Lost And Found Family. Leigh Riker
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
December...
I’M LATE, Emma Mallory thought, feeling like the White Rabbit. I’m so late.
She had a million things left on the day’s to-do list. When did she not?
With a sigh of frustration, she glanced down the main aisle of the barn. She’d already tried walking toward the doors that led to the parking area, but Owen hadn’t followed her.
Her three-year-old still stood on his tiptoes, trying to look through the bars of a stall at his father’s horse. She didn’t know who loved that horse more, her little boy or her husband.
And where was Christian? He’d promised to meet them here after work. She’d had barely any time to stop tonight, and now none at all.
She couldn’t wait any longer. She hated to break Owen’s heart but, really, an hour here had turned into two.
“Owen,” she called.
“One more minute,” he said, reaching up to run his fingers over the brass nameplate that read General Robert E. Lee.
And Emma’s heart turned over. She always had a hard time saying no to him. “We’ll visit the General another day,” she said. “I promise.”
He shook his head, blond hair flying, and pulled a plastic bag from his miniature jeans’ pocket. “Daddy promised I could ride. And I have gummy bears, too. I share them with General.”
“No, say goodbye,” Emma said, “then come get in your car seat.”
She started back down the aisle to the wide-open doors. The last rays of sunlight slanted through them, and motes of dust danced in the air. The barn smelled of hay and horseflesh, neither of them Emma’s favorite, but she hadn’t wanted to deny Owen this treat. At almost four now—how time did fly—he was her darling boy. She even smiled to herself. Sooner or later, most likely sooner, Owen would be asking for his own pony. And Emma already had a surprise planned for Christmas.
She was at the doors to the barn when her cell phone rang. Emma checked the display and inwardly groaned. Wouldn’t you know? She glanced toward the indoor arena, where her nineteen-year-old stepdaughter was probably still gazing into the eyes of her boyfriend, the barn’s new trainer. She’d give Grace a chance to make her goodbyes, too, while she answered this call. Emma stepped into the tack room. It would only take a minute.
Actually, it took five.
By the time she’d finished arguing with one of her troublesome clients, the aisle was empty. Maybe Grace had herded Owen out to the car.
Emma took a few steps, then halted.
The raw chill in the air outside penetrated her wool pants and even her coat, making her shiver. She was already multitasking, thinking about what she needed from the market on her way home. And she’d have a few choice words for Christian, who hadn’t shown up yet.
Emma checked the parking area but saw no one in the car. She turned—and heard a shrill whinny, then a thud. The sounds had come from farther along the aisle, and all at once, with fear rising in the back of her throat, Emma was running. The General’s stall door stood half open. A small footstool used for mounting horses lay on its side nearby.
Emma cried out, “Owen!”
Her voice echoed through the barn.
And all their lives changed forever.
Late October, the next year...
IT WAS THE silence that bothered Emma most.
She couldn’t get used to the lack of everyday noise: doors slamming, the TV blaring, Owen giggling while Christian tickled him. Daddy, more! Owen calling from his room for one last drink of water before he went to sleep. If only...now, even the dog had stopped barking to greet her at the end of the day.
With a familiar sense of dread, Emma set her bulging tote bag on the desk next to the kitchen counter. A place for everything and everything in its place were the words she’d lived by since she was a child.
Until last December, her life had often seemed—for the first time—normal. The way she liked it. The feeling was even more important now—but much harder to come by.
Emma headed for the great room to find Bob, their Gordon setter, but as she’d expected the dog didn’t move. Its dark, plumy tail thumped once against the forbidden sofa cushion, then flopped back again.
“That dog is depressed,” Grace had said the last time she came to visit.
“Dogs don’t get depressed.”
“Yes they do. Of course they do. Just look at her face.”
“Bob has never adjusted, that’s all,” Emma had said, trying to lighten the moment. “Her name should have been Roberta or at least Bobbie.”
Owen had named the female setter, a gift from his grandfather, after SpongeBob Squarepants, his favorite cartoon character. “My puppy is a boy, like me,” he’d insisted. Finally Christian had convinced him otherwise, but by then, of course, Bob was already Bob.
“It’s not about her name,” Grace had murmured.
And that was true. Life was different now.
Back in the kitchen, Emma took a moment to line up the items that someone—it had to be Christian—had moved: dishwashing detergent, hand cream, the yellow-and-blue ceramic container they’d bought in Greece two years ago, which held a bright nylon scrubby. The beechwood knife block beside it looked a bit off to Emma. There. That was better.
She didn’t kid herself. Emma had compulsive tendencies. But the habit had served her well as a professional organizer. Now such tiny routines held her together.
Emma reached for the detergent again, then stopped herself. She’d have to tell Christian what had happened at work.
When she heard his pickup in the driveway, she tensed. Before she could collect herself, he strode in, bringing the sharp, clean scent of outdoors and the smokier aroma of a neighbor’s fireplace burning sweet applewood.
Emma barely glanced at him. His dark hair, those gray-green eyes she’d fallen for the day they’d met...even the sight of him made her heart hurt. Months ago he would have come up behind her, nuzzled her neck and kissed her nape in greeting.
Slipping past her, looking tall and handsome in his pinstriped suit, he almost brushed Emma’s shoulder reaching around her for a glass in the cupboard. Not seeming to notice that she avoided his touch, he took a container of sweet tea from the fridge. “How was your day, Em?”
“Long. Frustrating,” she admitted.
“Mine,