Ghosts (2 page)

A twig snapped to his left, drawing his attention in time to see a white-tailed deer bound away. Even after all these years, he was impressed by the way a deer could pop right over a barbed wire fence from a stand-still. He lingered a moment longer before heading back to the house to see if there was anything he could do to help lighten Jessie’s workload.

***

Two hours later, sweat clung to Vance. He’d long since discarded his shirt; the sun beat down on skin that was already beginning to darken in response. Jessie had gladly put him to work digging fence posts. He alternated between welcoming the burn in his muscles and cursing the rock-filled soil of the Missouri Ozarks. With each hole he dug, memories swirled around his mind. Vance didn’t try to sort or separate them; he just let them dance about, one running into the other.

He understood why Jessie worried; Vance knew he’d dropped out of life since Harmony’s death, and he knew it wasn’t a healthy place to be. But everything reminded him of her. Something as simple as a yellow light could trigger a memory that would squeeze at his heart and not let go. He’d thought it was merely an expression to say your heart hurt. Now he realized it was possible to miss someone enough for your chest to literally ache. And in those moments, he missed her so much it was hard to breathe.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Jessie interrupted his reverie, extending a glass of sweet tea as she approached.

Vance accepted the offering, draining the glass before responding. “I can’t imagine they’re worth that much.”

Jessie regarded him quietly for a moment. “I wish you could, just once, see yourself as others see you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he crooked his arm around her neck and pulled her against him, planting a kiss soundly on the top of her head, despite her squeal of protest.

“Ack! You smell awful. Let me go.”

“Hey, I got that stink digging holes for your fence,” he defended himself.

“I don’t care how it got there—I don’t want you to get it on me.”

“You’re a cold, hard woman, Jessie Adams.” He chuckled and let her go. Despite her protests, he could see that this glimpse of their old camaraderie had set her mind at ease.

She moved a safe distance away, eying him as if she was deciding something. He raised his eyebrows in silent question, and she sighed.

“Jeff called looking for you. He said you haven’t been answering your phone and wanted to know if I had a way to find you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said I’d see what I could do.”

“Maybe he should get the hint. I told him I retired.”

“And you know how I feel about that. But, Vance, I think you should talk to him. It’s Henry and Martha Barnett.”

The farmer and his wife.
Vance stiffened, bracing himself for news that couldn’t be good. “Were they in an accident or something?”

Jessie hesitated before plunging ahead. “One of their foster kids has turned up missing. When the local police said their hands were tied, they refused to let it drop. Somehow this thing made it to the FBI. Jeff must have flagged anything related to you, because their file ended up on his desk.”

Vance leaned on the post-hole diggers he’d been using, processing the information. He knew as well as anybody that, under normal circumstances, a missing foster child might as well have been dropped in a black hole. Once gone, they were forgotten. There were too many other children with known whereabouts to spend resources on kids who were more than likely runaways—at least that was the system’s view. Vance knew from experience that the kids were just as likely—if not more so—to be victims of human trafficking.

Henry and Martha weren’t the kind of people to let a child in their care drift quietly into the night, not on their watch. Inwardly, Vance smiled at the thought of Martha’s eyes snapping fiercely as she marched into the FBI, demanding someone do something. Not even Jeff Talbot’s suave demeanor would have placated that mama bear. To say he loved her as a mother would be too strong; she’d come into his life at a time when he was too wounded to love. No, he might not love Martha, but he respected her and owed her a debt he knew he’d never be able to repay.

Vance rested his forehead on his hands for a moment, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Whether he was ready or not, his retirement was over.

IT HAD BEEN A LONG TIME
since anything could make Vance Davis quake in his boots, but he was pretty close to it at the moment. As if roots had sprung from the gravel driveway and wound themselves around his ankles, he stood watching the aged red door, willing himself to find the courage to cross the yard and knock on it. Eight years of memories lay behind that peeling red paint, but it was one memory in particular that kept him rooted to his spot.

“I can understand wanting a little adventure in life, son, but there’s a lot to be said for having a place to call home.” Henry had placed his hand on Vance’s shoulder.

A teenage boy filled with anger and no particular place to aim it has a tendency to explode whether provoked or not, wounding anyone close with the shrapnel—at least that’s what Vance told himself now as he remembered his next words:
“Only I’m not your son, and this isn’t my home.”

Looking back, it was the closest thing to a home he’d ever known. The little farmhouse had been a safe place where he had learned so much about being a man. But he hadn’t been able to look either of the Barnetts in the eye after slamming the door on the eight years they’d invested in him.

At first he’d been fueled by his cherished anger at the world. Then by regret. There was a time, with Harmony, when he considered finding the Barnetts to let them know what had become of him. And then he was reminded they were better off not knowing.

A dog was barking in the distance, the sound drawing nearer. He shifted his gaze from the door to the approaching canine. It didn’t look happy with his presence. He debated climbing back into his truck while he had the chance. But then the red door opened, and his debate was settled.

He saw the barrel of the shotgun before he saw her. “Who’s there?”

Vance didn’t answer right away. Instead, he blinked to be sure time and distance weren’t playing tricks on his brain. “Allie? Allie Walker?”

“Nobody’s called me Allie Walker in a long time.” The woman inched closer, the tension in her body not easing up. “Do I know you?”

A happier memory of just how well she knew him flashed through his mind, but he wasn’t about to bring that up by way of reintroduction. He cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets and dipping his head momentarily to hide his fleeting embarrassment. When he looked up again he flashed her something reminiscent of his old smile. “It me, Vance.”

“Holy hell, Vance. I never would have recognized you.” She came to the end of the porch, studying him but not yet lowering the gun. “What are you doing back here? Last I recall, you were happy to knock the dust of this place off your feet.”

Vance considered how best to answer. He took a step closer, stopping short when the gun’s barrel raised a notch. “I heard the Barnetts could use a little help. And is there a reason you haven’t put the gun down yet?”

“How did you hear they needed help?” The gun didn’t lower. If anything, she seemed more wary now than she had before. He considered disarming her for his own comfort but let her be for hers.

“A friend in the FBI. Do you know where they are?”

“Henry’s out haying. From the sound of Duke, they’re headed back this way. Probably saw your truck.”

Vance cast his eyes westward.  “I’m assuming Duke’s the dog charging across the field?”

Allie nodded.

“Where’s Martha?”

“Running errands. I’m babysitting while she’s gone.”

“So they have other foster children here?”

“You only made them think about throwing in the towel. You didn’t quite bring them all the way to quitting.”

Vance winced. “I get that you’re pissed…”

“You always were a quick one.”

“But have I ever given you reason to think I’d hurt you?” Vance persisted despite her interruption. “For old time’s sake, maybe you could put the gun down and call the dog off.”

“I’d rather watch you sweat.”

Vance’s lip twitched. In another time, his reply would have been a flirty one. He took another step closer, emboldened when the gun stayed lax in her arms. “Maybe later I could buy you a beer and let you tell me why it is you’re so mad.”

“It would probably take a couple.”

Two steps closer. “Alright, I can spring for two.”

“That’s big of you.”

Vance closed the distance between them. Before she could react, he’d secured the shotgun in the crook of his own arm, carrying on the conversation as if nothing had transpired. “I think so—since I truly don’t have the faintest clue what I’ve done wrong, and I’m usually pretty aware of being an ass.”

“How did you do that?” Allie blinked in confusion.

“It’s a skill.” Vance tipped her chin up, looking down into her large brown eyes. For a moment, he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. The shade of brown was too similar to Harmony’s.

“You’re not going to kiss me, are you? Because I’m not sure I’d be okay with that.”

Vance wanted to remark that, considering he’d just had to wrestle a shotgun away from her, he’d kind of assumed she wouldn’t be. Instead, he frowned and shook his head. “Nope. I’m deciding if I can trust you enough to give the gun back.”

Allie tossed her head back defiantly, making him wonder if she was at least a little perturbed that he hadn’t intended to kiss her. “From the sound of Duke’s bark, you might want to give it back or you’ll have some explaining to do.”

“I’m not the one who lost my gun.” Nonetheless, he leaned it in a corner out of the way, turning just in time for the dog to round the house and come into view. Vance didn’t flinch, knowing that if the dog sensed his calm, it would be less likely to attack.

“What’s going on here? Is everything alright, Allison?” The voice was older, harsher maybe, but familiar all the same.

Vance shifted his gaze from the dog, which had finally stopped barking, to the man. “Hello, Henry.”

The farmer studied him for a moment, his keen gaze softening as he looked beyond the beard Vance hadn’t bothered to shave, past the added muscle-bulk accumulated since their last meeting, and past the shadow in Vance’s eyes to see the boy he’d once been. Then the farmer did something unexpected: He wrapped Vance in a warm and welcoming embrace. “It’s good to have you home, son.”

“It’s good to be here, sir.” Once he recovered from the shock, Vance returned the hug.

Henry pulled back from the embrace, shaking his head as he took Vance in fully. “You’ve changed, boy.”

Vance rubbed his scruffy face ruefully. “I need to shave.”

“It’s more than the whiskers. You’ve had quite a journey, haven’t you?” There was knowledge in the kind blue eyes.

“And then some,” Vance conceded. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Vance has a friend in the FBI; he’s here to help find Nicole,” Allie explained.

Something in Henry’s expression shifted. “Is that so? I’m glad to hear you wound up on that side of the law.”

A smile did escape at that one. “Eventually. But I’m more of a consultant.”

“Let’s not tell Martha about the eventually part. She needs good news today.”

“Yes, sir.”

Allie retrieved her shotgun and moved toward the front door. “I’d better head back in before the natives get restless. Are you two coming?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re coming. I’ll get us all some lemonade,” Henry offered. “Do you still like lemonade, Vance?”

“Absolutely.” Vance followed Allie inside, stopping short when he realized there were four kids in the living room, ranging from preschool to preteen by his best guess. The youngest two made a beeline for Allie at the sight of a strange man in their midst. If their actions hadn’t been enough to confirm their identities, their faces were. Allie’s children looked startlingly like her.

“Hey guys. This is Vance. He used to live here with the Barnetts,” Allie said by way of introduction. “Vance, these are my children, Elijah and Grace. And Isabella and Isaac over there are Nicole’s brother and sister.”

Vance nodded to the older two before looking down at Allie’s children, not taking offense when they pulled in closer to their mother’s legs. He knew from his line of work that he could be a little scary if for no other reason than his size—at least he hoped it was his size and not a scary face. He smiled and waved. “It’s nice to meet you. You know, your mom and I were friends once upon a time.”

They looked at her to see if he was telling the truth. Vance found himself doing the same. He may have imagined it, but she seemed to hesitate before nodding affirmation. He wondered once again what he’d done to her, deciding maybe Allie’s loyalty to Henry and Martha had tainted her view of him. He reminded himself that her opinion of him was really the least of his problems.

If Henry picked up on any tension between the old friends, he ignored it, instead ushering Vance to the old butcher block kitchen table that had been there when he was a kid. He poured them each a lemonade then sat down, watching Vance expectantly.

Casting a glance over his shoulder into the living room, Vance lowered his voice and broached his reason for coming. “My friend at the bureau sent me the file. I read it before driving over. Is there anything you can tell me that isn’t in the paperwork?”

Henry frowned, looking every one of his sixty-seven years. “We told the police everything we know. Martha had taken Izzy and Isaac to church. I was working late in the field trying to get the hay in before the rains came. Nicole was supposed to work in town that day. She left home as usual but never showed up. We didn’t realize she was missing until her manager called.”

Vance considered his next words. “And you’re sure she didn’t leave of her own accord?”

“I have no illusions about Nicole’s desire to leave Missouri the first chance she gets.” Henry paused, regarding Vance in a way that made him think the missing girl had given them as much trouble as he’d once done. “But she wouldn’t leave those two in there. She saw herself as a mother-type to them. I think that’s why she petitioned her social worker to let her get a part-time job—she was saving up so she could try to take them when she turned 18.”