No answer.
Her heartbeat stuttered for a moment, but she told herself not to panic. The inn was a big house. The B and B held eight rooms, although most of them were empty at the time. With the holidays approaching, most people were staying home, going to visit family or flying to some exotic location for a winter vacation, not visiting small-town Texas.
She peeked inside Benji’s closet but didn’t see him. Yet the dresser drawer stood open, and his clothes looked as if he’d pawed through them.
Probably to dress himself. He was three and starting to vie for independence that way. She just had to teach him how to match colors now.
Then she noticed his backpack was missing.
Her heart suddenly racing, she turned and looked at his room again. The big bear he normally slept with wasn’t in his bed. Not on the floor or in the room at all. Neither was the whistle he liked or his favorite red hat.
But his blanket was there. He’d never go anywhere without that blue blanket.
Fear seized her, but she fought it off.
Surely Benji was just pretending he was on a camping trip. He and Ron had been talking about hiking the other night. Ron had even asked Benji which one of his special friends/toys he would carry with him if he was going on a long trip.
The bear, whistle and red cap were on his list.
Her hands shaking as other scenarios taunted her, she raced down the hall to the empty rooms and searched inside. No Benji.
Hating to disturb the two guests she did have but panicked now, she knocked on the door to the Ellises’, an elderly couple on an anniversary trip. The gray-haired man opened the door dressed in a robe. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ellis, but have you seen my son, Benji?”
“No, ma’am. Me and Henrietta been sleeping.”
“Would you mind checking your room in case he snuck in? He’s only three and mischievous at times.”
He scratched his head, sending his wiry hair askew. “Sure.” He left the door open, and Sage watched as he checked under the bed, the closet and adjoining bathroom. “Sorry, Ms. Freeport, he’s not in here.”
Sage’s stomach knotted. If—no, when—she found Benji, she would explain that hiding from her was not okay.
She climbed the steps to the third-floor attic room. A woman named Elvira had chosen it, saying she needed solace and to be alone. The poor woman had lost a child, and Sage had given her privacy to mourn.
But Elvira didn’t answer. Sage let herself in and found a note from the lady saying she’d decided to leave early and didn’t want to disturb Sage.
Benji liked this room because the window offered a view of the creek behind the house.
But the room was empty.
Nerves on edge, she ran downstairs, once again checking each room and shouting Benji’s name. She rushed outside, wind beating at her as she searched the yard, the garden out back, the swing set, the fort and the tree house.
Benji was nowhere to be found.
Terrified, she ran back inside to call the sheriff. But the phone was ringing as she entered the kitchen. Maybe a neighbor had found Benji.
She grabbed the phone, determined to get rid of the caller so she could phone the sheriff. But his voice echoed back.
“Ms. Freeport, it’s Sheriff Gandt.”
Her stomach pitched. “Yes, I was just about to call you. My little boy, Benji... He’s gone.”
“I was afraid of that,” Sheriff Gandt muttered.
Icy fear seized Sage.
“I think you’d better come down to River Road Crossing at Cobra Creek.”
“Why?” She had to swallow to make her voice work. “Is Benji there?”
“Just meet me there.”
He hung up, and Sage’s knees buckled. She grabbed the kitchen counter to keep from hitting the floor.
No...Benji was fine. He had to be...
She grabbed her keys and ran outside. The minivan took three tries to crank, but she threw it in gear and tore down the road toward the river crossing.
As soon as she rounded the bend, she spotted flames shooting into the air. Smoke curled upward, clogging the sky in a thick, gray blanket.
Tires squealed as she swung the van to the shoulder of the road, jumped out and ran toward the burning car.
Sheriff Gandt stood by while firemen worked to extinguish the blaze. But even with the flames and smoke, she could tell that the car was a black Jeep.
Ron drove a black Jeep.
“Do you recognize this vehicle?” the sheriff asked.
A cold sweat broke out on Sage’s body. “It’s Ron’s. My fiancé.”
Sheriff Gandt’s expression looked harsh in the morning light. Then she saw what he was holding in his hands.
Benji’s teddy bear and red hat.
No... Dear God. Had Benji been in the car with Ron when it crashed and caught on fire?
Two years later
Dugan Graystone did not trust Sheriff Billy Gandt worth a damn.
Gandt thought he owned the town and the people in it and made no bones about the fact that men like Dugan, men who weren’t white, weren’t fit for office and should stay out of his way.
Gandt had even tried to stop Dugan from taking on this search-and-rescue mission, saying he could use his own men. But the families of the two lost hikers had heard about Dugan’s reputation as an expert tracker and insisted he spearhead the efforts to find the young men.
Dugan rode his stallion across the wilderness, scrutinizing every bush and tree, along with the soil, for footprints and other signs that someone had come this way. A team of searchers had spread across the miles of forests looking for the missing men, but Dugan had a sixth sense, and it had led him over to Cobra Creek, miles from where Gandt had set up base camp for the volunteer workers involved in the search.
Dammit, he hated Gandt. He’d run against him for sheriff and lost—mainly because Gandt bought votes. But one day he’d put the bastard in his place and prove that beneath that good-old-boy act, Gandt was nothing but a lying, cheating coward.
Born on the reservation near Cobra Creek, Dugan had Native American blood running through his veins. Dugan fought for what was right.
And nothing about Gandt was right.
Money, power and women were Gandt’s for the taking. And crime—if it benefited Billy—could be overlooked for a price.
Though Dugan owned his own spread, on the side, he worked as a P.I. His friend, Texas Ranger Jaxon Ward, was looking into Gandt’s financials, determined to catch the man at his own game.
The recent flooding of the creek had uprooted bushes and trees, and washed up debris from the river that connected to the creek. Dugan noted an area that looked trampled, as if a path had been cut through the woods.
He guided his horse to a tree and dismounted, then knelt to examine the still-damp earth. A footprint in the mud?
Was it recent?
He noticed another, then some brush flattened, leading toward the creek. Dugan’s instincts kicked in, and he shone his flashlight on the ground and followed the indentations.
Several feet away,