When Kara finally called a little while ago, Allyson had cried. It wasn't just a question of faith now—she knew. Henry and Lillian were at Stonebrook Cottage, and they were fine.
"They spun a wild tale to get me to bring them up here without telling anyone," Kara said. "I'm not to the bottom of it yet, but that's okay. You're the mom. I'll leave all that to you."
"God only knows what they were thinking, running off like that." Allyson knew she was breathing too rapidly, but couldn't seem to stop herself. "It was such a relief when we realized they'd gone to Austin."
"I'd have called you the minute they showed up, but I promised them—" Kara broke off, sounding exhausted. "It's their story to tell. When can you get here?"
"I could come now, but maybe it'd be best if I came in the morning. It's a little over an hour's drive, and Hatch and I still haven't told Madeleine about the kids. Let me get my ducks in a row. Is it okay? Henry and Lillian will be okay overnight?"
"Morning's fine, Allyson. Don't worry about it. It's late as it is, and we could all use a quiet night." Kara yawned, and Allyson thought her friend sounded remarkably calm and sane under the circumstances. "We'll hang out here and wait for you. There's food in the cupboards. It's not a problem."
"Kara, I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry this happened. We've had such a terrible summer, and I thought going to Texas would be good for them. They were looking forward to seeing where you lived. I thought they'd like it—"
"I don't think being in Texas is the problem. They're right here. Do you want to talk to them?"
Allyson's heart jumped. "Yes, but I—my God, what do I say to them? They've put us all through hell! If I hadn't put my foot down and insisted I trusted you, there'd be a nationwide alert, it'd be all over the news—"
"You'll know what to say."
And she did. As her children took turns talking to her, Allyson told them not to worry, she loved them, she'd be there as soon as she could in the morning. She tried to sound caring and reasonable, not like a crazy woman who'd lost her children for twenty-four hours. Of course they'd run to Kara. She was their godmother, their mother's best friend, and she was right there in Austin. They would know they could trust her, that she wouldn't judge them. Kara tried to hide her vulnerabilities behind her legal expertise, her keen intelligence, but Allyson knew better—Kara Galway was inde-pendent-minded, smart and capable, but part of her was still the little girl trapped next to her dying mother, helpless to save her.
Allyson had smiled through her tears after she'd hung up with her children. She needed to maintain a certain self-control or people would wonder what more was wrong with her, perhaps even question her ability to serve as governor. She didn't want that. She was beginning to enjoy her new role and the opportunities it presented, far beyond what she could accomplish as lieutenant governor, in Mike's shadow. She missed him deeply, but she had work to do, starting with figuring out what was going on with Henry and Lillian. Then she had to get rid of her anonymous caller.
If only Pete were here now. He'd be reassuring, unconditionally on her side and everyone else be damned. Allyson couldn't imagine going on without him, but to have him in her life meant going up against powerful forces—her mother-in-law, Hatch, the people who wouldn't tolerate having a governor in love with a working-class guy with a criminal record. And there was how all the controversy would affect her children.
Hatch rapped on the open door to her study, and she motioned him in, inviting him to sit down. He was forty-seven now, the same age Lawrence had been when he died, but he looked older, more world-weary. His reaction to the news of Kara's call was predictable. "She should have gotten in touch with me first."
Allyson smiled. "Kara does things her own way. You know that. I'm just glad the kids are all right and this latest turmoil is over."
"Is it over?" Hatch asked softly.
"Yes, of course."
She tried to sound confident, in control. It would be so easy to let Hatch take over and just do as he told her. He could be the power behind her, make all the tough decisions. He didn't like being out front and wouldn't care if she got all the credit—and any criticism. But even in her darkest mood, Allyson resisted, instinctively preserving her independence.
She gave a small laugh, thinking of her children. "Those two rascals. They've led us all on a merry chase, haven't they? I can't wait to see them."
"You'll go in the morning?"
She nodded.
"We'll need to issue a statement explaining their little misadventure to the media before word of it breaks loose. We can do it in an open-and-shut way. I think it should come from a spokesperson—"
"No, it should come from me. I'm their mother."
Hatch didn't push her, but she knew it wasn't because he was satisfied. She could sense his concern for her, his questions, and, when he left, his lingering annoyance with Kara. But that was to be expected. Hatch was always annoyed with Kara, and undoubtedly still in love with her.
Pete laughed at Billie Corrigan as she yawned over her first beer of the night in the dive that was O'Reilly's Pub. "Come on, Billie, one beer and you're falling asleep?"
She scowled at him. "I've been on my feet since eight o'clock this morning."
"Wienie hours." Pete raised his beer to her. "I've been working since 5:00 a.m."
"Yeah, well, you're a farmer boy. I'm a city girl."
Pete drank, wondering why the hell he'd come here. He liked Billie, at least. She wasn't nearly as uptight as her big brother. She and Hatch shared the late, unmourned Frankie Corrigan for a father, but had different mothers. Billie was raised in New York by her crazy waitress-actress mother, Hatch in Bluefield by Madam Madeleine. Billie seemed to get a kick out of her brother's lofty upbringing more than anything else.
She'd moved up to Bluefield after watching her father fall to his death in a drunken haze five years ago. She had a good reputation and seemed to make a decent living as a caterer and party planner, not that Pete had ever hired her. She was redheaded, blue-eyed and buxom, and he knew he could have her for the asking.
She had stuffed herself into a white shirt and jeans that seemed a size too small. Pete tried not to notice. He seldom went out for a beer since his release from jail, but tonight was different. Charlie had heard word that Henry and Lillian had skipped out of their dude ranch and were on the loose in Texas, probably making their way to Kara Galway in Austin. Pete tried calling Allyson at the Stockwell Farm, as a neighbor who might help, nothing more. He'd decided to tell her about the tree house, in case it had anything to do with the kids' behavior.
But Hatch, that officious prick, answered and said she was back in Hartford, and he was headed there himself. There was no getting around Hatch Corrigan. The guy always treated Pete as if he was beneath the Stockwells—a hell of a nerve seeing how Hatch's old man had broken his damn neck because he was a drunk. Allyson didn't come from big money, although she hadn't grown up poor. Her father was a doctor in New Haven.
The "real" Stockwells were Hatch's half brother Lawrence, who was dead, and Lawrence's children, Henry and Lillian. They were the ones with the money. But Lawrence had treated everyone with dignity and respect. It didn't matter where they were from, who their parents were, what they did for a living. Allyson was trying to raise Henry and Lillian with that same egalitarian attitude—she wanted them just to be regular kids.
But Pete didn't want to be too hard on Hatch. Allyson could have called and told him about the kids if she'd wanted to.
"I hear one more word about fucking bluebirds," Billie said, "and I'm going to scream. I mean it. I'll start dismantling every bluebird house within fifty square miles."
Pete laughed. "You wouldn't. Ethel Smith would string you up."
Billie groaned at the mention of Ethel's name. "I ran into her in town this afternoon, and she was muttering about how long a juvenile bluebird with a broken leg could last in chlorinated water. She was miffed at the very idea of chlorinated water."
&
nbsp; "She was my first-grade teacher," Pete said.
"God, she must be a hundred years old."
"She took up birds when she retired. People are going to keep talking about bluebirds until they accept the fact that Big Mike drowned because he couldn't swim."
Billie sighed, shaking her head, her blue eyes filling with tears. "I saw him the night before he died, you know. He had that cocktail party for a few of his political friends—"
"Yeah, I heard about it."
"He was so full of life."
Pete sipped his beer. "That was Big Mike."
She nodded. "I didn't know him that well, but that's what everyone tells me. Well." She smiled, stifling another yawn and looking as if she couldn't stay up another minute. "What're you up to?"
"I'm finishing this beer and hitting the sack."
Something flashed in her shining blue eyes—desire, yearning—but it was gone again in an instant, and Pete wondered if he wasn't seeing what he wanted to see. A few hours in bed with Billie Corrigan might purge him of Allyson. But he felt disloyal even thinking it, as if he'd dirtied himself, her, their love. He knew Allyson loved him. She was just caught between a rock and a hard place now that Big Mike was dead and she was governor. She had things she needed to figure out.
When Billie eased off her stool, her breast brushed against his arm. He could feel the soft weight of it, the nipple straining against her too-small shirt. She must have noticed their contact but smiled at him as if she didn't. "I'm not starting work until nine tomorrow. I guess that's lunchtime for you."
He turned on his stool and watched the swing of her hips as she headed out. He still could feel the touch of her breast. Billie wasn't forbidden. She wasn't a Stock-well, a wannabe Stockwell or a governor. She was a working stiff like he was, and she wouldn't lose a sec-ond's sleep if she fell for a man with a minor criminal record. Everything about the way she moved, laughed, dressed said she was available. Why the hell not?
Pete spun back around and finished his beer. Just as well Allyson was in Hartford. If she were here, nothing would have stopped him from sneaking through the woods to her bedroom in the converted barn on Stockwell Farm. He didn't care if she had round-the-clock bodyguards now that she was governor. She'd have to sic them on him.
He couldn't remember wanting her as much as he did right now.
And wasn't that just his tough damn luck? Allyson had dumped him. He was just too stubborn—too in love with her—to admit the obvious.
It took two bowls of Ben & Jerry's Nutty Waffle Cone for Henry to actually admit the letter from his mother was a forgery. Kara hadn't waited for his confession before calling Allyson and explaining at least some of what had transpired in the past twenty-four hours.
When she'd decided to let Henry and Lillian call the shots and operate under the premise that she was taking them at their word, Kara understood she'd have to leave her friend in the dark about the exact whereabouts of her children longer than was necessary. But that was the risk she had to take, because Henry and Lillian were her priority, not Allyson, and something was terribly wrong with them.
The admonition not to call, not to talk to anyone, had been artful on Henry and Lillian's part, Kara had to admit. It bought them time and got them back to Connecticut.
"I had no choice," Henry said. "I had to do it."
"He didn't do it. I did." Lillian spoke in a small voice; she was shrunk down in her seat at the wooden table, painted a summery green, in the middle of the kitchen. "His cursive isn't as good as mine."
"It was my idea."
"Let's not argue about who did what." Kara shook her head in amazement. She'd had a spoonful of the rich ice cream, leaving the rest to the kids. "In all my years as a defense attorney, I've never even heard of a couple of middle-schoolers conning their godmother with a forged letter from their mother."
Lillian protested. "Kids at school forge their moms' names all the time!"
"Because they don't want their moms to know about a detention, not because they want their godmother to believe they're in danger." Kara couldn't muster any real anger at them. The reasons for what they did were still not clear to her. Why such drama? How had they feigned such real, palpable fear last night? She sighed. "What if I'd been arrested for kidnapping you?"
Lillian's eyes widened, but her brother scoffed. "You wouldn't have been arrested, Aunt Kara. We'd have said something."
"You don't know my brother. He's a mean-assed Texas Ranger. Be glad we got out of Texas a step ahead of him." And a step ahead of Ranger Temple, Kara thought. "Are you two going to tell me what all this is really about? Sneaking off to see me is a big step. Why didn't you just call me and say you needed me? You know I'd have come in a heartbeat."
"We didn't want to risk it," Henry said.
Lillian sputtered into tears. "We miss you. We miss Big Mike—"
"And we are in danger," Henry said, fighting back tears of his own. "It's just that Mom doesn't know. We don't want to worry her."
"Oh, so scare the living daylights out of the godmother instead." Kara leaned back in her sturdy wooden chair, listened a moment to crickets outside in the warm night. What was she doing? These kids needed a kind of help she couldn't offer. She'd moved away on them, and Big Mike had died on them. Two losses in a year. They were reeling. She leaned forward, touching Henry's hand, surprised at how cold it was. "Henry, what kind of danger are you in?"
His clear blue eyes leveled on her, his Stockwell jaw set, as if he was trying to look older than twelve. He didn't. He was a kid. A troubled kid. "What we told you about the man who followed us is true."
"Did you see him at my house last night or did you make that up?"
Lillian's spoon clattered into her empty ice cream dish. "I saw him. I did."
"All right." Kara didn't want to upset them further by arguing. "So you've got some creep on your tail. We'll look into it."
Henry shot up out of his chair. "No! Aunt Kara! You can't tell anyone! You promised!"
She held up a hand, careful this time not to get sucked into his emotion. "Okay, I'll look into it. You guys were pretty tired last night. Maybe you just think you saw this man. Maybe he's just a regular guy who works at the ranch, and you two got spooked—"
"No." Lillian solemnly shook her head. "He doesn't work at camp."
"And he's not a pedophile," Henry added.
Kara nearly choked. "Pedophile? Jeez, Henry."
He shrugged, matter-of-fact now. "Mom says it's better to know people like that exist than to pretend they don't."
"Forewarned is forearmed," Lillian said, obviously quoting their mother.
Kara shook her head. "I'd never even heard the word pedophile until I was in law school."
The kids seemed pleased by her admission of ignorance, even if it was somewhat exaggerated. She'd known a few things before leaving her father's house and heading north—how to fly planes, shoot a gun, run a half-marathon, deal with an older brother and a father who wanted nothing more than to remove the image of her dead mother from her memory. They didn't take that failure, the impossibility of it, well.
What had Henry and Lillian seen? What did they have imprinted on their memories forever? Something. She was sure of it.
"I know you two are grieving for Big Mike."
Kara got to her feet, her muscles aching, her stomach rolling over. She felt a little dizzy but hung on to a corner of the table, steadying herself. The kitchen, with its white cabinets and brightly colored dishes, was unchanged from her first visit here in law school. Everything was gleaming, spotless, the country decor deceptively casual and easy. Texas suddenly seemed very far away.
"And it can't be easy having your mother suddenly faced with all the responsibilities of being governor," she went on. "I don't know, I might feel a little swept aside—"
Henry rolled his eyes. "That's not it. We're in danger."
"Why? You're kids."
"We saw Big Mike drown."
Henry spit out the words a
s if he was challenging her to doubt him. He had his hands clenched in fists, his lips smacked tightly shut. His face turned red, and he blinked back tears even as he continued to stare at his godmother in defiance. Kara had no idea whether to believe him.
Lillian stared at her empty dish.
Their fear was real. Kara hadn't gotten it wrong last night—it had been real then, too. Whether or not they were spinning another tale, something serious was going on with these children.
She forced herself to stay calm. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"We were up in our tree house, and we saw him through our binoculars. It was an accident." Henry pushed back his hair, spiked with sweat, his breathing rapid, excited. "I saw him first. I yelled, then Lillian looked, and she saw him."
Jesus. Kara fell back on her experience as an attorney. Ask sensible questions, don't react to answers. "Where is this tree house of yours?"
"It's on the hill above the gravel pit," Henry said. "We can see everything from up there. Mostly we watch the big trucks and sifters and things. They're so cool."
"I think they're loud," Lillian said.
"Does your mother know about the tree house?" Kara asked.
"No one knows. It's in a tree real close to the edge of the pit—Mom'd make us take it down. Charlie Jericho almost caught us once. He'd kill us."
Kara didn't doubt it. Charlie was a hard-bitten old grouch most people liked in spite of his irascibility, but she supposed he wouldn't want to see the kids get hurt. "You can see the house Big Mike rented from up there?"
Henry nodded. "Only with our binoculars."
Lillian continued to stare at her ice-cream dish. "We saw the deep end of his swimming pool," she said without looking up. "He was floating on his stomach. I thought he looked funny. I didn't know he was in trouble. Henry did."
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