Powerhouse. Rebecca York
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opened and closed her fists, forcing herself not to run outside. Trevor probably wasn’t even here. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from clinging to that hope because the thing she wanted most in the world was to get her little boy back.
Please, Lord, please. Let Matt come back with our son.
Every few moments, she glanced at the clock, keeping track of the time Matt had been gone. After five minutes, she started pacing the kitchen, returning to the window periodically to stare outside.
After ten minutes, she wanted to scream.
Why hadn’t she insisted on going out there? It was all she could do to stay in the house—while she listened for the sound of gunshots.
But the only sound she heard was the pounding of blood in her ears. Until the back door opened, and Matt stepped back into the mudroom.
“Did you find Trevor?” she blurted as she turned the lights back on.
He tipped his head to the side, looking confused. “Trevor?”
She flushed, knowing that his mind hadn’t taken the same leap as hers. “I … I was hoping that whoever took him returned him to us. Here.”
Understanding bloomed on his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t find him.”
“Okay,” she answered, defeated.
He pulled off his coat and stamped snow off his boots.
“What did you find?”
“I think the only tracks leading up and down the road are yours and mine, although I can’t be absolutely sure in the dark. Someone could have stepped in my footprints to disguise their trail.”
“Okay.”
“But I did see deer tracks down there. Maybe they set off the alarm.”
She nodded. “I guess it was stupid of me to think someone would bring Trevor back—just like that.”
“It could have been true—given what happened with me.”
“But you don’t remember anything from while you were gone.”
“No!”
The way he said it made her throat tighten. “I’m sorry.” “If I remember anything, you’ll be the first to know,” he snapped, then looked apologetic. “Sorry, I’m on edge.” “We both are.”
“There’s a café in town that makes pretty decent chili.”
“You’re not suggesting that we go out, are you?”
Matt shook his head. “No. I bring it home in plastic containers. I thawed out a batch and stuck it in the refrigerator this morning.” He laughed. “That sounds pathetic doesn’t it?”
“Of course not. Cooking is a chore,” she answered.
MATT COULD HAVE told her that he had plenty of time for chores. Instead, he opened the refrigerator and took out the carton.
“I’m not very hungry,” she murmured. “Neither am I. But we have to eat. We can each take a bowl of chili into the office while we do a computer search.” “Of what?”
“Missing children. I can’t believe we’re not going to find some cases that match Trevor’s disappearance.”
When he saw hope bloom on her face, he felt his chest tighten. So that she wouldn’t see anything revealing in his eyes, he got out a glass bowl from a lower cabinet. After dumping the chili inside, he covered it with wax paper and set it in the microwave.
She’d come here because she had been at the end of her rope. Not like his mother who had pretended everything was fine and dandy while he was gone.
That told him something. She was a good mother to their son. And he was glad she had turned to him.
Could they find Trevor, then settle down together? His heart leaped at the thought. But was there any way to live as a normal family, or would there always be a threat hanging over him? Over them?
He struggled not to shudder, but she must have been watching him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Your shoulders are so rigid.”
He made himself turn and face her. “This is a difficult situation, but we’re going to get through it.”
She gulped. “Are we going to find Trevor?”
“If it’s humanly possible.” He laughed. “And maybe my inhuman talent will help us.”
“It’s not inhuman.”
“What would you call it.”
“Extraordinary. Something that gives you an advantage over other people. In this case, over the bad guys—whoever they are.”
He nodded. Although he hadn’t thought of it that way, she was right.
Turning practical again, he asked, “What do you want to drink with dinner?”
She shrugged. “Coffee—if we’re going to be up searching the Web.”
He got a bag of coffee beans out of the freezer. While he ground the beans, she took down two bowls and spoons. They’d prepared a lot of meals together five years ago. It felt good getting back into that routine, but he reminded himself not to get too comfortable. She was only here to get his help in finding her son. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping for more.
They both carried their food and drinks to his study, where he cleared off a space on the desk. Then he pulled over the extra chair.
As he did, his hands tightened on the back. He’d bought the chair for her when she’d been doing his accounts, and the two of them had sat where they could both look at the computer screen.
They were going to do it again, but this time the mission was a lot more important than making sure the Silver Stallion Ranch wasn’t spending more than it was taking in. They were going to find out what had happened to their son.
His son! He was still trying to wrap his head around that concept, but the reality had taken hold as soon as she’d told him about Trevor.
He booted the computer, then took a spoonful of chili while he waited for the machine to go through its opening routine.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said as she watched his opening program bring up the news.
“Google,” he said with confidence. He began by typing in a search field, then started cruising Web sites with information on missing children.
There was one site that listed children who had disappeared recently, but Trevor wasn’t on it—because he had never been reported missing.
There was a site of “cold cases,” but that, too, led to a dead end.
He checked law-enforcement sites in Colorado and surrounding states, then widened the search to the whole U.S.
When that didn’t pan out, he went to private web pages of parents who were trying to find their children, but none of them seemed to have any relevance.
Beside him, he could feel Shelley willing him to find something—anything—that would help them.
A FEW HUNDRED FEET from the ranch road, in a patch of snow-covered pine trees, Bobby Savage and Don Campbell sat in a darkened sedan. Savage was blond with blue eyes. Campbell was dark.
Savage had a scar on his lip from an old knife fight. Campbell had a broken nose. He was a big guy with broad shoulders. Savage was smaller and quicker. But external appearances aside, they were very much alike. Either of them could kill a person as easily as they could run over a cat crossing the road.
They’d once enjoyed plenty of contract work in the New York/New