The Hanging On Series Digital Box Set

Lesson 1: Patterns

Monday, October 17

Here. Maggie tosses a book of stained-glass patterns onto the table. Pick one.

I flip through the pages, marveling at the mixture of colors and shapes working together to make art from broken glass. I should choose something simple, but I’m drawn to complex designs with a multitude of pieces.

Well? Maggie flicks a strand of her white hair out of her eyes. I’d hoped for a carefree artist in a broom skirt who praised my every effort. Instead, my instructor hooks her thumbs into the belt loops of her faded Levis and raises her eyebrows like it’s all she can do to tolerate one more minute of me.

I like this one. Turning the book around, I slide it across the table. I’ve chosen an intricate Celtic knot with three colors floating in a square of indigo glass.

There’s one color for each of us, I explain. Adam, Emma, and me.

Maggie shakes her head. Well, I’ll be, she mumbles.

What?

Maggie shakes her head. Nothing. You’ll see, she says with the hint of a smile. Then she looks me square in the face. It’s too hard.

My high hopes plummet along with my pride.

The good Lord won’t give you more than you can handle, Nichole, and neither will I. She turns the pages with authority. Try this. Lots of color. No straight lines. Only nine pieces.

She shoves the book at me, and I stare at a pattern called Patchwork Heart. Not my favorite by a long shot, but I don’t have the nerve to argue with Maggie Malone.

Sometimes we choose our patterns and sometimes they’re chosen for us, Maggie says. She turns her back to me and places the pattern I did not choose on her copy machine. Sometimes the patterns we least like are the ones we most need.

Chapter 1

Nichole

Right now, I should be soldering. Not breaking.

I woke up this morning to a brilliant blue October sky framed in golden leaves and stark white Aspen branches with a plan—a simple pattern. Adam promised an anniversary surprise to commemorate our fourteen years together. He promised Emma one last trail ride before we pack up tomorrow to go home ahead of the winter storm. He promised to be back by nine, so I could take the truck into town for my last lesson at Maggie’s glass shop.

I’d been nervous about this trip, but we’d almost made it. The knot that had been in my stomach since Emma first mentioned this trip had eased. Finally. We had one more day and one more night, and then Adam promised we would go home. I dreamed of a hot shower and sleeping in our own bed in our warm, safe house. He promised to be back by now.

But sometimes promises break. Sometimes our plans shatter for reasons we don’t understand and the patterns we choose for our lives change without our consent.

My husband’s missing. I try to sound rational, but hysteria creeps into my voice.

What is your location, ma’am? The dispatch officer sounds far too calm. Didn’t she hear me? My husband is gone.

A campsite near Shimmer Lake, fifteen miles from Rainbow Falls, about an hour north of Estes Park.

My phone beeps a warning as my battery weakens.

Your name, please.

Nichole Madrid. I watch Emma gnaw on her thumbnail. Her left foot bobs up and down like a sewing machine needle at full throttle.

How long has he been missing, Mrs. Madrid?

He left at five-thirty this morning. We expected him back around nine.

She pauses. I hear mockery in her silence. So, three hours, then?

But you don’t understand, I plead, he’s never late, and he’s not answering his phone. We’ve looked everywhere. He has our truck, my phone charger, my purse. Everything. We’re three-hundred miles from home.

Another beep from my dying phone.

We? Who is with you?

My daughter. She’s twelve. Please. I know something’s wrong.

We can’t do anything until he’s been missing twenty-four hours, she says, sounding less robotic. Almost human. I know you’re scared, but stay calm. Do you have shelter?

Yes. Our camper. We have to find him before it gets dark. He’s forty-three. Five-foot-eight. Brown hair and eyes. Our truck is a black Ford. I tell her everything I can before it’s too late.

Stay put. I’ll send an officer out to...

A final beep ends my connection with civilization and my heart sinks as I pull the phone from my ear.

Emma stares at me, waiting for answers. I shake my head and shove the worthless gadget into my jacket pocket. It’s dead.

See, if I had a phone...

Not now, Emma. I flash my open palm at her—our nonverbal cue to stop and think before saying another word. The dispatcher said she’d send an officer to. To what? Today? Tomorrow? To us?

A sudden gust of wind slams our camper door shut. Emma wraps her jacket tight around her thin torso and runs to the corral behind our trailer to comfort her horses. Black clouds cover the sun and a chill runs through me. I remember Adam’s words to Emma when she protested his decision to leave tomorrow instead of Sunday. Emma, if we don’t get this trailer and those horses off this mountain before the storm hits, we’ll be snowed in all winter.

I glare at the ominous clouds in the distance. The dark gloom marching toward us gradually obliterates the blue-sky promises to which I awakened. 

***

Emma

Mom tries to act strong, but I see the worry on her face. It scares me. My dad’s hardly ever late, and he always keeps his promises. He told me we’d ride this morning, so where is he?

I want to jump on Rocket’s back and let him find my dad. Horses have instincts humans don’t have. I just know Rocket could find Dad, but Mom’s afraid to ride. Something about being bucked off once during some part of her messed up childhood. She should get over it. And fast. We have to find Dad and we have to get off this mountain.

Mom? I jog around our new horse trailer and find Mom making me breakfast inside our little kitchen. We’re almost out of food. I should tell her I’m not hungry. I should save the food for Dad, but I’m starving.

Mom hands me a paper plate, a breakfast burrito, and the last bunch of grapes. Aren’t you eating?

She shakes her head. Her blonde hair swings at her jawline and grazes her chin. As her summer sky-blue eyes fade to gray, my stomach twists into knots.

We need to use the horses. They can find Dad. I nibble a grape.

Mom turns away.

We can’t just sit here doing nothing, I try again.

Em, the dispatch lady said she’s sending an officer.

Yeah, but when?

She shrugs.

We can ride into town. Maybe somebody saw Dad. We have to buy more food, anyway.

I don’t have my purse, Emma. She reaches into the back pocket of her grubby jeans. Mom hates being dirty. I know she wants to go home. Ten dollars. She shows me the folded bill. That’s all I have.

I have a twenty in my bag. Let’s go.

Not yet. I have to wait for the officer. We need help.

Anger boils inside me. I knew she wouldn’t try. She’ll just curl up into a ball and wait for some man to take care of her. I will never be like that. She must see the frustration on my face because after she looks into my eyes, she surprises me.

Okay. Mom takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Teach me to ride.

I stare open-mouthed at her, and fear squeezes my heart. If my mom’s willing to get on a horse, my dad must be in big trouble.

Chapter 2

Nichole

I spend the afternoon pulling myself into a saddle and fighting a panic attack. My entire body stiffens with each step Tiptoes takes. According to Adam, Tiptoes, a gentle white Paso Fino who stands about fourteen hands high, provides a smoother ride than any Lexus. I wouldn’t know. My body, rigid and tense, works against the horse’s funny gait and natural movements. I try to relax, but with my heart thumping around in my chest like a herd of rabbits, it doesn’t happen. My hands cramp around the reins and saddle horn, and my inner thighs squeeze the saddle with the force of a vice grip.

No officer ever arrives. We stay close to camp just in case, but nobody comes to help us. We will have to ride fifteen miles into town tomorrow and back again. I don’t know how I’ll do it. I’ve made little progress toward overcoming my fear of riding. To make matters worse, my thirty-four-year-old muscles will stiffen overnight. I’ll be sore and scared tomorrow, but we are without options.

We ride in increasingly wider circles around the campsite, spiraling wider with each lap, calling Adam’s name, hoping to glimpse him or the truck or a park ranger. Anyone who might help us would be welcome, but it’s just Emma and me and these horses. Our discouragement grows into an ominous beast that leaves us spent and speechless most of the afternoon.

A chill whips through my coat as the breeze turns to an icy wind. Em, it’ll be dark soon. We should get back to camp.

Emma doesn’t even have the energy to argue. She nods and tells Rocket to take us home. She leads and I follow.

While Emma feeds the horses and blankets them against the night’s dropping temperatures, I allow myself to cry. I’ve depended on Adam too much for everything.

Where are you, Adam?

I want to scream—to beg this forest to release my husband. I want this band of trees to push him forth from behind their thick trunks and send him into this clearing so I can run to him and end this nightmare.

The voice in my head begs someone, anyone, for help, but I don’t make a sound. I have to muster courage for Emma because children need to believe that their parents possess the strength to hold them up, especially in a crisis. They need not know that behind our calm smiles and soothing words, parents survive on frantically whispered prayers.

Autumn days end early in the Rocky Mountains. I look at my watch. It’s only five o’clock and already getting dark. We’ve enjoyed the extra sleep this week, but without Adam, darkness descends like a curtain, signaling the final act of a tragedy and the black absence of hope. The wind whips my tangled hair across my face. The pungent scent of pine that symbolized escape and relaxation when we arrived here six days ago now assaults my nostrils. Tonight, I associate the smell with terror. It seems these thick trees have somehow swallowed my husband. I hear their whispered secrets, but I cannot decipher their language.

With stiff hands, I pull three pieces of split wood from their dry shelter beneath our camper. I carry them with tired arms to Adam’s fire pit, where I form twigs and small sticks into a miniature teepee, hoping the wind won’t ruin my attempt to light the fire. I light four matches with shaking hands before I ignite the paper I’ve wadded up and placed in the center of my kindling. When we first arrived, I teased Adam about his overkill in chopping wood. Now I am grateful because I don’t know how to chop wood, and, even if I did, the axe is in the truck. Just like everything else I need. Namely, Adam.

Emma rounds the corner to emerge from the back of the trailer, where Adam set up a corral with portable fence panels. When I wipe my tears, my hands smell like horse sweat and leather. The scent reminds me so much of Adam, it’s all I can do not to crumble.

What can I do, Mom? Emma approaches me with timid, subdued movements.

We have one more package of hamburger in the fridge. Bring it out, please, and I’ll make you some dinner.

I’m not hungry.

Me, neither, sweetie, but we should try to eat something. We’ll have to ride into town tomorrow. It’ll be a long day.

Emma’s big brown eyes fill with tears. She turns away from me and trudges into the camper. My heart breaks into a million pieces. I think about Maggie Malone and her glass lessons. I want to believe that I’m breaking for some higher purpose, that God will put us back together again, but I don’t see how that’s possible without Adam.

***

Emma

I love hamburgers, especially when they’re cooked over a campfire. But tonight, I can’t swallow a single bite. My throat hurts. It’s tight and full of tears.

I miss my dad so much. Where can he be?

Mom wants to keep the fire burning all night so that Dad can find his way back. It’s a good idea, and a pretty brave one for her. I won’t admit it to my mom, but I’m afraid to sit out here all night. The bears are out looking for food before they hibernate. What if they come into our campsite? Dad has a gun, but it’s in his truck.

I saw a sign by the lake warning people that mountain lions live here. What will we do if they show up and think we’d make a good meal?

I just want my dad to come back. I didn’t even know how safe he makes me feel until today.

After dinner, Mom puts on Dad’s headlamp so she can haul wood to the fire pit with both arms. I’m holding a flashlight in one hand and a few pieces of wood in the other. I hope it doesn’t snow. All our wood will get wet, and we’ll be stranded. How will we find my dad then?

That should be enough, Em, Mom says. Go in and get some sleep. I’ll sit out here.

No way, I say the words too fast. I want Mom to think I’m brave, that I’m staying out to protect her. I am kind of, but really, I don’t want to be alone.

Okay. Let’s get a couple of blankets and bundle up.

I keep hoping my mom will chicken out and go inside, but she seems set on staying out in the cold. Maybe she figures that if my dad can’t sleep in a warm bed, neither should she.

***

Nichole

We mean to keep the fire burning all night. Emma and I huddle beneath three blankets as close to the fire as we dare. Long after our fingers and toes grow numb in the bitter cold, we continue to shiver. I hear Emma’s teeth chattering above the crackle of the fire that tries and fails to warm the frigid air.

Neither of us says it, but I know we are both thinking of Adam. If we feel frozen to the bone beneath blankets, near a fire, and despite our shared body heat, how much greater must Adam be suffering?

Around nine, I break the silence. Emma, I whisper through the vibrations of my quivering jaw. Emma, go inside. I can’t let you stay out here.

N-n-not without y-you.

I stare for a few minutes into the fire I’d hoped and prayed would lead Adam back to us, and I realize I have a choice to make. I can go inside and protect my daughter from the icy cold or risk hypothermia waiting for the nearly impossible. If Adam couldn’t find his way back in the light of day, how will he do it at night?

On shaky legs, I stand and help Emma to her feet. We’ll let the fire burn out on its own. Let’s go inside.

Emma stands then, and she seems so small. I hold her close to me and a thought barrels through my chest like a bullet. I can’t afford to be careless, not even in my vigilant waiting for Adam. Until Adam returns, I’m the only parent Emma has.

An hour later, I’m still awake. Every noise sends a surge of adrenaline through my body. I want so much to hear Adam’s voice, to get some sense of him. But nothing comes to me, nothing at all. I always thought I’d know, instinctively, if something happened to Adam or Emma. I thought I’d have a premonition, some sixth sense that rang alarm bells in my head and my heart. Bitterly, I remember that I did have that feeling. I tried to warn Adam that this was a bad idea, but he convinced me I was letting my imagination get the best of me. I should have made him listen. Lying there next to my daughter on the bed I should be sharing with Adam, I wonder if I’ll ever again have the courage to let Emma out of my sight.

I listen to Emma’s steady breathing, glad one of us can sleep. She hasn’t cuddled next to me since she was seven and decided first-graders are too big to sleep with their mommies.

I smooth the dark hair on the crown of her head and loop one of her curls around my finger. Adam has the same brown, curly hair, the same creamy brown skin and warm chocolate eyes. She’s the image of him, and a free spirit, too, but she’s not as brave as she pretends.

The minute she fell asleep and let her guard down, she cried. She’s called out for her daddy five times already, and each time it feels like a jagged crack travels further across my heart.

I acted tough at Emma’s age, too, but not for the same reasons as Em. She does it because she thinks I’m weak. I know she does. I see it in her eyes. It’s the same disappointment I grew up seeing in my mother’s eyes. Emma fights against the weakness she does not want to inherit from me while I battle against my mother’s domineering cruelty.

My mom ridiculed me for being weak, like my father whom I’ve never met. She dumped him before I was born, and we moved away. I should be grateful, she says, that she didn’t abort me.

Sometimes, as a teenager, I’d lie in bed wishing she had.

I admit to having a daddy complex when I met Adam. I’d spent my entire twenty years of life picturing my dad as the perfect mix of gentleness and strength, despite what my mother said. I decided my dad had a quiet valor that a steamroller like my mother could never appreciate. Adam, an old-fashioned guy nine years my senior, wanted to provide and protect, but most of the women he met found his ideas antiquated and deplorable. I found in Adam the security and comfort I’d spent my entire life craving.

Tonight, I miss him so much my chest hurts. Every noise startles me. I’m not the outdoorsy type, so camping without Adam makes my pulse race. Each time the horses whinny, I picture mountain lions stalking them. Every time a twig scrapes against the trailer, I hold my breath and shut my eyes against the image of a bear’s sharp claws scratching the walls to get inside.

Without making a sound, I let my tears fall onto my pillow and into the soft tangle of Emma’s hair. Fear paralyzes my body while disbelief clouds my mind. This can’t be real. I can’t be here without Adam. I can’t be me without Adam.

Chapter 3

Nichole

Sometime in the oppressive darkness of the moonless night, I must have drifted into a restless sleep because when Emma mumbles, Dad? Daddy, where are you? I jump. My eyes sting as though sandpaper lines the insides of my eyelids.

It’s not pitch black anymore, but the sun’s not bright, either. I can see the glow of the alarm clock next to the bed, but the digital numbers dance like fuzzy green caterpillars. Emma’s weight on my right arm has rendered it numb and useless, so I rub my eyes with my left fist until I can read the clock. Six-twenty. Guilt floods my mind. How could I have slept in an almost warm bed while my husband is lost in the woods, fighting for his life?

I want to jump out of bed and run as far as my legs will take me, shouting Adam’s name at the top of my lungs until I find him. But Emma has settled back into a restless sleep and so, as I have learned to do in my twelve years of mothering, I put Emma’s needs ahead of my own and I wait. Through the rectangular window above the bed, I study a gray sky and contemplate how quickly and dramatically life can change. Yesterday, I woke to blue skies and the anticipation of a romantic anniversary surprise. Today, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of winter, and I’m filled with dread and loneliness. My emptiness weighs a ton and rests on my chest so that I can scarcely breathe.

Emma rolls off my arm, and I sit up.

Mom? Emma’s voice is scratchy. Her swollen eyelids flap up and down like a brand-new butterfly trying out her wings. Adam wakes up the same way, and that’s when I realize I’m desperate to see him again, to rest against his powerful chest while he holds me in his safe, steady arms.

Get up, Em. We’re going to find your dad today.

Emma furrows her brow. I can’t tell if she’s forgotten her dad is missing or if she wants to argue about getting up like she does every morning before school. I thought we were going to the police station.

We are, but let’s go through the forest instead of taking the road. Maybe we’ll see some sign of him or run into someone who might have seen him.

Emma rubs her eyes and stretches. Aren’t you scared of the horses anymore?

I’m beyond scared. And I’m sore and exhausted, but I’ll do anything... I can’t finish my sentence. I turn away from Emma’s imploring eyes and untangle myself from twisted sheets and sleeping bags. Fumbling around the tiny kitchen, I find a bag of bagels. Three left, portioned precisely for what should have been our last breakfast. I smear cream cheese on Em’s bagel while my stomach lurches. I pack the rest of our food, except for last night’s leftover burgers, into a bag. We’ll eat it on the road. I do everything I can think of to keep myself busy while Emma puts on her clothes, and then I step outside.

The icy fingers of the morning air smack me into an undesired state of alertness. Reality strangles me as I long for the warmth of the morning campfire Adam is not here to prepare. No hot coffee awaits me, and that alone nearly brings me to my knees. Except for the rare times he works out of town, I have awoken to a hot cup of creamy coffee and a good morning kiss every morning for the past fourteen years. I cannot bear the weight of his absence. My knees buckle, and I fall.

Mom? Are you okay? Emma sounds so forlorn, so lost and scared. She needs me to be strong, and so I will try.

I’m fine, I say, attempting a smile. Just clumsy. I fight gravity and the heavy pull of despair to rise slowly to my feet.

Should I make you some coffee? I can figure out how. Sweet Emma. She has always been her dad’s caretaker when it comes to making sure he buys gifts I like and doesn’t forget important dates. I’d like to think she’s looking out for me, but really, I know she does it to keep her dad out of trouble. She’s her daddy’s girl, and I’m glad she has the dad I always wanted.

No, honey, but thank you. I pull her close and breathe a silent sigh into the air above her head. My warm breath clouds the frigid air. I tilt my face to the sky and beg God to be more to me now than a religion I practice. I need Him now. More than I ever have.

Do you think Dad spent the night outside in the cold? Tears thicken Emma’s voice.

I hope not. Your dad’s an outdoorsman. He knows how to take care of himself. Even as I reassure Emma, my doubts call me a liar. He has the truck. Surely, even if he hurt himself, he could have made it back to the truck and found some way to drive back. Even if the truck stalled, he had all day to walk back or call someone for help. But I keep these thoughts to myself.

Emma pulls away. I’ll get the horses ready. We should go.

How can I help? Even as I ask, I eye the dirt road that leads from our secluded camp into Rainbow Falls. I’d give anything to see a cloud of dust and Adam’s truck coming back to us. Preferably before I climb onto the back of a horse I am afraid to ride.

I have to feed them first, and then we can saddle them.

After choking down a few bites of our bagels and drinking some weak, instant coffee, Emma leads the horses around to the front of the camper. I watch in awe as she hefts a saddle out of the tack room and onto Tiptoes’ back. She’s so strong and capable, thanks to Adam.

Tighten this cinch, Emma says, I’ll ride Rocket. Tiptoes will follow him anywhere. All you have to do is hold on.

Even as I contemplate mounting Tiptoes for a long day of riding, my fear escalates.

I recall the times Adam has tried to teach me to ride. Let her know you’re in control. He says it as though this is something I can do at will.

I’ve never been in control of my life. Not really. People may not sense that about me, but facades don’t baffle horses. Tiptoes won’t be fooled, no matter how hard I pretend.

I tell myself we’ll meet Adam on the road into town, waiting for the overheated truck to cool or changing a flat tire, or, knowing Adam, fixing someone else’s flat tire. I imagine he’ll have some wild story to tell about why he couldn’t come back last night. The anticipation of finding him gives me the courage to slip my left foot into the stirrup and swing my right leg over the saddle. Picturing his dimpled grin and the amused twinkle in his brown eyes keeps me on the horse, even though my knees shake and my heart races.

I don’t trust that two leather straps and a metal bit give me authority over a nine-hundred pound horse. Emma doesn’t understand my fear because I’ve worked hard to give her the stability I lacked. My mother lived on the edge, always seeking the next thrill, always disappointed. We moved every time she found a new boyfriend or lost an old job. I tried to navigate her wild mood swings, but she never failed to catch me off guard.

I know what it means to live at the mercy of someone over whom I have little or no influence, and I hate it. Right now, I am at Tiptoes’ mercy, and I sure hope she’s nicer and less impulsive than my mother.

While we ride, I search both sides of the trail, straining my eyes until my head throbs. I study the dark shadows of the thick pines and try not to think about the resident bears and mountain lions foraging for a long, cold Colorado winter. We plod along for half an hour, twisting and turning around the trunks of trees so thick I can’t see more than a few feet in front of us.

My stiff body hurts, but I’m grateful for the trees. They keep Emma and Rocket from going too fast. I need some time to get comfortable in this saddle before we hit a road and Emma picks up the pace.

Mom, look. Emma tugs on Rocket’s reins, and he stops. Tiptoes stops behind them. Emma’s pointing, but I can’t see around her. She turns. Nudge her forward, Mom.

I try. I do, but Tiptoes steps backward. Emma, help!

Mom, stop pulling the reins. Tap her with your heals and loosen your grip.

I ease up on the reins, and Tiptoes stops.

Geez, Mom. Who can’t make a horse move forward?

Emma, I’m trying. I want to cry. Go, Tiptoes. Go! I tap to no avail. Finally, I get mad and tap a little harder. Move it, Tiptoes. After what feels like an eternity, Tiptoes moves up a few steps until she’s standing next to Rocket.

Look. Emma points again. It takes me a while to figure out that between the tree trunks we can see the black roof of a distant house. The peak is steep, and the elk antlers mounted between two sinister looking attic windows make me shudder. Let’s knock on their door. Maybe they’ve seen Dad.

My heart flutters. I don’t want to talk to the people who live in this ramshackle place, but Emma and Rocket take off before I can make my cautionary case. Tiptoes follows, and who am I to stop her? My whoa means nothing to this horse. Or to my daughter, for that matter.

Dread consumes me as we near the dilapidated house that sags behind a tangled mess of shrubs or maybe giant weeds. We ride up the long, crooked driveway, through a forest thick with pine trees. This yard is in desperate need of a landscaper. By the time we reach the cluttered, rotting front porch, my hands are shaking. I slide off Tiptoes’ saddle and land on stiff legs. Moving like the tin man in need of oil, I hobble toward the most unwelcoming front door I’ve ever seen.

My heart hammers against my chest. This place gives me the creeps. I can’t find a doorbell, so I pull a screen door out of the way. It hangs unevenly from its top hinge, and it scrapes against a worn groove on the warped porch floor when I open it. Fighting the urge to run away, I knock on the wooden door. I’m not sure my aching legs couldn’t run if I wanted them to, and that makes me feel even worse.

A little boy opens the door. He tilts his dirty face skyward to peer into my eyes. His white-blonde hair is matted and sticking up all around his face. The dark circles beneath his big green eyes give him the look of a tired old man, though he can’t be more than five.

Is your mommy here? I say in the gentlest voice I can muster. Emma walks up beside me and waves at the boy. His eyes widen. He turns and scurries away, leaving the door ajar.

The house smells like stale onions and urine. A trashcan in one corner overflows with dirty diapers and rotting food. A pile of crusted dishes threatens to topple over and fall out of the sink.

Emma plugs her nose.

I’m about to leave when I hear footsteps shuffling toward the open door. I move my body in front of Emma’s, as though I can protect her. My need for Adam expands inside me until I think I’ll explode from the force of missing him.

A disheveled woman steps into the doorway. What do you want? she says. She’s wearing a threadbare tee shirt, tattered pajama pants, and dingy, once-white slippers. Her hair looks crunchy from too much product and matted as though she just rolled out of bed. That’s when I remember it’s only seven-thirty in the morning.

I’m, uh, I stutter. I’m sorry to bother you so early. I’m looking for my husband, I say. We’re camping not far from here. We haven’t seen him since early yesterday morning.

Why you think I know anything about him?

I don’t. I mean, I thought maybe you saw him or something. We’re searching everywhere.

If tourists can’t keep from getting lost in the woods, they should stay home. The woman twists her mouth into a sneer that reveals her stained, crooked teeth. I hate tourists. Always comin’ up here all fit and trim climbing around like you know the first thing ‘bout surviving in our mountains. Then you get hurt or lost, and you ‘spect us to pay for your rescue. Go home, she says like I’m a stray dog, and I have no idea why she’s so hostile.

She slams the door in our faces.

I share a confused look with Emma before we hustle back to the horses. My desire to escape overrides both my equine phobia and my sore legs. Go, I say. Emma kicks Rocket, and both horses gallop away from the house. I hold on for dear life. Either the horses sense our fear or this place freaks them out, too.

We lope for a couple of minutes before Emma slows Rocket to a walk. I ride up beside her only because I don’t know how to stop Tiptoes as fast as Emma stops Rocket.

Did you see that little boy, Mom? He reminds me of the horses at the rescue shelter. He looks scared to death, like he’s been beaten or something.

Yeah, I say, remembering my own mother who liked her drugs, parties, and men more than me. She looked a lot like the woman at the door—hung over and sleep deprived, but not because she was up with her children. How many times had I been that frightened, dirty child at the door, wishing my mother would wake up and make breakfast to quiet my growling stomach? Children who grow up with selfish, impulsive parents never know what’s coming next. He makes me sad. Let’s ride past their backyard. I’m curious about them.

No way, Emma says, shaking her head, Yuck.

Come on. We’ll just go around their property and then head into town.

Emma shakes her head as if I’m nuts, but she doesn’t argue. We ride through the forest to get around the house without being spotted. As soon as we’re sure no one can see us from a door or window, we dismount. Tiptoes and Rocket need a break, and we need the stealth their heavy hooves do not provide. Emma ties them to a couple of thick branches, and we inch our way toward the barbed wire fence that surrounds this tangled, neglected backyard. It’s even more overgrown and wild than the front.

When we’re within a few feet of the fence, Emma grabs my arm and points. There in the dirt, beneath the low boughs of a blue spruce, is a tiny girl tucked into a ball. She’s nestled into a hole, and she’s sucking her thumb.

I think she’s asleep, I whisper. Surely, she hasn’t been there all night.

She must be cold, Emma says, and I notice the girl’s bare feet.

Oh, Em. Tears fill my eyes. I want to go to her. I want to cradle her in my arms and take her home to a warm bath, clean clothes, and a soft bed. Then I remember I don’t have any of that right now. I’d like to take a hot bath myself, but the water tank in the camper is running low. Emma and I haven’t showered in three days.

I shiver in my jeans, socks, boots, and winter coat. This baby girl wears thin, torn leggings and a fleece top.

A twig snaps, and I stifle a scream. There is the little boy, standing inches in front of us on his side of the fence.

Hi, Emma whispers.

He stares at us with enormous eyes.

Have you seen my daddy? Emma says. She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a wallet-sized photo of our family that she must have grabbed from her purse before we left this morning. She holds it out to the boy and kneels down to make herself as small as he is. He freezes. I can’t find my daddy, Emma says. Can you help me?

The boy inches forward. He puts his thumb in his mouth and twists a tuft of matted hair between his free thumb and forefinger. He tiptoes like he’s afraid of a trip wire in his own yard, and my heart hurts for him.

Have you seen him? Emma asks when he’s close enough to see the picture. She points to Adam’s face.

The boy’s eyes bug out of his gaunt face. He lowers his chin to his chest and raises it up again. He makes the same motion one more time. I realize he’s nodding, and I don’t know whether to feel elation or dread.

Where is he? Emma asks, and because I’m her mother and because I know her better than I know myself, I hear both tears and hope in her voice.

The boy holds out his grubby palm like a crossing guard stopping traffic. Wait, he says in a voice so small I wonder if anyone’s ever really heard him.

He runs deep into the yard until we lose sight of him. I look at Emma, and she shrugs. She slips her hand into mine as we watch the girl sleeping in the dirt.

I don’t know how long to wait. I’m not sure if the boy will return at all, and I’m scared he’ll come back with his mother in tow. I’m trembling.

Then he returns. Alone. The boy jogs toward us on bare feet, holding something in his hand. He runs at Emma and pushes it through the fence, and then he disappears like a white bolt of lightning.

Emma frees the paper from the rusted wires on the fence that traps these children in a life I hate to imagine. The black edges around the paper crumble when Emma touches them. Whatever this is has been in a fire of some sort.

I can’t see the front of the paper. I can only see Emma’s face as she studies it. Then her body crumples and falls into a heap on the dirt, as fragile as the charred edges of the paper she holds.

Chapter 4

Emma

My mom forces me to stand, but my legs wobble. My head spins. I want to throw up, but Mom pulls me away from that horrible fence, that awful yard, that tiny girl in the dirt. She almost carries me into the shelter of the forest. We can’t let that woman find us, Mom says. Her voice sounds far away and hollow.

When we’re hidden, she lowers me to the ground. I’m numb. I can’t think. I stare and stare at the paper in my hands, trying to make sense of it.

Let me see, Mom whispers.

I clutch it between my fingers and my thumb. I won’t let go. I can’t.

Oh...no. No. Mom drops to her knees next to me. She covers her face. Her shoulders shake. I want to cry, too, but I can’t. I can’t do anything.

We sit there for a while. A few minutes? An hour? Nothing makes sense.

Finally, Mom sniffles and sits up straight. We have to show this to the police, Emma. Let’s go.

I look at the picture with the burned edges. It is the same picture I showed the little boy. A picture of us—Mom, Dad, and me. Except mine isn’t burned around the edges, and this one is my dad’s. I trace my handwriting scrawled across the back. I love you, Daddy. Love, Emma. He never takes it out of his wallet. How did that dirty boy get my dad’s things?

***

Maggie

I’m just about to attach the final hanging loop to a stained-glass Christmas ornament when the cowbell above my shop door clangs. The soldering iron in my right hand is hot and ready. The copper wire loop sits in perfect balance atop the snowman’s red water glass hat. Maybe it’s Nichole. I waited all day for her yesterday, but she never showed.

Be right there, I holler through the paper mask around my nose and mouth. I’m not paranoid about working with lead solder, but I don’t like breathing in the steam and smoke created by the burning flux.

I need to finish this project, so I lean closer to my work while the snowman stands like a soldier between two foam wedges. I touch the end of the solder with the tip of my hot iron and watch it turn to liquid. The flux sizzles as I drag the solder across the wire into a perfect bead. The straight ends of the wire hanger become one with the outer edge of the snowman’s hat.

Satisfied with my finished project, I drop my solder and place the hot iron in its stand. I stop at the sink to wash my hands. I need to make three more snowmen just like that one, and I don’t need this interruption.

Stepping into my sunny display area that is alive with the color always lifts my mood. I’m surprised to find Nichole standing in the doorway. She’s arguing with a young girl who, with Adam’s olive complexion and Nichole’s delicate features, can only be Emma.

I’m sorry I didn’t come yesterday, Maggie. I—we—can’t find Adam. Nichole twists a strand of her hair the way she does before every lesson. Oh. Maggie, this is Emma. Emma, Maggie.

I shake the girl’s hand. It’s nice to meet you, Emma says, and already I like her. A kid with manners is a rare and beautiful treasure.

Nice to meet you, too, Emma. I don’t tell Nichole this, but I opened early for Adam yesterday morning. He promised to come around eight-thirty to pick up Nichole’s anniversary gift. I showed it to him last Sunday when he came in to pay for Nichole’s lessons. His eyes lit up when he saw it, and he declared it better than the one in the pattern book. He asked me to keep it until Friday—yesterday—so Nichole wouldn’t find it early. I worried when he didn’t show up because Adam doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who puts people out. Then when Nichole missed her lesson, I got a sick feeling in my stomach.

He left early yesterday morning, Nichole says. He went out to find some good hunting spots so he can come back next year. He said he’d be back around nine. I recognize the agony in her eyes. My husband left me years ago. I wore Nichole’s expression in my own eyes for a long time.

Losing a husband, for whatever reason, hurts a woman deep.

We rode the horses into town, Emma says. Mom’s scared, but she did good.

Appreciation and gratitude fill Nichole’s eyes as she tries to smile at her daughter.

I mask my surprise. Adam told me Nichole’s afraid of her own shadow. She’s especially scared of the horses. That’s how he convinced me to give her glass lessons. He appealed to the horse lover in me by begging me to keep his wife happy and busy so he and Emma could explore the mountains on horseback without guilt.

Where are the horses now?

Tied to a post, Emma says, glancing out the window. They need water.

Come with me. I’ve got a couple of buckets out back.

Emma nods.

Hang on. I slip into my workshop to turn off my soldering iron. So much for that, I mumble.

Here. I hand Emma the buckets. They’re clean. You’ll find a water fountain with a spigot down low for watering dogs at the park just up the street. I reach into my jacket pocket. Sure enough. I hand Emma a handful of apple and oat horse treats. They can graze at the park, but they might like these, too.

The kid smiles up at me, and my heart warms in a way it hasn’t done in a long, long time.

Thanks. I’ll be in the park, Mom. Emma runs off before her mother has time to tell her to be careful.

Sometimes, hunters and hikers get turned around in these mountains, Nichole. Come on. I’ll walk you over to the police station so they can send out a search and rescue team. I lock my shop door behind us and glance at the dark clouds above the peaks. We’re expecting a big storm any day now. This is the worst time of the year for someone to be stranded in Rainbow Falls.

We’re walking side by side, and Nichole, for a change, is quiet. I’m not sure what to say. I should offer to help her somehow, but I don’t like to get involved in other people’s business.

I called 911 yesterday, Nichole says. They promised to send an officer. We waited all day, but no one came. My phone died, and my charger’s in Adam’s truck.

I have a cell phone you can borrow. I never use the silly thing. You come by the shop after you finish up with the police, and I’ll give it to you.

You’re sure?

‘Course I am. Keep it as long as you need. I’m feeling better now. See, I helped.

We stopped at a house on our way into town. It’s close to our campsite. Real run-down and scary looking. Nichole shivers. We knocked on the door to ask if they’d seen Adam. The woman was mean. She has a little boy who looks dirty and scared. We noticed a tiny girl sleeping in the dirt outside.

I clench my jaw tight. Helen Oberlin, I mumble.

Nichole shoots me a quizzical glance.

Married to Dirk Oberlin, who thinks he’s the wealthiest landowner in Trout County. He isn’t. But he does have money.

Nichole shakes her head. Couldn’t be. This house is falling apart. The yard’s overgrown, and the house is in serious disrepair. The woman looked hung over or strung out, or both.

Oh, it’s Helen alright. They spend their money on booze. Dirk travels all the time. Leaves Helen and the kids home. Dirk used to be a decent kid, years ago. Now he’s mean and stingy. Hires illegal field hands to tend his crops, and that’s not the only illegal thing he does. He won’t hardly spend a dime on his wife and kids or their home. His folks would just die of shame if they saw their homestead lookin’ that way.

The woman. Is she always so rude? She went on about hating tourists and hunters who get lost.

Hmm. I have to think about that one a minute. Helen usually busts out the welcome wagon for newcomers and tourists. She likes to put on a show and make people think she comes from money since she’s an Oberlin now. That stumps me some. She usually likes strangers because they don’t know about her past.

We come to the park at the end of Main Street. Nichole waves to Emma, but the girl’s so enthralled with her horses that she doesn’t see us. I understand that. I prefer my horses to people any day of the week.

What about her past? Nichole asks as we round the corner toward the police station, which should be on Main, but isn’t. It’s on Oberlin Way, one block south of Main.

Before she conned Dirk into marrying her, she was Helen Fury Burns, daughter of the two most burned out hippies I’ve ever seen.

Helen Fury? That’s not a peace-loving hippie name, Nichole says, a look of pity on her face.

Rumor is Helen came into the world screaming and kept at it for several months. Ask me, I’d guess she was born addicted to any number of drugs. Poor baby. Several of us shop owners used to take turns feeding her when her parents would leave her on the sidewalk for hours while they got high in the local hippie bar.

It occurs to me that I shouldn’t gossip to Nichole, but I’ve started the story. Might as well finish it.

I hoped she’d turn out better than her parents. Makes me mad to see her treatin’ her own kids almost as bad as her parents treated her. Why would she do that, knowing how much it hurt?

People who never receive love don’t know how to give it, Nichole says, as though she knows something personal about the topic. Now I feel extra convicted because I’ve judged Helen instead of having compassion for her.

I s’pose you’re right, I admit.

Nichole takes long strides for a petite girl. I work to keep up with her, even though I’m a head taller. We stop in front of the police station, and as Nichole reaches for the door, I get what I call the God prod. I am supposed to do something unselfish and good, and all that stands in the way of me using what I have to help someone else is my own stubbornness and my fear of getting too close to anyone.

Nichole grabs the door handle and pulls. She turns as though to say goodbye.

Hey, I blurt before I change my mind, You and Emma can pasture the horses at my place tonight. I’ll give you a ride up to your campsite.

Thanks, but I want to look around for Adam. We’ll take a different route back. Maybe we’ll find him. That boy gave us a picture. Adam carried it in his wallet. The edges... Nichole swallows hard. They’re burned. Tears fill her eyes as opens the door. I’m sorry about missing yesterday’s lesson, Maggie. I really want to finish my project before we go home, but I’m pretty distracted today.

Understandable. Maybe everything will be better tomorrow.

Sure. Thanks.

I leave Nichole at the police station and take another look at the sky. They don’t have much time before this storm arrives. And then what happens to Adam?

On my way to the shop, I notice Helen headed toward the police station. That’s strange, I say to no one but myself. I stand behind a light pole and watch her. She parks herself outside of the station windows and stares inside, arms akimbo, fists smashed into her ample hips.

Helen and Red, our lousy excuse for a police chief, run around together. Red and Dirk were high school buddies, and I can’t say for sure how Helen fits into the mix. I don’t even want to speculate. That group creates more drama than hippies at a protest.

I realize, too late, that I should have warned Nichole about Red’s close ties to Dirk and Helen.

I tell myself Helen and Red had another drunken Friday night feud and that Helen’s just mad about something unrelated to Nichole. I tell myself Adam got lost somehow, and the Oberlin kids found his wallet by accident. I tell myself everything will be okay, but my lies do not alleviate my rising panic.

I turn and walk away, but I can’t outpace my guilt or my worry.

Chapter 5

Nichole

I open the door to the police station and feel violated by the probing, blood-shot eyes of a hawk-nosed, redheaded man in a uniform. He removes his giant feet from the top of his desk and leers at me. I want to gag at the flecks of chewing tobacco in the crevices of his yellow teeth. What’s a purty gal like you doin’ in a place like this? he says.

Puking my guts out.

I’m looking for my husband. I tell him all I know and slide Emma’s family photo across the counter that stands between us. I cringe when he snatches it with his thick, tobacco-stained fingers. I keep Adam’s burned picture to myself. I don’t trust this guy.

He hunt? the officer grunts.

What?

Does he hunt? he says. He sounds irritated as though I am the source of our communication gap and not his monosyllabic grunting. He stares over my shoulder at something behind me.

Yes, he hunts, but not on this trip. He left early yesterday morning to scout for next year.

Hunters get lost here all the time. Tourists don’t know nothin’ about the Rocky Mountains. They ain’t like other sissy mountains. He tosses the picture at me like a playing card in a poker game. Probably got turned around. Happens every year.

He avoids my eyes. He gazes beyond me again and jerks his head sideways. I pivot and find myself staring at a woman standing outside the window. Her stance exudes anger. It takes me a minute to recognize her as the woman who slammed the door in my face. In the time it took Emma and me to ride into town, she must have dressed, groomed, and driven over. Maggie said she is Helen Fury, an unloved woman hiding behind an angry scowl and too much make-up.

Where did she leave her children? Sleeping in that icy junkyard unfit for human beings? Running barefoot and hungry through the forest? I’m seething over her neglectful parenting, but I have bigger problems.

I turn back to the officer with a boldness I don’t normally possess. Am I bothering you, Officer...? I search for a nameplate.

Red, he says. Everybody calls me Red.

I want to scoff at the lack of originality in his nickname, but I need his help. Okay, Red. Am I bothering you?

His cracked lips curl into a sneer. I can’t do nothin’ for you until your husband’s been missing twenty-four hours.

I look at the clock above Red’s bushy head. We expected him back at nine o’clock yesterday morning. He’s been missing exactly twenty-five hours. I called 911 yesterday. They promised to send an officer. Red’s beady eyes shift back and forth telling me he knows about my call to dispatch. Why didn’t you come?

Told you. We have to wait twenty-four hours ‘fore we can do anything.

And now you’ll send a search and rescue team?

Red shrugs. I fight the urge to scream at the audacity of this heartless beast.

Red’s lips part and open into the widest, gummiest smile I’ve ever seen. I smell the wet tobacco on his breath when he laughs in my face. Darlin’ I’ll send out a team when I’m good and ready. Rainbow Falls don’t have the money to throw around on search teams for you tourists.

Helen said almost the same thing. It makes no sense. Most small towns live for tourism dollars. 

My face contorts against my will. I’m fuming. Red throws his head back, grabs his soft belly with his freckled hand and laughs. I want to choke him with my bare hands. Won’t do you no good to get mad, little lady. I’m the law ‘round here. I’ll decide when it’s time to search for your lost husband.

A sudden gust sends a pile of papers flying off Red’s desk as the door behind me opens.

Helen, go on home now. I’ll take care of this, Red says. He wraps his meaty fist around a black ceramic mug and lifts it from his desktop to his mouth. Without an ounce of shame or decency, he spits tobacco juice into the cup, and I think I’m going to be sick.

Helen looks me up and down like I disgust her. I told you to go home.

Confrontation is not my thing. I learned early that when you wrestle with pigs, you just get muddy. I dismiss her with a sneer and turn to Red. I’ll go to the county sheriff for help. I turn to leave.

Now wait, Red says, and I realize I’ve found some leverage against this big oaf. Helen’s face pales at the mention of the sheriff. I’ll send out a team today, Red says.

Now? I pivot and stare into Red’s bloodshot eyes.

Yes, now. But don’t blame me if we don’t find nothin’. Ain’t my fault he got hisself lost.

I march to the counter and hand Red Emma’s picture. You’ll need a description. Do I have to walk you through your job, or shall I find someone who knows how to do this?

Red glares at me and shifts his gaze to Helen. Git home, Helen. I got this.

Dirk ain’t gonna’ be happy, Helen says on her way out the door.

Make a copy of this, I say to Red, handing him our photo. I’m not leaving it with you. I tell this sorry excuse for a cop everything I can think of about Adam’s appearance, his clothes, his mannerisms, his knowledge of the outdoors. I feel as though I’m talking about a stranger as I list the pieces of Adam, the facts that do not encompass the whole man.

I’ll be back, Red.

As I’m stomping out of the station, something catches my eye. Watching me from the opening of a hallway almost hidden behind a wall is another officer. He wears a sympathetic expression, and he shrugs as though he’s ashamed of Red, his department, and I hope, himself, for his cowardice.

He might help me if he could, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. Obviously, he has no authority, but I don’t know where else to turn. I have no idea what to do next. I can’t exactly ride Emma’s horse to the county sheriff’s office to plead my case. Not that Red needs to know that.

I trudge to the park, wondering how I will appease Emma with answers to questions I cannot bear to hear. She’ll want to know what we do now, but I don’t have a clue. Adam would know what to do, but I don’t. I don’t know where to look next, and I don’t know what this Helen woman has against me. I feel like a little girl again, waiting for my mom to come home from her all-night shifts as a bartender, closing my eyes tight against the oppressive darkness, hiding beneath my blankets until morning.

But I’m not a child anymore, and I can’t afford to curl up and hide.

I don’t know how I will get through another night without Adam. I don’t know how or when we’ll get home or where I’ll find the courage to do any of this. I do know Emma needs me. Adam needs me. And so I put one foot in front of the other until I find Emma in the park. Together we lead Emma’s horses to Maggie’s shop because right now my stained-glass instructor is the only friend I have.

Chapter 6

Maggie

I can’t stop shaking. My solder lines are crooked and lumpy. I’m furious with those Oberlins and with myself for not exposing them when I had the chance. If they had a hand in Adam’s disappearance, I might never forgive myself.

Lost in thought, I jump when the door opens. Nichole? I step out of my workshop where I’ve done more damage than good.

Hi, Nichole says. I can see Emma on the sidewalk holding the reins of her saddled, sweaty horses. I met Red. He’s a piece of work.

I nod because she’s right. This poor woman’s fate may rest in the hands of the most incompetent cop in existence.

I don’t think he’s going to help me, but he did promise to send out a search and rescue team, Nichole says. I have to lean in to hear her weak voice. Her head droops like a