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“Forget it. Ice water. On the rocks.” Blake waited until Edward relented and walked into the living room, lowering himself unsteadily onto the sofa. Then he went to the sideboard and did the honors. “What did you decide to do about James?”
“I told Niles to keep his mouth shut. The last thing I need is for James to hear news like this two days before the Wellington Classic. It’ll screw up his concentration—and his performance. That Grand Prix is too damned important. He needs to win or at least to place. Not just this Sunday, but every damned Sunday between now and the U.S. Open Jumper Championship in March. He and Stolen Thunder are going to win that cup. And be one step closer to Olympic gold.”
No surprise there, Blake thought, bringing the glass of ice water over to the couch. Edward’s oldest grandchild was the apple of his eye, his one soft spot. His skill as a horseman solidified their connection. These past three years James had been showing almost exclusively on Edward’s prized stallion, Stolen Thunder. The two made quite a team. James was good, but Stolen Thunder was extraordinary. The German warmblood came from a highly acclaimed, champion lineage. He was the last in his bloodline. He’d won an impressive number of four- and five-year-old championships on a national and international level before Edward bought him for a small fortune. Edward was now hell-bent on James riding Stolen Thunder to a record number of qualifying Grand Prix wins, then on to the World Games in Aachen and—their ultimate goal—to the Beijing Olympics. There was no way, after the huge financial and emotional investment he’d made, that anything was going to interfere with that.
“Besides,” Edward added, taking a gulp of water, “there’s not a damned thing James could do here. As it is, we’re just sitting on our hands, waiting.”
“True enough. And waiting’s not exactly James’s forte.”
“No. It’s not.”
Blake lowered
himself into the armchair across from his grandfather. “You said the police found one body. What about Sally Montgomery?”
“She’s still missing.”
“‘Missing’ as in they haven’t found her body yet, or ‘missing’ as in she wasn’t there when the fire started?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Edward shrugged, taking another swallow of water. “The firefighters and cops have been combing the debris for hours. There’s still no sign of her. The sheriff tells me there’s no way she could have been in that house and survived. That cabin went up like paper. The place was a pile of ashes in half an hour.”
“Then where is she?” Blake’s brows drew together. “It shouldn’t take this long to search the scene. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No. It doesn’t.” Edward rolled the glass between his palms. “But it better—soon.”
MONTY LEANED BACK against his car and watched Sergeant Jakes talking on his cell. The call was from the coroner, who’d completed his initial examination. Monty had purposely walked away so Jakes could get the low-down in private.
And so he could watch Jakes’s response.
He studied the cop’s expression, his gestures, his stance.
Something he was hearing wasn’t sitting right. Which meant the coroner was informing him that whatever he’d found suggested this fire had not been accidental.
No surprise.
And still no Sally.
Shading his gaze, Monty glanced around, trying to figure out which path she’d taken. Had she reasoned out the safest route before she fled? Or had time been working against her? Had she been too desperate to get away from the fire—and whoever set it—to think rationally? Did the perp realize she was alive? Was he after her to keep her from identifying him? Is that why no one had heard from her? Was she hiding somewhere? Hurt? In either case, calling would be out. No way her cell phone was with her. She hated the thing, rarely carried it. And when she went out walking? Forget it. Dollars to doughnuts, her cell phone had burned to a crisp in that cabin. Which meant she was out there somewhere, alone, with only her backwoods instincts to guide her.
Still, those instincts were pretty damned amazing. They’d keep her alive and help him bring her home. They had to.
“Dad?” Meredith rolled down the car window and leaned out. “What’s going on?”
Monty turned, wincing at the agonized expression on his youngest child’s face. She was taking this every bit as hard as he’d feared.
“Sergeant Jakes is talking to the coroner. I’ll give him a minute to process what he’s being told and to share it with his team. Then I’ll go over there and see what I can find out.” He leaned forward, folding his arms across the open window and meeting his daughter’s gaze with as much parental authority as he had the heart, or the right, to display. “I want you to stay put. No bursting onto the scene, pleading for information. It’ll only piss Jakes off and make him clam up.”
“I’m not a child, Dad. I’m almost twenty-one. I have no intention of freaking out in front of the cops. But I’m worried sick. I keep thinking about all the horrible things that might have happened to Mom.”
“I know.” Monty’s fingers brushed her cheek. “I realize how scared you are. But I told you your mother is alive, and she is. I also told you I’d find her, and I will.”
Meredith gave an anxious nod, swallowing back tears. She didn’t look convinced. And how could Monty blame her?
“I haven’t given you much reason to trust me, have I, Merry?” he murmured ruefully. “I’ve been out of your life more than I’ve been in.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. But it’s also not the point—not now. Just know that you, Devon, and Lane mean the world to me. So does your mother. Trust me to bring her home.”
