Lost and Found Family (11 page)

Hi, I'm Emma
, she typed.
I'm thirty-five years old. Married. And last Christmas I lost my little boy in a barn accident.

There. She'd said it. Written it, anyway. With luck this short confession had been the hardest part.

She didn't have to wait long before people began to respond. She couldn't call this instant gratification, but it would do, assuming all the messages were supportive. One could never be sure on the internet.

I am so sorry for your loss
, a woman called Zee wrote.

Who caused the accident?
another message asked, from someone whose name was Thad.

Emma responded simply,
I did.

She waited and then Thad chimed in again.
You should be behind bars
.

Shaken, she could barely comprehend the next post from
Zee. The words smeared in front of her eyes
.
Thad, that was a terrible thing to say.
But the damage was already done.

Bob flopped against her, the dog's chocolate-brown eyes fixed on Emma's face as if to provide unspoken support.

But Thad replied again
.
Baby Killer
, he wrote
.

Dazed, Emma shut down the computer. Her pulse thundered loud enough to hear and her stomach turned over. Why would a total stranger condemn her so quickly? Someone who'd also suffered a loss? Unless Thad was just pretending, passing himself off as someone he wasn't. She patted Bob's sleek fur and the dog planted a wet kiss on her arm. Emma stared at the laptop, lost in her thoughts, until she smelled something. Bob tumbled off the sofa, barking as if to say
Follow me
.

Emma raced toward the kitchen. Before logging in to the chat room, she'd decided to make hamburgers for dinner. The meat had been simmering, but with Thad's posts she'd forgotten all about it. When Emma turned the corner from the great room, she met billowing smoke that was rapidly spreading through the first floor of the house.

For a second, she could only stare in horror. A heavy black plume poured from the skillet up the front of the microwave above the stove. Bob was yipping now, running to the door and back again. The air in the kitchen was already thick, and Emma buried her nose in the crook of her raised elbow. With her free hand she grabbed the skillet handle—and pain streaked along her palm. Emma jumped back, tears springing to her eyes. She managed to shut off the burner, but as she did the smoking grease flashed into flames. Not even a pan lid could smother the flames now.

Coughing, she turned on the faucet, let the cold water flow over her burned skin, then filled a bowl and flung the contents at the open pan. It was the worst thing to do. She knew as soon as she'd done it. You didn't throw water on a grease fire. The fire extinguisher! Emma ran into the adjacent laundry room but the extinguisher wouldn't work. There was nothing more she could do.

Bob was leaping at the back door and barking. They had to get out. Emma could only hope their rural volunteer fire department made it up the mountain before the whole house was destroyed.

Someone hammered at the outer garage door. When she opened it, Bob burst out onto the driveway and her nearest neighbor hauled Emma outside.

“I saw smoke pouring out your windows. Called 911. The trucks are on the way,” he said in her ear. “Let's get you away from this.”

He guided a shaking Emma to his house and sat her down in an easy chair in his living room. His wife hovered over her with a cloth dipped in cool water to cleanse her burned hand. Even the water stung but Emma tried not to flinch.

“What have I done?” she said, half to herself. “I got caught up in something when I should have been watching our dinner.”

Neither of them said a word, and Emma realized they must be thinking,
That's not the first time
. Like Thad, maybe they thought she belonged in prison for what had happened last December. They'd always been good neighbors, yet they'd rarely spoken to Emma since the funeral.

With her good hand over her eyes, she sank back into the chair. And waited.

It seemed an eternity before she heard sirens coming up the hill. By then, even though the volunteer fire department had responded quickly, her kitchen was engulfed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
FTER
THE
DRIVE
home from Nashville, Christian dropped the truck in the Mallory lot downtown. He retrieved his pickup and stopped at Max Barrett's shop again. He hadn't meant to, but as he passed Ponies on Parade, something seemed to draw him in once more. He wouldn't stay long, but after last night he doubted Emma would mind if he was a few minutes late.

Getting out of his truck, he took a moment to look around, then stepped into the neatly arranged store, where even the scent of sawdust in the air smelled clean and fresh.

Max appeared from some back room before Christian could call a hello.

“I'm surprised. I didn't expect you to take my invitation.”

“I'm an easy mark today,” he said.

As if he couldn't help himself, Christian headed straight for the little black-and-white pony with its compact body and long brush of tail, the gleam of rich paint on its one side.

“Oil paint,” Max said. “Enough coats for depth and to lend the impression of reality. The tail's real horsehair. That's not used much anymore but I like the effect. I try to be as true to the old-timers as possible.”

A brief silence fell between them. Max was one of those people who didn't need the constant hum of conversation, so he just stood there with a half smile, waiting for Christian to say something. Or nothing. He imagined Max could wait all day. Just as he was still waiting to sell this pony.

Christian shifted his gaze from the horse to Max. “It's amazing,” he said.

“I had a good subject. But I worked from a picture not the real thing.”

“Still. You captured the look in the General's eye, his noble spirit,” Christian said.

“It's a shame he's going to waste. This carving, I mean.”

“The real one, too.”

“I've been meaning to finish painting,” Max finally said. “I'll get to it any day now.”

“No hurry.” Christian turned away. The beautiful pony was like seeing the General again.

Except for him and Max, the shop was empty. “This is my quiet day to organize myself,” Max said. “I was in the back getting ready to order some supplies when you came in. You're in time for a free tour. If you like.”

Christian started to say no but instead said, “I'd like that.”

Max led him into a huge workshop area in the back, with rough-hewn tables, a pegboard on the wall holding every imaginable size of chisel and some other tools he didn't recognize. On the floor stacks of lumber were everywhere. The sawdust smell was even stronger here.

“May I?” At Max's nod he wandered around while Max explained what he was seeing. Christian smoothed a hand over the bare wood of a horse's detached head, which was alone on a table. “Is this for
The Godfather
?” he asked.

Max smiled. “It's for a doctor in Atlanta, his second order. The first was for a classic Stander—a sturdy, impressive type of model. Typically it has at least three feet on the ground. Now he wants this Prancer—front legs raised, back feet on the platform. His knowledge of anatomy means I'll have to be especially careful to make it look authentic.”

Christian's insides began to unknot. “There's more to this than I thought.”

Conscious of Max's gaze, he drifted over to the pile of lumber in a corner. Beside it was a smaller stack, one board pressed like laminate to another.

“The body of another project,” Max said, shifting wood around so Christian could see it better. “You should try one. I'd be happy to work with you.”

“I'm not suited to being a student again—and don't have the time—but I am curious. I always thought these horses were one piece. This looks like just a torso. Sort of.”

“You're right. We cut the wood—mostly basswood—into this rough shape, then glue the boards together. The ponies are hollow to keep them light. Many of the old carousels were portables, that is, they had to be moved from place to place. The legs, the neck and head, are added as pieces.”

They made a full circuit of the workroom. Max showed Christian a horse that looked closer to being finished with legs and head attached. “Now we sand,” he said, “then sand some more. This one was ordered by a seventy-eight-year-old grandmother for her great-grandson.” Max ran a hand over the neck, where muscle and sinew had been carved.

If only Owen could have seen his pony...if only Christian could find some other use for it now instead of selling it or giving it away to remove yet another reminder of loss for Emma. And if he sold the General, he'd have no way to remember him except a few photos.

Max seemed not to notice his discomfort. “It's in the realistic—Philadelphia—style. I won't bore you with all that now, though. The different kinds of carving.”

Christian cleared his throat. “No, I find all this fascinating.” He hadn't felt this sense of almost belonging, wanting to belong, since his first courses in design. “Thanks for showing me around.” Christian headed for the front of the shop, feeling guilty that he'd stopped here, stolen an hour for himself. Emma's dinner would be getting cold.

“I hope you'll drop by again.”

And why shouldn't he? His hours on the road would be long and often boring, but he would also have some days free, and he'd enjoyed Max's tour of the shop even more than he'd expected.

In the doorway Christian turned back for a last glance at the pony. He wasn't being fair to the General.

“I doubt I'd be any good as a carver, but if you have some cleanup work to be done, stuff to be moved or whatever, I'd be happy to volunteer.”

Max grinned. “I can always use help. I'll find something for you to do.” His eyes sparked with mischief. “Be careful, though. I just may talk you into trying that project, after all.”

Christian was about to reply when his cell phone rang. It wasn't Emma's ringtone. One of his neighbors, he saw from the display. He answered, then felt the blood drain from his face.

“I've gotta go.” He choked on the words. “There's a fire at my house.”

Max didn't hesitate. “I'll go with you.”

* * *

C
HRISTIAN
'
S
HEAD
POUNDED
and his hands on the wheel were slick with sweat. He'd left Max's parking lot behind only a few minutes when he heard sirens. If he didn't miss his guess, he was just behind the volunteer trucks winding their way up the mountain.

Max drove in front of him, probably to keep Christian from flooring the accelerator and driving himself right off the winding road into the valley below. Sequoia wasn't a big mountain, but a fourteen-hundred-foot drop would still prove fatal.

Even with Max setting the slower pace, Christian reached the house in record time. Two fire trucks, one of them a pumper, were parked on the road. Max pulled up behind them in front of the neighbor's house, but Christian's driveway was empty. He swung in, braking hard.

He hit the ground running, shouting. “Emma!”

* * *

A
S
SOON
AS
the blaze had died down, Emma stood with her husband and the neighbors in their driveway while the volunteer firemen unhooked their hoses and put their equipment away. Max was the first to leave.

“Take care,” he told Emma. He touched Christian's shoulder on his way past. “I'll see you at the shop.”

Christian watched him leave, then turned to Emma.

“Well, we can't stay here tonight,” he said, his mouth tight.

Emma's stomach sank. Their kitchen, blackened and smelling of smoke, the walls and ceiling coated with grease, was indeed unusable. The firemen had smashed all the windows. Still, the idea of trying to get a hotel room with Bob to consider didn't appeal.

The neighbors offered their guest room, then Melanie called with the brilliant idea to let her girls have a slumber party in her husband's den, giving Emma and Christian the guest room. Even Grace and Rafe, who didn't have a spare room, offered their living room sofa bed, but in all cases they'd only have to move again anyway. “I can't see us using our kitchen anytime soon,” Christian said.

The logical choice seemed to be Frankie and Lanier, who had the most room and claimed they didn't mind a longer stay. In their spare bedroom, Emma lay in the darkness beside Christian, shaken by the fire—and by a fresh surge of guilt. She might have been trapped inside the house. Or in the chaos she might have forgotten Bob, not that her barking had been easy to ignore. Emma would have caused yet another tragedy for Christian.

Right now Bob was outdoors in Lanier's kennel because Frankie didn't allow animals in the house. The fact that Bob was not one of the hunting dogs but a family pet didn't count.

“Poor Bob,” Emma said, cradling her bandaged hand. “She must be cold. That's some reward for saving my life.”

“Don't exaggerate. She barked to let you know the pan was smoking.”

“She's still my brave girl,” Emma said. “How can Frankie be so heartless?” The thought of Bob shivering in the kennel tonight was terrible.

“Have you seen my father's setup? It's like a posh resort for dogs. There's a heated indoor space for each of his Gordon setters—one of them Bob's mother—in addition to the outdoor runs.” He added, “It's not as if we've sent her to the pound.”

Emma murmured, “I hope she doesn't have to stay long, though.”

“I'll call contractors in the morning. I know some good people.”

Emma did, too, but she didn't say anything. She'd upset the entire family again. She knew how true that was when he said, “If you'd paid attention to those burgers instead of cruising around on the web—”

“I wasn't cruising.”

“What, then?” he asked.

“I was on a grief support group site.”

He tensed. “With a bunch of strangers? Why don't you talk to me? Emma.”

She didn't answer.

“You scared another ten years off my life. I swear, when I got that call—”

“You must have been frantic.”

“That's not the word for it, believe me. And now, after everything else, we have no home. Grace was worried about us, too,” he added. “I'm glad Rafe was there with her—and I never thought I'd say that. I convinced them not to come over here tonight, but until she actually sees us I don't think she'll relax.”

“Christian, I'll see—or call—her in the morning. What more can I say?”

He took a deep breath. “That trip to the house was the longest I've ever made. Good thing I followed Max or I'd have qualified for the Indy 500 coming up that hill—and wrecked my truck on top of the fire.”

“I'm sorry I gave you such a scare.”

For a long time they lay in silence, each likely imagining another tragedy she couldn't bear to talk about.

“My parents, too,” he muttered. “They were pretty upset, especially Mom.”

She rolled away from him to the opposite edge of the bed. “Well. If every cloud has its silver lining, staying here may be mine. For the duration I can be a help to your mother. In several ways. Maybe by the time we go home, the entire anniversary party will be planned.”