Lillian could be, the dangers they could encounter, whatever the hell had possessed them to run off. The clear, deep water of the ranch’s lake, the possibilities of rabid animals, hundreds of acres of trails and hills, reckless drivers, pedophiles—the list of dangers was endless. It didn’t matter that they were smart, clever or rich, that they’d run off deliberately. They were kids.
And Sam and Jack were on the case. Her fault.
God, what was she to do about Sam Temple?
“Nothing,” she told herself as she pulled into her short driveway. There was nothing for her to do because he was running as fast from their weekend together as she was.
She locked her car door and headed up the short walk to the front porch of the little Craftsman-style bungalow she’d bought in Hyde Park not long after she’d moved to Austin last September. It was just a few blocks from the historic house Susanna’s parents were renovating, another few blocks from their art gallery. Kara liked the tree-lined streets and diversity of the neighborhood, so different from the 1830s house she’d rented in a Hartford suburb on the west side of the Connecticut River. She’d never bought property in Connecticut. That should have been a sign to her, but it wasn’t—it took Big Mike to get her finally to admit it was time to go back home.
She’d met him in law school, on a weekend visit with Allyson and Lawrence to the Stockwell Farm. Her friends were deeply in love, the twenty-year age difference never seeming to matter to either of them.
Big Mike was already a force in Connecticut politics, wealthy, blueblood Lawrence Stockwell an unlikely friend and ally. Lawrence had guessed Kara and Mike Parisi would hit it off, and they had. When Big Mike said something factually incorrect about the law, Kara corrected him, arguing her point with all the hubris of a first-year law student—Mike insisted it was because she was a stubborn Texan, too. They became instant friends. He was her mentor on so many things, but not politics—she wasn’t interested. She wouldn’t even tell him whether she’d voted for him.
When June, Big Mike’s wife, was charged with driving while intoxicated, he asked Kara to take the case, and agreed when she insisted she do it her way and he stay out of it. June admitted to her alcoholism and entered treatment. Mike stepped back and let his wife, whom he loved so much, take responsibility for her recovery. The incident could have undermined his friendship with Kara, but instead it deepened it.
June died six years ago, and not until he came out and told her did it occur to Kara that Big Mike was half in love with her.
He’d tried to make light of his admission. “Christ, don’t tell me you’re going to fall for Hatch, after all.”
“Hatch? He doesn’t have a thing for me.”
“Ha.”
Mike Parisi and Hatch Corrigan. Instead, she’d ended up in bed with Sam Temple.
This, she thought, was why she had her problems with men.
Mike had always known she’d go back to Texas. “No bluebonnets in Connecticut,” he’d say, then pull up every stupid stereotype he could think of about Texas and Texans, just to goad her—just to make her realize she was chronically homesick.
Maybe he’d known telling her he was in love with her would seal the deal, his way of making sure she didn’t get cold feet. “You have demons to lay to rest, Kara,” he’d told her, his worn, lived-in face without any hint of humor, “and you can’t do it here. You need to go home.”
In her months back in Texas, she’d only managed to stir up new demons. She hadn’t laid any of the old ones to rest.
The night air was still hot, without even a hint of a breeze. Her little house had a decent front yard that needed reseeding and a front porch that needed scraping and painting—well, the place was a fixer-upper. She didn’t know why she’d bought it. Why not a brand-new condo? She didn’t have time to cook, never mind scrape paint and strip hardwood floors. The previous owners had kept the place clean and tidy, maintaining the original woodwork and floor plan, giving the house, as her Realtor had put it, potential.
She heard someone laughing down the street, music from a nearby house. She unlocked her front door, feeling less panicked. If she didn’t hear anything more tonight, she’d call Allyson in the morning and drive out to the ranch herself. She knew she wouldn’t sleep.
When she pushed open her door, the cool air from inside washed over her, but she stopped abruptly, hearing something. And when she glanced in her living room, there on the floor, eating microwave popcorn and watching television, were Henry and Lillian Stockwell.
The missing children of the governor of Connecticut looked up at Kara from their bags of popcorn. They were blond, blue-eyed and well mannered for eleven and twelve. Even sweaty and tired, they were obviously well off. They had on neat khaki shorts and polo shirts, and Lillian had tied a western-style red bandanna on the end of her single long braid, wisps of white-blond hair sticking out of it. Henry had dirt smudges on his chin.
He spoke first, his tone everyday casual. “Hi, Aunt Kara. We found your spare key under a flowerpot.”
“ I found it,” Lillian said. “Henry was looking under the doormat.”
“Does your mother know where you are?” Kara walked into the living room from the small entry and raked a hand through her hair, debating how to handle the situation. “How did you get here? What did you do, hide in a hay wagon? Steal a horse? Come on, you two. Fess up.”
“We took the ranch shuttle to the Austin airport,” Henry replied calmly. “It makes the trip twice a day, once in the morning, once in the afternoon.”
“The shuttle? How? Didn’t anyone ask questions?”
He shrugged. “We were prepared.”
Lillian flipped her braid over one shoulder. “Henry arranged everything on the camp computer—he even printed out a form we needed. The driver thought we were meeting Mom. When we got to the airport, we pretended to see her and jumped out with our backpacks. It was easy.”
“It’s not like we’re little kids,” her brother added.
Kara stared at the two of them. “You mean you conned your way out here. At the very least you owe this poor driver an apology.” She could think of two Texas Rangers who’d be interested in the kids’ story. “How did you get from the airport to my house?”
“Taxi,” Henry said.
“When?”
“A little while ago.” His chin was thrust up at her, as if he was daring her to try to pin him down to an exact time or tell him he’d done anything seriously wrong.
Kara paced in her small living room, its cozy fabrics and woods having no soothing effect on her. The kids’ backpacks were leaning up against her couch, unzipped, water bottles and CD players poking out. Who wouldn’t believe anything they said?
“Did the cab take you to my door?” she asked.
Henry stretched out his legs and dipped his hand into his popcorn bag. “We had him drop us off on the corner.”
That wouldn’t divert Jack and Sam for half a second. “You left a hell of a trail. I’m
