High-Stakes Homecoming. Suzanne Mcminn
in her throat and took the stairs in bounds. The house was filled with old, original wood paneling that made dark corners everywhere in the dead of night, though it could be beautiful by day. The flashlight bounced gold globes of light as she raced up, Flash right behind her. The wall was lined with old photographs, some in sepia, some in black-and-white. It was a wall of eyes, and sometimes she thought it was the creepiest part of the farmhouse.
Birdie’s room was the first one to the right. Bed, empty. She whirled, ran to her own room to see if Birdie had gone in there.
“Birdie!”
Her bed—empty, too.
She called her daughter’s name again. Flash barked, as if picking up on her distress. No response. Dammit, dammit, dammit! And she’d been down there in the road, worrying about a calf.
Willa flew back down the hall, down the stairs, past all those eyes, back into the front parlor, nearly tripping over Flash in the process. No Birdie.
She could hear the boom of her heart.
Birdie’s favorite stuffed horse lay at the foot of the antique rocker in one corner. Interlocking blocks scattered across the green and blue-rag area rug between the stone fireplace and the old, brown suede sofa. Crayon drawings and worn-down colors occupied an old camp box that served as a coffee table.
Panic shifted to full throttle.
What if Birdie had gone outside to look for her—fallen down, gotten hurt? Maybe she was even unconscious. Dead in a ditch. Her mother’s mind leaped to every worst-case scenario. She wanted to call the police, but surely that was silly. She hadn’t even looked outside yet.
And the phone was dead anyway.
She could drive out for help; but what if Birdie came back? She had to be here for Birdie. She had to find Birdie. Alone, in the storm. Oh, God. She ran for the door.
A sudden, heavy pounding on the front door nearly had her jumping out of her skin. She stopped short. Penn. She’d totally forgotten about Penn.
“Willa! Open up!”
She didn’t want to talk to Penn. She didn’t want to see Penn. No way was she opening that door. There was no pretending she was all big and bad, when she was in a total panic.
Tears, absolutely unallowable, pathetic, weak tears burst right down her cheeks. She swiped at them roughly. Birdie. She had to think about Birdie.
She forced her feet to eat up the last few steps, flung the door wide.
“Willa—”
“My daughter’s missing,” she interrupted him.
“What?”
“My daughter is missing! I’m afraid she went outside. I’m afraid she went looking for me. I’m afraid…”
Tears, clogging her throat. She didn’t want Penn Ramsey’s help. She didn’t want anyone’s help, but least of all his. And he was staring at her like she was out of her mind.
Which, of course, she was.
She pushed past him. Screw him. Stupid of her to think he’d help.
Powerful arms hauled her back. Back against a chest so hard, so warm, so…Oh God! So capable—so what she needed right now. A strong, capable man, when she was in a panic.
What was wrong with her? A man was the last thing she wanted ever again, for the rest of her life. Stop falling apart, she ordered herself.
He turned her in his arms and he was right there, a breath away. Her arms were mashed to his chest, the flashlight pointed upward, illuminating the cut of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, the disturbing intensity of his eyes.
Her pulse thumped off the charts.
“Do you have another flashlight?” he demanded.
She shook—fear, or something else, she had no idea. Her brain had up and quit. Flashlight. He asked for a flashlight. He was going to help her find Birdie. And she was going to force herself to let him, because Birdie was more important than her pride or her self-sufficiency or even this house.
“I—yes.” She ran to the kitchen, flung the drawer open so hard it fell on the floor. She dropped to her knees, using the flashlight to find the flashlight, scattering fallen kitchen tools and notepads and nonsense out of her way.
She bounded back to her feet and nearly barreled right into Penn. He took the other flashlight out of her trembling hand. She felt the warmth of his fingers brush hers, electric.
Scary.
She felt tears on her cheeks again.
“Willa.” His voice, searingly soft now, froze her to the worn, hardwood floor. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find her.”
She swallowed hard, nodded. “Of course.” She had to find Birdie. Had to. And would. No other outcome was tolerable.
But she didn’t believe everything was going to be okay. Not so long as he stayed.
Chapter 3
They were both already soaked to the skin, and going back out into this wild storm was only going to make things worse. But there was no other choice. A dog bounded up behind her, barking.
“Get a jacket, Willa.”
She looked at him blankly, then turned, told the dog to hush and opened a closet near the front door to grab a rain slicker. She put it on, pulling the hood over her head, and moved past him to the door that was still standing open wide, the dog trotting right after her. She avoided meeting Penn’s eyes. She looked small in the oversize slicker. The short, wispy cut of her hair revealed every delicate line of her features, features that looked fragile now, like glass ready to shatter.
But she was tougher than she looked, he knew that.
He followed her out onto the wide, covered farmhouse porch. Old rocking chairs with peeling paint lined up in front of the house, the way they always had. A porch swing’s chains rattled in the wind at the far end.
“How old is your daughter?”
“She’s four.”
Four. God. This wild night was no place for a four-year-old child. No wonder Willa looked like she was about to go crazy.
“You’re positive she’s not in the house?”
“Of course I’m positive she’s not in the house!”
“Where’s the other one?” The other one that should be almost fourteen now.
“What other one?” she asked impatiently. Then…She now met his eyes. “There is no other one.”
She walked away from him.
“Birdie!” she shouted, her voice hopelessly lost in the wind and rain.
There is no other one. He shouldn’t even want to explore that, and now wasn’t the time to find out what had happened to the baby Willa had been carrying the day he’d walked away. It hadn’t been his baby, anyway. And this wasn’t the time to think about that betrayal, either.
He hurried after Willa and the stumpy-legged mutt that kept pace with her. She’d asked for his help, but he was damn sure she didn’t really want it. She loved her daughter—that was clear, too.
Loved her enough to ask him for help.
He caught up with her at the bottom of the porch steps, reached for her arm to stop her.
“It’s important right now not to race off in a hundred directions,” he said grimly. “Does she have any favorite places on the farm? Hiding spots? We’ll search there and the barn, then we go back and call the police if we don’t find her.”
“The phones are out already.”
“Then we go for