Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

—Emily Brontë
(Left by Marvin and Gracie, fifty-fourth anniversary in Cabin 3)

Chapter 18

Bliss. I don’t know what else you’d call it. Life in Moses Lake was suddenly bliss. Jack and his son spent time riding, fishing, tooling around the lake in one of Jack’s boats. Daniel worked regular hours . . . well, farmer’s hours, anyway. He was up early in the mornings and left at dawn to make his rounds in the test plots and beat the heat. Sometimes he met us at the Waterbird for lunch, and we wiled away the high-noon hour listening to Burt, Nester, and the other fishermen telling stories.

Once, Jack and his son even came to lunch with Daniel. Mason West was a nice-looking man in his mid-forties. He did resemble Daniel in many ways—same build, similar facial structure—although Mason was about ten years older, with forehead lines and a dusting of gray at the temples. Like most politicians, Mason was well-groomed and well-spoken, confident and charismatic. He had just enough of his father’s larger-than-life cowboy persona to present the ideal picture of a Texas politician: part charm, part bluster, and a dash of good-ol’-boy thrown in for added measure.

Two weeks passed, and even Chrissy couldn’t find a reason to complain, which was saying something. “I woulda got his son down here long ago, if I knew it would, like, turn Jack West into Mr. Happy Pants,” she told me as I stood at the pharmacy counter in Gnadenfeld, picking up prenatal vitamins after my first doctor’s appointment. I was bummed that Daniel had stayed home to watch Nick. I didn’t know I’d be hearing the baby’s heartbeat and seeing a new little life, no larger than my thumb on the ultrasound screen. The doctor had recorded it all on a DVD for me. I couldn’t wait to get home and show Daniel and Nick.

“Kind of amazing about Jack, isn’t it?” I agreed. Even Chrissy’s penchant for finding the worm in every apple couldn’t dampen my mood today. I was overflowing with the glory of the moment. “I always wondered if Jack was just really . . . chronically lonely and depressed. It would be hard, losing part of your family in such a violent way, and then never being able to really clear your name, and then being estranged from what family you have left. All the money in the world can’t fix something like that.”

I should have known better than to share my new rose-colored view with Chrissy. Glancing left and right, as if the walls might have ears, she leaned across the counter. “Yeah, don’t let them fool you. You gotta wonder why a guy who’s been trying to stick it to his dad for years is suddenly all buddy-buddy. I mean, really? I’ve been mad at my daddy since he left my mama and married that witch of a woman, and even when we do talk a little, there’s no way we’d all of a sudden be hangin’ out at the ranch, going fishin’. Pah-lease. Give me a break. If Jack West had half a brain, he’d see through that stuff and wonder why Mason’s really here. The only time I call my daddy is when I want somethin’.”

A sting of apprehension pricked my fluffy, floaty cloud of maternal bliss. A nagging unease had been skulking around for two weeks now, flat, silent, and stealthy, like a scorpion trying to find a way in through the newly sealed closets that Len had just finished for me. Even as day after day passed pleasantly by, worry was looking for an entrance point—just a little crack, a tiny gap.

I wouldn’t let it happen. Things were finally good. I wouldn’t let Chrissy dim my merry sunshine. “Well, I doubt there’s anything Mason needs. He’s been pretty successful on his own, from what I can tell.” I’d talked to a couple of former DC coworkers, done a little asking around about Mason West. He was an up-and-comer. After a dozen successful years in state politics, he was in a perfect position to make a U.S. senate bid and, considering his clout on the state level, he’d have a good shot at it. My guess was that, before putting himself on the national stage, Mason had made the wise choice to clean up his family baggage. Solidarity with his father would be politically beneficial. A happy family goes a long way in an election, and deep pockets like Jack West’s couldn’t hurt, either. I wasn’t going to say that to Chrissy, of course. Anything you said to Chrissy was liable to end up on a billboard somewhere.

“Well, hey, at least you’re getting new carpet out of it.” A snarky little smile wrinkled Chrissy’s pert nose, compressing a fan of girlish freckles. “Smart move, hitting Jack West up when he’s in such a good mood. I should try that.”

“Well, the carpet in the house was really bad,” I defended, but in truth, I did feel like I was the lucky beneficiary of Jack’s current state of near euphoria. He actually seemed strangely interested in the fact that Daniel and I were expecting a baby. When Daniel had asked him about having the carpet replaced and paying Len for further remodeling work, Jack had given him carte blanche for repairs and for ordering a houseful of new carpet from the sample books at the hardware store. Claire Anne Underhill was so thrilled that she’d pretty much forgiven me for trapping her into donating to the supper garden program. “I’m not sure Jack had even looked at the house to know what kind of shape it was in, to be honest,” I told Chrissy. I couldn’t help it—my opinion of Jack was softening, even as I tried to keep my defenses up.

Chrissy shook her head, her lips puckering. “Just get it while you can, girlfriend. I’ll admit he’s never acted this nice before, but Jack West always goes back to being Jack West. How’d the doctor visit go, by the way?”

Her smile was genuine then, and we talked for a while about the due date and the ultrasound. Leaving the pharmacy, I couldn’t wait to get home and share the DVD with Daniel and Nick. As I drove home along the rural highway, the fields seemed greener, the sunlight brighter, the river more serene, the sky a deeper blue. The world around Moses Lake was suddenly altogether different, more beautiful, more . . . glorious. That’s how I felt. Glorious. Nothing could spoil it.

Pulling into the ranch and finding Daniel gone and Mason West sitting on my back porch watching Nick play in the sandpile did put a damper on my happy little world, though. A strange, uneasy feeling passed over me.

Daniel had left Nick here with this man we barely knew? What could possibly cause him to do that?

If I hadn’t been in a state of cottony bliss, panic would probably have quickly followed the question. As it was, I pushed the car door open quickly, shifted around to get out, and whacked my head when the door blew shut on me. I had to stand there for a minute catching my breath, and by that time, Mason was making his way through the gate, asking if I was all right.

“Yes, I’m fine. Really. That was dumb.” I blushed and smiled, and Mason smiled back, lifting his sunglasses and setting them atop his head so that I could see his eyes, hazel like Jack’s. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him take his sunglasses off, even indoors.

“The wind out here will drive you crazy.” Holding the gate open, he swished a hand, ushering me into the yard. “Could’ve happened to anyone.” He held up a finger with a Band-Aid around it and said, “Evidence.”

“Car door?”

“Gate. Yesterday, looking at the cattle with my father. Now I remember how cumbersome those latches are.” He smiled again as he followed me into the yard, and I caught myself looking over my shoulder, flashing a grin. Maybe it was the fact that Mason looked a fair amount like Daniel, or maybe it was that he was clearly good with women, but I needed to watch myself with Mason. I was never sure if he was just being friendly, or if he was looking to flirt.

I wasn’t a good one to judge. I wasn’t the kind of girl guys usually flirted with—too serious and into the business end of things. Working around politicians, I’d learned to be. I’d also, for years, watched my mother navigate the slippery slope of interest from my father’s associates. She was a master at being friendly, but letting them know where the boundaries were.

The first rule in that game—mention your significant other early and often. “Where’s Daniel?” I looked around, as if I’d just noticed that his vehicle was gone.

“They’re at the lab. My father had some idea, and you know, Jack West’s ideas wait for no man.” I caught a hint of something underlying that comment. There was no time to decipher it before it vanished behind the mask of casual amiability. “Your little boy was taking a nap when we came by. I volunteered to wait here until you got in.”

“I’m sorry you had to do that.” Discomfort crept in on quick, nimble spider legs. I didn’t want to go back to the days of Daniel being at Jack’s beck and call. He was supposed to be off work this morning, watching Nick. Jack West’s ideas wait for no man . . . I had a feeling Mason knew exactly what I was thinking.

He inclined his head sympathetically, shrugging off my apology. “They haven’t been gone long. No worries. The little guy woke and he seemed to want to come out here, so we did. I think he was a shade worried when he found his dad gone, but we took care of it.” A wink and a shrug directed my attention to the sandpile, where Nick was playing with some antique-looking Tonka tractors, a tiny pickup truck, and a horse trailer. I took a couple steps closer and realized where those things had come from. Jack’s little house out back. Those were the toys Nick and Pecos had spirited onto the bedroom floor during their episode of doggie-door breaking and entering.

An alarm jangled in my head like a three-cornered dinner bell. I remembered the expression on Jack’s face when we’d found Nick asleep on the floor in the undisturbed little-boy bedroom of Jack’s dead stepson.

“Oh, I don’t think Nick should have those.” I set my purse on a plastic chair and started in Nick’s direction. No doubt, an epic meltdown was on the way, but I had to get the toys cleaned up and put back in their places before Jack returned.

Mason reached out and caught my arm, stopping me as I passed him. The distance between us was suddenly intimate. “It’s fine.” He looked down at me, his eyes intense. “The little house needs to be cleaned out. It’s unhealthy, don’t you think? All those things still in their places, like someone’s coming back for them?”

I glanced down at his hand on my skin, feeling cold, then hot, the sensation traveling over me in waves. “I think that’s Jack’s decision.” Backing away, I broke the contact between us and crossed my arms over my chest, using body language to signal that I was in no way open to anything Mason might have in mind . . . if he did have something in mind.

“Relax,” Mason assured. “I’ve already talked to my father about emptying out that house. He knows.” Again there was a flash of something I couldn’t read. It came with those two words, He knows. Then it was gone.

“Well . . . then I guess . . . it’s okay.”

“Look what I got!” Nick came out of his imaginary world long enough to hold up the Tonka truck and livestock trailer. “It gots cows in it!” Opening the doors, he dumped out a load of plastic cows.

For some reason, all I could think about was Jack’s stepson playing with those things. The dead boy. He became real to me in an instant. A child young enough to live in a pretend world. Like Nick.

Gone without a trace.

My head pounded and swirled. Sweat dripped beneath my T-shirt.

Mason’s hand slid under my arm. I tried to shrug it off, but he wouldn’t let go. “I think you’d better sit down.” His voice was smooth and calm, not ruffled in the least by my reaction.

“I’m fine.” But I followed him to the porch and took a seat in the shade. No matter what, I didn’t want to end up in the house with Mason. Even more now my nerves were on edge. I couldn’t pin it to any one thing—nothing Mason had said or done was in any way a threat.

“Better?” he asked, sitting in a chair beside me, leaning over and bracing his elbows on his knees, as if he were trying to get a good look at my face. His expression was a model of friendly concern. Compassionate, even.

“Yes, thank you.” Pressing a hand to my forehead, I tried to smooth the tangle of thoughts. “It’s just a whole lot hotter here in Texas than I’m used to.”

“Not quite DC, is it?” He sat back in his chair, increasing the distance between us.

“Yeah, not quite.” I decided I was probably being ridiculous. What in the world would someone like Mason West want with someone like me?

“Sorry you left the staffer’s job behind?” His question took me aback. I hadn’t realized that he knew so much about me. The surprise must have registered on my face, because he explained, “Your husband mentioned that he was afraid you really missed it.”

“Oh . . .” It was a little strange to think I’d been the topic of conversation between Daniel and Mason at some point—that Daniel had been telling them I was having a hard time adjusting. It felt like a tiny betrayal. “Daniel worries too much. Actually, the longer I’m in Moses Lake, the more I discover that it isn’t all that different. There’s plenty of political controversy here, too. It’s just on a different scale.” A connection formed in my mind. Mason was a state representative with strong party contacts and higher aspirations. If he threw a little weight behind the bridge issue in Chinquapin Peaks, local politicos would be likely to fall in line, trying to gain favor. One thing any politician covets is a connection with a politician at a higher level. It’s all a game of favors. My father had taught me that.

The press loved politicians who weren’t above getting their hands dirty—taking on real-world issues that affected families. Chinquapin Peaks was full of families. . . .

“Really? How so?” He cocked his head away, squinted at me, his look both cautious and acutely interested. “I wouldn’t think there’d be anything in Moses Lake you would find interesting, after having been involved on the national level.”

I had the little tingle that comes with knowing the fish is nibbling at the bait. There was more of my father in me than I’d ever realized. “You’d be surprised. Actually, I meant to say something about this to Jack, but we’ve been so busy recently.” In truth, I’d seen very little of Jack since he returned with his son, other than their comings and goings and that one lunch at the Waterbird. “I sent some information to the Dallas Morning News. I haven’t had a reply yet, but I think they’ll be interested. It’s an issue that affects quite a number of people.”

Mason scratched near his ear, then braced a finger there. “Sounds intriguing.” He didn’t seem intrigued, really. More like worried. Maybe I was playing dirty pool, trying to drag him into local issues while he was on vacation, reconnecting with his father after so many years. “So tell me what passes for political underground in Moses Lake.”

Well, he did ask . . .

I took a moment to put the information into logical order in my mind, maximizing the lure of possible photo ops that could be beneficial to a state representative with an electorate to cultivate. Supper garden program, cute kids, Chinquapin Peaks, social issues, access problems, horrendously long bus rides, high failure rates in school, a bridge that could make so much difference . . .

A kindly state representative with ties to the area . . .

A Bridge to Success—that would be a perfect tag line for an article . . .

All-in-all this had the makings of a great human-interest story.

I was just winding up to spill the details, when Nick squealed, “Daddy’s heeeeere!”

Daniel’s truck rattled up the driveway, bearing only Jack. I shifted to the front of my seat, wondering what he had done with my husband.

Mason didn’t move. “Go ahead and finish what you were saying. He’ll wait.” It was more of a command than a request. It came with eerie intensity.

Mason glanced toward the sandpile, and for a horrifying moment, I wondered if he was hoping that Jack would see Nick with the toys. I’d forgotten about the toys.

My throat clenched.

Mason hooked one leg over the other, brushed dust off his jeans, and rested an arm across his lap, waiting for me to continue. I wondered what kind of game he was playing. “No, really, it’s not urgent.” I stood up just to make the point. “But there are some issues locally that would be worthy of attention. A little outside interest might help to move the logjam. My father always says that nothing gets a little wheel moving like a big wheel.”

The quote brought a smile and a nod. Standing up, Mason slipped two fingers underneath the pearl snap on his shirt pocket, then handed me a business card. “I like the way you think. Give me a call in the morning. We’ll talk. My father and your husband have some business to do first thing tomorrow—something about harvesting a plot, then running growth comparisons. But I’ll be at the big house taking care of some business. Better yet, why don’t you come by? I’ll have the housekeeper fix some breakfast for us.” His fingers brushed mine as I took the card, but I barely noticed. Jack had exited his truck and was proceeding toward the gate. Nick was just a few feet away, playing beneath the pomegranate bushes.

“Thanks, but I’ll have to just call,” I said. “Nick has a summer class in the morning. I usually stay and help.” I wasn’t sure if Mason had heard me or not. His focus shifted, homed in as Jack walked through the gate, stopped, and looked at Nick and Pecos in the sandpile.

“I wonder what Dad did with your husband?” Mason remarked. “Some of those fields they planted are in the strangest locations. Hope everything’s all right.” Not only was the comment odd, but it was also flinty-cool. I looked up just in time to catch a countenance that matched the words. Just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a pleasant look that was aimed at Jack.

“You get your business done?” Mason strode ahead to the gate, and I followed in his wake, acutely aware of the sweltering afternoon sun bearing down.

“What’s this?” Jack motioned to the sandpile, his face hidden in the shadow of his hat.

“I got a tw-uck and tw-ailer!” Nick held up his treasures. I felt like I might pass out.

Mason’s lips curved upward into a smile, his head inclining solicitously. “I took a few things out of the little house. Nick, here, was a bit lost when he woke up, and you’d taken off with his dad.” The sentence ended in a chuckle that didn’t seem to have much humor in it. “I figured you wouldn’t mind if I got a start on cleaning the place out a bit.”

Jack stood motionless, his shoulders stiffening, the muscles in his neck and jaw taut as if he were trying to restrain some emotion.

“We can put them back, if that’s better,” I offered hurriedly, stumbling over the words, moving toward Nick and the toys. “I’m sure Nick enjoyed playing with them, but they’re not his.”

Big blue eyes widening and mouth dropping, Nick clutched the truck and trailer to his chest, then reached back and hid the bulldozer behind his body.

“Nick . . .” I admonished, but I could feel a meltdown coming on. This was going to get ugly. In front of everyone.

Mason gave me a private look with a quick headshake that could have had a myriad of meanings. “Of course not. They’re a gift. It’s better that they’re used rather than going to waste, right, Dad? Just like the cabin on Firefly Island. No sense having things sit idle. Locking them up and letting dust gather doesn’t change the past.”

I glanced back and forth between Mason and Jack, trying to read the invisible power play between father and son. In those few sentences, Mason had not only confirmed the reason that toys and belongings from twenty-five years ago rested enshrined in the little house, he’d also answered some of my lingering questions about Firefly Island. That place was a shrine, as well, a time capsule shrouded in meanings only Jack understood. What made him preserve the belongings of his wife and stepson, exactly as they had been?

Guilt? Grief?

Jack’s shoulders lowered slowly, the line of his jaw softening. Pulling off his cowboy hat, he swiped an arm across his forehead. “No . . . no, ’course not. Place needs to be cleaned out. Might as well use what can be used. There might be some clothes and things in there about his size . . .” He nodded at Nick, but the sentence drifted off. I was glad. I didn’t want to think about Nick wearing the dead boy’s clothes.

“Thank you.” I swallowed a weird soup of reactions. “I know Nick will take good care of the toys, won’t you, Nick?”

Nick’s face was open and honest, a little shock of blond hair falling over his lashes as he hugged both arms around the truck and trailer. “I wuv these.” He rested his cheek against the truck’s miniature headlights, and if his gratitude could have been sweeter or more genuine, I couldn’t imagine how. He was absolutely, heart-meltingly earnest.

Bracing a hand on the fence, Jack slowly squatted down, his hulking form seeming to fold into place piece by piece as it cast a shadow over Nick. I stood transfixed, watching Jack reach out a big, brawny hand and lay it on Nick’s head, the two of them connecting gaze to gaze. The moment seemed to slow, the day quieting around us. I wondered at Mason’s reaction. I wanted to check, but I couldn’t tear my focus away from Jack and Nick, from the war of emotions evident on Jack’s face—tenderness, grief, and monumental sadness.

“You take care of those,” Jack said softly. “A boy loved those very much. A very good boy.”

Nick nodded solemnly, seeming to understand the seriousness of the moment. “Ho-kay,” he whispered.

I thought about reminding Nick to say thank you, but no words seemed to fit. My vision of Jack shifted and changed, melting and taking on a new form. The suspicions I’d harbored, the rumors I’d heard . . . all of it seeped away, disappearing like vapor in the heat of the day. There was no way this man, this broken mountain who could kneel down and look at Nick that way, could have had anything to do with the murder of the little boy who once owned those toys. It simply wasn’t possible.

“All right, then, that’s that.” Mason interrupted the moment, swinging his arms impatiently, letting his hands clap together. “What say we move on with our agenda for the day?” He stepped back as Jack slowly worked his way to his feet, groaning with the effort.

“Thank you for the toys,” I told Jack as we walked toward the driveway. I’d just remembered that there was a gallon of milk in the car, along with my vitamins and a few other things I’d picked in Gnadenfeld.

Jack nodded. “Someone oughta use them.” Clearing his throat, he affected the usual stoic frown. “Your husband drove the tractor to the lab with some samples in the front end loader. He’ll call you for a ride, after a while.”

“Oh, okay, thanks.” We parted ways at my vehicle, and I grabbed the gallon of milk, along with my sacks from town. From the periphery of my vision, I was aware of Mason getting into the ranch truck, and Jack hovering by the driver’s side door, watching me. Closing the back of the Jeep, I stopped and looked his way.

“Too many hormones.” Jack pointed to the milk, as if he were voicing the observation and thinking it through at the same time. “Not healthy for babies and kids. Big dairy wants you to believe it’s harmless, but it’s not.”

“Oh, well, okay.” I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to dump the milk out in the driveway, or what. The comment was so out of character for Jack, I didn’t know how to respond to it. “I’ll be sure to . . . buy . . . organic next time.”

“Still pasteurized,” he grunted, and then he was gone.

I stood there with my hormone-laced milk, thinking, I need a drink.

A really, really big glass of milk. With chocolate.

Lots of chocolate.