they haven't been kidnapped."
Jack slung an arm over Ellen's shoulders. She was strongly built, a rugby player with a big heart. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," her father said, the professional in him taking over. "Kids sneak off from camp from time to time. They didn't like lunch, they're homesick, they're mad at some other kid. Henry and Lillian are probably emotionally volatile right now. It's still not too late for them to turn up on their own tonight."
Kara sipped her water and let her gaze drift to Sam, and she asked tensely, "Did Zoe West call you?"
Her brother's eyes flashed with suspicion, and Sam knew the question was Kara's way of giving him permission to do what he planned to do, anyway. He saw Susanna wince, confirming what he already sus-pected—that she knew that something had happened between Kara and Sam at the Gordon Temple opening.
"Who's Zoe West?" Jack asked his sister. "Why would you know anyone who'd call Sam?"
Sam decided to get straight to the point. "Zoe West is a detective in Bluefield, Connecticut. She's doing a little solo investigating of Governor Parisi's death. She called me this afternoon."
Jack's arm dropped from Ellen's shoulder, and he straightened, drawing himself up to his full height. Behind him, Susanna sat on an armchair and exhaled, as if she'd been waiting for this particular shoe to drop. Maggie stayed at her aunt's side, Ellen next to her father. Jack kept his eyes on Sam.
"She was checking my story," Kara said.
Jack turned to her, his eyes steel. "What story?"
"Allyson Stockwell called me at the Gordon Temple opening and told me about Big Mike's death. I didn't say anything to Sam about it, but he sensed something was wrong. We went out for coffee." She untwisted her hands, some of the renewed color going out of her cheeks. "This heat. I don't know if I'll ever get used to it again."
Her brother didn't let up. "Kara, why would Zoe West want to know where you were when you heard about Parisi?"
"She's not convinced his death was an accident. If it was murder—well, whoever did it presumably would need to know he couldn't swim."
Jack hissed through clenched teeth, understanding the implication of what his sister was saying, just as Sam had when he'd heard it from the Bluefield detective. "Jesus Christ. You knew?"
Kara nodded. "He told me several years ago. It was his one secret."
"Detective West doesn't like the injured-bluebird theory," Sam said.
Susanna rose, gesturing to her daughters. "Let's try that new gadget that makes frothy milk. I think it's café au lait all around."
Mother and daughters retreated to the kitchen. Sam remained on his feet. Jack tossed the stack of cards and letters on the coffee table and swore once, viciously. Kara suddenly looked flushed and self-conscious, and Sam wondered if she was thinking, picturing, remembering everything about their hours together two weeks ago. He was, but he pushed the images out of his mind, not letting them distract him now that two children were missing.
He glanced at the top postcard, which was lying facedown, noted the graceful handwriting. Eleven-year-old Lillian Stockwell. Dear Aunt Kara, I saw a snake today. I hate snakes!
Anything could have happened to Allyson Lourdes Stockwell's children. Anything. Sam knew it, and he knew Jack did, too. And Kara. They were all in professions that taught them that ugly reality, but they didn't need knowledge or experience to tell them the obvious, only common sense. Two middle-schoolers were out there somewhere, thousands of miles from home. It didn't matter if they'd left the ranch on their own. They needed to be found.
"All right," Jack said heavily. "Tell me what's wrong with this damn bluebird theory."
Three
Kara couldn't get out of her brother's house fast enough. She ignored the heat and her spinning head, her queasy stomach, and ran down the walk to her car parked on the street. She'd just been interrogated by two Texas Rangers, one her older brother, one a man she'd slept with in a moment of sheer insanity. The more they talked and got into Ranger mode, the less comfortable they were with the events in Connecticut. A near-fatal July Fourth bonfire, an accidental drowning and now two missing middle-schoolers, all involving the political elite of a wealthy New England state—none of it sat well with either Lieutenant Jack Galway or Sergeant Sam Temple. Their instructions to Kara were simple: stay out of it.
Jack found the injured-bluebird theory unpersuasive. Was the pool deck wet from rain, someone swimming, watering the flowers? What was Big Mike's blood-alcohol level? Who else was at his rented house that day? Who owned the house? Kara had to explain Big Mike's passion for the Eastern bluebird, a native species that had lost ground to the more aggressive starling and English sparrow non-native species that were also cavity nesters and competed with bluebirds in an increasingly scarce habitat. Mike had been a big promoter of bluebird trails, uninterrupted networks of bluebird houses suitable for nesting, thus encouraging a resurgence in the bluebird population.
Her brother had listened to her, dumbfounded. "A bluebird with a broken leg ends up in the pool of a man who happens to have a thing for bluebirds and can't swim? I don't buy it," he'd said. "Not for one damn second."
It was obvious his fellow Texas Ranger didn't, either. Kara had tried to insert her own professional opinion into the conversation. "The police need proof of a crime."
Jack was unmoved. "It's not going to drop out of the sky into their laps. It's their job to investigate."
"They are—"
He'd turned his dark gaze onto her, but she'd never been intimidated by her brother. "Then why did a local detective check your story instead of one of the state detectives on the case?"
"Zoe West is new to Bluefield, but I understand she's like that. Very independent. I'd bet the state cops would slap her down hard if they knew she was meddling in their investigation. It doesn't mean a thing that they haven't called me themselves—I'm the last person anyone would suspect of killing Big Mike."
She'd hated even saying it. Killing Big Mike.
"Who else knew he couldn't swim?" her brother asked.
"I don't know."
Jack didn't like that, either. There wasn't anything about the events in Connecticut that he or Sam liked. "No one wants the unsolved murder of a governor on their hands. I understand that. If it's an accident, it's over. Everyone can move on. What toes do the investigators have to step on even to look into this as a possible homicide?"
Kara saw his point, but disagreed with it and didn't mind saying so. "If you and Sam were in their place, would you worry about what toes you stepped on? Not a chance. You wouldn't give up until you were satisfied that you knew exactly how Big Mike died. Give Connecticut law enforcement some credit. I think they're inclined to regard what happened as an accident because that's what the evidence suggests—"
"Then they know something we don't know or they're idiots."
Sam concurred. "Jack's right. This thing stinks."
Kara knew it did, too, but she couldn't resist arguing with them. Maybe it was the attorney in her— maybe it just gave her something to do instead of worrying about Henry and Lillian. More likely, it kept her from looking at Sam the wrong way and alerting her broth
er to what they'd done after they'd had coffee two weeks ago.
"Lord," she muttered as she reached her car, "no wonder I have a bad stomach."
She'd forgotten about the two home pregnancy test kits still in her tote bag when she'd dug out the kids' cards and letters. She could just imagine the scene if either man had spotted them.
"Kara—wait up." Susanna trotted down the walk to Kara's car, coming around to the driver's side. "Are you all right? That was a little rough in there. I'd like to strangle those two. You'd think you were a murder suspect."
"I'm fine, Susanna. Thanks. I put up with that kind of attitude all the time in my work. I didn't tell anyone Big Mike couldn't swim. I didn't push him into his pool. End of story. I just want to find Henry and Lillian."
"I know. But do you think Governor Parisi was murdered?"
"I'm trying hard not to get too far ahead of the facts. Anyway, I have no say—it's up to the investigators."
Her sister-in-law crossed her arms on her chest, the milky, humid darkness deepening the green in her eyes. "You hid it well tonight, Kara, but I know something happened between you and Sam at the Gordon Temple opening. Come on. I know. I admit he's one of my favorites, but he's not—well, you're not stupid. You know what Sam's like."
Sexy, straightforward, independent, dedicated to his work as a Texas Ranger. Ambitious. People liked him— Jack often said Sam could be governor if he ever wanted to quit the Rangers and go into politics. But who knew what Sam Temple wanted? Kara remembered him smiling at her over coffee, so unexpectedly easy to talk to. Her heart had jumped, and something more than superficial desire seemed to suffuse her mind and body, awaken her to a longing so deep and complicated she didn't know how to describe it.
Since that night, she'd tried to dismiss what she'd felt—what she'd done—simply as a by-product of the shock of learning about Big Mike's death. But it was more than that, only it didn't matter now. Whatever Sam Temple had been to her, those sixteen hours were over. She didn't have to understand what had happened between them because it would never be repeated. Their lovemaking was like some kind of out-of-time experience that would stay with her forever—she didn't hold it against him.
But her brother would.
"Sam's the classic dangerous man," Susanna went on.
"Yes, I know." Kara managed a smile. "I promised myself when I moved back here that I'd stay away from Texas Rangers. Having one for a brother is bad enough. They're all know-it-all rock heads."
Susanna laughed. "Well, if it's a question of rock heads, you fit right in, Kara. Honestly. Sam? What were you thinking?" She held up a hand, stopping Kara from answering. "Never mind. You weren't thinking."
"What happened was just as much my responsibility as Sam's."
"Jack won't see it that way."
An understatement. "He doesn't suspect—"
"No. He hasn't thrown Sam out a window." Susanna dropped her arms, shaking her head with affection. "You were away a long time, Kara. A part of Jack still sees you as his naive little sister, not an experienced, thirty-four-year-old professional."
Not so experienced when it came to sex, Kara thought, stifling a surge of awkwardness. At least Sam didn't know how inexperienced. "Jack can mind his own damn business. I haven't seen or heard from Sam since we—since the opening." She paused, the heat settling over her, making her feel claustrophobic, unable to breathe. "It's over."
Susanna eyed her sister-in-law knowingly, skeptically. "Nothing's over. I saw you two tonight, Kara. Don't kid yourself." She pulled open Kara's car door, touched her shoulder gently. "Go on. See about those kids. I hope they're back in their beds at the ranch by now. Jack's getting ready to saddle up and go over there—"
"He doesn't have to."
"I wouldn't try to tell him what he has to and doesn't have to do right now. He's on a tear."
"What about Sam?"
"Ditto, I would think."
Kara nodded, holding back sudden tears. Nausea burned up into her throat, cloying, bringing a tremble to her knees. Maybe it wasn't nausea—maybe it was fear. But she rallied, easing behind the wheel of her car. "They're scrappers, those two." She hesitated. "Su-sanna—I don't have to ask you to keep this conversation between us, do I?"
"Absolutely not. Jack's mad enough as it is about the kids and this bluebird theory."
It was a ninety-mile drive back to Austin, an hour and a half for Kara to obsess on where Henry and Lillian could be, the dangers they could encounter, whatever the hell had possessed them to run off. The clear, deep water of the ranch's lake, the possibilities of rabid animals, hundreds of acres of trails and hills, reckless drivers, pedophiles—the list of dangers was endless. It didn't matter that they were smart, clever or rich, that they'd run off deliberately. They were kids.
And Sam and Jack were on the case. Her fault.
God, what was she to do about Sam Temple?
"Nothing," she told herself as she pulled into her short driveway. There was nothing for her to do because he was running as fast from their weekend together as she was.
She locked her car door and headed up the short walk to the front porch of the little Craftsman-style bungalow she'd bought in Hyde Park not long after she'd moved to Austin last September. It was just a few blocks from the historic house Susanna's parents were renovating, another few blocks from their art gallery. Kara liked the tree-lined streets and diversity of the neighborhood, so different from the 1830s house she'd rented in a Hartford suburb on the west side of the Connecticut River. She'd never bought property in Connecticut. That should have been a sign to her, but it wasn't—it took Big Mike to get her finally to admit it was time to go back home.
She'd met him in law school, on a weekend visit with Allyson and Lawrence to the Stockwell Farm. Her friends were deeply in love, the twenty-year age difference never seeming to matter to either of them.
Big Mike was already a force in Connecticut politics, wealthy, blueblood Lawrence Stockwell an unlikely friend and ally. Lawrence had guessed Kara and Mike Parisi would hit it off, and they had. When Big Mike said something factually incorrect about the law, Kara corrected him, arguing her point with all the hubris of a first-year law student—Mike insisted it was because she was a stubborn Texan, too. They became instant friends. He was her mentor on so many things, but not politics—she wasn't interested. She wouldn't even tell him whether she'd voted for him.
When June, Big Mike's wife, was charged with driving while intoxicated, he asked Kara to take the case, and agreed when she insisted she do it her way and he stay out of it. June admitted to her alcoholism and entered treatment. Mike stepped back and let his wife, whom he loved so much, take responsibility for her recovery. The incident could have undermined his friendship with Kara, but instead it deepened it.
June died six years ago, and not until he came out and told her did it occur to Kara that Big Mike was half in love with her.
He'd tried to make light of his admission. "Christ, don't tell me you're going to fall for Hatch, after all."
"Hatch? He doesn't have a thing for me."
"Ha."
Mike Parisi and Hatch Corrigan. Instead, she'd ended up in bed with Sam Temple.
This, she thought, was why she had her problems with men.
Mike had always known she'd go back to Texas. "No bluebonnets in Connecticut," he'd say, then pull up every stupid stereotype he could think of about Texas and Texans, just to goad her—just to make her realize she was chronically homesick.
Maybe he'd known telling her he was in love with her would seal the deal, his way of making sure she didn't get cold feet. "You have demons to lay to rest, Kara," he'd told her, his worn, lived-in face without any hint of humor, "and you can't do it here. You need to go home."
In her months back in Texas, she'd only managed to stir up new demons. She hadn't laid any of the old ones to rest.
The night air was still hot, without even a hint of a breeze. Her little house had a decent front yard that needed reseeding
and a front porch that needed scraping and painting—well, the place was a fixer-upper. She didn't know why she'd bought it. Why not a brand-new condo? She didn't have time to cook, never mind scrape paint and strip hardwood floors. The previous owners had kept the place clean and tidy, maintaining the original woodwork and floor plan, giving the house, as her Realtor had put it, potential.
She heard someone laughing down the street, music from a nearby house. She unlocked her front door, feeling less panicked. If she didn't hear anything more tonight, she'd call Allyson in the morning and drive out to the ranch herself. She knew she wouldn't sleep.
When she pushed open her door, the cool air from inside washed over her, but she stopped abruptly, hearing something. And when she glanced in her living room, there on the floor, eating microwave popcorn and watching television, were Henry and Lillian Stockwell.
* * *
The missing children of the governor of Connecticut looked up at Kara from their bags of popcorn. They were blond, blue-eyed and well mannered for eleven and twelve. Even sweaty and tired, they were obviously well off. They had on neat khaki shorts and polo shirts, and Lillian had tied a western-style red bandanna on the end of her single long braid, wisps of white-blond hair sticking out of it. Henry had dirt smudges on his chin.
He spoke first, his tone everyday casual. "Hi, Aunt Kara. We found your spare key under a flowerpot."
"I found it," Lillian said. "Henry was looking under the doormat."
"Does your mother know where you are?" Kara walked into the living room from the small entry and raked a hand through her hair, debating how to handle the situation. "How did you get here? What did you do, hide in a hay wagon? Steal a horse? Come on, you two. Fess up."
"We took the ranch shuttle to the Austin airport," Henry replied calmly. "It makes the trip twice a day, once in the morning, once in the afternoon."
"The shuttle? How? Didn't anyone ask questions?"
He shrugged. "We were prepared."
Stonebrook Cottage Page 4
