it was on his property, and ultimately his responsibility, he stopped by the barn-turned-television-set. A handful of crew members remained, busily moving around the stage with clipboards, setting up cameras, working with lighting, cleaning mini-refrigerators in the kitchen.
He didn’t see Natasha, which was fine. He wasn’t looking for her.
The only reason she’d been on his mind all day was the money she was paying him. He needed her contestants able to cook in his barn, her filming to go well and her crew willing to work with what they had and be able to produce the quality show her network and viewers expected out of Family Secrets.
In the end, after collecting the kids and putting them to bed, he headed out to the farthest cabin in the compound. Just to be a good host. And put his mind at ease that all had gone well.
The cabin was completely dark, and Natasha’s SUV was no longer parked beside it. He’d thought she, like her crew, would be spending one more night on the ranch before heading back to the city for the week.
Apparently he’d been wrong.
She’d already left—without bothering to say goodbye.
SPENCER GOT UP Sunday morning with a new lease on life. Natasha Stevens was gone. Her crew would be pulling out sometime that day. He and his family, his people, would have the place to themselves. Business as usual.
Blue skies and sunshine greeted him as he glanced out the kitchen window while whipping up batter for pancakes. Betsy had offered to cook for him and the kids. She’d suggested he hire a girl from town to do so as well when he’d said he couldn’t have his best friend’s wife waiting on him.
He’d conceded only to having someone come in twice a week to clean.
The rest was up to him. His kids were going to be fed and nourished by him—their father. Their parent. Tabitha and Justin were going to have a solid foundation. A sense of who they were, where they’d come from. A sense of home and belonging.
To add icing on that cake, he grabbed a bag of chocolate chips and mixed a pile of them into the pancake batter. The griddle was heating. As soon as the twins appeared, he’d pour the batter—enough for the eight pancakes the griddle would hold.
In the meantime, because it was taking them longer than usual to get down to Sunday breakfast, he grabbed some oranges from the refrigerator—it would be another couple of months before the ones on the tree in the yard were ripe—and juiced enough for three glasses.
Still waiting, he warmed the syrup. Put butter on the table. Three forks. Extra napkins.
Lined up the plates on the counter.
Decided to go ahead and pour the glasses of milk his kids usually drank with their breakfast so they’d have strong bones.
And then he climbed the stairs. They’d taken way too long now, making their beds, getting into their clothes and brushing their teeth. And been too quiet, too.
Justin’s room was first. He wasn’t there. His bed was made. About as sloppily as usual, but made. The bathroom between his room and Tabitha’s was empty, as well. The counter was wet, and there was a glob of toothpaste in the sink.
“Hey, slowpokes, what’s...” His words fell away as he entered Tabitha’s room. Her pink-and-white polka-dot ruffled pillow sham was on top of the pillow. The matching comforter evenly spread over the bed and wrinkle-free. And his daughter was nowhere to be seen.
“Tabitha? Justin?” he called to them as he checked his own room across the hall. He poked his head in the guest room as he ran past, then took the stairs down at a trot.
“Justin?” He always heard them on the stairs.
And had been listening while he prepared breakfast. It was routine. A normal day like every other day.
They weren’t in the family room. Or the living room. Not in his office, where they weren’t allowed to be without him present. Not in the dining room. Or the laundry room.
“Tabitha!” He raised his voice as he exited the house. What was up with his kids? Twice in less than forty-eight hours they’d disappeared. Twice he’d lost them.
It wasn’t like him.
Or them.
“Tabitha! Justin!” he called, heading toward the calf barn while pulling out his phone and dialing Betsy.
People were going to start thinking he was a bad dad or something.
They’d made their beds. Brushed their teeth. There’d been no sign of a struggle. But he hadn’t heard them on the stairs. Or heard them talking, either.
How could that have happened? Unless...he’d been so distracted by thoughts of the woman he’d refused to think about...
Or... Had they been purposefully quiet? It was the only way Justin kept quiet. By trying really, really hard.
Had his kids snuck out on him?
At seven years old?
Taking a quick turn, he headed toward the temporary television studio he wished he’d never agreed to allow on his property. He’d had great plans for the day. More four-wheeling. A visit to the horse barn for Tabitha. Hot dogs on the grill. Maybe some fishing. It all faded away, usurped by punishment.
He didn’t discipline his kids often. Betsy said not enough. He did what he needed to do. As long as they followed his rules, they were allowed to be free thinkers. To develop their own individual personalities.
Until this weekend, the plan had worked. Almost unfailingly. With some Justin exceptions.
It was time to get a dog. An outdoor dog. One that Justin would have to feed. One who would bark in the yard anytime there was movement—as in kid movement. One who would follow the kids wherever they went. One he could whistle for and, by his response, would tell Spencer where his children were.
Scrap the entire rest of the day’s plans. No full day of fun for the kids. They were going into town to get a dog. And then the kids were going to be yard-bound.
They hated that—not being allowed outside the perimeter he’d designated as the yard for punishment purposes.
He could see the activity at the studio before he was close enough to hear distinct voices. No cooking had happened the day before, but for all of the upcoming weeks, prepared dishes would be transported out on the bus with the contestants, along with any perishable pantry food—bound for homeless shelters, Natasha had told him during one of their original interviews.
Whatever else was going on, he didn’t know. He could see big black equipment boxes going out on the buses. Probably because his barn didn’t have the security of a television studio.
What he couldn’t see, as he strode closer, was his children.
Angela, Natasha’s second-in-command, stage manager, assistant and, he’d concluded, friend, met him before he’d reached the studio.
“You
