Читать книгу Stonebrook Cottage - Carla Neggers, Carla Neggers - Страница 10

F or the first time in weeks, Allyson Stockwell felt almost normal. The late-afternoon shade soothed her taut nerves as she swung gently on a hammock strung between two maple trees on Stockwell Farm in Bluefield, deep in the Litchfield Hills of northwest Connecticut. The taste of her iced tea, the smell of her mother-in-law’s roses, the sounds of birds in the nearby trees—all of it seemed so blissfully normal.

She felt like such a phony. She’d never lusted for power and title. She’d been content as lieutenant governor, half believing people when they said Mike Parisi had urged her to run only because she was Lawrence’s widow and he needed the Stockwell name behind him.

No…I won’t think about that now.

She’d had a postcard that morning from Henry and Lillian in Texas. They seemed to be enjoying themselves at the dude ranch. She felt good about her decision to send them. She wanted them to carry on as normally as possible as they adjusted to all the changes in their lives. Big Mike had been an enormous, charismatic presence in so many people’s lives, her children’s included.

If not for Lawrence, Allyson wondered, would she ever have met Mike Parisi? He and her husband were such unlikely friends—Lawrence, the Connecticut blueblood, and Big Mike, the self-made man from a working-class neighborhood—but they’d suited each other. Lawrence, dedicated to public service, preferred to work behind the scenes and appreciated Mike’s passion and drive, just as Mike had appreciated his wealthy friend’s genuine concern for the people of his state.

Twenty years older than Allyson, Lawrence was just forty-seven when he died ten years ago. She never thought she’d make it without him. She didn’t lack for anything material, just for the man she’d fallen in love with at twenty-one. Use your law degree, Big Mike had told her. Use your brain. Don’t wither away. Do something.

She had, and now she was governor. And alone again, on her own with so many responsibilities. Children who needed her, grieving friends, a grieving state.

She breathed in the warm, clean summer air. She hadn’t been out to Bluefield since Mike’s death. Lawrence had grown up out here on Stockwell Farm, the sprawling estate set amidst rolling hills and fields that his grandfather had purchased and expanded. His mother still lived here, but, as was the case with Allyson, Stockwell Farm would never be hers. Madeleine Stockwell could live in the white clapboard, black-shuttered house for as long as she chose—no one could throw her out but it and the grounds, all of Stockwell Farm, were held in trust for Lawrence’s children.

Allyson had never wanted the main house. She and Lawrence had converted the barn on the edge of the fields, and she continued to take Henry and Lillian there. Allyson thought they liked it better than the main house. The barn, too, would go to them. But Stonebrook Cottage, across the fields and through the woods from the main grounds, was Allyson’s and Allyson’s alone, a bit of Stockwell Farm that Lawrence had carved out for her. She liked having it for guests but planned to leave it to her children, too.

Once they got back from Texas, they’d all move into the Governor’s Residence in Hartford. Henry and Lillian would continue to attend their school in West Hartford, and Allyson had no intention of getting rid of their permanent home there.

At least the kids were having fun at the dude ranch. They loved it out at Stockwell Farm and would have liked nothing better than to run loose there all summer, but that was out of the question. Madeleine wouldn’t stand for it. Allyson remembered Lawrence telling her how his father had fancied himself a gentleman farmer and had horses and apple trees and gardens. He would have Madeleine and Lawrence cart jugs of water from a spring in the woods just so they’d know where it was and how to do it. He wanted them to be self-sufficient, capable, never helpless or idle.

When Lawrence was eight, Edward Stockwell cut his femoral artery with an ax and bled to death before his wife could get him to a doctor. Madeleine remarried three years later, beginning a string of marriages that ended with her divorce from her fourth husband five years ago. She vowed never to take another. Allyson believed her mother-in-law when she said that if Edward had lived, the two would have grown old together.

What a horrible blow to lose Edward’s only child to cancer ten years ago.

Now Lawrence and Mike both were dead, Allyson thought, and she was governor.

I don’t want to be governor.

It complicated everything. She had secrets of her own she wanted to protect.

Her heart raced, and it felt as if someone were standing on her chest. Her doctor was encouraging her to learn stress reduction techniques. Kara had dragged her to a yoga class last year before she left for Texas and demonstrated a simple breathing technique she used before trials. Allyson tried to remember it. In through the nose to the count of eight…hold for eight…out for eight…

She got to four and coughed, nearly dumping herself out of her hammock.

Her cell phone rang, almost paralyzing her. She’d forgotten she’d left the damn thing on, but since it was the number Henry and Lillian would use to call her she hated to turn it off. She sat up, her blond hair snagging in the knotted rope as she threw her legs over the side and groped for her phone in her canvas bag. With Mike’s death affecting them so deeply, the children’s counselors at the dude ranch had agreed to let them call home more often than was ordinarily permitted.

Allyson anchored herself with her feet and fumbled for the right button on her cell phone. It might not be that sick jackass who’s been calling.

But it was. She could tell by the quick intake of air on the other end. “Ah, Governor Stockwell. You like the sound of it, don’t you? What would the people of Connecticut think if they knew the truth, hmm? Their slut governor, screwing her working-class ex-con in secret. Do you think they might wonder if Big Mike had found out?”

Click. The call was over, the voice was gone.

Allyson shook. She’d never said a word to the caller. Never. She didn’t want to do anything to encourage another call or escalate the harassment into action. She just wanted the calls to stop. Each time she received one, she tried to convince herself it was the last.

The first one had come a few days before Big Mike’s death. Ye shall reap what ye sow. That was it. She’d dismissed it as a crank call, political harassment, nothing worth mentioning to anyone, never mind Mike or her security detail. Then, after Mike’s funeral, she received another one. Do you really think you can keep your ex-con lover a secret now?

And she knew. Someone had found out about her and Pete Jericho.

Pete was the salt of the earth, a man of the land. His family had owned the two hundred acres on the south border of the Stockwell Farm for generations. They used to be dairy farmers, but now they sold cordwood and Christmas trees, and for the past three years had worked a gravel pit. They plowed driveways and built stone walls and managed their rich neighbors’ properties, the mini-estates that had sprouted around Bluefield.

Pete had served six months in prison eight years ago for a stupid barroom brawl that should have been settled, and stayed, among friends—he wasn’t anyone’s idea of an ex-con. Yet Allyson had kept their affair a secret, begging the question of what she thought of his past. He’d undoubtedly saved her life—her children’s lives—when the gas can exploded during the Fourth of July bonfire. She could still feel his strong arms around her, his body covering hers, as she’d tried to protect Henry and Lillian from the blast.

Somehow an illicit affair with Pete Jericho was different now that she was governor. The anonymous calls didn’t make figuring out what to do about him any easier.

Mike had known. He’d given her an ultimatum a few days after the near disaster at the bonfire. He wanted her relationship with Pete out in the open or over and done with. No secret affairs. Period.

“But what will people say?” she’d asked.

“What the hell do you care? We’re not talking about your position on capital punishment or gay marriage. We’re talking about who you love. You do love the guy, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what? He served six months in the pokey for a bar fight.” Big Mike had laughed, amazed. “Come on, Allyson. People’ll be thrilled you’re not just another rich, watery-eyed WASP.”

She hadn’t taken that very well, but Big Mike loved to tease—it didn’t matter who. Kara was the one who could always give it right back to him. Allyson had enjoyed watching the two of them. She was more reserved herself, more formal by upbringing and temperament. Kara was a Texas hard-ass with a big heart, a combination that’d probably get her hurt one day.

But Mike hadn’t been teasing that day. He could be judgmental, calculating when it came to political advantage and appearances.

Did her caller know about the ultimatum? Would he—or she—try to make people wonder if she’d had something to do with Big Mike’s death?

What did the bastard want?

She jumped to her feet, knocking over her canvas bag, the contents spilling into the cool shade. She saw a state trooper, a woman, make a move toward her and waved her off. The special unit in charge of guarding the governor had come under heavy criticism for “letting” Big Mike die. Allyson had defended them. She knew what Mike could be like. He’d told her countless times he’d never get used to people hovering.

She squatted down, scooping up her wallet and Rolaids and Palm Pilot, three tubes of the same shade of lipstick. She was shaking uncontrollably now, crying. Ridiculous. She was overreacting to the cryptic phone calls, reading into them something that wasn’t there. There was no real threat, and harassment was part of being in the public eye. Even if she mentioned the calls to her bodyguards, what could they do? The caller hadn’t even made a request for any action one way or another on her part. Get rid of Pete, keep him. Tell the world, don’t tell the world. Give money, support a particular piece of legislation—nothing. Maybe the calls were designed to soften her up—maybe they were just to get under her skin.

“Allyson!”

Hatch Corrigan ran across the shaded lawn toward her. Lawrence’s half-brother was always on the move, a hothead like his father, Frank Corrigan, Madeleine’s third husband, whose early success as an actor hadn’t panned out the way either one of them had hoped. Madeleine raised their son largely on her own—she hadn’t wanted Frank’s help after their divorce. Hatch and Lawrence both had their mother’s rangy build and sharp nose, but Hatch had his father’s clear blue eyes, auburn hair and dimpled chin, his notorious flair for drama. Hatch, though, was content to remain behind the scenes, like his older half-brother. Not Frank, who’d wanted the stage and an audience, but died five years ago when he fell off scaffolding in a rundown off-off-Broadway theater, dead drunk.

Hatch didn’t stand to inherit a dime of Stockwell money, but Allyson couldn’t remember him ever complaining about it. His mother had some wealth to hand down, but not a lot, not compared to her first husband’s family fortune. Hatch loved Stockwell Farm and spent as much time as he could with Madeleine at the main house, when he wasn’t cooking up political schemes and gathering information, plotting, strategizing, advising. He’d been indispensable to Big Mike and, now, to Allyson.

He slowed slightly as he approached her hammock. It wasn’t uncommon, she thought, to see Hatch Corrigan in a rush, grim-faced and focused.

She grabbed on to the edge of the rope hammock and pulled herself to her feet, brushing away her tears. In time she might come to feel like a governor, but right now she felt like the thirty-seven-year-old mother of two middle-schoolers, a widow who could never again have romance in her life.

“Allyson,” Hatch repeated, breathing hard when he reached her. “We have a problem. That damn dude ranch in Texas just called. The kids—”

“Hatch!” She clenched his upper arms, her chest constricting, her knees going out from under her. “What’s happened? What’s wrong? Henry and Lillian—they’re okay, aren’t they?”

“Let’s hope.” His expression hardened, reminding her that he was forty-seven and childless, not a man who got along easily with children, even his only niece and nephew. “They took off on their own this afternoon. They’re on the loose somewhere in Texas.”

Susanna Galway called Sam at home, waking him up, and invited him to dinner, refusing to take no for an answer. He didn’t argue. Under the circumstances, showing up for dinner would be less provocative than not showing up. He buttoned his shirt, pulled on his boots and headed out.

Dinner was hell. He hated hiding anything from his friends, but if Kara hadn’t told her brother and sister-in-law about her weekend with Sam, he didn’t feel it was his place to open his damn mouth. He was being a gentleman, he decided, not a coward. It wasn’t as if he’d taken advantage of her. Kara Galway was in her thirties, and she’d wanted their night together as much as he had.

Jack, his wife and their twin daughters didn’t seem to notice he was suffering. Susanna was a slim, graceful, dark-haired, green-eyed financial whiz who’d tried to keep millions and a murderer showing up in her kitchen a secret from her Texas Ranger husband, not that there was keeping anything secret from Jack Galway, something that Sam knew he should keep in mind. Susanna was smart, and she liked her secrets. In her own way she was as protective of her family as Jack was. All four of them had come close to losing each other in a harrowing experience in the Adirondack woods six months ago. These days, Susanna seemed content with her work and her life in San Antonio. She was redecorating their suburban home and restoring a historic building downtown that nobody quite knew what she’d do with—including, apparently, her.

The twins were getting ready to head to college in a few weeks. Maggie had decided on Harvard, following in her father’s footsteps, Ellen on the University of Texas, which she liked to say was following in the footsteps of no one in her family.

They didn’t bring up the subject of Kara tonight, but Sam knew they all had welcomed her move back to Texas, teased her about losing some of her accent during her years up north. They expected her to take up with another lawyer or a University of Texas professor, maybe one of the artists who hung out at the Dunning Gallery. Not a Texas Ranger. Not Sam.

He hadn’t taken up with her, he reminded himself. He’d slept with her that one night and one morning two weeks ago.

After dinner, Susanna and Jack made espresso using the espresso machine Maggie and Ellen had given their father for Christmas. The girls retreated to the family room to watch television. Whatever the lingering effects of their ordeal this past winter, the twins were handling them, just a couple of high-school graduates excited about college.

Susanna handed Sam a tiny white cup and saucer and eased onto a chair at the new, glass-topped table. She smiled over the rim of her own steaming cup, which didn’t look out of place in her slender fingers. “You look as if you’re afraid you’ll break the china. Relax, Sam. You like espresso, don’t you?”

“I can drink it.”

Jack downed his espresso in about two sips. He was one of the finest law enforcement officers Sam knew, a big, broad-shouldered man, a Harvard graduate, a dedicated Texas Ranger who tried to maintain a precarious balance between work and family. He was fifteen and his sister just nine when their mother was killed in a car accident. Sam knew some of the details. How mother and daughter had gone out shoe shopping and were hit broadside on the driver’s side by a speeding delivery truck.

Kara had had to sit still, covered in shattered glass, splattered with her dying mother’s blood, until the paramedics could get her out. She’d suffered only minor physical injuries. After the accident, her father had encouraged both her and Jack to stay busy and excel, apparently believing the less time they had to think about their mother and grieve, the better. At eighteen, Kara headed north to Yale, not to return until last year.

If she hadn’t moved back, would Mike Parisi be dead now? Sam wondered if that was a question Kara had asked herself, one she’d been running from that night when she’d landed in his arms.

Susanna set her cup down after the tiniest of sips. “Sam, I understand you were at the opening of the Gordon Temple exhibit a couple of weeks ago. You’ve been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about it. Mum and Dad are thrilled to have him at the gallery. Jack and I couldn’t make it to the opening. He’s an incredible artist, isn’t he?”

Sam shrugged. “The paintings looked fine to me. I don’t know that much about art.”

“My mother said you didn’t stay long. They’re curious because you two have the same last name.”

Jack shifted in his chair. “I wondered about that, too. Sam, you’re part Native American. This guy’s Cherokee. He used to live in San Antonio. What’s the story?”

“No story.”

It was a true answer, if not a complete one. Sam had known for the past five years that Gordon Temple was his father. Biologically. He had never had a real father. His mother, an elementary-school art teacher in a poor section of San Antonio, had finally told him the truth when Gordon’s fame was on the rise. Sam had already known his mother and Gordon were briefly married when they were both twenty. Gordon left after a year. Loretta Temple said she never expected him to stay. He was a nomad, an artist who needed his freedom. It was a rationalization, maybe, but Sam didn’t resent her for it—she wasn’t the one who’d left. She didn’t find out she was pregnant until a month after Gordon Temple had withdrawn from her life. She thought it would be easier on him, and ultimately their child, if she said nothing and didn’t tempt him to come back.

Thirty-five years later, she admitted she wasn’t sure she’d made the right decision in not putting a father’s name on her son’s birth certificate, but it had been the only choice she’d felt she could make at the time.

No, no story, Sam thought. Just a string of simple facts.

Susanna fingered the delicate handle of her espresso cup. “Did you run into Kara at the opening? I understand she didn’t stay long, either. She got the call about Governor Parisi’s death and left quickly. Mum didn’t realize what was going on at the time or she’d have made sure she was all right.” Susanna fixed her vivid green eyes on Sam. “I hate to think of Kara dealing with such a terrible shock all alone.”

Sam sipped his espresso, which was very hot and very strong, and offered no comment. This explained the invitation to dinner. Susanna was suspicious of what had happened at the opening, but she would be. She was convinced women fell all over him. It happened, but not every time—and it hadn’t happened with Kara. Her grief and shock had more to do with their night together than any attraction to him. But Sam couldn’t be sure his preoccupation with Gordon Temple hadn’t affected his own judgment.

Jack shook his head, finished with his espresso. “You following this governor’s death?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I can’t get Kara to talk about it. She’s buried herself in her work. She went up to Connecticut for the funeral. The new governor’s a friend, as well—Kara’s godmother to her children. They flew back with her to go to a kids’ dude ranch.”

“We sent Maggie and Ellen to a dude ranch that one time, remember? Ellen loved it, Maggie thought it was hell on earth—”

But Jack was not to be distracted. “I don’t like reading my sister’s name in the paper in conjunction with the unexplained death of a governor. At least she was in Austin and not up there when Parisi drowned. I’d hate to see her get involved in something like that.”

Sam understood Jack’s reaction, but decided it wasn’t his place to bring up Zoe West’s call checking Kara’s story. Let Kara tell her brother two weeks after the fact that she was one of the few who knew Mike Parisi couldn’t swim.

“Dad!”

The panic in Ellen’s voice instantly brought Jack to his feet, Sam a half beat behind him. Susanna rose unsteadily, grabbing the back of her chair, her dark hair catching the glow of the white dinner candles. Her face was pale, as if she were back on that day six months ago with her daughters at the mercy of a killer.

Jack caught Ellen by the shoulders in the doorway, strands of dark hair matted to her cheeks. Her breathing was shallow, rapid. “Dad, it’s Aunt Kara. Something’s wrong—”

Jack swore and pushed past her into the family room, but somehow Sam reached Kara first. She was standing, ashen-faced, Maggie Galway at her side. Sam managed not to touch her, but she clutched his upper arm, her fingers digging into his flesh, her dark eyes wide. “Sam…”

“Kara,” Jack said sharply. “What the hell’s going on?”

She shifted her gaze, focusing on her brother. “Henry and Lillian Stockwell are missing.” Kara took in a breath, obviously trying to calm herself, but she maintained her death grip on Sam’s arm. “They took off from the dude ranch late this afternoon. At first everyone thought they were hiding somewhere, or misunderstood instructions—”

“The ranch is about an hour from here,” Sam said.

Jack nodded. “These kids are what, twelve?”

“Henry’s twelve, Lillian’s eleven.” Kara’s voice was tight with fear. “Allyson called me a few minutes after I left work. I was south of town, anyway, meeting friends. I decided to head straight here, in case you’d heard anything.”

“We haven’t,” Susanna said gently. “Kara, why don’t you sit down? Tell us what you know.”

She seemed to give herself a mental shake, some color returning high in her cheeks. She released her grip on Sam. “I held it together all the way down here and sort of fell apart when I walked in the door.” She brushed her hand through her hair, pulling out the turquoise comb she’d worn the night of the opening. She gave no sign she remembered him taking it out of her hair. She cleared her throat. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

Sam glanced at Jack. “The two preteen kids of the governor of Connecticut on their own in Texas—I don’t like it.”

“Sit,” Jack told his sister, firmly but gently. “Catch your breath. Tell us everything. Goddamnit, I was just saying I didn’t like any of this business.”

Ellen started for the kitchen. “I’ll get her a glass of water.”

“Come on, Aunt Kara,” Maggie said, taking her aunt’s hand and pulling her onto the couch beside her. Maggie had her mother’s build and her father’s temperament, her Dunning grandparents’ creative flair. She was wearing one of her bizarre outfits, a vintage loud-striped dress from the 1960s and turquoise sneakers. “It’ll be okay. Ellen and I ran away once. Mom, Dad, you remember, don’t you? We were going to take a bus to Hollywood, but we got hungry and came home.”

Sam didn’t share her optimism, possibly because of Zoe West’s call. Susanna smiled reassuringly. “Maggie has a point. Kids don’t usually run off for long. It’s barely nightfall now—”

Kara nodded, calmer. “Allyson said someone would call me if they turn up. There’s still time.”

Jack grunted. “How the hell could this dude ranch lose two kids? Did they have the same schedule?”

“No, and they were in separate cabins,” Kara said. “They must have had a plan to meet and sneak out. The ranch isn’t superremote. Allyson said there’s no reason to suspect foul play or think they’re lost—”

“I’ll drive out to the ranch and see what’s going on,” Jack said. “We can put out an alert—”

Kara frowned. “Allyson doesn’t want law enforcement to get involved at this point.”

“Not her call. She’s the governor of Connecticut not Texas.”

Sam could sense the escalating tension between brother and sister. So, obviously, could Susanna. She licked her lips and touched her husband’s arm. “Kids this age do impulsive things, sometimes for reasons only they understand. The important thing right now is to find them.”

“They have to be all right,” Kara said, half under her breath. She withdrew a small stack of postcards and letters from her handbag. “The kids wrote to me from camp up north earlier this summer, then from the dude ranch. Lillian more than Henry. She got me to read the Harry Potter books.”

Sam had seen them stacked on Kara’s nightstand.

She shoved the stack of letters and cards at her brother. “Here. Go through these. Maybe there’s something I missed, some clue as to what they’re up to. If you find anything, tell me, and I’ll call Allyson.”

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 Stockwells 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 suspected—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 un-twisted 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.”