The Rancher and the Rock Star

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “Hello young one,” he said. “Success?”

  “I got the job at Brenda’s.”

  “That okay?”

  “It’ll have to be for now.” She loved Ed—so blunt yet so non-judgmental. “What’s happening? Where are the kids?”

  “Dunno.” He looked up. “I figured they were inside.”

  “No. Did they go riding?”

  “I think all the four-leggers are here. I came to fix that bad hinge on this trunk, and I found a few nails to pound along the way. One of the stall doors was hanging kinda poorly.”

  “Oh, Ed, I don’t pay you enough for you to keep bailing me out.”

  “You don’t pay me nothing, missy, and you better not ever try.” He harrumphed when she kissed his craggy cheek.

  “I love you, Ed. So, where are my wayward children? There’s a tornado watch.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they’d searched every inch of the barn and pastures. All horses were accounted for. All tack was in place. Still, Abby didn’t panic until she went back up to Kim’s room and found several drawers ransacked and her daughter’s teddy bear and pillow missing. A search of Dawson’s room also turned up a missing pillow as well as no sign of his laptop.

  “Oh, dear God, Ed. He’s done it again. He’s run away and taken Kim with him.”

  “Those crazy kids. Did they leave a note?”

  No note, no messages on her computer, nothing could be found. At last, Ed picked up the phone and dialed his wife. When he smiled, Abby realized just how terrified she’d been.

  “Sylvia says she left you a voice message about an hour ago.”

  “Oh my gosh, how stupid of me.” Abby lifted the cordless off its base and heard the beeps indicating a new message. “I never checked.”

  “Hi Abby,” the message said. “Just thought I’d tell you your two crazy kids are sneaking around up here with backpacks and pillows. They’re hunkered down in the new tool shed out back now, and I figure I’ll let Ed go talk to ’em when he gets back from your place.”

  Relief filtered through her even as frustration boiled. She was going to strangle that boy to within an inch of his life.

  “I’ll go up. Wanna come along?”

  “You know what? You give ’em what for, send them back, and I’ll finish the job.”

  He grinned with the kind of relish only a trusted older person could pull off and left Abby to monitor the weather and the phone. He’d been gone just long enough to walk home, when Abby heard the faint but gut-wrenching warble of a civil defense siren. She’d never liked the undulating moans of those alarms, and this time her kids were in harm’s way. She waited impatiently for Ed to call with news they were safe. She jumped when the phone rang.

  “Ed?”

  “Abby?” His voice was too quick, too clipped. “Abby, them kids aren’t here. Sylvie says she saw them go into the shed an hour ago and never saw them come out. But they’re gone.”

  “Noooo.” She wailed to match the sirens. “Ed, please, check your basement. Check the extra rooms. Maybe they got nervous about the weather and are hiding until it blows over.”

  Kim and Dawson weren’t anywhere at the Mertzes’. As the winds increased with each passing minute, and as the TV and radio confirmed there were three tornados on the ground within ten miles of Kennison Falls, Abby dissolved into unadulterated hysteria.

  She called 911, and the dispatcher promised that even though all emergency vehicles were out and the children weren’t considered missing if they’d only been gone an hour or two, police would keep an eye open for two teenagers exposed to the storm. She knew she had to call Gray. He’d be rightfully furious if anything happened and he hadn’t been told. She imagined her own anger in the reverse situation.

  The wind howled like Halloween. In the ugly, eerie dimness, tree branches whipped all the way to the ground. Her fingers trembled as she dialed the number Gray had given her. The one Kim had used to call about Gucci.

  Tears clogged her throat. How could she have ignored the unbelievable lengths Gray must have gone to in order to get her horse back? Oh, how come you don’t answer? She got the voice-mail message: “Hey, you’ve reached Gray’s phone. Sorry it’s not really me. Leave your message and number and I’ll call you back.” His voice brought tears. The wind’s howl turned to an official roar.

  “Gray! It’s Abby. I need you to call me. Kim and Dawson have run off in the middle of a tornado warning. It’s about six o’clock.” She sobbed, feeling like a fool—she who prided herself on being the rock in a crisis. “We can’t find them and you need to know . . . I’m sorry.” She was just blathering. “Please call back.”

  She hung up. She redialed two more times. And then she remembered the piece of paper Spark had handed her before she’d left the party three nights ago. She jumped for her purse on the counter and dug frantically until she found her wallet. There. Spark’s cell phone number. She tried to still the violent quivering in her hands as she pressed the numbers. A small branch flew past her window.

  “Hello?”

  Abby sobbed with relief. “Spark? Spark, it’s Abby.”

  “Darlin’? Wha . . . wrong?” The line was static-filled and broken.

  “I need to find Gray. He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Calm down . . . went to . . . mother’s. Now tell . . . what’s happen . . . Dawson?”

  “Y . . . yes,” Abby struggled to stay calm. “He and Kim have run off, and we’re in the middle of a huge storm. T . . . tornadoes just miles away. Gray . . .” She knew from the dead air she’d lost the call. She dialed again, but there was no response. Cell phone, land line, everything was gone.

  A crash resounded from outside, and Abby screeched. A horrifying noise, like a jet about to land where it shouldn’t, roared toward her, and she called Roscoe desperately. He came. She called Bird, and even he came. Two slinking, shivery mounds of helpless fur. She grabbed them both to her and hunkered next to the innermost hallway wall. Bird growled. Roscoe leaned into her, licking her neck, as nervous as she was—Dorothy and Toto.

  “Please Lord. Please Lord. Please Lord.” She chanted the litany hoping God could read the rest of her prayer from her head. “Please, please, please . . .” The air smelled like ozone and smoke. She chanted until the jet flew straight over her head.

  THE AFTERMATH WAS pristine sunshine and glistening leaves like the movie Twister. Abby stood in her yard, shaking but alive, and Roscoe wagged his tail as if he’d protected her all along. Bird disappeared, no longer needing her. A disaster of twisted branches and leaves carpeted the lawn, and the rickety corncrib, as well as the garage roof, were no more. Her wildflowers lay sprawled flat like drunken party goers. Her heart wouldn’t leave her throat as she forced away images of what might have happened to her daughter and Dawson.

  She sprinted to the barn, praying she’d missed the children somehow. Three-fourths of the shingles were gone, and her old silo was ground into rubble, but the barn was intact, the hay was safe, and all the horses, although agitated, were fine. But all her searching and desperate calling turned up no sign of the kids.

  She dashed back up the driveway and past her house, panic fueling her strides. It took her and Roscoe five minutes of mud-slogging before she saw from a distance that Ed and Sylvia’s house still stood. Panting with her first spark of relief, she reached the top of the road, and a sob broke from her throat. Sylvia’s gorgeous lawn and flower beds looked like ground zero for a monster-truck rally. The small arena Ed had built for Kimmy when she’d been a little girl lay in a pick-up-sticks mess. She spotted her beloved neighbors, moving robotically through their shredded yard.

  “Abby!” Sylvia met her half-way across the muddy expanse. “You’re all right. Thank the Lord.” The older woman gathered her into a fierce embrace.

  “And you, too. Did the kids?” she asked, her heart wild in her chest.

&
nbsp; Sylvia’s sad, gray headshake sent Abby’s stomach into her toes as fresh horror built. No, she thought. No, they couldn’t be lost, not today, it would be too cruel. “Tomorrow is July twenty-fifth,” she said, her whisper strangled.

  Eleven years to the day since the accident.

  “We’ll find them.” Sylvia wept, stroking her hair. “We’ll find them, honey.”

  After another scouring of the Mertzes’ house, shed, and grounds turned up no sign of Kim or Dawson, they abandoned their houses and headed for town in Ed’s truck.

  What greeted them was horror.

  Only a fourth of beautiful Kennison Falls remained. The town’s residents filled the streets, milling like zombies, some sobbing, some sorting through the debris of a hundred bomb blasts. Twisted streetlamps littered the road, and the tatters of Independence Day flags lay in desecrated heaps. The year-old water tower was a tall amputated stump, and not a single old maple stood along Main Street.

  Sylvia stared, ghost-faced. Ed’s rounded, old knuckles protruded skeletally as he gripped his wheel. Abby buried her head between her knees, her stomach heaving in disbelief and panic, and Sylvia stroked her back with a heavy motion. “They’re all right, honey. They’re all right.”

  By dark everyone knew about the missing teens, and the town’s numbness was wearing off. As far as anyone could tell, Kim and Dawson were the only two humans unaccounted for. The toll on businesses, vehicles, venerable old trees, and landscaping was much higher. Dewey’s station was gone, the little library and its wonderful lions were gone, ten homes had been flattened. And, worst of all, the Loon Feather was a shell. The kitchen stood intact, three-and-a-half dining room walls remained, and several fragments of the huge mural remained, but half the roof had collapsed, along with the front entrance. There was no sign of her photos. No trace of Lester and Cotton’s cage. Even while she fought the horrifying knowledge that she was on the verge of losing another child, Abby wept for the stupid birds.

  When it was too dark to continue searching, Karla tried to talk her into coming home with her, but Abby insisted on returning with Ed and Sylvia in case the children found their way back. Once she made sure her animals were safe and fed, and Sylvia had ensconced her on the couch with a thick handmade quilt and a gallon of tea, Abby finally allowed herself to bawl in earnest. After there were no more tears left, she didn’t feel better, but Ed stopped keeping vigil.

  The pounding irritated her through the fog of a fitful sleep. She didn’t realize it was the door until the sharp, electronic bong of the doorbell frightened her awake.

  “Kimmy???” She threw off the quilt and yanked the front door open with no care for caution.

  Her breath caught. Gray stood on the porch, his eyes a wild mix of grief and concern. “Abby, Abby, thank God. You weren’t at your house, and I panicked.”

  She launched into his embrace with renewed sobs, and he held her until he could loosen her arms enough to set her feet back on the ground. “Honey,” he said in her ear, “I’ll hold you all night, but the neighbors are watching.”

  She pulled away and let Ed and Sylvia swarm Gray as if he were a long lost son.

  “I tried to call. I’m so sorry,” Abby told him.

  “I was already on my way here.” He held her on the couch, stroking her hair, imparting strength. “I had to come back, Abby, I couldn’t let things end like that between us. I didn’t get your message or Spark’s until I landed.”

  “You—you were coming back?”

  “Shhh. Yes. Don’t worry about that now. Let’s find the kids.” His grim face didn’t hold any promises, but his huge, calm presence gave her the ability to dig for hope.

  Gray nearly lost his composure, however, when he saw Main Street. Even at six in the morning it wasn’t deserted. Neighbors shared news, discussing the seven-mile path of the storm. Local media news crews already poked cameras and microphones in front of as many residents as would talk. Gray kept a low profile, choking back emotion as he walked through the rubble of downtown of Kennison Falls.

  Kim and Dawson remained the only two missing people. Sooner rather than later the reporters would pounce on Gray’s missing son. Abby dreaded this, but couldn’t even begin to contemplate keeping Gray’s name out of the media anymore. Nothing mattered. Nothing except her daughter and the boy who’d become her own surrogate son.

  Over a hundred volunteers showed up at seven to form search teams. Parties combed the park and trails for signs of the kids. Police interviewed residents and drivers outside of town. Classmates called every person Kim remotely knew to see if they’d heard from her.

  By nine o’clock, Abby, flabbergasted by the support but ten days’ worth of tired, stood beside Gray in the center of Main Street weeping in front of the tattoo parlor. It was one of a dozen businesses relatively unscathed, and all she knew was that she’d let Kim have three tattoos and get a giant kangaroo herself if her daughter would just turn up alive and well.

  “Yo! Abby! Gray! Y’all look lost, man!”

  Abby spun. Down the leaf-and-branch-strewn street marched Miles flanked by Spark, Lindsey, Misty, Micky. And Elliott.

  “We couldn’t let you face this alone.” Micky reached Gray first and dragged him into an embrace. “Wick and Max will be here this afternoon. There were storms in L.A. last night, too.”

  Lindsey and Misty swarmed Abby like sisters. Spark gifted everyone with his incredible, unwavering calm. And nobody blamed her for the loss of the children.

  She did that all by herself.

  The horrible memories of the date grew stronger as the day wore on. Abby put one foot in front the other, numb, terrified, silent. Clinging to Gray, helpless except to let the town’s countless angels coordinate the search for her children, she stood with him in front of the library in a rare moment alone. He gathered her close with both arms, rubbing as if warming her. Her first tears of the day fell.

  “I know, I know,” he crooned. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s not, though.” She burrowed into his hold, unable to avoid telling him any longer. “This is it. This is the date it all happened.”

  “What?”

  “The accident.” The words whispered past her lips.

  “Today?” His incredulity was all-encompassing. “Oh, God, Abby, no. It can’t be.”

  “I can’t do it. I can’t live through it again.” Sobs wracked her, but Gray startled her by pushing her an arm’s-length away.

  “That is not what’s going to happen this time.” Harsh lines of promise etched his beautiful face. “We are going to find them. Do you hear me? We’ll find them.”

  We. She wanted to believe his words. Wanted to believe in the we. She pushed back into his arms and tried.

  Wicks and Max arrived as promised and were eagerly adopted by a team based in the park. Miles set his substantial frame to helping dig through rubble and dilapidation. Micky, Spark, and the women drifted to wherever they were needed. And Elliott, no camera in sight, attached himself to Gray and Abby—a self-appointed bodyguard, keeping unwanted questioners at bay.

  Inevitably, the media closed in, and with them swarmed the paparazzi. In one of the day’s very few positives, Abby discovered another wonderful thing about her town. Once the residents of Kennison Falls found out the rag photographers were gunning for Gray or Abby, it didn’t take any police force to keep the intruders at bay. The tattered town adopted Gray immediately and thoroughly, and between the stoic citizens and Elliott, no outsiders got within fifty yards of the singer they’d finally found.

  Just before three o’clock, Abby, grimy and exhausted, stood with Spark in front of the Loon Feather for the twentieth time that day, unable to resist a pull to the spot. The millionth and millionth-and-first tears of the day coursed from her eyes for her children, her birds, her haven in town. Gray, Elliott, and Ed were across the street, talking to Dewey. Disaster made for
strange bedfellows.

  “Gray told me about this place,” Spark said. “He says it’s where he fell in love with this little town.”

  “It’s heartbreaking. Did he tell you about the cockatiels?”

  Spark nodded. “Yeah. Dawson teaching the one to talk.”

  “I can’t bear . . .” The words wedged in her throat, and for the briefest moment full silence reigned. Not a single shout or crash from a thrown piece of debris marred the quiet. Then she heard it. She strained, listening, and her heart threw itself against her ribcage. “Spark? Did you hear something?” Faint, muffled, it came again.

  The “Colonel Bogey March.”

  “Gray!!!” she shrieked, scrambling toward the wreckage of the café. “Gray! Here!!”

  Thirty seconds later, fifteen people piled into the debris, and Spark shushed them all frantically, his calm shattered for the first time.

  “Lester?” Abby cried. “Lester sing to me, sweetie. Cotton?”

  She listened a long—a very long—moment until a wolf whistle emanated from beneath a pile of countertop. With a heave from three strong men, including Gray, Dewey, and gentle, gorgeous Miles, a space in the hollow of a wall cupboard opened up, and there, safe and sound, sat the cage no one had expected to see again. Lester flapped and squawked, then burst into “Andy Griffith.” Cotton bobbled her head up and down, up and down, up and down.

  Miles let fly a whoop that made Cotton shriek. “They’s the famous birds! Dog, this is a good sign. A good sign.”

  Abby smiled and pressed her face against the cage, eyes streaming, momentarily relieved. “Good boy. Good girl,” she cooed.

  “How-dee stray. How-dee stray. How-dee stray-jer.” A shock through her heart sent Abby stumbling backward. Gray caught her, his arms circling her torso. “How-dee stray-jer.”

  “What’s she saying?” Spark asked.

  “Howdy stranger.” Abby’s voice shook. “She only says that for one person. Gray? Oh please, Lord. Gray??” Her body and her vocal chords shook with a violent tremor.