Finding Hope (Nugget Romance 2) Page 8

  His rules: Don’t spend more than you need, invest wisely, and live a happy, honorable life.

  “If you think this Nugget is a place where you can find peace, then go there and flourish,” Morris had said.

  Morris did some research and several days later told Griff about Sierra Heights. If Griffin decided he liked the development, he and Morris would map out a game plan. Now, Griffin considered throwing a second idea into the mix.

  “Hello, Mr. Parks. Is there something we can assist you with?” The woman who had checked him in the night before stood behind the front desk.

  “Yes,” he said. “Would you mind giving me directions to the Gas and Go?”

  Ten minutes later, Griff headed toward what he hoped would be his destiny.

  Chapter 7

  “I’m afraid my daughter will come home and find me gone,” Emily nervously told the room.

  She hadn’t planned on speaking at her first meeting, but when the director prodded her to say a few words it made it awkward for her to refuse. How could she sit there mum, like a voyeur, while everyone else told their heart-wrenching stories?

  The woman before her had lost her spouse to an armed robber. The masked man pumped four bullets into her husband before grabbing eighty-seven dollars and fourteen cents from the cash register of the couple’s liquor store.

  “Three weeks ago I moved more than two hundred miles away from the only home Hope ever had,” Emily continued. “I couldn’t afford to stay there anymore. And emotionally, the memories were killing me. But what if she breaks free from whoever took her? What if she comes back to find a houseful of strangers? She’ll think I gave up on her.”

  “No,” said the previous speaker in her thick Indian accent. “The new residents will call the police and you will be reunited with your daughter.”

  Emily closed her eyes. “This is the worst, but sometimes I want to give up. I’ve read the statistics. They’re horrible. Forty percent of kidnapped children are murdered—killed within the first three hours of being taken. I know that the longer Hope’s gone, the greater the chances are that she’s dead. How can I live a normal life, always waiting for the call?”

  She’d never told anyone that before. Not even Drew, who once upon a time she’d accused of losing faith. “The thing is, I’m incapable of giving up. Every time the phone rings, I think this could be it. Until I have definitive proof, nothing can keep me from believing that she is still alive. Nothing.”

  “You can never give up hope,” the Indian woman agreed. “But you must also learn to live a normal life—for your own sanity. And for your daughter.”

  And therein was the difficulty. How do you try for normal when the unknown holds unspeakable imaginings? Elizabeth Smart. Jaycee Dugard. She knew their stories inside and out.

  Hope had been younger than those girls when she’d disappeared, and small for her age, only in the tenth percentile for weight and height. Emily and Drew used to say Hope was mini but mighty, especially her heart, which had the rare capacity at the tender age of six to feel enormous empathy. Often, Hope would accompany Emily into San Francisco for lunches with friends, or shopping excursions. Once, they’d gone to a matinee performance of Peter and the Wolf and had to walk through a particularly seedy part of the city to get to the theater.

  “Mommy, why do those men sleep under the bridge?” Hope had whispered, staring curiously at an encampment of vagrants with their shopping carts, makeshift tents, and tattered sleeping bags. “Can’t they go home and sleep in their beds?”

  Emily had struggled with what to tell her daughter and ultimately decided to go with the truth. “They don’t have homes, baby.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they don’t have enough money.”

  “Can they come live with us? We have a big house and lots of money.”

  Emily had stood there, wondering how to explain that not everyone was trustworthy and that some of the men could even be dangerous, without discouraging Hope from being generous and kind. “No, baby. There are better ways to help.”

  “Like how?” Hope had wanted to know.

  “By helping them find homes of their own.”

  “When can we start?” Hope had put her hands on her tiny hips, unwilling to be patronized.

  “I’ll do some research when we get home,” Emily had said. “But now we’ve got to get going before we’re late for the performance.”

  Hope had taken one last sad look at the camp and had let Emily lead her away by the hand.

  The memory burned in Emily’s chest, inflaming the ache that was always there like a firebrand. She wanted to try for normal. She really did. She’d like to cook with the Baker’s Dozen. She’d like to go to parties, meet friends for coffee, and buy herself pretty clothes.

  And have sex. She missed being touched and held and the physical connection that came with intimacy. It was almost as if she’d shriveled up and ceased to exist.

  Baby steps, she told herself. Just attending this meeting, talking to other victims, had been a huge milestone. And Emily would come again, because if she wanted to return to the land of the living, she couldn’t do it without help. For a long time she’d deluded herself into thinking that she wasn’t like the rest of these families. That Hope was alive somewhere and would someday come home, safe and sound.

  But Emily now knew that until Hope returned, she needed to lean on people who understood her plight. Perhaps it had been Clay who had finally convinced her. If a self-possessed cowboy, tough enough to fight wars and run a cattle ranch, could defer to a shrink for his twelve-year-old son’s anxiety issues, she sure the hell could attend support group meetings.

  By the time she left the hall, dusk had fallen and the dancing neon lights of Reno’s casinos beckoned. Friday night. For an instant she was tempted to lose herself in a cloud of cigarette smoke, where the jangle of slot machines and free drinks made everyone feel like a winner.

  Instead, the serenity of McCreedy Ranch called. In the short time she’d lived there, the river and the rolling hills had salved her soul. And the red barn cocooned her like a hand-knit sweater. Even though her stomach growled as she zipped past the strip-mall restaurants and fast-food joints, home is where she wanted to be.

  But when she got there, two police SUVs sat in the driveway.

  Clay didn’t panic easily. Hell, he’d survived dogfights on nothing but adrenaline and split-second reflexes, had flown thirty-two combat missions, and could land on a moving aircraft carrier in the pitch dark.

  But he was freaking out.

  Justin had been missing for five hours. He was supposed to come home from camp at three and then he and Clay were heading to the Redwoods for the night, with plans to go backpacking in the morning. But the boy had never gotten off the bus and wasn’t answering his phone. The last one to see him was shit-head Sean, and the kid had been yanking their chains all afternoon.

  Rhys and Officer Jake Stryker had spent hours questioning everyone at camp, including the counselors and bus driver, and were now tearing Justin’s room apart, looking for possible clues on his computer.

  No one remembered seeing Justin on the bus. Why they didn’t call roll, Clay didn’t know. But after he found Justin, he planned to raise holy hell about it. Cody had spent the day with Sam and swore he knew nothing.

  Over the winter, Justin had tried to run away to San Diego. But Rhys had brought him home before he’d gotten outside Nugget’s city limits.

  They were working on the premise that he’d pulled a similar stunt, Rhys rooting around in his emails for itineraries or ticket receipts.

  “Who’s Haley Christopher?” Rhys wanted to know.

  “Hell if I know. Why?”

  “Because they’ve been instant messaging each other all week.”

  Jake called the station and asked Connie, Nugget’s emergency dispatcher and the department’s office manager, to research an address for any local Christophers.

  Clay got on the phone with Cody, who
was at Rhys’s house. “Who is Haley Christopher?”

  His inquiry was met with silence.

  “Code,” Clay barked, “you’ve got five seconds to answer the question.”

  “A girl,” Cody said. “And if I tell you more than that, he’ll kill me.”

  “I’ll kill you worse. Who the hell is she and where does she live?”

  “Graeagle,” Cody said, and Clay could hear the panic in his voice. “She has a car and they sometimes drive to Quincy.”

  Clay relayed the information to Rhys and Jake, who were already sending a text to Connie to do a DMV check. “Is he with her now, Cody?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. I would tell you if I did. I swear. Do you think he’s okay?”

  No. Because as soon as he found the kid, Clay planned to kill him. “He’s fine, Code. He’s just pulling his usual crap. I don’t want you to worry, okay?”

  “You’ll call me as soon as you find him, right?”

  “You bet.” Clay hung up, worried that Cody would have an anxiety attack. This is exactly the kind of drama his youngest didn’t need, and would probably send him over the edge.

  “No one is answering at the Christopher residence,” Rhys said. “I’m sending Wyatt over to the house.”

  Rhys now had everyone in his tiny department on the case. For that Clay was eternally grateful. But before Rhys got the chance to call Wyatt, they heard a car pull up and watched out the window as Justin tromped in the door. Although Clay could smell his bad attitude from the second floor, relief washed over him in waves and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

  He started down the stairs when Rhys grabbed his shoulder and said, “Easy, buddy.”

  Clay nodded. “I’m good. And thank you for putting all your resources into this.”

  “No thanks necessary. I love the kid and this is our job. I’ll let Cody know Justin’s safe. You go talk to him.”

  Again, Clay nodded, and slowly made his way to the kitchen, needing time to suppress his anger and gather his thoughts. Deep breaths, he told himself. He found Justin hunkered over the refrigerator, rummaging through the shelves. Once again Clay was struck by the little boy who now had the body of a man. And brains the size of a hazelnut.

  “We don’t have any milk,” Justin announced. “Cody keeps giving it away to the charity case.”

  Clay clenched his teeth. “Sit down, Justin.”

  When the boy ignored him, continuing to dig through the leftovers, Clay grabbed him by the back of his shirt and shoved him into a chair.

  “I’m tired of your disrespect, Justin. You put me through absolute hell today, not to mention that you had the entire Nugget Police Department searching for you.”

  “What? All three of them?” Justin snickered.

  “The crap you pulled today isn’t even worth one person’s efforts. What do you think will happen the next time, when you really need help? I’ve gotta tell you, Son, you’re handling your grief like a spoiled brat. You want to cry in your room? That’s fine. Hell, you want to cry on my shoulder, I’m here for you. But you’re done with tirades. That stops now.”

  “I’ll do whatever the hell I want,” Justin spat. “You do! Did you bother to ask if we wanted to live in this shit-ass little town, whether we wanted to go to a stupid camp all summer? Did you bother to ask if you could let some lame stranger live in Mom’s office?”

  “Here’s a news flash for you, Justin. I don’t have to ask. I’m your father.”

  “Maybe you’re not,” Justin shouted. “According to half of Nugget, a lot of men could qualify for that position, including the jack-off in the car with Mom.”

  Clay felt his face drain. Rhys had warned him that it was just a matter of time before the kids found out that Jen had been with someone. “If you have any questions about your parentage look in a mirror, Justin.”

  “Is it true? Was she screwing around with that developer guy while you sat back and did nothing?”

  How the hell did you explain this to a fifteen-year-old? “Justin, stop listening to gossip. All that matters is that your mother loved you and Cody.”

  “Christ,” Justin said. “You can’t even answer the goddamn question. Because it’s true. You let her go off with that douche bag. You let her leave us for him.”

  “She was going to leave me, Justin. Not you, and not Cody. It had nothing to do with you boys.”

  “Sean said she was going to let you have full custody of us. That she wanted you to give her a big settlement so she could go off with him.”

  “Well, Sean’s wrong. Not in a million years would your mother have deserted you.” Just self-destruct by getting behind the wheel with a .13 blood-alcohol level.

  “I don’t believe you.” Justin walked away from the table. “I’m going to my room. You can text me my punishment.”

  Text? Like hell. “Tomorrow and Sunday you’re working at the police station, doing whatever Uncle Rhys and Officer Stryker tell you to do. And since you hate camp so much, starting Monday you’ll work for me as a ranch hand, mucking stalls, herding cattle, and riding fences. You’re grounded for a month, no computer privileges, and I want your phone.”

  Justin pulled it from his back pocket and practically threw it at Clay.

  “Now come here.” Clay pulled the boy into a hug. “You ever scare me like that again, wrangling and scrubbing police latrines will seem like a dress rehearsal. I love you and so did your mother. Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself.”

  Justin went upstairs and when Clay was convinced that his son had settled in, he headed for the Hot Spot. The sound of the river and the cool night breeze would help him clear his head. Guided by a full moon and lights from the barn, Clay found a rock to sit on and toed the sand with his boot. The river wasn’t near as full as it had been in May, when the snow from the mountains had started to melt. He felt around for a few flat stones and skipped them across the water, watching them bounce three, four times before they sank.

  He loved it here, but Jennifer had hated it. The woman had never been cut out for small-town living. Not a big enough audience for her. She’d wanted him to be career navy and someday rise to the rank of admiral, like her daddy. Clay had had the connections and the Silver Star, and she had yearned for the prestige of being an admiral’s wife.

  But that had never been his plan. Even before he was old enough to climb onto the back of horse, McCreedy Ranch was in his blood. As much as he loved flying, he’d missed the wide-open range. The regimen of navy life could be stifling for a cowboy who answered to no one but himself.

  When Tip died, Clay had been more than ready to take over the reins. War had worn him down and he wanted his sons to be raised here. But Jennifer had pleaded with him to sell it. Perhaps if she had meant more to him, he would’ve considered it. But more than likely, any woman who would’ve suggested such a thing could never mean that much to him.

  The steps that led from the barn to the beach creaked, and he turned to find Emily coming down, holding two glasses and a bottle of wine.

  “How you doing?”

  “Fair to middling,” he said. “You?”

  “I saw Chief Shepard leaving your house. He told me about Justin. How is he?”

  “Sentenced to hard labor.”

  Emily uncorked the wine and poured them each a glass. “Nice night,” she said, looking up at the moon.

  “Yup.” She was back to the frumpy clothes, but she had makeup on and her hair was tied back, emphasizing a heart-shaped face and the blue eyes he’d once thought lifeless. He could see why some people might think she was pretty. “You go out today?”

  “Mm-hmm. To Reno. So I guess your camping trip is canceled.”

  “Oh yeah.” He took a sip of the wine, which went down smooth and silky. “You and your ex never had kids?”

  For a long time she didn’t say anything and Clay feared that the question had offended her. Maybe she, or her husband, had had fertility issues. People were touchy about that.

  “We did,
” she finally said. “But someone abducted her four years ago. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone. It was an extremely high-profile case and part of the reason I came here was to escape the stares and gossip.”

  “Oh Jesus, Emily. I didn’t know, or else I wouldn’t have brought it up. Ah jeez. Did they catch the person?”

  “No,” she said so quietly that Clay had to strain to hear her. “And they never found Hope either.”

  “So you don’t know if she’s—” He stopped himself, because the reality of it was unthinkable.

  “No, I don’t. Some days I feel her spirit so strongly that I know she’s alive. Other times I can’t feel anything.”

  He put down his glass and reached for her hand. “How did it happen?”

  She paused, her face tortured. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Okay. I didn’t mean to push. Emily, I’m not the best at this, but I’m so damn sorry.”

  “Thank you.” She looked so freakin’ alone that Clay wanted to hold her, but when he leaned closer, she pulled away. “Did Justin say why he ran away?”

  “Not exactly, but I have a pretty good idea. My wife and I were having problems when she died.” That was the understatement of the year. “In a small town like this everyone talks, and Justin’s been hearing rumors. Understandably, he’s lashing out.”

  She topped his glass and took a sip of her own wine. “I’m sorry about your wife. And I feel terrible for Justin. I know what it’s like to be the center of gossip. It’s awful.”

  So many questions about her ordeal filtered through his head. But she was closed up tighter than a footlocker, and he couldn’t say he blamed her. It was her private trunk of hell. Why should she have to open it for anyone?

  He got off the rock, stretched out on the ground, and patted the grass next to him. “Come and look for shooting stars with me.”

  Unexpectedly, she crawled onto his patch of turf, rolled onto her back, and pillowed her arms behind her head. They just stared up at the moonlit sky. No meteors tonight; it was too bright. He’d known that.