Forgotten Secrets

by Robin Perini

  “You don’t hold back, do you?”

  “And you love that about me.”

  Her pupils dilated, but she blinked away the awareness. “I’m ready.”

  His brow arched.

  “To go inside.”

  He led her toward the front porch. “Gram probably won’t remember you. Don’t take it personally. And if she asks you the same question over and over, just go along with it. Keep answering. Your responses might go into her long-term memory. Eventually.”

  “Some memories stick?”

  “Yes. And on good days, she’s able to recall more.”

  “If we keep asking, she could remember something anytime?”

  He stilled and faced her, his eyes somber and warning.

  “You know, Thayne, on the phone I could always tell when you were angry the moment you fell silent. You do quiet better than anyone I know. But face-to-face, I see that muscle in your lower jaw pulse.” She touched his cheek, her gaze drawing his. “I get that you need to protect her. I won’t badger her. I promise.”

  He wanted to protect Gram, but he knew she’d give him a tongue throttling if it cost Cheyenne. Talk about a no-win scenario. He threaded his fingers through Riley’s.

  “You love your grandmother a lot,” she said.

  “Gram’s mine,” he said simply. “Hudson and Cheyenne hung around with Pops on the ranch, especially after he retired. Jackson went off on his own into the woods. I connected with Gram.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed. Most boys don’t exactly offer to spend time with their grandmother unless they’re coerced.”

  “Gram isn’t like anybody else. She was quite the adventurer before she married Pops. She learned to fly a plane after she read a book about Amelia Earhart, then left home when she turned eighteen to fly freight. Caused quite a scandal in Singing River back in the fifties.”

  “She sounds like an amazing woman.”

  “She is.” Thayne pasted a smile on his face, dropped Riley’s hand, and they walked through the door.

  His grandmother stood across the room. She grinned broadly at him with recognition in her eyes. “Lincoln!” She sped over to Thayne. “You’re home.”

  “Hi there.” He didn’t say anything about her calling him by his grandfather’s name. He simply kissed her forehead and looked over her head at his father and grandfather.

  “It’s been a tough day,” Pops said.

  Cheyenne paced the perimeter of her four-hundred-square-foot prison, running her fingers along the wooden planks making up the walls. They didn’t reveal one crack not filled with mortar. She passed the bathroom door. The small room didn’t even have a window.

  Bethany lay in a hospital bed at the rear of the room, diagonal from the daybed where Cheyenne had grabbed a few hours of sleep when her body just gave out.

  She glanced at her watch. She’d been here more than twenty-four hours now, but if she hadn’t had the timepiece, she’d never have known.

  Only one way out, but the steel door through which Ian had left last night was solid, bolted from the outside. When he’d delivered supper, she’d seen two shadows behind him and a long hallway. She had no idea where she was, or even if they were in Wyoming. No idea if Thayne and her family were close to finding her. No idea if . . . She had to stop thinking about the man to whom she’d given her heart. He’d thrown it back at her. He probably didn’t care if she was missing or not.

  Her family wouldn’t give up searching, though. Not ever. But they might need help. She had to find a way to contact them.

  A pained groan sounded from her patient. Her escape plans would have to wait. She strode over to Bethany and pushed back the gown. The staples looked good.

  She’d never been so scared in her entire life than when she’d cut into Bethany with a sixteen-year-old kid assisting. She had to admit he’d learned quickly.

  Cheyenne scraped her hands through her hair. Even if Bethany survived the surgery, something else was killing her, and Cheyenne had no idea what. She’d ruled out the visible causes during surgery. In general the abdominal tissue appeared healthy.

  With cautious fingertips, Cheyenne probed the area surrounding the incision. The woman moaned again. Her skin was hot and dry. Cheyenne studied her face and arms. Her cheeks were splotched with red; the rash extended down her shoulders to her forearms.

  An allergic reaction.

  Damn.

  Cheyenne stopped the IV with the roller clamp so the penicillin would no longer flow into the vein and went to the refrigerator in the corner, flipping through the small bags. All penicillin, nothing else.

  This wasn’t good. Abdominal surgery without antibiotics, infection could set in fast. If the actual cause of her pain was a bacterial infection . . . either way, her patient could die.

  She had to get both of them out of here. But how?

  The now-familiar sound of a metal bolt sliding caused her to whirl around.

  “Don’t try it,” Ian said, carrying in a tray of fruit and cheese.

  He balanced the food before closing the door. The bolt slammed shut again from the outside.

  He stared at the bed. “Why are her cheeks so red?”

  “She’s allergic to penicillin, and that’s the only antibiotic you took from my office.” Cheyenne crossed to him and looked him in the eye. He was just under six feet, and so was she. “Without another antibiotic, she’s in danger of an infection. We need to get her to a hospital.” She gripped his arm. “Please, Ian.”

  “No mistakes.” He shook his head slowly. “Father’s going to be very angry.” His cheeks faded to milky pale. “He’ll order punishment.”

  Cheyenne’s neck muscles tightened at the fear on Ian’s face. “It’s not my fault you only have penicillin.”

  “You didn’t fail. Father won’t punish you.” Ian gave Bethany a long look and bowed his head. “I have to tell him.”

  “Ian.”

  “Keep her alive, Doc. We need her.” He scuffed his foot. “Especially the kids.”

  Ian was nothing but a kid himself, but the tone of his voice said more than his words. He loved her.

  “I’ll try to save Bethany, but I need your help.”

  “I know.”

  The kid’s back stiffened, and he pulled in a deep breath before turning. He knocked twice, and the metal door opened then quickly creaked closed.

  Cheyenne followed him and pressed her hand against the cold steel locking her in. “Be careful, Ian,” she whispered. She didn’t know much about this place she’d been taken, but it was obvious fear ruled over everyone.

  “What happened?” a girl’s trembling voice said from the hallway. “Bethany’s not—”

  “Hannah, I have to talk to Father and Adelaide,” Ian said, a tremor in his voice. “Bethany needs more medicine.”

  “Oh no. We went there twice. We were supposed to have everything she needed.” Hannah’s voice choked. “Don’t tell them. You know what happens if we make a mistake.”

  “Do you want Bethany to die?”

  Soft sobs filtered through the door. Cheyenne closed her eyes against the helpless fury. They were terrified. And she could do nothing.

  Somehow, she had to get out of here. Bring her father and the whole sheriff’s department down on this place. But first, she had to survive the night.

  She sat beside Bethany’s bed, checking her vitals. Her temp was just under one hundred. She sipped on the hot tea and nibbled at the fruit and cheese. The warning reverberated in her head. If she dies, you die.

  “Bethany.” Cheyenne clutched her patient’s hand and squeezed. “Bethany, listen to me. You have to fight to live. Don’t give up. I’ll find out what’s wrong with you. I promise.”

  Cheyenne would have to pray Bethany was one resilient woman, because that was the only way they would get out of this alive.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Fifteen Years Ago

  Twelve-year-old Madison stared at the bowl of sugar-coated cereal. “Mom, can’t I have
an English muffin? This stuff will make me fat.”

  Her mother turned and wiped her hands down her apron. She bit back a smile. “You’re growing up.” She placed a glass of orange juice in front of Madison. “OK. But you’ll have to eat it in the car.”

  “Mom, where are my shoes?” Riley raced into the kitchen and skidded across the floor. “Whoa!”

  Madison’s eyes widened. The whole thing happened in slow motion. Riley toppled into Madison’s arm. She lost her grip on the orange juice glass and it tumbled onto her, soaking her clothes.

  Eeew. Wet and sticky.

  “Riley! Look what you did!” Madison shot to her feet. “Mom, look at me!”

  Her mother’s lips pursed. “Riley, how many times have I told you not to run in the house? Why can’t you be more like your sister?” Her gaze softened on Madison. “Go up and change.”

  Riley bowed her head and stuck out her lower lip. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Oh, get that pouty look off your face. You’re acting like a baby,” Madison said with a frown. “I thought when you turned ten, you’d finally grow up a little. But you’re still a kid.” She faced her mother. “I don’t want Riley at my slumber party tomorrow night, Mom. She’ll embarrass me in front of my friends.”

  “Madison, you can’t! It’s my first slumber party. I’ll be good, I promise,” Riley pleaded, her dark brown eyes wide.

  One look and Madison could feel herself giving in. Then something wet dripped down her face. She patted her head. “I’ve got orange juice in my hair,” she shouted. She glared at Riley. “No way. I can’t trust you.”

  She stalked up the stairs, Riley’s sobs dogging her every step. Madison hesitated. She felt bad. Kind of.

  But the thought of her friends meeting Riley . . . That would never work. What if Riley got scared and wanted to sleep in Madison’s sleeping bag or told them some embarrassing story?

  She shuddered. No, this was better.

  Madison hurried into the bathroom and tugged off her soaked shirt. Ugh. She was going to be late for school.

  She turned the knob on the shower. One of Riley’s Barbies was perched on the soap dish. Madison tossed it into the sink, next to a half-deflated birthday balloon Riley refused to get rid of.

  Yep, Riley was still a baby. Madison would have to make sure all her sister’s toys were out of the bathroom when her friends came over tomorrow night.

  Madison stepped under the shower and quickly shampooed her hair. Five minutes later, she was styling her new bob. Maybe Mom would let them dip-dye the ends purple. As she waved the blow-dryer back and forth, a half-heart bracelet dangled from her wrist.

  Riley’s bracelet had the other half heart. It had been her birthday present to Madison last year.

  Madison unhooked the chain and dropped it into the soap dish. Maybe next year, when Riley started middle school, they could be friends again.

  With a final glance in the mirror, Madison scooped up her favorite lip gloss and hurried into her bedroom but slid to a stop before she could run out the door. Her curtains fluttered in the breeze.

  Strange, she was certain she’d closed the window. Her mom didn’t like wasting electricity, especially in the summer. Madison slammed them shut and looked into the side yard, half expecting the strange man to be back.

  No one was there.

  She let out a sigh of relief.

  “Madison, hurry up. You’re late for school,” her mother called.

  Madison sprinted down the stairs and followed her mother to the car. Riley sat in the backseat, pouting as usual. After her mother pulled the vehicle into the street, Madison looked out the window. Standing beneath the tree at the side of their house, a large figure dressed all in black stood, still and watchful.

  “Mom, did you—?”

  “What?” her mother snapped, frowning.

  Madison bit her lip. Mom hated driving them to school before she’d fixed her hair and makeup, but she had to, since they’d missed the bus.

  The morning sun glinted off the windshield. Madison squinted once, then twice. The man had vanished. Maybe she’d imagined him.

  She dug into her backpack for her lip gloss, flipped open the passenger-side mirror so she could glide it on perfectly, and promptly forgot about him.

  Later that night, Madison would learn a hard lesson. Some mistakes can’t be taken back.

  Some rooms exuded that lived-in feel that warmed you from the inside out. The Blackwood homestead’s wooden floors, wall of family photos, and overstuffed furniture did just that. Riley didn’t know if she’d ever been in another home that emanated such heartfelt emotions.

  She couldn’t take her gaze off Thayne holding his small grandmother in the center of the room. Helen Blackwood barely reached her grandson’s chin, and she clung to him as if her life depended on keeping him close. Thayne cradled her with such tenderness, Riley’s throat thickened with emotion.

  How would it feel to be loved so much?

  “Lincoln, I’m so glad you’re home,” Helen said to Thayne, her voice muffled as she buried it against his deputy’s uniform. “I missed you.”

  Riley hurt for the pain on Thayne’s face—for him, for his family—but she was at a loss as to how to comfort or help them. Except to find the missing piece to their family. The only thing she could offer Thayne was her expertise as a profiler.

  Steeling herself against the empathy threatening to overtake her, she forced herself to look away and scan the room, past Thayne and his grandfather to the man she’d searched out a year ago for help with her own sister’s disappearance.

  A painful irony.

  “Sheriff Blackwood.” Riley walked over and stretched out her hand to shake his, careful not to jar her injured arm.

  Gaunt was the only word she could think of to describe him. His illness and his daughter’s disappearance had taken their toll.

  “Thank you for coming, Riley.” His tired but sharp eyes narrowed. “Do you have any leads?”

  “Not yet. We were hoping your mother . . .”

  “Lincoln?” Thayne’s grandmother tugged at his shirt, her voice tentative and uncertain.

  Lincoln Blackwood hurried to his wife’s side. “Helen, honey?”

  She looked at her husband with wild eyes. “Not you, old man.”

  She shoved at him, and his shoulders sagged, but he didn’t press, simply backed away, giving his wife some space.

  The room had gone completely silent. Riley had never been around someone with this disease. She didn’t know what to do, what to say.

  “What’s happening to me?” Helen bowed her face in her hands. She squinted, staring around the room. With a furrowed brow, her breathing quickened, and she clasped her hand to her chest, panic in every jerky movement.

  Thayne pulled her gently into his arms. “Gram. It’s OK, Gram. I’ve got you.”

  “Lincoln. I don’t understand what’s going on. Everything is wrong.” She gripped his shirt with trembling fists. “Please. Help me.”

  Thayne smiled down at his grandmother, his expression heartbreaking. “I know what always makes you feel better. Would you like to dance with me and make the world go away?”

  She stilled and stared into his eyes before giving an uncertain nod.

  Thayne met Riley’s gaze over his grandmother’s head. Do you understand now? his expression telegraphed.

  The message slammed into Riley. The Blackwoods needed her to find a miracle, and she’d been counting on Helen Blackwood’s statement to point the search in the right direction. Since Helen couldn’t help, Riley had to start from scratch. She needed to review every photo she’d taken since she arrived, analyze every piece of evidence that had been gathered, and try to pull out that one sliver of information that several other sets of eyes had missed. The clue that would lead them to Cheyenne.

  She’d have to ask for a vehicle and find a small space to hole up for several hours. No noise, no distractions, only quiet and the crime scene. Perhaps the sheriff had a sp
are—

  “Dad, play our song, would you?” Thayne asked, then gently pulled his grandmother into his arms.

  Riley’s breath caught. This man could kill with his bare hands, and yet, right now he showed more tenderness than she’d ever witnessed.

  Sheriff Blackwood flipped on the power of a stereo system. A smooth alto voice softly crooned words of need and love.

  Thayne waltzed around the room with his grandmother in his arms, his box step slow and graceful. He bent his head low to his grandmother’s ear. Straining, Riley could just make out his baritone voice humming and then singing a few verses.

  Sheriff Blackwood crossed the room to stand beside her. “Music is one of the only things that calm her when she’s confused. Especially tunes that connect to her past.”

  “Thayne looks a lot like his grandfather.”

  “Spitting image. She dotes on Thayne. One day he came home from school terrified of his first big dance at church. Mother spent a week teaching him after school so he wouldn’t stumble over his feet. He was only twelve. ‘Could I Have This Dance’ is as much their song as my parents’.”

  Riley’s gaze fell on Lincoln Blackwood, watching, protective, and so very alone. As if the sheriff had read her mind, he moved to stand with his father, placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

  No one spoke. Riley shifted toward the wall, feeling like an intruder. A numbing pressure grew inside her head, settling behind her eyes, threatening to erupt. She couldn’t stop staring at Thayne dancing with his grandmother, such gentleness on his face, such love in his eyes. Such loyalty and devotion.

  Her eyes burned with unshed tears, with overwhelming emotions she could barely keep contained. Another reason for her to get out of this house and go back to her job. She couldn’t afford the complication of feeling any more than she already did.

  As the song played, Helen Blackwood’s tense body relaxed in Thayne’s arms. Suddenly, she stopped dancing and closed her eyes. She squeezed them shut tight, then they snapped open.

  Riley had never seen anything like the spark of recognition replacing the confused fog in Helen’s eyes.

  “Thayne,” she said, smiling up at him. “You haven’t forgotten how to waltz.”