What the Heart Wants (What the Heart Wants, #1)(7)

The little redhead whimpered and began moving restlessly in his grandmother’s lap. After a few minutes, Mrs. Bridges stood up and took him and Luke inside.

Sarah looked toward the door and removed her mitt, but Eric thumped the ball into his glove a couple more times. “Aw, Mom, stay out with me. We don’t have to go in now.”

Sarah shook her head. “Sorry, hon, but you know how cranky Baby gets at this time in the evening. It’s not fair to palm him off on your grandmother.”

She started toward the house, then suddenly turned around as if she’d just had an idea.

“Okay, Eric, just one more.” She edged backward toward the house, which made Eric take a position nearer the street to face her.

“Think high!” She lifted her arm and hurled it forward.

Eric leapt up, but the ball sailed far above his head.

Laurel lost its arc in the darkness, then was surprised to hear something land with a plop scarcely five yards in front of her.

In a flash, Sarah, dodging a minivan that came to a screeching halt to accommodate her, ran across all four lanes of Austin Ave. She bent down to pick up the ball, gave Laurel a quick smile, breathed out a quick “Hi!” then raced back across the street and motioned to her son. “Come on, hon. Time to go in.”

After hanging back for a resentful second, Eric trudged after his mother, closing the door behind him. The yard lights went out.

Laurel blinked into the darkness. What was that all about? Was Sarah losing her touch—or had she deliberately overthrown the ball as an excuse to cross the street and reestablish contact?

*



Jase drove slowly down the road, searching for his old home.

He knew twilight was a great equalizer, but the neighborhood sure looked a lot better than it had ten years ago when he’d come back to town after Growler fell into the Bosque River after a night of heavy drinking and drowned. In fact, it looked downright respectable—without a single junk pile, broken-down car, or scavenging dog pack in sight.

Thank God that Lolly would never know the squalor he’d grown up in. “Poor but honest” was the picture he’d always painted of his childhood—he’d told her very little about his father, sugarcoated his childhood, and said squat about why he’d left town.

His high beam cut across the front of the house as he turned into the drive, but no forlorn-looking teenager was sitting on the front steps.

His mouth went dry and his chest tightened.

What if…

No, he refused to go down that road. He was Lolly’s father. He’d know if something had happened to her…wouldn’t he?

He ran his eyes over the shadowed porch again.

Goddamn—where was she? If she wasn’t at Kinkaid House, she had to be here.

He backed the Cadillac into the driveway—if there was an emergency, he needed to be able to haul ass. Easing himself out of the car, he leaned against the side of it for a long moment, gazing into the sky and trying to be logical while his heart raced like the Indianapolis 500.

Maybe she’d found a way to get into the house. Girl Child had been an expert at picking locks ever since she was two, when she’d shrieked “Me do it!” and unbuckled her own car-seat belt, which, of course, meant he had to spend half the night on the Internet, searching for a tamperproof seat belt. But, truth be told, he was proud of her willfulness, even encouraged it. As far as he was concerned, it was a survival trait.

But there was a big difference between a willful toddler unlocking her seat belt and a willful fifteen-year-old taking off down I-35 on her own.

And, oh God, I love her so much.

He shoved off the car and walked up onto the porch, took a one last quick look around the porch, unlocked the door, and flipped on the lights.

“Lolly?”

His voice echoed in the empty house.

Maybe she hadn’t heard him.

“Lolly!”

No answer.

He made a swift search of every room, opening every closet, then checked out back.

Nada.

A chill crept over him. He walked into his old room at the front of the house, raised the blind on the lone window, and looked up at the evening star—the wishing star, as Aunt Maxie called it—and willed his daughter to miraculously appear.

*



Laurel turned off the TV and started up the stairs to prepare for bed. The sixth step produced a groan straight out of Transylvania. She glanced behind herself.

Get a grip, Laurel Elizabeth.

The sound of old wood creaking under stress had been part of her life since she was born, along with occasional noxious smells emanating from the walls, and lightweight curtains floating in sudden, inexplicable drafts.

As she reached the top of the stairs, the doorbell rang for the second time that evening.

*



Jase turned away from the window and picked up his mobile. Maybe Lolly had shown up at home and Maxie hadn’t had a chance to call him yet.

He punched in her number. “Anything on your end?”

“Nothing. Have you checked with Pastor Harlow? Has he seen Lolly?”

“Reverend Ed’s passed away. His wife too.”

There was a quick gasp on the other end of the line. “Recently?’

Jase frowned. Why didn’t Maxie know that Laurel’s parents had died? The Harlows’ obituaries should have been in the Retriever, which Maxie had maintained a subscription to ever since they left Bosque Bend. Not that Jase ever read the rag himself. No need to be reminded of the town that had tossed him out like rotting garbage.