Hunting Down the Horseman. B.J. Daniels
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to be kidding. Are you going to pretend you also didn’t notice the way he was looking at you?”
Faith remembered only too well how his gaze had locked with hers as he’d tipped his hat. Time had stretched out interminably as she’d stood at the edge of the dance floor praying he would just go away.
Her heart had been beating so hard it seemed the only sound in the room as he’d pulled her to him and out onto the dance floor. She’d feared everyone was watching and getting the wrong idea. Especially her sisters.
And they had.
“You’re mistaken,” Faith said, knowing her cheeks were still flushed. “He looks at every woman that way.”
“Are you talking about Jud Corbett, the stuntman?” Eve asked, joining them. She helped herself to a glass of punch.
Faith shrugged and glanced across the room to where Jud Corbett was standing, his gaze on her. She quickly averted her eyes, feeling her cheeks warm even further.
“I heard Jud Corbett is fearless when it comes to stunts,” McKenna said.
“He sounds dangerous,” Eve said, and Faith could feel her sister’s gaze on her.
“Dangerous” described Jud Corbett perfectly, Faith thought, as she saw the look Jud Corbett gave her as he left the dance.
AFTER THE DANCE, Eve Bailey Jackson got on the phone again. Carter was working late tonight at the sheriff’s department—some annual report or something or other.
“I don’t like you staying home alone so much,” Carter had said earlier. His gaze said he knew about the list of phone numbers, knew the long hours she’d spent gathering them—and calling trying to find her birth mother.
He’d seemed about to say something else but changed his mind. Eve knew he worried that she’d never quit looking for her birth mother and that her unfulfilling quest would sour her and their life together. Or worse, that she’d find her mother and be even more disappointed.
Eve had gone through the long list of C. Small numbers, each time telling herself that this would be the call that would end it.
Now as she started to dial yet another, she felt her heart pound with anticipation and fear. This was the last number on the list.
If this number was another dead end, then it was a sign, she told herself. Her fingers shook as she tapped in each number, a silent prayer on her lips and tears in her eyes as she promised herself this would be the last of it. Her search would end here.
Like her brother, she would move on. Carter wanted to have children. He wanted the two of them to get on with their lives.
She made a solemn promise to herself as the phone at the other end of the line began to ring. She’d run out of options and couldn’t bear any more dead ends. She would give up her search for the mother who’d given her and Bridger away. This had to stop.
“No more,” she said under her breath as the phone rang once, twice, three times and then, just when Eve was about to hang up, give up for good, a female voice answered.
“Hello?”
Eve had to clear her throat. “Is this Mrs. Small?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Eve Bailey Jackson. I’m trying to locate a Constance Small who lived near Whitehorse, Montana, thirty-four years ago.”
“Constance?” the woman repeated. The line went dead.
As hard as she tried to hold them back, Eve felt the tears flow down her cheeks. Another dead end. Her last.
THE CALL CAME out of the blue. Mary Ellen was in the middle of baking cookies for the church fund-raiser. Quickly dusting the flour from her hands, she answered the phone with a cheerful, “Hello.”
“Mary Ellen?”
“What’s wrong, Mother?”
“I got another one of those calls about Constance.” Her mother was crying. “After all these years…I just can’t bear it. I know it’s just another prank call, someone wanting money, like the others professing to have information about Constance.”
“It’s all right, Mother.” But Mary Ellen feared it wasn’t. As she’d said, it had been years. Why would someone be calling now?
“I took down the woman’s number from caller ID. She said her name was Eve Bailey Jackson. She was calling from Montana.”
Mary Ellen drew up a chair and sat down hard.
“She sounded nice.” Her mother thought everyone was nice. “But I just can’t do it. Would you call her?” Her mother began to cry, and Mary Ellen hated this Eve Bailey Jackson.
“I’ll take care of it. I’m sure it’s just as you say—nothing. So don’t worry yourself over it.”
For years Mary Ellen had feared this day would come. But as time had gone by, she’d started to think that the truth would never come out.
“Bless you, dear. Here’s her phone number.”
Mary Ellen listened as her mother rattled off the Whitehorse, Montana, telephone number, but she didn’t write it down. She had no intention of returning the call. She told herself she was doing them all a favor as she hung up the phone.
Turning back toward the kitchen, she saw black smoke billowing from the oven. She’d burned the cookies for the church fund-raiser. Only then did she let herself break down.
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