Lost and Found Family (19 page)

Another story, Mama
.
Please
, he'd begged in that sweet voice.

Not tonight, sweetheart. Tomorrow
, she'd promised, eager to tuck him in so she could go downstairs to finish the dishes, watch TV with Christian, do some paperwork before bed. More tidying. But there hadn't been a tomorrow.

Surely there was a lesson, one filled with heartache, in that.

'Night, 'night, Mama. Love you lots
.

It had been their ritual each night.
Love you, too, baby—bunches
.

Love you most
, he'd murmur, already half asleep.

That wasn't possible, she thought, because her own love for him had overwhelmed her from the instant he'd slipped from her body into the world, and after nine long months of carrying him she'd “met” him at last. Now she gently stroked her abdomen, where another child was already growing, and tears welled in her eyes. She tried to blink them back. She'd never been a weeper. She hadn't even cried last night. But in another moment, in part because the pregnancy hormones must be flowing through her body, she was lying across the bed, wrapped in Owen's blanket, hugging Grizzle to her chest, sobbing so hard she couldn't catch her breath.

* * *

L
ONG
AFTER
E
MMA
had left the house, Frankie stood at the broad windows in her living room, staring at the smudged print on the glass. She was still there when Christian blew through the front door and started up the stairs.

“She isn't there,” Frankie called after him.

Christian clattered back down again, somehow managing to make noise even on the thick stair runner.

“Where's Emma?”

She turned from the window. For a second Frankie considered not telling him about their quarrel—worse than a quarrel, really. She'd said things that would stay in the air for the rest of their lives. Yet she'd been filled with horror when she saw Emma with that rag poised over the window smear. She'd lost her head.

“She didn't share her schedule.” She glanced at the mantel clock, which was three minutes away from chiming the hour. “Perhaps she's gone to work.”

He shook his head. “The shop's closed. Grace wasn't there, either.” His eyes looked desperate. “Where can Emma be?”

“With a client?” Frankie suggested, but Melanie's project, she knew, was finished. She had no idea if any other clients even existed by now. “Emma went up to your room. After that I only heard her drive away.”

“What happened, Mom?”

Christian had seen right through her. They had their issues as mother and son, but each of them could read the other with sometimes frightening clarity.

“We had a few words earlier this morning,” she admitted.

“Words,” he repeated. “You mean a fight?”

Her pulse hammered. “Really, Christian. You make us sound like those cage people on TV. No,” she said, “but I doubt Emma was feeling kindly toward me when she left this house.”

“I need to talk to her,” he said, half to himself. “Where else would she go?” He studied Frankie. “Spill it, Mom. What exactly did you say?”

With a glance at the window, where the sun had shone through the glass at just the right angle, she twisted her hands. And told him.
Because of you, my only grandson is gone
...

She watched the firm line of his mouth turn grim.

“You know how important this family is to her,” he said, “and I'm just as guilty. I thought I needed to make amends with Emma, but you—” He turned to go. “I have to find her.”

“Christian, wait!” It was as if Frankie stood back like a disembodied spirit, watching herself cross the room in a panicked rush, the way she'd stormed in to find Emma about to wipe away that handprint. “I said things, yes, and I regret them now. But it's true,” she went on. “Emma was responsible for Owen's death. You live with that every day. Just as I have to live with another loss...which she was quick to point out earlier.”

He spun around to face her in the hall. “What are you talking about?”

She covered her eyes with one hand. She hadn't said those words in years. “Your sister.” She clutched his arm. “Sarah was only two when she...the doctors couldn't treat child leukemia then as successfully as they do now—oh, how I wish they could have—and when she was gone, I thought I'd never be able to live. For months afterward, I shut myself in this house.”

“And put away all her things,” he said for her. “I never saw anything of her. Not a toy, not an article of clothing. Not a picture. For me, it was as if she never existed.” He drew a breath, his eyes hard on hers. “Now it's as if Owen never existed for you, either. You eliminated both of them—”

“What else was I to do? Would you have me turn our home into a mausoleum? A museum? Only a short while later, you were born. You were a child here. You ran and played and laughed in these halls—”

“I was afraid to laugh,” he said. “No, I was an only child for all I knew. And everyone—you, Dad, all your friends lived on
pleasantries
. Small talk and careful smiles, anything except the painful truth. Was there an oil painting of Sarah, too, like the one of Owen you packed away?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, there is.” In the attic.

His voice quavered. “Emma—my
wife
and I—lost our little boy. As Max Barrett has told me, we'll never get over that, which of course I knew. But how can you of all people shut Emma out when she needs you most? You two have something—yes, something terrible—in common. That should bring you closer than you ever thought of being with Melanie.”

Frankie's hands trembled. “I'm not a bad person, Christian.” But flawed, yes, she could see that now. “You're right. With Emma...” She was on the verge of weeping. “No parent should ever have to bury a child. No grandparent should, either.”

“I couldn't agree more. But—”

She went on as if he hadn't spoken. “You'll never know how overjoyed I felt when we learned I was pregnant again. I wanted to be
happy
then, to end the sadness and loneliness and the echoes in this house—”

“I'm sure you did,” he said but his gaze remained hard.

“I wanted to start over.”

“In that you're like Emma, but life doesn't work that way,” he said. “And I'm talking about myself, too.” He headed out the front door.

He left Frankie thinking of Sarah and the oil paintings stored in the attic.

Christian was right. She and Emma had so much in common, and for Emma, because of how the accident had happened and considering the guilt she must feel, her loss must be even harder to bear.

As the door closed behind Christian, with a whisper rather than a slam, Frankie was alone again.

This time, it felt even worse.

* * *

C
HRISTIAN
WAS
ALMOST
HOME
—hoping Emma had gone there—when he passed Ponies on Parade. Almost from habit, he flipped on his blinker and sailed into the parking space he'd come to think of as his.

Max was in the back of the shop and Christian followed the high-pitched whine of a power saw. His small carousel pony stood in the corner of the workroom, looking as if it wanted to cringe away from the noise. Max had covered its newly painted side, presumably dry by now, with a tarp to keep the dust off.

He glanced up then cut the power to the saw. “Hey. Christian. Thought you'd be on the road today.”

“Changed my mind. I need some advice and I want to show you something.” He pulled out his phone and thumbed through some pictures. “The graphic designer has come up with a logo. What do you think?”

Max studied the design. “A perfect ten.” He glanced at the pony. “I like this contemporary take on it but I'd darken the color. Your pony's coal black, not the charcoal here. Other than that, looks great.” He paused. “I assume Emma's on board about the foundation.”

“More or less.” Christian paced the workshop while Max sanded the roughed-out barrel shape of the new horse he was working on. “Maybe less,” he admitted. He'd always disliked bland pleasantries, but yesterday, he'd been too open with her. “Thanksgiving dinner turned into a free-for-all. After that, I'm not sure we're going to make it,” he said.

Max stopped sanding. “I've always thought you and Emma had a strong marriage. Like mine was. I still remember Emma coming in last year to order that carousel pony. She was all lit up like a kid herself. It had to be done for Christmas, she kept telling me.” Max looked at the floor. “A few weeks later...well, you know.”

“I know what happened to Owen,” Christian said, running a hand through his hair. “I'm not sure what happened to us. All I know is, she stayed at my parents' house last night and I went home without her.” Christian couldn't seem to stop the next words. He told Max about his quarrel with Emma and his own accusations. “She was right,” he said. “Becoming a trucker again hasn't helped at all. I need to talk to her but I don't know what to say.” He sent Max a half smile. “I guess I'm stalling.” He wasn't ready to tell anyone about the baby. He and Emma had to resolve that first.

“Trying to deal with a heartbroken woman is like walking through a minefield. The words had better be good. No second chance to get them right.”

“Maybe I should send Bob in first.”

“I'd suggest flowers, too.”

Christian's answering smile faded. “I have to come up with something before it's too late. I can't keep doing what I'm doing—trying to hold on to the past.”

Max dropped the sandpaper block on a sawhorse, then brushed off his hands. “You know, I'd do anything to have my wife back, to hear her laugh once more at some corny joke of mine. She always said as long as I could make her laugh, she'd stick around. Keep me,” he said.

Christian sighed. “Unfortunately, in the past year I've run out of jokes.”

“You don't have to be clever, Christian. Just honest. Once you get the conversation rolling, Emma will respond. You go from there. Good luck.”

They walked through the shop into the main room. As always, the scents of sawdust, clinging to Max's shirt, and raw wood and paint made Christian yearn to stay. Maybe, if things settled down with Emma, he'd try a small project of his own, as Max had suggested. He liked being here better than he liked being on the road, better than his office at Mallory Trucking, even if such a solution wasn't practical.

They went outside to Christian's truck. “Thanks for listening,” he said.

Max clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Let me tell you something, my friend. Nothing can ever take away that horrible loss—for you or for Emma. But grief...to quote another old saying, ‘is the price we pay for love,'” Max murmured. “Let me know what happens.”

Christian was just pulling out of the lot, determined to find Emma so they could talk, when his cell phone rang.

He checked the display. And saw
Mountain View Farm
.

Something else had happened to the General.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
HE
FRONT
OF
the barn reflected the sun like a mirror. As he'd done a million times, Christian opened the gate, drove through, stepped out again and closed it behind him before driving on. Remembering his dreams of the General last night, Christian gripped the steering wheel.

Inside the barn he hurried down the aisle, straining to hear the General whickering a greeting. His stall was empty.

Christian glanced over his shoulder. He didn't see Rafe anywhere. He was alone. There was no General here to shift around and amble toward him, joints cracking. He didn't move up to the bars as he always did to poke his velvety nose through sniffing for gummy bears, which Christian wished he'd brought today. No childish giggles filled the air.

Come on, boy. These are for you. I know it's been a while. I brought these because—he can't
.

If Owen were here, the General would grab the handful of gummies he held on his flattened palm. He'd lip then chew. And, tail swishing, chomp some more. He'd work his mouth until Christian had to laugh.

A cold sense of growing alarm settled in him. What exactly was wrong? All Rafe had said on the phone was, “Can you get over here right now?” Then, in an obvious hurry, he'd hung up.

“Where's the General?” he asked no one in particular.

As if he'd conjured Rafe with the question, the trainer suddenly appeared.

“He's with Hailey Morgan,” Rafe said. “They're in the arena.” Rafe started back down the aisle. “I couldn't get you the first time so I called Emma, too.”

“She won't come,” Christian said, then trotted after Rafe.

* * *

E
MMA
HADN
'
T
COME
anywhere near the farm since last December. But when Rafe called, Emma was out the door before he hung up. She had no idea where Christian might be. He was probably on the road, and for all she knew he wouldn't be back until late tonight. Or even tomorrow. If something was wrong with the General, he'd never forgive her if she didn't show up and at least offer to help. After yesterday, she couldn't take that chance.

“Hurry!” Rafe had said on the phone.

Emma pulled off the narrow road that led to the farm. She had to put her own memories of this place on hold.
Just don't look
, she thought, then opened and closed the gate and swung into a parking space to brake in a spray of gravel. The lot held Rafe's truck, Grace's car, a luxury SUV Emma didn't recognize—and Christian's pickup. Thank heaven Rafe had reached him, too. Her heart began to hammer. He was here, even sooner than Emma was. She could turn around. Leave. Never come to this place again.

For a moment longer she stood beside her car, holding on to the door handle so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Go
, she thought.
You're not needed here now
. She wouldn't have to relive that dreadful day simply by walking into the barn. Yet she'd heard the fear in Rafe's voice. Taking a breath, she let go of the door handle, then crossed the parking area to the open barn doors.

But as she stepped out of bright daylight into the temporary gloom of the barn, even before her eyes could adjust, she ran right into a storm. In the indoor riding ring a woman was on the General's back, sawing at the reins as Emma, who was certainly no rider, might have done. The black-and-white horse's ears lay flat against his head and his dark eyes rolled as if in terror.

Emma backed up a step. Christian had stalked into the arena with Rafe at his heels. Grace was here, too, watching from her place against the wall.

The rider, decked out in new-looking breeches, boots, a tailored blazer and a safety helmet, jerked again at the reins. Even Emma knew that wasn't wise. A few strands of glossy black hair had escaped from the woman's loose knot at the base of her neck. She looked as if she were ready for a top-ranked national show but she wasn't acting like a pro.

“Get away from me,” she told Christian.

Instead, he reached for the bridle. “You're not riding him anymore. You made him colic the other day. Rafe says you never came back to see how he was.”

“I've been at the hospital,” she said, her hands taut on the reins, her mouth set. “My dad's out of danger but my mom still needs me. Riding was the last thing on my mind.”

“I understand that. You may be a good daughter, Hailey, but when you finally showed up here today, Rafe tells me you threw a saddle on this horse—never mind checking his feet or brushing his hide first—and now you're giving him contradictory aids. He doesn't know what you want him to do. Lighten your hands. Get down. Or I swear I'll haul you off this horse. He's still mine.”

“He's not really
your
horse,” she said. “I'm paying his board.”

“I should have trusted my instincts when we met. I don't care about the lease. You're done. If you have a problem with that, your lawyer can call mine.”

Unnoticed, Emma hung back by the entrance to the arena. After a few tense seconds, the woman sent Christian a steely look, then got off the horse.

“He has no manners,” she said. “I need a better-trained animal.”

“He's not just an animal! He's the General,” Grace suddenly said, charging across the arena. She'd been standing out of harm's way, but like Christian she'd apparently seen enough. Father and daughter had shared the horse once, and Grace obviously still had feelings for him, too.

Brushing hair and dust from her breeches, Hailey glared at her then at Rafe. “I should sue this farm—” She looked at Christian. “And you.”

Emma tensed.
Owen, in this same barn, by the General's stall, feeding him candy that last day and laughing...
and Emma thinking,
I'm late, I'm late.
Minutes after that, the horse had knocked her son into the dirt of his stall. Dangerous, she thought. Lethal. Why couldn't Christian see that? Maybe the woman had a point. Emma had heard of rogue stallions, and although the General was a gelding, and supposedly tame, she didn't trust him. He hadn't been tame enough for Owen.

The General was still prancing, his ears laid even flatter against his head. He pulled at the reins in Christian's hand. “I need to take care of this,” he said.

Grace took the reins. “I'll calm him down, Dad.”

Emma watched him and Rafe stride from the arena, after the rider whose boot heels rang on the concrete floor near the tack room. The two men followed her inside, then shut the door behind them.

“He's upset,” Grace said to Emma. Then she realized Grace meant the General. “I don't want this to be another bad experience for him.”

Grace led the General to the center of the ring, apparently intending to ride. She was an experienced rider, Emma told herself. Although she hadn't ridden in months, like Christian, she could handle him. And at least thick sawdust covered the floor of the ring. If the horse did act up and throw her, and Grace fell, the bedding might cushion the impact, but she could still get badly hurt—or worse. If she fell the wrong way and snapped her neck...

Emma had once admired horses for the beautiful animals they were but always from a distance. She knew now just how quickly tragedy could occur.

As Grace started to swing up into the saddle with the ease of long practice, Emma heard a door slam, probably in the tack room. Footsteps pounded down the barn aisle. Most likely, the woman who'd leased the General was leaving. In her rush to storm off, she'd forgotten or didn't care about the cardinal rule in barns everywhere. As herd animals, Grace had once told her, a horse's first instinct was to flee from danger. For all their size and power, they were timid.

The sudden noise spooked the General. He shied to one side and unseated Grace, who'd still been getting into the saddle. With a whoosh of breath, she pitched sideways, then flew off the horse to land on the ground with a jarring thud.

Emma froze. She wanted nothing to do with the General, and she still had cramps. Yet she'd answered Rafe's call, come to this barn again for the first time in a year and she couldn't let anything happen to Grace. She was Emma's daughter as much as she was Melanie's. Melanie had said so herself.
Grace has two mothers
.

There was no more time to think. The horse was loose now, still wild-eyed and dancing, his hooves bare inches from Grace, who was lying on the floor, moaning. Emma grabbed for the dangling reins—but in the instant her fingers closed around the leather, the General saw her in his peripheral vision. And bolted, dragging Emma with him.

She cried out. The walls sped by in a blurred flash.

“Let go!” Grace shouted.