changed?
But, oh, in the dream…
She had been whole.
Right. You should’ve known something was weird when you saw Ethan in those clothes, and with that hair.
Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed. She needed to think. Outside. She would go outside, onto the porch. The best place to think. Like in the dream.
She shook her head. Wake up, Meg. This is reality.
On the nightstand the clock read 1:34 a.m. Grabbing her housecoat from the foot rail, she headed into the hallway and padded past Beau’s closed door.
In the kitchen she stopped, shivered. Then turned and walked back down the hallway to her son’s room. Quietly, she opened the door, peeked inside. The covers were in a jumbled heap, shadows playing hide-and-seek across pillows and walls. Something nudged her inside, to tiptoe to the bed.
The stars that had revealed Ethan in her dream now glanced through the window and disclosed Beau’s bed. His empty bed.
Meg stared down at the sheets where her son should be, snoring gently with sleep. Her heart kicked.
“Beau?” The name echoed. Spinning around, she ran from the room. “Beau!”
Throughout the house she flicked lights, rushed out the front door. His old Chevy pickup sat parked beside her Silverado. Where was he?
“Beau!” Had he sleepwalked? He never sleepwalked.
Had someone entered the house, snatched her son while she lay in the throes of her dream?
The way Elizabeth Smart had been stolen…?
No! He’d gotten a ride from a friend….
Would he disobey his grounding?
He’s sixteen, Meg. Obstinate, mutinous and desperate to shed the clutch of dependence.
Another thought flashed.
Dear God. Had he gone to confront Ethan over that damn eagle situation?
That had to be it, had to be. Meg flung back into the house, raced for her bedroom, her jeans and hoodie. Yes, she and Beau had their problems, but he’d never left the house in the middle of the night, and certainly not without her permission. He knew the scope of her worry barometer when it came to disregarding curfews and house rules.
Number one: let Mom know.
Except, the circumstances surrounding the wounded eagle had pushed him to an emotional razor’s edge. She knew that. Knew it as if he’d elucidated his resentment in a three-page essay.
From the minute he slammed out of the house yesterday, he’d gone into a class-A brood mood, which—more than target shooting without consent—incited her to ground him with no nights out for a week. The curfew had served to fuel his resentment. Tonight he’d hunched over his supper and grunted when she asked him a question. Afterward, he’d disappeared into his room, leaving Meg alone for the rest of the evening.
Please, she thought. He’s been so unpredictable lately. Don’t let him do something rash.
Keys and wallet in hand, she hurried out to her truck—and hoped Ethan was a light sleeper.
She killed the headlights and the ignition before climbing out of the truck. Upon the water’s surface the moon painted its wafer-pale light. Twice in as many days she had driven to this place. His place. Next thing she knew, she’d be into a ritual.
The phone could have worked just as well, Meg.
About to get back in the truck and drive home, she heard his deep voice come through the dark.
“Out patrolling the neighborhood, Meggie?”
A shiver ran up her spine. The dream, his voice sounds the way it had in the dream. She remembered how his eyes had held her then, and in that interview room, and out by the boulder forty hours before.
Wood creaked. Focusing on its direction, she strained to see through the obscurity. Tall body limned in moonlight, Ethan stood on his front porch. The other morning she had envisioned earthen pots laden in blooms around its periphery, a patio table with an umbrella on the rear deck.
You’re losing it, Meg. This isn’t your home. And he’s not your man. “Not patrolling,” she said, more in control as she recalled her mission. “Looking for Beau.”
“At this hour?”
“He’s…not in bed. He’d been home all night, but when I woke up twenty minutes ago…” She pushed an uneasy hand through her hair. “His truck is parked in front of our house, so I thought maybe…. Never mind. I don’t know why I figured he’d come here.” She strode back to her Silverado.
“Wait.” Ethan came down the deck steps, the rottweiler trotting at his side.
Of course, Beau hadn’t come here. The dog would’ve announced his presence and Ethan would have called her because he was a man of integrity—one who would recognize Beau’s need to rebel the way Ethan had once rebelled against the school for not believing him about Linc and Jock.
He walked across the few feet to where she stood beside the truck. “Maybe a buddy picked him up.”
Meg opened the vehicle’s door. “Exactly. I should be on the phone calling his friends.” What kind of cop was she? Had it been anyone else’s kid, she would have given the same advice.
But it wasn’t someone else’s son. It was Beau. Her child.
That alone was reason to call Gilby, her second-in-command, get him to initiate the search. She was too close, too emotional.
With shaky fingers she tried to insert the key into the ignition.
Ethan set a hand on her shoulder, the simple touch easing her agitation. He’d always been able to soothe her fears years ago, too. Fears about her brother’s dyslexia or her dad holding the ranch together. All Ethan had to do was speak her name or touch her cheek and her world settled.
“Move over,” he said now. “I’ll drive.”
“I’m okay. I’m a cop, for heaven’s sake.”
He leaned in, took the keys out of her grasp. “You’re also a mother. Now, scoot over and let me drive. You can give me directions and focus on what needs to be done.”
Suddenly the rottweiler trotted toward the trees, low growl in her throat.
“Hold on a sec.” He walked around the truck’s hood. “What is it, Lila? A raccoon?”
Beneath the moon’s glow, Meg saw the dog lift her snout, sort through the scents layering the night wind. Pricking her ears, the animal let out a deep-throated bay and loped into the trees.
Meg grabbed the flashlight from the glove box, and jumped out of the pickup to rush around the hood, toward the black-silhouetted woods where Ethan strode, a shadow against shadows.
“Maybe it’s a coyote,” she called.
An unexpected pop sounded.
Gunshot?
She stopped, heart in her throat. “Ethan?” Immediately she snapped off the flashlight and tucked the tool into the hip pocket of her jeans. “Eth?” Oh, God, where was he?
Silence.
Why had the dog quit barking?
Peering through the night, Meg whispered again, “Ethan? Answer me.” Please.
Pop!
Ethan!
Had he been hit? Please, no. We’ve just gotten together…
Right hand automatically going to her hip where her Smith & Wesson 9 mm was belted on workdays, Meg raced for the trees. Why, why hadn’t she brought the gun tonight? Because you were looking for your