glimpse of the trailer. “I don’t know. Sometimes.”
“What’s the niece’s name?”
“Taylor. She’s nice. She kisses my cheek and calls me her little darling.”
Was it possible that Lacie was this Taylor’s child? “You don’t live at the convent, do you?”
Lacie shook her head. “I visit lots. Sister Marjo saved me, so she’s ’sponsible for me.”
A strange situation. The nun had found her five years ago yet had stayed involved. So maybe Lacie wasn’t Brianna.
12
T HE SWEET SCENT OF HAY , VERY DIFFERENT FROM THE SMELLS OF EXHAUST AND SMOG C LAY was used to, filled his lungs as he showed the girls how to feed the horses. They giggled and threw flakes of hay at one another. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the window opening.
He glanced at his watch. Eden had been gone for an hour. Surely she’d be back with Lacie soon. When the horses were fed, he led the girls back to the house to wash up for the meal. He sniffed the air. “Chili for supper, I think.”
“Yay!” Madeline said. When the other girls ran on ahead, she slipped her hand into his.
Her fingers closed around his in a confidential way that warmed his heart. Her blond hair bouncing, she skipped along beside him. He thought she looked a little like the pictures he’d seen of Eden when she was a child, but maybe all little girls were similar.
Her fingers tightened on his when a dented Ford came rolling up the drive. The sun had turned the red paint to a rust color. The back window on the passenger side had been busted out, and a black plastic bag fluttered in the opening. He glimpsed a woman behind the wheel.
Madeline stood stock still, her smile gone. “It’s my mother,” she whispered. “She’s not supposed to come here.”
Clay searched his memory. Rick had said Madeline’s mom was filing for custody. “She was in the hospital, right?”
Madeline nodded, watching as the car lumbered to a stop. “She was in the loony bin,” she said in a confidential tone.
He winced. “She has some mental illness she’s fighting,” he said gently.
“She scares me. Mom doesn’t like her.”
“Your foster mom?” Clay watched a woman get out of the car. Even from here he heard the door screech. That old rust bucket was bound for the junk heap soon.
Madeline nodded and hid behind his leg. “Mom said I don’t have to talk to her.”
“You run ahead inside. I’ll talk to her.” He watched the little girl run up the porch steps like someone was chasing her. And maybe someone was. He didn’t know all the background. Just that the woman had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. If the doctors deemed her well enough to function, there should be no real danger.
He intercepted her determined stride up the walk toward the house. “May I help you?”
About fifty and thin as the fence rail, the woman was dressed in jeans that were stained with what looked like blood but he assumed was red paint. Was that smear of red on her forehead a cross? Her fingers were stained too when she held out her hand to shake his. She was very blond, and it looked natural.
Her grip was strong, almost like a man’s. “I am here to get my daughter, Madeline,” she said. Her accent seemed to indicate she might be Scandinavian. Her gaze wandered over his shoulder toward the house.
He resisted the urge to step away from the unsavory stench that he thought emanated from her hair. “Get her? Camp won’t be finished for another month.”
She leaned in and stabbed at his chest with her forefinger. “She belongs to me. You can’t stop me from taking her.”
“Do you have a court order to allow you to take her? She’s not in your custody.”
A crafty expression flitted across her face before she hid it. “I am her mother. I have rights.” She dug into her pocket. “And I have this.” She handed him a wrinkled paper stained with smears of red, blue, and yellow.
Her name was Else Bjorn, so his impression of a Scandinavian accent
“What’s the niece’s name?”
“Taylor. She’s nice. She kisses my cheek and calls me her little darling.”
Was it possible that Lacie was this Taylor’s child? “You don’t live at the convent, do you?”
Lacie shook her head. “I visit lots. Sister Marjo saved me, so she’s ’sponsible for me.”
A strange situation. The nun had found her five years ago yet had stayed involved. So maybe Lacie wasn’t Brianna.
12
T HE SWEET SCENT OF HAY , VERY DIFFERENT FROM THE SMELLS OF EXHAUST AND SMOG C LAY was used to, filled his lungs as he showed the girls how to feed the horses. They giggled and threw flakes of hay at one another. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the window opening.
He glanced at his watch. Eden had been gone for an hour. Surely she’d be back with Lacie soon. When the horses were fed, he led the girls back to the house to wash up for the meal. He sniffed the air. “Chili for supper, I think.”
“Yay!” Madeline said. When the other girls ran on ahead, she slipped her hand into his.
Her fingers closed around his in a confidential way that warmed his heart. Her blond hair bouncing, she skipped along beside him. He thought she looked a little like the pictures he’d seen of Eden when she was a child, but maybe all little girls were similar.
Her fingers tightened on his when a dented Ford came rolling up the drive. The sun had turned the red paint to a rust color. The back window on the passenger side had been busted out, and a black plastic bag fluttered in the opening. He glimpsed a woman behind the wheel.
Madeline stood stock still, her smile gone. “It’s my mother,” she whispered. “She’s not supposed to come here.”
Clay searched his memory. Rick had said Madeline’s mom was filing for custody. “She was in the hospital, right?”
Madeline nodded, watching as the car lumbered to a stop. “She was in the loony bin,” she said in a confidential tone.
He winced. “She has some mental illness she’s fighting,” he said gently.
“She scares me. Mom doesn’t like her.”
“Your foster mom?” Clay watched a woman get out of the car. Even from here he heard the door screech. That old rust bucket was bound for the junk heap soon.
Madeline nodded and hid behind his leg. “Mom said I don’t have to talk to her.”
“You run ahead inside. I’ll talk to her.” He watched the little girl run up the porch steps like someone was chasing her. And maybe someone was. He didn’t know all the background. Just that the woman had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. If the doctors deemed her well enough to function, there should be no real danger.
He intercepted her determined stride up the walk toward the house. “May I help you?”
About fifty and thin as the fence rail, the woman was dressed in jeans that were stained with what looked like blood but he assumed was red paint. Was that smear of red on her forehead a cross? Her fingers were stained too when she held out her hand to shake his. She was very blond, and it looked natural.
Her grip was strong, almost like a man’s. “I am here to get my daughter, Madeline,” she said. Her accent seemed to indicate she might be Scandinavian. Her gaze wandered over his shoulder toward the house.
He resisted the urge to step away from the unsavory stench that he thought emanated from her hair. “Get her? Camp won’t be finished for another month.”
She leaned in and stabbed at his chest with her forefinger. “She belongs to me. You can’t stop me from taking her.”
“Do you have a court order to allow you to take her? She’s not in your custody.”
A crafty expression flitted across her face before she hid it. “I am her mother. I have rights.” She dug into her pocket. “And I have this.” She handed him a wrinkled paper stained with smears of red, blue, and yellow.
Her name was Else Bjorn, so his impression of a Scandinavian accent
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