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  “You’re right, of course,” I told Al, with a tired smile. I attributed my exhaustion to stress but found myself unduly drowsy of late; my upper eyelids seemed attached to iron weights by early evening. “I miss Camille so much. I haven’t seen her since last summer.” I didn’t vocalize it, but I recognized my older sister’s need to temporarily escape Landon. Our mother grew more despondent by the day; even Aunt Jilly struggled to rouse her of late. Camille, along with our cousin, Clint, kept me well informed via nightly phone calls.

  “You’ll bring the entire family to dinner,” Al said, with gentle insistence. “At least once or twice. Helen Anne and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “They have five kids,” I whispered, trying to keep my smile in place; I didn’t want to relent to the urge to weep, as I did on an escalating basis. I hated being trapped beneath a constant raincloud. I sat back and rubbed my temples. At least I didn’t have to pretend around Al; he knew the whole story. “Fuck. If we could just have one sign, just one, that they’re all right. What if they’re trapped there, Al?” Desperation rang in my voice. “What if it’s like a fucking one-way ticket to the past?”

  “We can’t think like that or we’re as good as defeated,” Al said; beneath everything, I reflected how much I loved him. His kind, paternal presence and even-keel attitude had bolstered me countless times in the past few months.

  Unable to rally my spirits, I all but moaned, “We’re defeated anyway! No judge is going to dispute the dates on those homestead claims…”

  “Patricia. You must refocus. I know you better than this. You’re not a quitter. Case isn’t a quitter, and neither are any of the Rawleys, from the look of them. Let’s not forecast disaster just yet.”

  “But, Al…”

  “No buts. Not a one.” His shrewd gaze flickered to something beyond my shoulder; the furrows in his brow relaxed just as the bell above the door tinkled. I turned to see Case entering and a beat of pure, simple gladness stirred my heart.

  “Hi, baby,” he murmured, skirting the counter and coming straight to my desk; I rose to get my arms around him and burrowed close, inhaling his scent through his soft flannel shirt and thick canvas jacket. Even having just emerged from the chill outdoor air, Case radiated warmth. He was hatless; his hair, as rife with tones of burnished red as an autumn forest, and the tops of his wide shoulders were sifted with melting snowflakes. He’d recently shaved his winter beard and mustache but retained a hint of stubble on jaws and chin. He cupped my elbows and scrutinized my face. “You need more rest than you’re getting, sweetheart.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Al said, rising, crossing the room to shake Case’s hand.

  I saw the concern in Case’s eyes, the worry which had not fully dissipated in months, and murmured, “I’m all right, I promise. Just tired.”

  “Clark said we should head over as soon as you’re done with work,” Case told me.

  “Then Camille just might beat us there,” I said, trying for a little enthusiasm.

  The Rawleys’ sprawling two-story house had been crafted with local wood and stone. Despite the numerous times I’d been a guest in their impressive home, its sheer presence never failed to rouse awe, shivers rippling along my spine. The grand, sweeping structure was lit from eaves to foundation as Case parked our truck, the front windows ablaze, bright golden squares to counteract the gloomy, slate-gray evening. Holding hands, Case and I had not walked more than a dozen steps toward the front door before it opened wide, emitting Wy, the youngest Rawley brother, followed by Millie Jo and her twin brothers, Brantley and Henry.

  “Auntie Tish!” Millie Jo screeched, running full-bore. She overtook Wy and crashed into my open arms.

  I laughed, spinning her in a circle while Case caught the twins, one over each forearm. Wy wrapped me and Millie Jo, by default, in a bear hug, almost taking us to the snowy ground.

  “We miss you!” Millie said, her words muffled by my puffy coat. “It took forever to get here!”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” I kissed the top of her curly-haired head and Wy released us, stepping back and offering his wide grin. I reached next for my nephews. “You guys are getting so big!”

  “Tish!” called another voice, and tears filled my eyes just that fast.

  I was at once enfolded in my sister’s embrace. Clad in a wool sweater dress the color of ripe raspberries and furry brown boots, Camille’s scent inundated me; one part floral, one part warm cinnamon, as if Clark had been baking something sweet and her curls retained the fragrance. The softness of her abundant hair brushed my cheek as I clung, imbibing the comfort of family.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” I murmured, eyes closed.

  “Me too,” she whispered, holding fast.

  Mathias was right behind Camille, dressed in a heavy wool sweater and jeans; his blue eyes blazed as he grinned, lips framed by a mustache and full beard. “Tish, Case, it’s been too damn long!”

  My brother-in-law was just as handsome and full of energy as ever, hugging me and then Case; I thought back to the first time I’d ever met Mathias Carter, years ago at Shore Leave during the busy Christmas season. Since that first winter, when he and my sister had fallen hard in love, they’d made a happy, simple life in Landon; they resided in a centuries-old cabin on part of the Carters’ massive lakeshore acreage along Flickertail, a home restored with tender care and devotion by Mathias and his father and now bursting at the seams with the addition of five children. Though I didn’t want to acknowledge such thoughts right now, I could not help but think of what Camille feared on an increasing basis – the way her nightmares were returning, more aggressively than ever before, of Mathias ripped away from her.

  No, please, no. She couldn’t bear it.

  Vulnerability no longer skulked in the shadows; instead it hovered within view, a trap poised to spring.

  Clark appeared in the open door, holding a darling chubby bundle of a baby boy. “There’s someone I think you might like to meet!” he called.

  The thick, relentless ropes of worry tangling around my heart loosened their grip as we entered the living room, packed to the gills with family. In the old days, before Marshall and Ruthie went missing, it would have been what Clark called a ‘full house,’ each of his sons and their families in attendance: Garth and Becky and their two little boys; Sean and his girlfriend, Jessie; Quinn, Wy, Case’s brother, Gus, and Gus’s girlfriend, Lacy. In addition to the usual crowd and counting Case and me, Mathias, Camille, and their five rounded us out to an even twenty for dinner. Everyone called greetings; the air was scented with the warm, rich crackle of roasted chicken, garlic biscuits, and creamy au-gratin potatoes.

  I will not think about Marsh and Ruthie for at least five minutes.

  But it was a hopeless, worthless effort.

  Everywhere I turned I saw their shadows, mocking my every sense. I pictured where they would be sitting just now, exactly how they would look and sound – Marsh would be wearing one of his old flannel shirts, untucked over faded jeans, his longish hair a little messy, as if Ruthie had buried her fingers in it prior to their arrival; his socks would be dirty and wouldn’t match. My little sister, whose angelically beautiful face was so deeply imprinted in my memory it was akin to a scar, would be wearing a big, soft sweater over her jeans and fuzzy wool socks, with her dark brown curls loose and swishing past her shoulder blades. She would be wearing gold hoop earrings and her diamond-and-garnet engagement ring.

  She and Marshall would be unable to keep their gazes from each other, let alone their hands; they would be on the couch and Marsh would have an arm around her waist, teasing her, tucking her curls aside to whisper something in her ear while she flushed and giggled and pretended to struggle away. Periodically they would steal a quick kiss. They were like two teenagers with their constant, obnoxious flirting and I would have given almost anything to have them here right now; the desire centered behind my breastbone like growing flames, screaming-hot and unimaginably painfu
l.

  “Can I hold the baby?” I whispered to Clark.

  “Of course.” Clark kissed my cheek as he passed James Boyd Carter into my arms. My newest nephew had been born last Halloween and I smiled even as tears leaked from my eyes; my emotions were in constant danger of wreckage these days. The baby’s hair was two inches long and stuck straight up, as though he’d been badly startled or was experiencing waves of static electricity, eyes round with wonder as he regarded this new stranger holding him; his irises were as blue as stars, just like Mathias’s.

  “I’ve tried combing it down, but it doesn’t stay.” Camille smoothed two fingertips over her baby’s head; the love on her face renewed the twinge in my heart. “Diana said Mathias’s hair was just the same when he was little.”

  “He’s so loud, Auntie Tish, you should hear him at night,” Millie Jo informed, hovering all-importantly at my elbow; I found myself remembering the night she was born, Valentine’s Day over a decade ago now. Sweet, observant Millie Jo resembled Camille to a marked degree with her lustrous hair and the gold-tinted hazel eyes so common to the women in our family. I wouldn’t hurry to mention it but I could detect hints of her father, Noah Utley, in Millie’s face; the shape of her mouth, the tiny cleft in her chin and her fair complexion, nothing like the olive-toned tan of Camille’s. It seemed as though a century had passed since I’d last seen Noah, let alone my family in Landon.

  Camille poked her older daughter’s ribs. “You weren’t exactly a quiet baby yourself, Miss Millie.” She sighed, soft as a bird’s wing. “But it does seem like yesterday you were this small.”

  “Yeah, James has got a set of pipes all right,” Mathias said, reaching to curl his fingertip under his son’s plump, silken chin, making the baby gurgle and smile; Mathias grinned in response, his whole face lighting with joy. I’d never met anyone who had longed to be a father more than Mathias; he and Camille proved a perfect match in that regard, and all others as far as I could tell. Their twins were roughhousing with Wy and Sean while four-year-old Lorie sat primly near Becky on the couch, holding Becky’s new baby with complete ease; I reasoned that my little niece probably had ten times more experience handling infants than me.

  Dinner was a loud, messy affair; every topic of conversation was purposely kept light and the overall mood was jovial, if slightly forced. There were a hundred things needing discussing but an unspoken and temporary hold was placed on those as we ate; or, I amended, while everyone else ate and I pushed chicken and potatoes around my plate. Clark’s cooking was second to none but my stomach felt strange; hard edges seemed to poke outward deep inside my gut, unfurling like small metal flowers, even though I’d hardly touched food all day. I didn’t fail to notice Case’s concern and was washed in immediate guilt; as though he needed another reason to worry.

  I rested my hand on his thigh, beneath the table, and leaned close. “I’m all right, honey, I’m just not hungry.”

  “You haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive in days,” my husband responded, refusing to be pacified.

  A weak smile fluttered across my mouth. “You sound like Gran.”

  Case had heard me reference my great-grandmother’s wisdom on numerous occasions and was as well-acquainted as it’s possible to be with a woman who’d passed away many years ago. He murmured, “I can only just imagine what she would have to say about you not eating or sleeping.”

  Tenderness for him flooded my body, powerful enough it felt like a small blow to the bridge of the nose. His beautiful auburn hair shone like copper treasure in the lantern-style lighting; his irises were the brown of nutmeg beneath red-gold lashes, resting on me with a mix of exasperation and love. His chin and jawline had taken on a familiar stubborn set but his cheekbones seemed more prominent than usual; the skin beneath his eyes was smudged by restless shadows.

  “We’ll get to bed early tonight, for more than one reason,” I whispered, squeezing his thigh, gratified to observe good humor replace some of the concern in his expression.

  “Yes, so you can sleep while I hold you close,” he murmured, leaning to place a gentle kiss on my temple.

  Chapter Six

  Jalesville, MT - March, 2014

  BUT I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER; IT WAS APPROACHING dawn by the time we found our way to bed.

  “Mom is in terrible shape, Tish.” Much later that evening, seated near me on the tattered old couch in my living room with both feet tucked under her and an afghan drawn over her lap, Camille’s face was set in somber lines. The only light came from a small table lamp and the fixture above the stove, lending the trailer a quiet intimacy. “Blythe is so worried. Not even Aunt Jilly can get through to her. She can hardly manage to get to the cafe on any given day, not even for breakfast coffee. Grandma and Aunt Ellen have been keeping watch but nothing helps.”

  “How are the boys?” I asked, referring to my younger half-brothers, Matthew and Nathaniel. It hurt like hell to hear about Mom and I was more grateful than ever for the presence of my stepdad, Blythe Tilson, whose love for my mother was a force to be reckoned with.

  “They help as best they can. I’m so glad they have Bly. He’s such a patient dad. He and Uncle Justin take them fishing, along with Rae and Riley and Zoe, so Aunt Jilly can be with Mom. But I don’t know how much good it does.”

  My sister and Mathias had returned home with Case and me after dinner; by necessity, the baby accompanied them while Millie Jo, Brantley, Henry, and Lorie stayed behind at Clark’s, excited at the prospect of playing video games and eating junk food with Wy, Sean, and Quinn; meanwhile little James was snuggled on his belly in the center of our bed, sleeping while the four of us gathered in the living room.

  Mathias sat on a chair adjacent to Camille, forearms on thighs, his powerful shoulders curved forward. It was strange to observe him in a moment of motionlessness; this alone conveyed concern as much as his grim expression, mouth solemn and brows drawn inward. He cupped Camille’s bent knee, making a slow circle with one thumb as he said, “Joelle is struggling to believe Ruthie and Marshall are actually where we claim they are. She trusts us, it’s not that. She’s just having trouble accepting the truth.”

  “Just like Dad,” I murmured. “We told him last month when we were in Chicago but he doesn’t fully believe it.” I looked upward, seeing the expression on my father’s face as I’d last witnessed it, leaving him behind at the airport. “At least he recognizes that something is seriously wrong with Franklin Yancy.” I sat straighter, recalling that Dad had left Case and me a message in that particular vein, only last night. “I almost forgot to tell you guys. Dad has been doing some investigating, and get this: Franklin Yancy has a birth certificate but there is no record of a child with that name born when and where the certificate claims.”

  “A forgery?” Mathias asked. “Maybe he really doesn’t exist. But who the hell is the man you saw in Chicago, then?”

  “Tell us again what happened,” Camille requested. “It’s always better to hear in person.”

  I looked at Case, the two of us exchanging several dozen silent sentences in a matter of seconds. He took my right hand, closest to him, and enfolded it within his left, lacing our fingers, offering wordless support. I released a tense breath before replying; the thought of the Yancys left my chest cavity hollow with fear. “We were at Robbie’s funeral. Oh God, Milla, it was so horrible. You guys know we think Robbie was killed. He allegedly overdosed, but I know that’s a goddamn lie. What we haven’t figured out is why he was killed. What did Robbie know? More specifically, what did he know about Franklin?”

  “But you saw Franklin Yancy,” Camille interjected. “So whether or not ‘Franklin’ is his real name, he does actually exist.”

  Last summer, the night before he’d returned to Chicago from Montana, my former college classmate Robbie Benson had received an anonymous text reading Franklin doesn’t exist. He’d shared the information with Case, Marshall, Ruthann and me on his final night here in Jalesville. It was, I suddenly real
ized, the last time I’d seen Robbie and I shrugged off an uneasy twinge. My gaze loitered on the screen door as if expecting his ghost to appear on the far side of the meshing, his formerly bronzed skin leached of all color, mutely observing with eyes gone cold and empty. Robbie had been my friend all through college. He was so very alive, storming through his days with all the confidence afforded by attractiveness and status and his parents’ wealth. I still had trouble reconciling my vivid memories of him with the truth that he was never coming back. I would never see him again.

  I swallowed a miserable whimper, with effort, refocusing on Camille. Case squeezed my hand and I found the courage to speak above a whisper. “It was the strangest thing that day. Case and I left the chapel because I felt so ill and Derrick followed us outside. No matter what I’ve thought about Derrick in the past, I truly believe he was attempting to warn us right then. He told us we should go and not a minute later his brother came striding down the sidewalk through the snow. And he knew us, Milla. Franklin, I mean. He spoke to us like he’d met us before that moment. He kept calling me Patricia.” It was my real name, but no one had addressed me that way since my dad’s mother, the grandma I’d been named for, passed away.

  “We thought that maybe Derrick could move through time, like Marsh and Ruthie, but now we’re not so sure,” Case said quietly. I held his hand like a towrope keeping my head above floodwater, icy depths that wished me dead, no longer able to speculate about time travel or investigate powerful Chicago families with more money and influence than I could ever conceive.