she’d last seen the old woman. From what she remembered, Gladys Stemming was a mouthy one although harmless. But then, Renee had only met her once and who knew what she was like now.
She’d come here as a last-ditch effort. She’d been to all the usual places Jason used to frequent in their neck of the woods in Arizona and had come up empty. Far as Renee knew, Gladys was Jason’s only living relative so it served to reason, he might’ve taken the kids there before he split. If they weren’t here…
Think positive. You’ve gotten this far, don’t give up now.
She went to the door and knocked, the absolute stillness of the countryside unnerving her. She knocked again, harder than the first time but the sound just echoed into the inky dark. She glanced around, noted the absence of a vehicle as well as any other sign of civilization and fought the wave of despair. She didn’t even know if this was where Gladys still lived. Okay. Focus. Look for some kind of sign that she does, Renee instructed herself so she didn’t dissolve into a puddle of frustrated tears. Walking across the short porch, she peered into a window and saw the lumps of furniture but nothing that might tell her who lived there.
She rubbed her arms briskly. She’d forgotten how cold it got here. Stomping her feet to keep the circulation moving, she caught the shadowed outline of the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Climbing into the car, she drove to the edge of the road and pulled open the mailbox to feel inside.
Bingo.
Pulling a stack of mail, she glanced at the address and nearly went weak with relief. Gladys Stemming. She still lived here. But even as she thumbed through the hefty stack her elation was short-lived. Apparently, it’d been at least a week since the mail was picked up, which could mean the old woman hadn’t been home for a while. Replacing the mail, she chewed her bottom lip. She’d have to come back tomorrow, maybe go into town and ask around. Somebody was bound to know where the old woman was and perhaps, if Gladys had them, her children.
Putting the car into drive, she looked down at the bedraggled and ugly stuffed rabbit that had belonged to Taylor. Renee had found it, abandoned, at their old house after she’d gotten out of rehab. That was four months ago. She’d been searching for him and the girls ever since. Renee didn’t much care where Jason went—heaven help him if she managed to get her hands around his neck for this latest stunt—but she needed her girls.
Tears pricked her eyes again but she sniffed them back. She was close. She could feel it.
A fresh flood of anger followed. Damn you, Jason. Where the hell have you taken my kids?
Renee reluctantly drove away, refusing to believe that her children were far, that Jason had taken them to a place where she’d never find them. She tried to ignore the guilt that rose to slap her in the face whenever she let herself remember that she was the first one to walk out on their children.
It wasn’t her proudest moment but hitting rock bottom usually isn’t. Admitting to herself she was an alcoholic trapped in a loveless marriage was a tough pill to swallow, and even as she was committed to sobriety the price had been pretty steep.
Ten long years of missteps and mistakes with Jason, a man who had less depth than a cartoon character. It was enough to make her want to hide in shame over every bad decision she and Jason had put their girls through but she’d vowed things would be different once she got out of rehab.
Only to find them gone. Renee imagined Jason made the decision to take off shortly after she told him she wanted a divorce. He’d known this was the best way to hurt her. And damn, he knew her well.
Every day without her girls felt like knives in her heart.
Chapter Two
THE FOLLOWING MORNING just as he always did, John rose at 5:30 a.m. to start the day and for a split second, as he set the coffee to percolating and stoked the coals in the fireplace to a fresh blaze with kindling and a small piece of seasoned oak, he almost forgot that he wasn’t alone. But when a person had been a bachelor as long as John there were some things that didn’t slip your notice. Such as the prickling feeling at the back of your neck when you know someone is behind you, staring. He turned and found Taylor standing in the archway, scratching her leg with her toe, her eyes fixed on him.
“Go back to bed. It’s too early.”
“You’re up.” She pointed out as she scrubbed at her pixie nose with her palm, her gaze wide and expectant.
“I’m a grown-up. You’re still a kid—” practically still in diapers “—and kids need their rest. Don’t you want to grow up big and strong?”
She thought about it for a second before nodding but then said, “But I can’t rest if I’m not sleepy. Can you, Mr. John?”
Not really. He didn’t much see the point in lounging in bed if he wasn’t tired, either. But if he didn’t send her back to bed with her sisters, he’d have to find something to entertain her with and he didn’t have a clue as to how to entertain a five-year-old little girl. He eyed her speculatively. “You hungry?”
She nodded eagerly. “Are we having more of them beans?” she chirped as she followed him into the kitchen. “They were real good. You’re a good cooker, Mr. John.”
“I don’t know about that, and stop calling me Mr. John. Just John, okay?”
“Okay,” Taylor agreed easily, plopping into the chair she’d taken last night. “What’s for breakfast, then?”
“Oatmeal.” He caught her expression falter and he added quickly, “Or eggs. Take your pick.”
“Eggs, please. I like them all mixed up. Do you like them that way? Chloe doesn’t like eggs so maybe she could have the oatmeal. But me and Lexie like eggs a lot. Chloe didn’t like the way Daddy made his eggs, she said they tasted funny. I didn’t think so but sometimes he made her a special kind. Maybe she didn’t like just his special eggs because when Lexie made eggs she ate ’em right up. Do you make them special, Mr. John?”
The dizzying speed of the child’s twisting and nearly nonsensical dialogue almost had John staring in confusion as he tried to decipher even a quarter of what she’d said but something in that monologue had struck a chord of alarm. “Special eggs, Taylor?”
“Yeah, sometimes he made Chloe her own eggs but—” Taylor’s little face scrunched in distaste “—they always made her tummy hurt afterward. Maybe Daddy wasn’t a very good cooker.”
“Maybe not,” John murmured, though he was starting to feel a little sick to his stomach himself. “How come your Daddy always made Chloe her own special eggs?”
Taylor shrugged. “I dunno. But Daddy yells at Chloe a lot.”
“Why’s that?”
“He just does.” Taylor’s expression dimmed with sadness and John felt something in his chest pull. Her voice dropped to a scared whisper. “She gets lots of spankings.”
Chloe was hardly more than a baby. No one should be raising a hand to her little body.
John stiffened at the anger pouring through his veins at what he was hearing and moved to the fridge to grab the eggs. He’d heard enough and by the time he filled the sheriff’s ear with what he’d learned,
