Egan Cassidy's Kid. BEVERLY BARTON
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was being kept prisoner in a clean, neatly decorated bedroom and served a decent meal on a china plate.
Bent checked his watch. Fifteen after nine. He’d been missing for more than twelve hours. His mother must be out of her mind with worry. She’d probably called the police and had every friend and relative in Parsons City out scouring the countryside for him. And what had she done when no one had been able to find him? His mom would stay strong and hopeful. And she would go to her kitchen to think and plan. He could picture his mother now, in their big old kitchen, baking. For as long as he could remember, his mother had baked whenever she was upset, depressed or needed to make a decision.
Boy, what he’d give for some of her delicious tea cakes. And a glass of milk. And his own bed to sleep in tonight.
Eaten alive by frustration and an ever-increasing fear, Bent tried the door again. Still locked. Stupid! He scanned the room, searching for any means of escape. There were no bars on the two windows, both small rectangular slits near the ceiling. He shoved a chair against the wall, climbed onto the seat and peered out the windows. The moonlight afforded him a glimpse of the shadowy, enclosed courtyard below and the two men who seemed to be guarding the area. Scratch the idea of climbing out the windows.
He heard voices in the hallway, but couldn’t make out the conversation. His heartbeat increased speed. Sweat dampened his palms. What if they were coming for him? What if—
Footsteps moved past the door. Silence. Was someone standing outside the door guarding him? Had another someone stopped by to issue orders?
Bent balled his hands into tight fists and beat on the door. “Let me out of here! Why are you doing this? What are you going to do with me?”
He pummeled the door until his fists turned red, until they ached something awful. And he hollered while he banged on the hard wooden surface—hollered until he was hoarse. But no one replied. No one released him. It was as if no one could hear him.
Anger boiled inside Bent, mingling with fear and frustration. He kicked the wall, denting the Sheetrock with his toe. Damn! He couldn’t blast his way out of here. He was stuck, trapped, caught.
Bent flung himself down on the neatly made bed, shoved his crossed arms behind his head and glared up at the ceiling. He had to find a way to get out of here, to free himself from his captors. But how? He didn’t know. But there had to be a way. He sure as hell wasn’t going to give up! Not now. Not ever.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” Janice asked as she stood on the front porch with Maggie. “I can spend the night.”
“No, Egan said to clear the house. He doesn’t want anyone here when he arrives.” Maggie hugged her arms around her as she waited for her friend to leave.
“Why do you trust him? He’s the man who ran out on you and left you pregnant.”
“Egan never made me any promises.”
“No, but he didn’t have a problem taking advantage of you, did he? He sweet-talked his way into your bed, made you fall in love with him and then told you that he wasn’t interested in a committed relationship.”
“None of that matters now,” Maggie said. “All that’s important is that he knows what’s happened to Bent and he’s promised to bring my son home to me.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Aren’t you the least bit suspicious? You haven’t heard from the guy in fifteen years and suddenly, on the very day Bent disappears, he calls to tell you he knows Bent is his son.”
“Yes, of course I’m suspicious. But I know—I know!—that Egan is as concerned about Bent as I am. I could hear it in his voice. He was in pain.” Maggie looked out over the front yard. Streetlights on either end of the block illuminated the manicured lawn and flower beds. She and Bent did all the yard work themselves—a mother and son project.
Janice gave Maggie a tight hug, then released her and walked down the porch steps. “I’m a phone call away. I can be back here in five minutes.”
“Go on home and get some rest. Call me in the morning, if you haven’t heard from me before then.”
“Okay. And don’t worry about the bookstore. I’ll take care of things there.”
Maggie remained on the porch until Janice backed her car out of the driveway, then she turned and went inside the house. In the foyer, the tick of the grandfather clock’s pendulum kept time with her heartbeat. As she made her way through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen, she found herself wishing Janice and the others hadn’t cleaned up after themselves. If they had left dirty glasses and nasty ashtrays, at least she’d have something to do, something to occupy her mind while she waited.
She had thought of nothing else for the past two hours except the fact that Egan Cassidy knew what had happened to Bent. She had gone over at least a dozen possibilities, but not even one plot line was based in reality. Her mind had run the gamut from Bent having left home to find his biological father to someone from Egan’s mercenary world having kidnapped Bent to hold him for ransom.
Maggie found herself alone in the kitchen, her favorite room of the house. All her life, since early childhood when she had hovered at her grandmother’s side and watched her beloved MaMa create mouthwatering meals, Maggie had found her greatest solace in this room.
She had redecorated the kitchen and the master bedroom shortly after her divorce, needing to wipe away any memories of Gil. Forgetting her five-year-marriage to her childhood friend had been easy enough, especially when he had remarried so quickly. In less than six months after their divorce was final. Even then, realizing that he’d probably been unfaithful to her for quite some time, she still couldn’t blame him for the demise of the marriage. How could she hold him at fault when he had always known that he was her second choice, that Bent’s father was the one man she had truly loved?
Rummaging in the cabinets for the ingredients to MaMa’s tea cakes—Bent’s favorite—Maggie let her mind drift back to the first time she ever saw Egan Cassidy. Oh, she’d heard about Egan for years. Bentley had talked about his old war buddy, when he was sober as well as when he was drinking. Her brother had admired and respected Egan in a way he had no other man. Several times over the years, Bentley had gone to Memphis to visit Egan, to share a few days of wine, women and song. But Egan had never come to Parsons City. Not until Bentley died.
Three weeks after Bentley’s funeral she’d gone to the cemetery to put fresh flowers on the grave. Just as she rose from her knees, she noticed someone behind her. The stranger stood by the willow tree at the edge of the Tyson plot. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a move to come toward her. But when she passed him, she looked into his intense dark eyes and saw the pain.
“Did you know my brother?” she asked.
“You’re Maggie, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” She felt drawn to this man, as if he existed solely to comfort her.
“I’m Egan Cassidy. I didn’t find out about Bentley until yesterday,” he explained. “I’ve been out of the country on business.”
“I called and left several messages. And when I didn’t hear from you, I wrote.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for the funeral.”
“He killed himself.” She heard her voice, heard her state the undeniable fact and yet she felt as if someone else were speaking. “He took his pistol, put it in his mouth and pulled—” She burst into tears.
Egan wrapped his arms around her and eased her up against his body, encompassing her in a tender, comforting embrace. “I should have been here for you. Bentley was the best friend I ever had. I owed him my life.”
Maggie had clung to Egan, feeling safe and secure. And knowing that this man shared her grief. Bentley’s Vietnam comrade understood as no one else did what it had been