by Lisa Bingham
“Then my butt hurts like hell,” she grumbled. “But let’s go find our kids.”
Our kids.
Jace liked the way the phrase slipped off her tongue.
*
THEY both shrugged into their jackets and hurried outside. Bronte noticed that it was still raining, but not as hard as it had been before. Jace gestured to the horizon. Beyond the wall of storm clouds, just as he’d predicted, Bronte could see a patch of blue sky.
By the time both of them had mounted their horses and headed back down the slope, the rain had eased and the sky was beginning to lighten, the heavy clouds scudding quickly away beneath a brisk breeze.
Their pace was slow at first, allowing the animals to pick their way over the uneven ground. Bronte concentrated on keeping her seat and searching the trail ahead of them. But soon she noticed that Jace seemed to be checking over his shoulder every few minutes.
“What’s wrong?”
She could see the lines of worry etched on his face.
“That call I got from Elam has me worried.” He grimaced. “More like half a call. The reception was so bad that he kept cutting out. But he managed to let me know that the new sheriff in town …”
He paused, and she felt her stomach tighten.
“He’s bound and determined to find the children himself. When he does, it sounds like he wants to charge Barry with abduction.”
“What?” Bronte stared at him, sure that she’d misheard. “Can he do that?”
“Hell if I know.” The words were bitter. “The man’s been in charge for only a few months—ever since George Hamblin retired. I’ve heard folks around the valley muttering that he’s heavy-handed in his enforcement techniques. Frankly, I think he’s young and trying to prove he’s up to the job.”
“But … kidnapping? How could he even think such a thing? At the most, he could call both of them runaways.”
Jace shrugged. “I don’t know what the hell is going on. I don’t know how much Elam was able to convey to the man about Barry’s disability—or if he was willing to believe anything that he was told. I’m sure that he’s only considering the facts—that a sixteen-year-old boy has taken off with an eight-year-old girl—and he’s jumping to a worst-case scenario. The whole thing can probably be settled as soon as he has a chance to talk to the kids. But we’ve got to get to them first. Can you imagine how frightening it will be for both of them if a policeman appears and slaps cuffs on Barry?”
Bronte’s stomach roiled at the thought.
“If we can push a little faster—” He broke off, bringing his mount to a halt. Snowflake obediently followed suit.
Bronte opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but then she caught a hint of the same sound that must have captured his attention.
“What is that?”
But before Jace could even open his mouth, the familiar thwup, thwup, thwup of a helicopter’s rotors beat against her ears.
“Hell,” Jace muttered. “Hold on, Bronte. We’re only a few miles away and we’ve got to get there fast.”
Bronte nodded, automatically clutching the pommel as Jace spurred the horses into a gallop. She didn’t allow herself to wonder what would happen if she fell—or if, God forbid, the children weren’t at the cabin as they’d hoped. Instead, she huddled low over the saddle, her eyes trained on Jace as he leaned into the wind.
The sight would have been awe-inspiring if it weren’t so terrifying. Jace represented the quintessential cowboy, at one with the horse he rode. His hat was pulled low, his Carhartt jacket adding bulk to his shoulders and arms, his leanly muscled legs gripping the saddle. The entire picture radiated power and confidence—and Bronte clung to that thought, knowing that the next few moments were critical.
Suddenly, they crested a rise, and there, less than a hundred yards away, Bronte could see a large meadow dotted with wild poppies. On the far side, a squat structure made of logs and split timber had been built in the midst of towering pine trees. The building was so weathered, so crude, that it seemed to be rooted to the ground rather than constructed by human hands.
The sight was enough to send a jolt of hope through her system. The sunlight was growing now, and somehow, in the last few minutes, the last of the rain had blown away and the wind was whipping the clouds apart. Overhead, the sky became a robin’s-egg blue.
Like some futuristic bird of prey, a helicopter swooped into view. Looking back and forth from the cabin to the aircraft, Bronte tried to determine who would reach the structure first. She began silently praying, “Oh please, oh please, oh please.” Then, as the helicopter began its decent, Bronte caught sight of movement from under the trees.
“Over there! It’s Barry’s horse, Snuffles!”
Unbelievably, Jace was able to coax more speed out of their mounts. As the helicopter landed in the clearing below, Jace rode pell-mell through the field of scarlet wildflowers. Around them, clouds of butterflies that had been attracted by the moist blossoms swirled and whirled, then settled back down again to bask in the growing light.
Jace brought the horses to a skidding halt next to the front door. He didn’t even bother to tie them up as he jumped from the saddle, then rounded to help Bronte down.
Glancing behind them, she saw two men stepping from the aircraft. “They’re coming,” she gasped as Jace took her hand.
“I know.”
Jace pulled her toward the door, grabbed the old knob and gently pushed his way inside, drawing Bronte with him.
It took a few seconds for Bronte’s eyes to adjust, but when they did, a cry lodged in her throat. On an old bedstead that was only slightly larger than a cot, Lily lay napping, her butterfly quilt pulled tightly under her chin. On the opposite side of the room, Barry slept in a battered rocking chair, his Star Wars blanket draped over his lap. In the fireplace, red coals still glowed from a fire, and the air inside was warm, despite the draft seeping in from the open door. On the table were empty tin cans with labels proclaiming that they’d once held peaches and fruit cocktail. There were also more applesauce pouches and even a half-eaten box of granola bars.
Jace began to chuckle softly—a sound that was part relief, part pent-up fear, and part disbelief.
“They’re fine,” he said, his voice shaky. “They’re—”
They were pushed aside as two men burst in behind them. Before Bronte could react, she and Jace were shoved aside and figures dressed in sheriff’s parkas and uniforms stormed past them.
“Hands in the air!”
In an instant, all hell broke loose. Barry jolted awake, automatically standing, his eyes still bleary with sleep. On the other end of the room, Lily woke, took one look at the two unfamiliar men, and began to scream.
When one of the men pushed Barry toward the wall and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt, Jace was immediately on him, trying to yank the officer away from his brother, while the second lawman pulled his gun and shouted, “Freeze! Now!”
Jace was slammed back against the wall. He immediately lifted his hands to show he wasn’t a threat, but the deputy still kept him in the sights of his pistol. The sheriff, freed from Jace’s grip, stepped toward Barry and began to put the terrified boy in handcuffs.
“No! Leave him alone!”
Tearing across the room, Lily inserted herself between the lawman and Barry. Frightened for her daughter’s safety, Bronte tried to pull her out of harm’s way, but Lily became hysterical, screaming unintelligible words while she kicked at the lawman with her bare feet and clawed at Barry’s hands in an effort to free them from the metal constraints.
Wrenching free from the deputies’ grip, Bronte grabbed Lily and hauled her into her arms. Her daughter was trembling uncontrollably, tears streaking her face. Bronte tried to comfort her, offering cooing sounds, wrapping the girl tightly in her arms to absorb the tremors. But Lily continued to weep, until finally, Bronte began to understand what her daughter was saying.
“Th-they h-have to let him g-go! The m-magic
won’t work without B-Barry!”
TWENTY-THREE
THE magic.
Bronte was flooded with details she’d forgotten in their efforts to find the children.
The missing mason jar.
The cocoon that Lily had watched for weeks.
When Barry had first brought Lily the container, he’d described what was occurring inside the chrysalis. Bronte clearly remembered her daughter’s reaction when Barry told her how the butterfly would emerge, having become something completely different, beautiful. Even more, Barry had spoken of the way he liked to lie in the field of poppies until the butterflies touched him and thereby imparted their magic, making him feel “new.”
Bronte realized why her daughter had been so fascinated by the cocoon, why she’d been willing to run off with Barry. Bronte was willing to bet that her daughter had begged Barry to bring her here, that she’d overruled any objection that he’d made—that she’d probably threatened to try to find the place on her own if he hadn’t brought her here himself.
All because of Lily’s desire to feel “new.”
“Stop it. Stop!” Bronte shouted.
Amazingly enough, the other occupants of the cabin grew quiet and turned to face her.
Bronte carried Lily to Jace, transferring her into his arms. As Lily gripped him tightly around the neck, Bronte turned to the sheriff. “You need to take those cuffs off.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she hurriedly continued, “This has been a misunderstanding. A mistake. These kids might have been reckless in leaving home without permission, but that’s all.”
She stepped closer to the sheriff, lowering her voice so the children couldn’t hear what she was saying. “Please, Sheriff. You know what my daughter has been through. What was … done to her. Please. She needs this. She needs this to heal.”
When the sheriff didn’t respond, she continued. “I’m Lily’s mother and I refuse to press any charges. In fact, I’m sure that Jace here would be more than willing to lodge a complaint for your treatment of a disabled minor.”
When the lawman remained immovable, she tried one more time. “Please. For my girl.”
The sheriff was still clearly suspicious, but he unlocked the handcuffs.
As soon as Barry was free, Lily wriggled out of Jace’s arms and ran to the far side of the room where the familiar jar sat on a chair. Inside, Bronte could see the shattered remains of the cocoon and a beautiful yellow butterfly.
Taking Barry’s hand, Lily whispered, “Show me.”
Barry grabbed his blanket from the ground and gently led Lily outside into the tall grass and wildflowers. In the past few minutes, even more sunlight had begun to spill into the clearing. When he shook out the blanket, hundreds of butterflies fluttered into the air around them, as if the flowers had taken wing.
Barry drew Lily down on the blanket.
“Open the lid. Then we have to let the butterfly come out all by itself. We don’t want to scare it.”
He set the jar in the middle of the wet grass.
“Lie down,” he whispered. “We probably look scary to the butterfly ’cause we’re so big.”
Lily did as she was told and Barry stretched out next to her. Then the two children waited, hardly breathing, as the meadow grew quiet again.
Gradually, many of the butterflies returned—drawn to the vibrant petals and the warm fingers of sunlight that were beginning to stretch down the slope. Bronte was too far away to see what was happening in the jar, but she supposed that the butterfly was testing its freedom because Lily’s face lit up in anticipation. Then, a fluttering wisp of yellow rose from the jar, hovered in the air, then hurried to disappear among the other butterflies.
A soft “oh!” escaped Lily’s lips before Barry took her hand, reminding her that she needed to be quiet.
For several long minutes, she and Barry lay still, so still, until the butterflies began to move from poppy to poppy again. At long last, a single delicate butterfly hovered over Lily’s head, then settled onto her cheek. An expression of such bliss settled onto her daughter’s face that Bronte sobbed, knowing this was what Lily had wanted—needed—to begin to truly heal.
In an instant, all of the anger and fear that had roiled within Bronte’s consciousness since Phillip’s arrival melted away, reminding her that she couldn’t change the past or any of its events. But she could focus on the future, on making her children feel valued and loved.
Safe.
Silently, she reached for Jace’s hand, squeezing it tightly, realizing that, like Lily, she was being offered a new beginning, a new life, a new chance at happiness. But as she turned to look at Jace, she knew all of those victories would be hollow without him.
As if sensing her thoughts, Jace tugged her closer, tucking her beneath his chin.
“I know this probably isn’t the time or the place,” he murmured. “But I love you, Bronte Cupacek. And I love your kids.”
“Same here,” she whispered.
He hugged her even closer. “I know that we’ve only known each other a short while—and we’re going to need to take some time to make this work. But …”
When he paused, she smiled and looked up. “But you want to go steady?”
He chuckled softly. “What’s one step up from going steady?”
She lifted on tiptoes, saying against his lips, “Kissing friends?”
“Yeah. I’d like to be your kissing friend.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and said, “I think you already are.” Then she pressed her lips to his.
The embrace was soft and sweet, filled with promise. But before either of them could deepen the caress, the meadow was suddenly filled with shrieks of laughter as Barry and Lily jumped to their feet and began to run willy-nilly through the poppies.
As she watched their innocent exuberance, Bronte laughed herself—even as her throat grew tight with joy and sorrow, hope and love. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that all of the challenges her little family had endured were completely over. She knew it would take time for Lily to come to terms with the way she’d been wounded so deeply—and Kari’s sudden sweetness could evaporate in a heartbeat.
But she also acknowledged that the Cupacek women had turned a corner. By coming to Bliss they’d found more than a refuge in her grandmother’s home. They’d found good friends, a supportive community, and …
Love.
Grabbing Jace’s hand, Bronte pulled him after her. “Come on!” she called out.
They ran toward the children, wanting to be included in their elaborate, nonsensical game. When Barry caught Bronte’s hand and Lily launched herself into Jace’s arms shouting, “Swing me! Swing me!” Bronte realized she’d also found the missing pieces to a new family.
Time would take care of the rest.
EPILOGUE
VERN’S was absolutely rocking with the sounds of bluegrass, boisterous shouts, and conversation, and that made Bronte smile.
Elam and Prairie Dawn’s marriage had started in elegant reverence, with a beautiful autumn ceremony at Henry’s pond. The willows had been festooned with lengths of pale pink and ivory ribbons that had fluttered in the breeze, blue and pink potted hydrangeas had been scattered around the yard, and an old ribbon-bedecked buckboard rescued from the Taggart barn had become the perfect spot for gathering wedding presents—as well as serving as the couple’s “getaway” vehicle.
Since Bronte had been asked to be maid of honor, she’d had the perfect vantage point to the proceedings. First, Lily, in a sleeveless pink silk dress and ruffled skirt, scattered rose petals down an aisle formed by dozens of antique chairs gathered from the community—carved dining room sets, cane backs, ornate wicker pieces, and stately gentlemen’s seats. There were even a couple of wingbacks and settees for people like Annie who needed a softer perch. Bronte wouldn’t have thought the idea would work, but as Barry went next, carefully holding a pillow with the rings attached, she’d realized that the variety had given
the grove the look of an outdoor sitting room—warm and cozy and intimate.
Next, it had been Bronte’s turn. She’d been intensely aware of the way that Jace, who served as one of Elam’s best men, stepped forward so that he could watch her more clearly. Even now, Bronte grew hot inside at the memory of his gaze—one that was tender and passionate at the same time, his attention so keen that she’d nearly blushed.
After that, the bride had appeared in the doorway of the cabin. Helen had done herself proud by designing a gown that was the perfect combination of pioneer bride and modern romantic. The dress clung to her figure in all the right places. With an ivory satin corset and Nottingham lace chemise, it gave the appearance of being a piece of exotic Victorian lingerie before flaring out at the skirt with a flourish of silk and lace.
There was no denying the absolute joy that radiated from Elam and P.D. as they exchanged their vows. But even their first passionate kiss as man and wife hadn’t affected Bronte as much as Jace’s regard. The mixture of desire and anticipation in his silver-gray eyes had caused her heart to stutter-step in her chest.
Once their ceremony had finished, Elam and P.D. had made their way to Vern’s—with a line of cars and trucks forming a procession behind them. The restaurant had been closed for the day and the tables had been transformed with rich linens and a variety of antique bottles and containers that held more bunches of hydrangeas. By the time the guests began to appear, the band was set up and ready to go.
Now, it was clearly time to party.
As Bronte stepped into the kitchen, she was greeted with a host of amazing smells—smoked meats, baking bread, and the heavenly aroma of sugar cookies.
“Here’s the tray you needed.”
Bronte smiled at Marci, one of the new managers at Vern’s, as she accepted the heavy platter. “Thanks.”
Returning to the dining room, she wound her way through the dancers and well-wishers to the buffet table. The guests could choose from a variety of P.D.’s most popular recipes: bison burger sliders with prickly pear compote; platters of smoked turkey, ham, and salmon; miniature barbecue brisket sandwiches. There were baked beans, roasted baby potatoes, and steamed asparagus stalks in a lemon glaze. In huge baskets, Bronte had arranged mini loaves of her banana blueberry and beer breads, as well as her new specialties, citrus cranberry and blackberry cardamom muffins.
