She hoped Tammy Becker could shed some light on the matter.
“Your biological mother probably doesn’t know your actual mother’s reasons for keeping the adoption secret,” Mrs. Yancy said as if she’d read Sarah’s mind. “She probably never met your mother.”
“No, but they may have exchanged letters.”
Sarah hoped. She hadn’t found any, but her mother had been a no-nonsense woman who liked a tidy house. She’d never been the type to save things. Or maybe she’d simply disposed of any correspondence so Sarah wouldn’t accidentally find it. But then, why leave the birth certificate in her safe-deposit box?
Sarah wanted answers, needed them, in order to make sense of things. So that she could at least gain some insight into why her mother had kept the adoption a secret.
“Are there any family members you could ask—grandparents or cousins?” Mrs. Yancy said.
“No.”
“What about friends of your parents?”
“I asked my mother’s best friend, her church friends and the women from her bridge club. Not a single person knew that I was adopted. My parents moved to Boise when I was a baby, and I guess the subject never came up.”
Another baffling shock Sarah couldn’t get over. Keeping such a huge secret from even your most trusted friends seemed unimaginable and beyond comprehension.
Why?
The question reverberated through her head as it had for months, making her crazy with the what-ifs that circled right back to the original question.
Why?
Weary of that dead-end question, she broached a different subject. “I thought I’d call the Dawson brothers and Lucky Arnett today and set up interviews. I’m also planning to explore the area. Should I get a key so that I don’t have to bother you with my coming and going?”
“No need—I never lock my door. Well, that’s not quite true. When I leave town, I do.”
Clay Hollyer kept his door locked. Sarah remembered the loud click of the deadbolt as he slid it back. “Even in quiet, safe Boise, we lock our doors,” she said.
“Here, most of us don’t. Although there are people who lock their doors for one reason or another.”
No doubt, Clay didn’t want any nosy reporters walking into his house. Which was exactly what he’d taken her for.
“The Tates, my next-door neighbors, started locking their door last summer.” Mrs. Yancy dived into a comical story of the time Mr. Tate’s unwanted relatives showed up and made themselves comfortable while the couple was out for the day. Which led into a story of another friend’s cow, which somehow figured out how to open the gate to the back garden.
In no time, the amusing stories pushed all thoughts of Ellen from Sarah’s mind.
She laughed and let out an inward sigh of relief. When the meal ended, she was still smiling.
* * *
AFTER BREAKFAST, MRS. YANCY refused Sarah’s offer to help clean up. “You’re a paying guest, and you’re not supposed to do the breakfast dishes,” she said. “But you can sit and keep me company awhile longer.”
Mrs. Yancy suggested places to see in the area. Sarah was at the table, jotting down notes, when her cell phone rang.
Private caller, the screen said, and she almost let it go to voice mail. But she never had been good at ignoring calls. What if an editor with a blocked number was calling about an assignment? She picked up. “This is Sarah Tigarden.”
“It’s Clay.”
The deep, slightly gruff voice sounded rusty, as if he’d just awakened. Sarah pictured him in a T-shirt and rumpled pair of pajama bottoms, his hair sticking up and stubble on his face.
Her heart fluttered and her whole body warmed. Shifting nervously, she glanced at Mrs. Yancy, who was busy wiping down the stove. As if the older woman could save her from her unwanted feelings.
Schooling her wayward emotions, she managed a cool, “Hello, Clay. What do you want?”
A rude question, but she needed him to understand that she hadn’t asked for and didn’t appreciate that kiss.
Okay, that was so not true.
Mrs. Yancy’s head whipped around, her eyebrows rising comically up her forehead.
Clay cleared his throat, as if the question threw him. “I was up in the attic this morning.”
He’d found something. Sarah gripped the phone. “Oh?” she said, barely masking her excitement.
“I don’t know how you knew to check the attic, but I’ve got a footlocker here that I’m pretty sure belonged to Tammy.”
Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. “You found a footlocker that probably belonged to Tammy,” she paraphrased for Mrs. Yancy’s benefit. “When can I take a look at it?”
“This morning is good.”
Moments later, she disconnected. “I’ll make those calls to the ranchers later. I’m going back to Clay’s to see that footlocker.”
“Don’t you think you should put on some clothes first?” Behind her bifocals, Mrs. Yancy’s eyes twinkled.
In her eagerness, Sarah had forgotten she was still in her robe and pajamas. “Right. Excuse me while I shower and dress.”
Some thirty minutes later, wearing her favorite jeans, the ones that flattered her rear end, she headed downstairs. Mrs. Yancy was waiting for her in the living room.
“You’re wearing makeup, and the royal blue color of that blouse brings out the blue in your eyes and the roses in your cheeks. Clay is sure to notice how pretty you are.”
Sarah blushed. “I’m not interested in him.” At least, she didn’t want to be. She felt compelled to add, “This is how I usually dress—except for days like yesterday, when I was on the road, traveling.”
“Well, you look lovely. I’ll be interested to know what you find in that footlocker.”
“I’ll let you know,” Sarah said. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
“No worries. If I’m not here, walk on in and make yourself at home.”
Grateful for the woman’s trust and kindness, Sarah smiled and hurried out the door.
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