Home Again

by Shirlee McCoy

  “No problem, boss,” Clementine said, offering a smile to take any sting out of the words.

  But, of course, he was being bossy, making demands and expecting everyone to fall into line the way they did when he was working. Time mattered then, and it mattered now. Minutes could be the difference between life and death.

  Still, this was Clementine. Not one of his associates.

  “Sorry,” he said as she finished texting Rumer. “I’m used to issuing orders at breakneck speed.”

  “No need to apologize,” she replied. “The sooner we find Sunday, the happier we’ll all be.”

  “I think she’s somewhere on the farm. I hope she is,” he replied, taking her hand and hurrying her from the room. “Because the kids need their mother.”

  “I think we all need Sunday. She’s the common thread that’s drawn us together. She’s what we’ve all been working toward. Her health and happiness. Her reunion with the kids. She’s been the goal all along, really. The reason we’re all working so hard. We need her to be okay, because that will be the happy ending we all desperately want.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have a way with words?” he asked as he opened the stairwell door.

  “A few people have, but it means more coming from you,” she replied.

  He could have said a lot to that.

  He could have read a lot into it.

  But they were racing down the stairs, and the opportunity was lost. Or maybe it hadn’t really been there at all.

  Sunday was their focus. Their goal.

  Everything else would have to wait until after they found her.

  “I think I need to work out more,” Clementine panted as they finally reached the first-floor landing. “I can’t keep up with you.”

  “I’ve got longer legs,” he replied, taking her arm as they exited the stairwell and moved through the throng of people who still crowded the lobby.

  “And more cardiovascular fitness. Also, apparently more proficiency at getting people to move out of your way. You approach, and the crowd parts,” she said.

  “It parts because I plow through. I don’t waste time with niceties when someone could be in danger.”

  “Do you really think Sunday will be at the farm?” she asked.

  “Like I said, I hope she is.”

  “And if she’s not?”

  “She won’t be far from her children. Sunday is motivated by them. She always has been. Wherever they are, she will be.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said as they reached her Pontiac. Harley was already there, leaning against the trunk, typing something into her phone. Clementine unlocked the doors, and Harley slid into the passenger seat, closing the door quickly and going back to whatever she’d been doing.

  “How so?” he asked, because he’d known Sunday for a long time, and when he looked at her, what he saw was a mother. First. Most. Always.

  “She’s not motivated by the kids. She’s motivated by love. For them or for Matt or for others.”

  “How is that different than what I said?” he asked as she slid into the car and started the engine.

  “She’s not just a mom, Porter. She’s a wife. A lover. A friend.”

  “I’m not discounting that.”

  “Sure you are. You’re looking at one surface of a multifaceted stone and believing that you see the whole thing.”

  “Will seeing all of it help us find her?”

  “I don’t know. But it sure as hell is fairer to her. I’ll meet you back at the house. Maybe by the time we get there, she will be, too.”

  She took off, Harley in the seat beside her, boxes of stuff piled up behind them. Her life, fitting in a medium-sized car. If he only looked at that, he might think he knew her, but she was like she’d described Sunday—cut and polished and shimmering from every angle.

  And, if Clementine were lost, he’d know where to find her. Under a pristine twilight sky sprinkled with stars. Beside a spinning wheel, soft fibers in her hands. Pounding nails in wood and setting posts in the ground and telling stories of magical things.

  Of course, if Clementine were ever lost, she’d find herself, and then she’d build a bonfire to help guide all the people she loved back home.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday wasn’t at the house.

  She wasn’t in the barn or the rancher or the boathouse.

  A dozen men and women dressed in their finest clothes helped with the search, all of them willingly leaving their hundred-dollar meals to put on waders and wander through the property. K-9 teams had been called in. Police. Even divers from the local fire department. Searching the fields and the outbuildings and the water.

  They’d come up empty.

  Their faces reflected their disappointment and concern as they sat in the farmhouse living room, sipping coffee and discussing a new plan.

  “Why is everyone here?” Moisey asked, walking into the room wearing a floor-length princess gown and a tiara. Bedtime had been hours ago. She must have slipped past the watchful eye of Rosie, who’d stationed herself on a chair at the top of the stairs, terrified that one of the children would go looking for Sunday and be lost, too.

  “You’re supposed to be in bed, sport,” Porter said, pulling her onto his lap.

  God, he looked good.

  Black tux. White shirt. Bow tie. Everything about him hard and masculine and tough. Except his eyes when he looked at his niece. They were soft with love, his fingers gentle as he tucked ringlets of curls behind her ears.

  He must have felt Clementine’s gaze, because he turned his head, met her eyes.

  Her heart leaped in response, and she wanted to reach for him, pull him into her arms and tell him everything was going to be okay. Only she didn’t know if it would. She didn’t know how this tale would end. Happy or sad, tragic or triumphant. She only knew how she wanted it to go. Sunday. Home with her family.

  “Uncle Porter,” Moisey said, putting her hands on either side of his face and forcing him to look at her. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Because you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

  “I can’t sleep, because Rosie is snoring, and I have something important on my mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s been a thief in the house.”

  “Moisey,” he said tiredly. “How about we don’t play one of your games tonight.”

  “It’s not a game, Uncle Porter. A thief was here. He took Mom’s ring.”

  Porter tensed.

  Everyone in the room seemed to do the same—a collective stiffening of spines and tightening of muscles.

  “What ring?”

  “Her wedding ring. Remember, they had to cut it off her finger after the accident? Remember that?” she asked earnestly, her hands still on his face. Dark skin against tan. Smooth palms against rough jaw. Every bit of them so clearly connected, so clearly family, it took Clementine’s breath away.

  “I remember,” he said.

  “And you put it in the little dish on her dresser so we could fix it when she got better?”

  “Right. But no one would take the ring, Moisey. It’s broken, and it’s not worth much.”

  “It’s worth a whole lot of love and it’s filled with a whole bunch of dreams. If you put it under your pillow at night, you’ll see the person you’re going to love forever,” she said, nearly whispering.

  “Is there a reason why you know this?” he asked.

  “Mommy told me. She said that’s why people wear wedding rings, because when they’re sleeping at night, and their heads are on their hands . . .” She demonstrated, like the true little storyteller she was, her curls bouncing as she tilted her head to the side and rested it on her cupped hands. “They see the person they will love forever, and they remember all the reasons why that love will last and last. So, every night, that’s what I do. Only I put the ring under my pillow. Not on my hand. Because it’s broken.”

  “And who do you see, sport?” he ask
ed, his voice so gentle, his expression so soft, Clementine’s heart ached.

  “Mommy and Daddy. The uncles. Rumer and Clementine. But tonight the ring is gone, and I can’t see anything but the tears in my eyes.”

  “Ahhh, poor little thing,” one of the searchers said, standing up and walking across the room, her floor-length taffeta gown rustling as she moved. “We’ll find the ring, honey. I’m sure it’s just dropped on the floor or rolled behind the dresser. We’ll find your mother, too. When she called the church today—”

  “She called the church tonight,” Porter corrected, setting Moisey on her feet and standing up. “The sheriff said she left a message asking for a return phone call.”

  “She called today, too. I should know. I’ve been working in that office for fifteen years. Just me, mind you. To do it all. File things. Make the church bulletin. Order flowers. Answer the phone.”

  “And you talked to Sunday today?” Sullivan prodded, standing just like his brother had. A little shorter and a lot less muscular, he still managed to move with the same easy grace as Porter.

  “I did. Poor dear. She couldn’t remember the name of the church or our number. She barely recognized my name. She said she’d called three places trying to find the pastor who buried poor Matt. I was happy to tell her that Pastor Mike had, and I told her what a fine job he’d done. It was sad, really. She didn’t even know where he’d been buried. I had to tell her that you’d chosen a plot in her family cemetery. Right near her folks, and I had to explain where that was. She made me repeat it three or four times and give her directions for how to get there.”

  Clementine’s pulse leaped, and she jumped to her feet. “Maybe she’s there.”

  “Oh, now, why would she go there at this time of night?” the woman asked. “It’s hard enough to find in the day. A person could get lost trying to get there when it’s dark.”

  “She’d go there because Daddy is there,” Moisey said matter-of-factly. “And she hasn’t talked to him in a long time. Maybe she wanted to talk. Do you think she did, Uncle Porter? Do you think she’s lying on his grave talking and crying like they do in the movies?”

  “I think her being there is the best idea we’ve had tonight, kiddo,” he responded, grabbing Clementine’s hand and dragging her to the door.

  Moisey was running along behind, her princess skirt swishing against the floor, her tiara just a little askew.

  “Stay here, Moisey,” he said as he opened the door and let cold night air sweep in.

  “But I want to come and see if Mommy is there weeping all over Daddy’s grave.”

  “Hush,” the church secretary said. “That’s enough of that kind of talk. Let’s go upstairs and get you tucked into bed.”

  That might have been what happened.

  Moisey might have allowed herself to be led upstairs and tucked into bed.

  Clementine had no idea; she was running full-out, Porter clutching her hand, his palm rasping against hers.

  “We’ll have to take the truck,” he said, yanking open the SUV’s door.

  “Should we all go?” Sullivan asked, running behind them, Rumer at his side. “Or do you think that will upset her? If she’s there, I mean.”

  “I think less is more in this case,” Porter replied, and Clementine silently agreed. “She was really embarrassed earlier today because she’d forgotten that Matt was dead. She’s going to be more embarrassed if she went to his grave and couldn’t find her way back. The fewer people who are witness to that, the better.”

  “Agreed. What should we do with the search crew? Have them stick around just in case? Or send them on their way?” Sullivan asked, sliding his arm around his wife’s waist. They were a matched pair. Easy smiles and bright faces and eyes filled with love for one another. Both looked pensive now, though. Concerned.

  Hopeful.

  Which was exactly how Clementine felt.

  Hopeful and worried and terrified that they were all wrong and that Sunday wasn’t at Matt’s grave.

  Porter glanced at his watch. “I think the best thing to do is send them back to the auction. It’s probably going to be another couple of hours before it’s over, and they should try to enjoy what’s left of the night. If we don’t find Sunday . . .” He shook his head. “If she’s not at Matt’s grave, we’ll have to come up with a new plan and some new ideas. Every other place on the farm has been checked.”

  “I’ll tell them that we’ll keep them updated and let them know once she’s been found,” Sullivan said. “I’ll give Flynn a call, too. He’s trying to get a flight back. This is the second time in a few days that he’s flown in for an emergency. It’s a shame he can’t pack up his life as easily as we’ve packed ours.”

  Porter nodded, but he didn’t seem to hear. He’d opened Clementine’s door and was urging her into the truck.

  She snapped her seat belt as he rounded the vehicle, braced her hand against the dashboard as he turned off the driveway, drove through a grassy field and up a shrub-dotted hill.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, her teeth knocking together as they rolled over a sapling tree.

  “To the river. There’s an old bridge about a quarter mile up. It’s not easy to find, but it’s a hell of a lot quicker than going the long way to Sunday’s family plot.”

  “I didn’t know she had one.”

  “It’s on the other side of the river. She owns a thousand acres there. Her family used to have a small dairy farm, and that’s where they grazed the cattle.”

  “She never mentioned that.”

  He shrugged. “The land has been wild for at least fifty years. She might have thought it would take more money than she had to cultivate it again.”

  “She wouldn’t have to cultivate it,” she said, leaning forward as the Spokane River came into view. Sluggish water flowing across huge boulders, marsh grass poking up from muddy soil. “All we’d need to do was plow and toss grass seed. Maybe irrigate.”

  “Sounds like cultivating to me. It also sounds like money.”

  “But imagine how it would be, sitting on the farmhouse porch, looking across the river and seeing cattle grazing in lush green fields.”

  “I can imagine a lot of things through your eyes, Clementine. But right now, all I want to see is Sunday, sitting near Matt’s grave.” He parked the SUV and got out.

  Which seemed odd, because, as far as she could see, there was no bridge.

  She climbed out anyway, walking to the front of the vehicle and standing beside him, looking at the flowing river and the blue-black night. “Are we supposed to be seeing a bridge?”

  “It’s here. We just have to walk around that curve in the bank.” He gestured. “There’s a narrow section that was easy to build over. They used to run the cattle from one side of the farm to the other over it.”

  He led the way, and she finally saw it.

  “Holy crap,” she breathed, eyeing the footbridge that stretched three feet above the flowing water. It had been sturdy once. She could see that. Now, it looked precarious. Several boards missing, water splashing through the openings. “I hope to God none of the kids know about this.”

  “They don’t, but it would probably be a good idea to have it fixed before they discover it. Come on.” He walked toward it with confidence.

  She wasn’t so sure.

  “Maybe we should take the long way,” she said, hesitating near the first crossbar.

  Porter had already stepped onto the bridge, and he glanced back, his expression hidden in shadows. “It’s a thirty-minute drive, and if Sunday is at the cemetery, I don’t want to leave her there any longer.”

  “Maybe she’s not there.”

  “She is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It feels right.”

  That surprised a laugh out of her.

  “What?” he said, holding out his hand, daring her to step onto the bridge with him.

  “You seem like a logical, practical, and organized person. Very
left-brain. It’s surprising to hear you say that you know something based on the way it feels.”

  “Maybe you and Moisey are rubbing off on me. Now, come on. I might be working a hunch, but I would never take chances with your life. I’ve crossed this thing a dozen times since my brother’s funeral, and if it can hold my weight, it can hold yours.”

  She took his hand, stepped onto the first crossbar. It was as firm as he’d said.

  “Okay. We’re going to do this,” she muttered.

  “Giving yourself a pep talk?”

  “Positive mojo. I’m speaking the truth I want to see.”

  He chuckled, walking in front of her as naturally as if he were walking on a flat stretch of well-padded earth.

  She moved more slowly, picking her way from one sturdy board to another, her heartbeat matching the thump-thump-thump of the water lapping at the wood.

  She didn’t realize she’d reached the end until he grabbed her waist, lifting her up and setting her feet on solid ground. She’d have knelt and kissed Mother Earth if she weren’t afraid of her shaky legs giving way.

  He cupped her jaw, his fingers brushing her ear, his thumb resting at the corner of her mouth.

  “See? Piece of cake,” he said, dropping a quick kiss on her lips.

  And, if they hadn’t been on a mission, if they hadn’t been searching for Sunday, she’d have thrown herself into his arms and demanded a whole hell of a lot more.

  She cleared her throat, stepping away. “Where’s the cemetery?”

  “This way. On a hill where the family chapel used to be.”

  “They had a chapel?”

  “They settled here before the town existed. There were no churches. Back then, it was the natural order of business to thank God, so they built a place to do it.”

  “I don’t get it,” she murmured, following him along the bank of the river and then up a narrow path through thick grass. “Sunday shared a lot of the history of the farm with me, but she never said a word about any of this.”

  “Maybe it meant too much to her. To know that her family had cleared this land and made it prosper might have been a challenging thing.”