Tossing aside the light throw she’d used as a blanket, she pushed herself up off the soft cushions of a leather sofa before blinking at the television. There, the muted figure of some late-night comedian clowned before his silent audience. All of them laughing up a storm, as though her sweetest boy had not been reduced to ashes in a small urn just two weeks before.
Not a boy; a man, she reminded herself, Ian and his brother both. But she’d never known either one as a grown adult, as a soldier, thanks to her husband’s scorched-earth approach to fatherhood. Now he was gone, as well, leaving her alone here, or as alone as an aging widow could get surrounded by thousands of acres of drought-plagued range and thirsty cattle.
The pounding started again, adding a desperate edge to the insistent rhythm. It sliced through her drugged reality, reaching a part of her that understood there must be something very wrong. Shaking overtook her at the suspicion that she would find another pair of uniformed officers at her front door, somber military personnel assigned to tell her that her surviving firstborn son, her Zach, was gone, too.
With a cry of pain, she lurched through the empty house, her shaking hand reaching for the door before she could wonder if it might be unsafe to do so. Because he was all she had left; if he’d been taken from her now, too—
With her heart pounding in her throat and the world careening wildly around her, she unlocked the door and flung it open so hard that it banged against the entry wall. Staring into the dark August night, she begged the same God who’d failed at every turn to heed her prayers that it not be the news she most feared. Please don’t take him, too.
But tonight’s visitor wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt rather than the dreaded uniform. She was a gaunt and pale young woman, with eyes shadowed by exhaustion and arms that trembled with the weight of the small child she carried. The sleeping girl of three—or was it four?—years, wrapped in a blanket, her tawny hair a matted mess.
“I can’t do this anymore,” the young woman told her, her eyes shimmering with tears. “I just can’t. I need your help, please, Nancy. C-can you take her?”
Drained from days of headaches and weak from dehydration, Nancy felt a jolt of pure energy restore her. Her long trance shattered, and a new sense of purpose moved her forward. She raised thin arms to lift the burden from the taller woman’s arms, to cuddle the child close to her breast.
Rather than weighing her down, the little girl’s weight made Nancy feel lighter than she had since her husband’s death, six months earlier, lighter and younger than she had in decades. And when she looked down into the precious face, so smooth and unblemished and impossibly perfect, the knowledge coursed through her, a swift river of current telling her that this was no accident at all.
This was, instead, a miracle, a reason to go on.
Chapter 1
Three months later...
Stiff and tired from hours of driving across the desolate northern Texas prairie, Jessie Layton climbed from her blue hatchback and stepped into the howling wind.
Bent low against the gusts, she slung her purse over her shoulder and raced for the steps leading up to the wide white veranda without waiting for her cameraman to follow. By the time she made it to the mansion’s front door, she was choking on the brick-red dust, her eyes and nose streaming and long ribbons of her reddish-blond hair whipping across her face. Shivering with a cold that her leather jacket barely cut, she felt scoured and sandblasted—and angrier than ever.
Leave it to my sister to drag me halfway to Hell.
No. That wasn’t right. As she pushed the hair from her face, she reminded herself she hadn’t driven all the way up to the Panhandle ranch, where her twin’s trail had gone cold, for Haley’s sake, no more than she was here for the “very personal human-interest story” she’d pitched to her news director as a pretext to get out of Dallas for a few days. Though the request must have come as quite a shock considering that she’d been on the verge of breaking a story bound to make national headlines, She had really come because she’d made a promise. A promise to the mother she was about to lose.
The thought brought with it a stab of fear, the same swirling sense of panic that threatened to pull Jessie under several times a day. She was still working to get past her father’s sudden death two years before, and he had barely acknowledged her existence, except to criticize her. Now, her mother, too, was dying, the one parent she could always count on for support, for love—Jessie couldn’t bear the thought.
She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her breathing, reminding herself that they still had weeks or months left. Or maybe even longer. Aggressive as the cancer was, her mom was holding her own at the moment, and the oncologist had allowed that spontaneous remissions had happened in a few rare cases.
If she could find Haley and bring her home to make peace, they might get the miracle they needed. Or maybe Mom just wants to see her one more time before she dies... The reason didn’t matter. Finding Haley, and getting her home fast, was more important to Jessie than anything else right now. Important enough that she scarcely gave a thought to the risk to her career and the story she’d been so focused on selling to her news director.
Henry Kucharski stumbled up the steps behind her, the bushy gray wreath that ringed his bald head swirling in the gale. A wiry little man with a woolly caterpillar of a mustache, he was struggling with the mini-cam, pulling off the lens cap as she pounded on the front door.
“Three in the afternoon, and it might as well be full dark,” he said anxiously. “Without decent lighting, this footage won’t be worth the—”
“Don’t you get it, Henry? I couldn’t care less about the lighting,” she said, “or the footage, either.”
Pried loose by the wind, a nearby shutter started banging. Concerned her own knock wouldn’t be heard, Jessie tried ringing the bell but didn’t hear it. As she’d suspected when she’d first spotted the darkened windows, the storm must have caused a power outage.
“That’s not what you told Vivian.” Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, Henry squinted against the wind. “And I’ll remind you, she’s my boss, too. You and I both know how she holds on to grudges. And how many ways she has of making our lives miserable.”
Jessie, who towered over him in the high-heeled boots she wore with a tunic and leggings, spared him an apologetic look, remembering how allergic the poor guy was to confrontation. And how sweet he’d been to postpone his wedding anniversary dinner with his wife of twenty-six years to make the six-hour drive out here with her when it was clear that no one else would. “I’ll take full responsibility. Don’t worry.”
She rapped at the oversize mahogany door again, more insistently this time. Please let someone be home. She’d spotted a big pickup parked out back, but for all she knew, the owners were off somewhere in another vehicle from the attached four-car garage.
“Oh, I’m not worried about me, so much. It’s you, especially after you jammed that story on the mayor down her throat. Vivian has friends, I hear, including one very close friend supporting—” As the doorknob rattled, Henry went silent, tensing as he readied his camera.
The moment the door cracked open, a gust sent a swirl of sand spinning into Jessie’s face. She cried out, covering her stinging eyes with her hands.
“Come inside, out of the wind,” insisted a female voice, thin and scratchy. “Quickly, please. You’re letting in the dust.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Henry as he ushered Jessie inside and pressed a handkerchief into her hands.
Blotting her streaming eyes, Jessie blinked in the dim light of a surprisingly formal entryway for this part of the world. Half a dozen tiny flames flickered, where someone had set out candles atop a fussy table with carved, curved ivory