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It was not the kind of news a man needed to hear before a nationally televised bull ride with a six-figure purse. As upset and distracted as Clay was, he should’ve backed out of the event. He didn’t. Not because of the money, which he didn’t need, but because of his fans. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint them.
No wonder the bull had tossed him.
While he was still recuperating in the hospital, he’d insisted on a paternity test. No surprise there—he wasn’t the father.
Grumbling and out of sorts, he swung his legs over the bed without thinking—and paid for it. Swearing, he massaged the knots around his knee until the pain eased and carefully stood. His leg muscles were painfully tight, but thank heavens, not quite as tight as yesterday. Aspirin and rest had definitely helped.
While the coffee brewed, he pulled out the blueprints for the house and looked them over. After making the decision to buy the shipwreck of a ranch across town and rent the house he was in now, he’d hired a construction crew to renovate the ranch’s outbuildings and an architect to help him design his house. Now that the old one was gone and the builder had broken ground, Clay enjoyed reviewing the plans and checking on the progress.
Four bedrooms and three-and-a-half baths seemed a lot for a man who didn’t intend to have a family. Clay had always wanted kids, but he couldn’t see having one without a wife, and he wasn’t about to marry without love. Even if his mom kept dropping hints—make that blatant suggestions—that now that he was thirty-four it was time to settle down.
Before long, the caffeine worked its magic. Clay shoved to his feet, stowed the blueprints and headed for the large detached garage behind the house, which was insulated and had electricity, making it the ideal place for physical therapy.
After being shackled to a leg cast for what seemed an eternity and spending months in a wheelchair, his leg was in sorry shape, and laboring to rebuild his strength was not fun. The repetitive efforts the physical therapist had taught him taxed his leg muscles until they burned.
A hundred times over the next hellish hour, Clay wanted to quit, but he kept at it. Determined to get back to normal, or as near normal as possible, he sweated, grunted at and cursed the weights and pulleys, all the while knowing that without them, the muscles that had deteriorated would never regain their strength.
To think that two months after the accident, his doctor had wanted to amputate above the knee. Clay had refused. In the past eight months he’d made amazing progress, graduating from the wheelchair to crutches to a cane to none of the above, blowing his orthopedist’s socks off.
“And I’ll keep blowing your mind, Doc,” he’d stated, to psych himself up.
By the time he showered, dressed and ate, it was just after six o’clock—the start of a typical rancher’s workday. As of yet, he didn’t have a crew, but now that the barn and outbuildings were renovated and the foreman’s cottage and crew trailers were clean, he’d posted an ad on Craigslist for experienced ranch hands. He didn’t own any stock yet, either, and time hung like a weight around his neck.
Feeling lost and as a rudderless boat, he wandered to the hallway that held the attic door. Until yesterday he’d never even considered going up there. May as well test the leg, and while he did, look around.
With the help of a stepladder and several colorful oaths, he gritted his teeth against the pain and grasped the rope pull. The thing resisted coming loose but Clay yanked hard, and the door swung down.
He unfolded the attic ladder and climbed up, pausing after each step to rest his leg. The usual attic greeted him—a musty-smelling, dingy space, cold from the chilly morning air. A lone window caked in grime and a bare bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling were the only sources of light and barely illuminated the area.
In need of a flashlight or a bulb with higher wattage, he headed back down, ignoring his leg. In no time, he was screwing in a new bulb.
Light blazed over the room, revealing old lamps, a faded armchair and other junk, everything blanketed with dust.
He almost missed the footlocker in the corner. Shoved against the wall, it was partially hidden under a musty throw. Clay unfastened the clasps and tried the lid, gratified when it opened with a soft creak.
Papers and whatnot almost filled the cavity. The 16 Magazine on top caught his attention. Duran Duran posed on the cover, flashing ’80s-style hair and clothes—something a teen girl would like. The date on the cover was January, 1982, which was when Tammy Becker had lived here.
Beneath the magazine, Clay found a small, dark red journal covered in faux leather. Private diary! Stay out! T. B. someone had written. Judging by the hearts replacing periods and the looping script, T.B. was a teenage girl.
This footlocker belonged to Sarah’s biological mom. That sixth sense of hers had been dead-on.
A chill climbed his neck.
No snoop, Clay closed the lid and refastened the latches. He dragged the heavy trunk from the corner, the metal grating over the rough floorboards and his damn knee threatening to buckle.
Grunting with effort, he hugged the big thing with one arm and awkwardly made his way down the ladder. By the time he reached the floor, sweat beaded his forehead and he was breathing like he’d just gone a round with a feisty bull.
Sarah’s card was still in the hip pocket of his jeans. Leaning heavily against the wall, Clay slid it out and held it lightly in his palm. At this hour, she was probably still asleep. He’d wait awhile, and then give her a call.
* * *
AFTER A SOLID night’s sleep, Sarah felt more rested than she had in ages. She donned a robe and flip-flops and wandered downstairs in search of coffee. Even before she reached the bottom step, she smelled bacon and something baking. Still waking up, she wasn’t hungry yet. All the same her mouth watered.
Standing at the stove, dressed, aproned and humming happily, Mrs. Yancy greeted her with a welcoming smile. “Good morning. It’s going to be a beautiful day. The biscuits are in the oven.”
“They sure smell good. So does that coffee.” Sarah stretched and yawned.
“Help yourself, dear, and sit down. Was your bed comfortable? Did you have enough blankets?”
After sleeping in the twin bed of her childhood for over a year—Sarah couldn’t get herself to use the bed that had been Ellen’s—the double bed here had seemed a luxury. “Everything was great, thanks. Your neighborhood is very peaceful.”
So was Ellen’s street in Boise, but since her death, Sarah rarely slept through the night. Her friends thought she should put the house on the market and buy a condo or a cottage, something without the memories. Sarah agreed, but if she wanted a good price for the property, both the house and the yard needed sprucing up—tasks she would tackle later. “It’s not so peaceful with all those chirping birds outside,” Mrs. Yancy said. “Between the warblers, sparrows and crows, it’s impossible for a body to sleep past dawn. Not that I ever have. Breakfast will be ready shortly.”
Slipping on oven mitts, she launched into a monologue about her bird feeder and the types of birds that visited. Her words barely slowed as she pulled the biscuits from the oven and deftly transferred them to a basket.
Sarah didn’t mind the chatter, as long as she didn’t have to participate. She needed a moment to sip her coffee and get her mind up and running. Thankfully, Mrs. Yancy seemed content to carry on the entire conversation by herself, reminding Sarah of Ellen.
Her mother was the last person she wanted to think about right now. As angry as she was about the lies, she missed Ellen dearly. If only she were still around and they could argue and cry and talk through this whole mess and move on...
Abruptly Mrs. Yancy’s chatter died. “You look sad, dear.”
“I was thinking about Ellen—my mother. She died six months ago. Do you need help with breakfast?”
“No, but go ahead and grab a plate from the cabinet and dish up your eggs and bacon at the stove. I’m sorry about your mother. Were you close?”
Not as close as Sarah had thought. “Most of the time,” she said.
“It’s good that you put off the search to find your biological mother until now. This way, your actual mother can’t get upset at what you’re doing.”
Having filled her plate, Sarah sat down at the table. “How could looking for my biological mother possibly have upset Ellen?”
“It just can.” Mrs. Yancy didn’t say another word until she brought over the biscuits and her own plate and sat down across the table. She let out a sigh. “I was terribly upset when my son decided to search for his biological mother.”
Sarah masked her surprise. Had Mrs. Yancy also kept the truth from her son, and if so, what were her reasons? How had he discovered the truth? Those and a thousand other questions came to mind, yet as open and easy as her breakfast companion was to talk to, Sarah didn’t know her well enough to ask such personal things. “Does your son live in town?” she asked, settling for a harmless enough question.
“Sadly, no. Tom lives in Billings with his wife and their three kids. He’s a good son. I visit them several times a year, and they come here now and then, but we don’t see each other nearly often enough.”
She turned her attention to her breakfast for a few moments before continuing. “He was twenty when he decided he wanted to reunite with his biological mother. She lives in Albuquerque. I’m embarrassed to admit this now, but at the time, I worried that he’d choose her over me. My John assured me otherwise, but all the same, I lost many a night’s sleep.”
Sarah had never even considered such a possibility. “How did it all work out?” she asked.
“Tom’s biological mother was thrilled to hear from him. She’d gotten pregnant at fifteen and knew she wasn’t ready to give him the stability and family he needed, but she’d always wanted to know him. She’d gone on to college, where she met her husband. They have two children—Tom has met the entire family.
“From time to time they talk on the phone, and once in a while they see each other, but I’m the one Tom visits on Mother’s Day. He says I nursed him when he was sick, hollered at him when he needed it and helped him with his schoolwork, and that makes me his real mother.”
“I never even thought about any of that,” Sarah admitted. Now that Mrs. Yancy had opened up, she felt safe asking a question. “What made Tom decide to find his biological mother? Had he just found out that he was adopted?”
“Heavens, no. We talked about that from the time he was old enough to understand—even before then. We always celebrated his adoption day with a cake and presents. He just wanted to meet her.”
Sarah chewed a forkful of eggs, then voiced her own question. “How did your family celebrate your adoption day?”
“We didn’t.” Ducking her head from the woman’s questioning look, Sarah slathered a biscuit with jam.
Comprehension, then sympathy dawned on Mrs. Yancy’s face. “Your mother never told you.”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t even know if it was a closed adoption. I couldn’t find any paperwork. I just wish I knew why she kept something so important from me.”
“I’m sure she had her reasons.”
Whatever they were, Sarah would never know. She hoped Tammy Becker could shed some light on the matter.
“Your biological mother probably doesn’t know your actual mother’s reasons for keeping the adoption secret,” Mrs. Yancy said as if she’d read Sarah’s mind. “She probably never met your mother.”
“No, but they may have exchanged letters.”
Sarah hoped. She hadn’t found any, but her mother had been a no-nonsense woman who liked a tidy house. She’d never been the type to save things. Or maybe she’d simply disposed of any correspondence so Sarah wouldn’t accidentally find it. But then, why leave the birth certificate in her safe-deposit box?
Sarah wanted answers, needed them, in order to make sense of things. So that she could at least gain some insight into why her mother had kept the adoption a secret.
“Are there any family members you could ask—grandparents or cousins?” Mrs. Yancy said.
“No.”
“What about friends of your parents?”
“I asked my mother’s best friend, her church friends and the women from her bridge club. Not a single person knew that I was adopted. My parents moved to Boise when I was a baby, and I guess the subject never came up.”
Another baffling shock Sarah couldn’t get over. Keeping such a huge secret from even your most trusted friends seemed unimaginable and beyond comprehension.
Why?
The question reverberated through her head as it had for months, making her crazy with the what-ifs that circled right back to the original question.
Why?
Weary of that dead-end question, she broached a different subject. “I thought I’d call the Dawson brothers and Lucky Arnett today and set up interviews. I’m also planning to explore the area. Should I get a key so that I don’t have to bother you with my coming and going?”
“No need—I never lock my door. Well, that’s not quite true. When I leave town, I do.”
Clay Hollyer kept his door locked. Sarah remembered the loud click of the deadbolt as he slid it back. “Even in quiet, safe Boise, we lock our doors,” she said.
“Here, most of us don’t. Although there are people who lock their doors for one reason or another.”
No doubt, Clay didn’t want any nosy reporters walking into his house. Which was exactly what he’d taken her for.
“The Tates, my next-door neighbors, started locking their door last summer.” Mrs. Yancy dived into a comical story of the time Mr. Tate’s unwanted relatives showed up and made themselves comfortable while the couple was out for the day. Which led into a story of another friend’s cow, which somehow figured out how to open the gate to the back garden.
In no time, the amusing stories pushed all thoughts of Ellen from Sarah’s mind.
She laughed and let out an inward sigh of relief. When the meal ended, she was still smiling.
* * *
AFTER BREAKFAST, MRS. YANCY refused Sarah’s offer to help clean up. “You’re a paying guest, and you’re not supposed to do the breakfast dishes,” she said. “But you can sit and keep me company awhile longer.”
Mrs. Yancy suggested places to see in the area. Sarah was at the table, jotting down notes, when her cell phone rang.
Private caller, the screen said, and she almost let it go to voice mail. But she never had been good at ignoring calls. What if an editor with a blocked number was calling about an assignment? She picked up. “This is Sarah Tigarden.”
“It’s Clay.”
The deep, slightly gruff voice sounded rusty, as if he’d just awakened. Sarah pictured him in a T-shirt and rumpled pair of pajama bottoms, his hair sticking up and stubble on his face.
Her heart fluttered and her whole body warmed. Shifting nervously, she glanced at Mrs. Yancy, who was busy wiping down the stove. As if the older woman could save her from her unwanted feelings.
Schooling her wayward emotions, she managed a cool, “Hello, Clay. What do you want?”
A rude question, but she needed him to understand that she hadn’t asked for and didn’t appreciate that kiss.
Okay, that was so not true.
Mrs. Yancy’s head whipped around, her eyebrows rising comically up her forehead.
Clay cleared his throat, as if the question threw him. “I was up in the attic this morning.”
He’d found something. Sarah gripped the phone. “Oh?” she said, barely masking her excitement.
“I don’t know how you knew to check the attic, but I’ve got a footlocker here that I’m pretty sure belonged to Tammy.”
Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. “You found a footlocker that probably belonged to Tammy,” she paraphrased for Mrs. Yancy’s benefit. “When can I take a look at it?”
“This morning is good.”
Moments later, she disconnected. “I’ll make those calls to the ranchers later. I’m going back to Clay’s to see that footlocker.”
“Don’t you think you should put on some clothes first?” Behind her bifocals, Mrs. Yancy’s eyes twinkled.
In her eagerness, Sarah had forgotten she was still in her robe and pajamas. “Right. Excuse me while I shower and dress.”
Some thirty minutes later, wearing her favorite jeans, the ones that flattered her rear end, she headed downstairs. Mrs. Yancy was waiting for her in the living room.
“You’re wearing makeup, and the royal blue color of that blouse brings out the blue in your eyes and the roses in your cheeks. Clay is sure to notice how pretty you are.”
Sarah blushed. “I’m not interested in him.” At least, she didn’t want to be. She felt compelled to add, “This is how I usually dress—except for days like yesterday, when I was on the road, traveling.”
“Well, you look lovely. I’ll be interested to know what you find in that footlocker.”
“I’ll let you know,” Sarah said. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
“No worries. If I’m not here, walk on in and make yourself at home.”
Grateful for the woman’s trust and kindness, Sarah smiled and hurried out the door.
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