She hiccupped a breath, drawing in another for strength as she opened her eyes. “Sunny found me. I don’t know how he got out of the corral, but as I stood there, ready to jump, he appeared, rubbed his nose into my back as if to say, ‘Take me with you.’” She stroked his mane.
“Stefanie—”
“Go away, Dutch. Just . . . go.” Stefanie ran her hands over Sunny’s side. Such a strong animal. How could he be gone so quickly?
Slowly, she climbed over him, lying alongside his back, her head on his neck. Tangling her hands into his mane, she closed her eyes, breathing in his smell, remembering the hours, probably collective years she’d seated herself across his back, trusting him. Talking to him as his ears cocked back, listening.
“I wish I could go with you,” she whispered. She turned her head into his neck, letting the sobs rack her body.
The invincible Lincoln Cash—as his press agent called him—had survived jumping out of airplanes, rolling from fiery car crashes, leaping from stampeding horses, and falling from sky-soaring buildings. He’d even weathered bad lines and an occasional tabloid scandal. So it seemed particularly ironic to him that he could be taken out by a button.
Just a simple, pearly tuxedo button, no bigger than his fingernail, one down from his collar, sewn into his designer shirt. He should have ripped it off, made it a part of the scene, but instead he’d fumbled with it as his director, Dex Graves, and beautiful Elise Fontaine looked on with a host of other grips, makeup artists, camera people, and extras.
Watching his career crash into smithereens.
He broke out in a sweat as he tried to open his shirt, and even before Dex called, “Cut,” Lincoln knew the charade was over. As silence descended on the closed set, thirty people staring at him, he released the infuriating button and watched his hand shake.
For once, Elise had nothing to say. She sat, her dress up past her knees, her blonde hair tumbled down to her shoulders, and looked at his hand in horror.
The horror that thickened with each thump of his heart.
Lincoln blew out a breath and ran his hand through his hair, then went to shove the offending extremity into his tuxedo pants pocket—only he didn’t have a pocket in this costume. So instead, he simply walked off the set and didn’t stop until he got into his trailer and locked the door.
He paced in the confined space. He’d had the trailer outfitted with all the comforts of home—two televisions, wireless Internet, a fully stocked fridge with freshly catered food every day. Despite its state-of-the-art gadgetry, the trailer also helped him escape to the hills of Montana, with the dark leather sofa, the panorama picture of the property he’d recently purchased, the lineup of Louis L’Amour Westerns on the bookshelf.
His hand had stopped shaking, and he stared at it, frustrated. Maybe he should quit now, while still at the top of his game.
“Lewis, where are you?” The voice traveled from the places he’d fought to hide it, crept out, and crawled over him. “Don’t you know I’ll find you?” Old, rancid fear prickled Lincoln’s skin; he was ten years old again, skinny and weak.
He’d escaped that life. And never looked back.
He grabbed a towel and brought it to his sticky forehead before he realized he’d be wiping off his makeup. His hand twitched again, and he dropped the towel, grabbing his wrist, holding it still. Pinpricks of a limb just emerging from sleep encased his hand and he tried to shake them away.
Nothing.
Something had to be wrong with him. Dreadfully wrong. To make matters worse, today he’d had to pause, blink, and fight to scrape up the words he’d memorized last night. His short-term memory had never been stellar, but recently it lobbied to expose him.
“Lewis, I’m going to find you.”
Banging at the door made him jump.
He opened it, half expecting to see Elise in all her diva glory. She’d been feeding the press juicy nontruths about their so-called torrid backstage relationship and doing her best to make them come true over the past three months. And he would have to be an ice block not to notice her long, tanned legs and perfect curves. But ever since his body had begun to short-circuit on him, fear had driven from him any desire to let someone close enough to discover that he was . . . what?
Lincoln hadn’t the faintest idea why he felt as if his body were walking through sludge, always a second or two behind his brain’s commands.
Dex, bless him, stood at the door, his baseball hat backward, a slight sweat filming his forehead, to match the tenor of Lincoln’s pulse. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Lincoln snapped.
Thankfully, Dex didn’t take it personally. Round and rough around the edges, with hair that looked more like a string mop and enough padding around his waist to evidence his propensity to linger over dinner, usually brainstorming a scene, Dex personified a man who lived for films. He was always rethinking a scene, reshooting with new angles, always reviewing the dailies. He’d known Lincoln since he’d been a fresh-off-the-street extra, had plucked him out of the crowd, shined him up, and made him into a star. Lincoln would do just about anything for Dex—and did, most of the time. Including Dex’s crazy stunts that nearly got him killed.
“You sure you’re okay?” Dex said, pushing his bulk into the trailer. “Were you out late last night?”
Lincoln hadn’t been out late, with anyone, for months. No, last night he’d been locked in his trailer, trying to figure out how to rebuild his life should it all come crashing down around him. How to take care of Alyssa and how to not be a has-been at the age of thirty.
No wonder he looked rough today, according to his makeup artist.
“No,” Lincoln said, moving aside for Dex to sit on the leather sofa. “I was working on the script.”
“I’d rather you get your rest. I have people to prompt you, you know. I don’t know why you push yourself so hard, Linc.”
Because he wanted to be known as a professional in the industry? Because he needed this gig more than anyone really knew, and he had to have his game on each and every minute? Because he, better than anyone, knew that fate could turn on him?
Lincoln stared out the window of his air-conditioned trailer at the grips delivering messages and supplies to the various costumers and set designers. “You know why.”
Dex was perhaps the only person who knew about his crimes and about the person Lincoln had left behind.
“Listen, I don’t know what’s wrong, but you know you can tell me, huh?” Dex said.
Tell Dex that sometimes, when Lincoln got up, the room spun and he found himself face-first on the carpet? Tell Dex that occasionally his vision cut out or got fuzzy around the edges? Tell Dex that the thought of doing his own stunt in the next scene—the one where he was supposed to bail out of a car before it launched off a pier into the ocean—had him cold with fear?
“Please tell me that you’re not, uh . . . nervous about your love scene with Elise.” Dex gave him a look.
Lincoln answered with a dry smile, but yes. His previous scripts hadn’t contained nearly as much skin as this movie—a thriller about a Miami high roller. How he longed for a good Western, where he might strap on a six-shooter, jump on a horse, and chase after the bad guys.
Then again, maybe the people who ran his career knew he needed fast cars and lots of brawls to keep the momentum of his career at a decent clip. If someone got too close, they might actually see that really, he didn’t know a thing about acting.
“I’ll find you, Lewis.”
“No, c’mon, of course it’s no big deal, Dex.” Lincoln laughed and shook his head. “Kissing Elise? I think I can handle it.”
“You know, it wouldn’t hurt your press to be seen with Elise Fontaine on your arm. She’s the next big thing, and I’m fairly sure she has a thing for you.”
Maybe, but lately Lincoln had a hard time stomaching the life he’d found so enticing at nineteen. Ten years did that, he supposed. “I’m sure it would.” He didn’t bother to hi
de his opinion in his tone. Elise and her flock of paparazzi were the last thing he needed right now.
Dex sighed. “I was thinking that after this, maybe you should take a break. Go somewhere. Go to your new place in Montana. Have you even set foot on the property since you bought it from John?”
Lincoln shook his head. He had met author John Kincaid last summer while taking location shots for the film based on a book Kincaid had written. Lincoln had fallen in love with the land, the smells, the wide-open spaces that allowed him to think, and when Kincaid’s ranch came up for sale, he’d bought it on a whim.
“Then maybe it’s time.” Dex stood. “Let’s get through this scene and the final action shot, and then we’ll talk about you taking a hiatus.” He slapped Lincoln on the shoulder and opened the door. “Five minutes, pal.”
“I’ll be right out.” Lincoln closed the door behind Dex and let out another long breath, surprised that he’d been holding it. Get ahold of yourself. He closed his eyes, tried to center on that place inside him that helped him crawl out of his skin and into the psyche of his character. Be Barklay Hamilton, multimillionaire, cigarette-boat racer, winner. Be a champion.
Lincoln needed a drink. Opening the fridge, he took out a glass bottle of energy drink, set it on the counter, and unscrewed the top. His hand had stopped shaking. But he never knew for how long.
“Lewis—”
No. He shrugged the voice away, refusing to listen.
He wasn’t Lewis, hadn’t been for a decade—more, even. He was Lincoln Cash—superstar, Oscar nominee, winner of the Golden Globe. He was a winner. A man the people respected. A hero.
He reached up and, with a flick of his fingers, opened the button. See, that wasn’t so hard. Dex was probably right—he was just tired and needed a vacation.
Lincoln opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine of the lot. The sun baked the pavement, heat radiating into his dress shoes. Cables snaked along the parking lot leading toward the hotel they’d rented for this scene. How he’d rather be on a soundstage, but no, Dex loved to shoot on location. And this location had to be Miami in March. Thousands of spring breakers lined the set, hoping to ogle him. He waved to his fans as he took a swig of his drink.
The dizziness hit like a bullet. One second he stood vertical, a picture of health. The next he was sprawled on the pavement, the bottle shattered, his body twitching in an all-out seizure.
And he couldn’t even scream.
Gideon North begged fate to be gentle with him, to forgive and, just this once, give him a break. Not that he deserved it, but if fate operated on an as-needed basis, he should be at the top of the list.
Especially driving on fumes, an ugly sky in his rearview mirror, with two kid sisters who looked at him as if he might be the bogeyman.
They would be a family again—didn’t they see that? Even Macey didn’t seem to understand—yet not only was she old enough at fifteen to comprehend responsibility, she’d also been the one to spring this crazy idea. Maybe she hadn’t believed that he’d take her suggestion seriously. Maybe her letters had simply been dreams scrawled in desperation. Maybe she believed that he’d abandon her again, the last in a painful line of liars.
But Gideon refused to believe that one drop of his father’s blood might be in him, and he’d proven it by doing everything Macey had begged of him. Not only that, but he’d gotten them out of Rapid City, out of the shelter, out of the cycle of foster homes, street living, and hunger.
Gideon turned off the highway and headed west. He glanced at the gas gauge, gripped the wheel of the old Impala wagon he’d boosted, and scanned the darkening land for shelter. He supposed they could sleep in the car, but the way the wind had kicked up, throwing frozen tumbleweeds across the road, he’d prefer shelter. And a fire. And something nourishing in their stomachs.
At least for Haley. . . . He glanced in the rearview mirror at the way she curled into a tiny grubby ball inside a red Goodwill winter jacket two sizes too large for her. One of her pigtails had fallen out, lending her a forlorn, lopsided look. And her eyes screamed hunger. But she didn’t speak. Hadn’t spoken one word since they left the shelter.
Yep, he was the bogeyman.
“We’re going to be okay,” he said, because it seemed like the right thing to say. Now that he was eighteen and out of the detention center, wasn’t it his responsibility to care for his sisters?
He refused to hear his father’s mockery behind his thoughts. Yes, he was going to take care of them. Build them all a place to live. A safe place where they didn’t have to hide at night. Where their world wasn’t punctuated by cries or people yelling. By Haley’s tears.
Gideon’s hands, cold as they were, whitened on the steering wheel. His sweatshirt would make poor insulation tonight. He had given his jacket to Macey—she hadn’t thought beyond her backpack and shoes when she’d seen him drive up to the emergency foster shelter. She’d just grabbed Haley and run.
Haley had finally stopped crying when they hit the Montana border.
Things would change now, for all of them. He’d make them change.
“Where are we going?” Macey said or rather mumbled into the collar of his jacket. “I’m hungry.”
“I know that,” he snapped.
She flinched, then glared at him.
Gideon clenched his jaw, wishing that had come out differently. He wouldn’t be like their father—wouldn’t.
“I’ll stop soon,” he said, now softer. He’d turned off the highway five miles back, following a sign for a town, hoping for a McDonald’s. But as he slowed, those hopes were dashed by the sight of the one-horse rinky-dink spot on the map they’d limped into. A couple of feed stores, a tire shop, a bar, and an old diner that looked like the throwaway back end of a train.
He pulled up just beyond the lights that splashed against the sidewalk. “Stay here,” he said, putting the car into park. “I’ll be right back.”
In the backseat, Haley sat up, her eyes huge. But still, she said nothing.
Macey, too, watched him.
“I’ll be right back,” he repeated.
Macey gave a stiff nod.
The aroma of hamburgers and french fries made Gideon’s empty stomach knot as he shut the door. A trail along the back of the diner led to a row of trash cans and a trailer home. He stood there, staring at the dark windows of the trailer, then at the diner.
Just one more time. Because he had to. Just . . .
He took a deep breath, then crept toward the trailer.
Small towns were easy—people here trusted each other, and he justified himself with the argument that people who left their doors open deserved a lesson on safety. He went inside and looked around.
The owner had milk. And bread and cheese, a jar of mayonnaise, and a box of cereal. All this he scooped into a plastic bag he found on the counter. Shadows pushed into the ancient trailer, over the fraying green sofa, the faux plants, the tattered La-Z-Boy in the corner.
Memory rushed at him, and for a second he was back at Meadow Park, watching television while his mother propped Haley on one hip and fried hot dogs on the stove. Macey was playing with her Barbie dolls on the kitchen table. In Gideon’s memory, his mother turned to him and smiled, and something caught in his chest, a vise so tight he couldn’t breathe.
Hurry.
He swept the memory away and went to the bedroom, ripping the blankets off the bed. Grabbing two pillows, he shoved everything under his arm.
He was in the car again in under five minutes, cramming everything into the backseat on top of Haley. Then he climbed in and pulled away, easy, as if his heart weren’t churning in his chest.
Macey’s face had gone hard. She turned away from him, staring out the window.
Gideon said nothing and kept driving, keeping an eye on the gas gauge. The town ended in less than thirty seconds, just past the trailer park, and he followed the road, winding back into the hills, the valleys, the cover he needed to build a new life for them.
He passed miles of barbed wire fencing and dirt driveways that led to tiny box homes with feeble light showing from the windows. He guessed the black humps against the darkening horizon had to be cows or maybe bulls. Here and there the tattered outline of trees edged a hill, boulders lumping in washes.
He would have missed the house entirely if it hadn’t been for Macey, who spotted the For Sale sign tangled in the barbed wire fence. She saw it flash against the headlights and said simply, “Hey.”
For one short summer he and Macey had made a game of living in vacant for-sale houses. It had been safer than roosting on the streets. Now an old, feeble hope stirred inside him. He turned in to the drive and threaded his way across the land, happening upon the dark compound of a ranch. His headlights skimmed open cattle pens, a vacant barn. The growth of weeds around the front steps evidenced that the house hadn’t been lived in for months.
Gideon pulled up and put the car in park but kept it running. “Stay here.”
Macey sat up, and for the first time he saw fear flash across her face. She nodded.
He got out, kept the car door open, and sneaked toward the house. The front step gave a predictable groan as he mounted it, and he stopped, his pulse rushing in his ears.
Nothing gave reply but the wind, needling through his sweatshirt and threadbare jeans.
He tried the door. The handle didn’t turn. But whoever owned the house had the same blind faith as the inhabitants in town, and the nearest window opened with the smallest effort. He climbed inside.
Gideon landed in a kitchen, barren except for a sink and empty counters, dark and smelling of cold, dust, and neglect. His tennis shoes scuffed on the floor as he went through the small house. An aged shag rug ran into the living room and back to three tiny bedrooms. Foolishly he tried the light, but of course, the electricity had been turned off.
Finding Stefanie Page 2
