She was making her way through the thick tropical vegetation of a rain forest. She had no idea why she was there or where she was going but there was a yellow brick road beneath the boots on her feet, so she followed it. This wasn’t Oz, though; there was no Tin Man, Lion, or Scarecrow. No Dorothy or Toto, either. Just humidity, the yellow brick road, and towering fern-like foliage that dwarfed her six-foot frame. Suddenly the vegetation vanished and she stood on a coppery-reddish plain that reminded her of the flat openness of desert. Off in the distance a gray mountain range loomed against a cloudy sky. The harsh cry of a bird drew her eyes up to a majestic black-and-white harpy eagle flying above. Its huge wingspan and distinctive crested head made it instantly recognizable. It screamed again, circled her a few times, and flew off toward the mountains. Raptors were the spirit animals of her Black Seminole clan, so, taking the harpy’s presence as a sign, she followed.
The eagle returned every few minutes, circled above before flying off again as if urging her forward. When she finally reached the rocky base of the mountain, she glanced up. The summit was shrouded in clouds but the urge to climb was strong, so after searching, she found a narrow path and began the ascent. The eagle sounded once again and flew directly at her. It now wore the face of a dark-skinned woman. That startled her so badly, she woke up.
Tamar came out of the dream sitting up in bed. The harpy’s harsh caw seemed to call to her across the distance. The lighted dial of the clock on her nightstand showed it to be 5:00 a.m. The details of the dream lingered. She’d never been a vivid dreamer. In fact, she rarely remembered them at all, but this one was memorable if only for the scenario. What had the rain forest represented and what would she have discovered at the mountain’s peak? The woman’s face on the eagle had been as dark as her own. And that made her wonder if it was somehow tied to her ancestor, the First Tamar, who’d died in the 1880s. Per legend she walked in the dreams of July family members, a legend proven true a few years ago, when she showed in the form of a hawk to Tamar’s adopted great-grandson Amari. Tamar drew her hands down her face. It hadn’t been a nightmare but it had left her shaken.
She slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment to let the aches and grumbles of her ninety-plus-year-old bones have their say before she could move. Age ain’t nothing but a number, she scoffed. In truth, though, she was thankful for the discomfort because it meant the Spirit had blessed her with another day to keep an eye on the goings-on in the town of her birth. Henry Adams, Kansas, was founded in the late 1870s by freed slaves. The Julys took up residence in the 1880s. Back then, her Black Seminole ancestors had been famous all over the west for their train-robbing outlaw ways, until Hanging Judge Isaac Parker threw his gavel at them and turned the family into law-abiding citizens. In the years since, Henry Adams had its ups and downs, but by the beginning of the twenty-first century it hovered near death’s door. No tax base, no young people, no jobs. Salvation arrived in the form of outsider Bernadine Brown, who purchased the town lock, stock, and barrel on eBay. Thanks to Bernadine’s vast wealth and business acumen, the town where Tamar reigned as matriarch now boasted brand-new buildings, new residents, and a state-of-the-art infrastructure that made it the envy of every small city around.
Tamar finally stood and slipped on her robe and her slippers. Crossing the quiet room to the open screened window, she looked out over the plains surrounding her home and the small creek that ran behind it. Elements of the dream returned but she set them aside. The area had had a series of violent storms yesterday and she wouldn’t be surprised to learn a few tornadoes had touched down. Kansas summers often brought terrible weather and she hoped no one had been hurt. All was well now, though. The sun was rising red against the pink-and-gray sky of dawn, and the air was cooler, free of the humid mugginess so prevalent over the past week. The town’s new swimming pool would be opening later that day and she was looking forward to the celebration. There was no telling what else might happen before sunset, because something was always going on in Henry Adams. With that in mind, she left the bedroom to start her day and hoped the dream would let her be.
Rochelle “Rocky” Dancer was a co-owner of Dog and Cow, Henry Adams’s only diner. At 6:00 a.m., she entered the kitchen by the back door to the sounds of pots and pans being slammed around by her young head chef, Matt “Sizzle” Burke. She didn’t know what had him so upset, but she stood and watched as he smacked a skillet down on the flat top then stormed to the big standing fridge, withdrew a carton of eggs from inside, and slammed the door as if it were the object of his rage. Before he could damage her kitchen or himself, she cleared her throat.
He turned to the sound but the anger on his face remained. “Hey, Rock.”
She placed her purse on the steel prep table. “Morning, Siz. What’s up?”
“My boyfriend and I are fighting. Again.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Yes, boyfriend. His name’s Stephen and he’s a controlling jerk.”
Rocky was still stuck on the boyfriend part. “How come I didn’t know you were gay?”
He stopped cracking eggs. “That a problem?”
“Of course not. I just never knew, that’s all.”
“Guess it never came up.”
“Guess not. So, do you want to talk about it?”
He blew out an impatient-sounding breath. “I’ve known I was gay since middle school. My family knows.”
“No, Siz. Not about that. Why are you and Stephen fighting?”
“Oh.” He smiled ruefully. “I got an offer to work for one of the best chefs in the country at his restaurant in Miami. Steph says I’ll be abandoning him if I say yes.”
“What’s Steph do for a living?” Siz had been trying for years to find a chef to take him on. Texan Randy Emerson, one of the assistant cooks, was now training to be his replacement.
“Construction.”
“Seems like he should be able to find a job there. All they do in Miami is build.”
“That’s what I said, but he doesn’t want to move. He’s lived in Kansas all his life and refuses to care that I may never get a chance like this again.”
Rocky walked over to the sink and washed her hands. Siz was like the nephew she’d never had and she didn’t enjoy seeing him upset. “What about a long-distance relationship?”
“He shot that down, too. Either I stay or we’re done.”
“That sounds kind of harsh. How long have you two been together?”
“Almost six months, and I really thought he was the one. Guess not.” Siz then asked, “What would you do, Rock?”
She shrugged. “No idea. I’m still trying to get used to the idea of being in love with Jack enough to marry him next month, so I’m probably not the person you should be looking to for advice. Reverend Paula’s good at this kind of thing, maybe talk to her.”
“Maybe.”
Reverend Paula Grant had degrees in theology and child psychology. When people had problems, she was the town’s go-to person. She was both patient and wise. Over the past few years, Rocky had talked to her a lot about everything from losing her mom as a child to making peace with herself about being worthy of Jack James’s love. Rocky wasn’t totally convinced marriage was right for her, but Reverend Paula had helped her get comfortable enough with the idea to admit how much she did love Jack, and to say yes to his proposal. Now, she had to find the courage to walk down the aisle. “I do think that if he truly loved you, he’d want the best for you.”
“I told him that.”
“And his response?”
“That I’m just thinking about myself.”
“Have you talked to your parents about it?”
He began cutting veggies for the omelets so popular with the breakfast crowd. “I have. My mom says go to Miami whether he wants me to or not. She’s never liked Stephen to begin with—says he’s needy and manipulative. Dad agrees with her. He said I could probably find somebody in Miami who really cares for me and isn’t ashamed of it.”
“What’s he mean by that?”
“Stephen’s still in the closet. Doesn’t want his parents to know he’s gay.”
“Oh, Siz.” She found that so disappointing.
“I know, Rock. I know. It’s complicated.” For a few silent moments, he cut onions, then said, “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”
Rocky hoped so. Siz was young, intelligent, and talented, not only in the kitchen but musically as well. His jazz band Bloody Kansas played at the Dog monthly. In a vibrant and diverse city like Miami he’d come into his own, but not if bullied into giving up his dreams. “I’m going to open up. Make an appointment to see Reverend Paula. I’m sure she’ll be able to help you figure this out.”
“Okay.”
From his lackluster tone, she wasn’t sure he would follow through, but Rocky was convinced that if anyone could help him it was Paula. Out in the dining room, she stopped a moment to say good morning to the Dog’s other co-owner, Malachi July. He was in his mid-sixties, a retired county veterinarian, and had ten years of sobriety under his belt. He was also the son of town matriarch Tamar July and was dating town owner Bernadine Brown. When Rocky’s dad passed away two and a half decades ago, Mal was among those who’d stepped up to fill the hole in her life.
“Morning, Rock. The two new cooks start today?”
“Yes, and we need them badly.” Because of Siz’s amazing cooking skills diners were flocking to the Dog like the staff was handing out winning lotto tickets. Randy was a great help but more bodies were needed.
“You could’ve given me an apron to help out.”
She snorted. “Yeah right.” Mal oversaw the books, seating, and greeting, but was not allowed in the kitchen. Back in the diner’s early days, he’d almost burned the place down and now wasn’t allowed to cook even an egg. Although he did help out pouring coffee.
“Hater,” he said with a mock sneer.
“And proud to be.”
He went to his office and she went back to making sure the dining room was ready.
The breakfast crowd began arriving a short while later. As always, the place was packed with locals, construction crews, folks who lived in neighboring towns like Franklin, and everyone else looking for a good meal. The diner’s candy-apple-red jukebox, recently named Gina after songstress Regina Belle, was offering the sweet jazzy sounds of Boney James’s sax, which perfectly complemented the morning vibe. Always one to help her young waitstaff, Rocky carried a tray loaded down with plates over to a table of carpenters. Out of the corner of her eye, Rocky saw her fiancé Jack James enter.
Mal, who’d come out of the office to help, caught her look. “You got yourself a good man in him, Rock.”
Unable to take her eyes off Jack, she nodded. “I know. Let’s just hope I don’t screw it up.”
“Stop that,” he said firmly. “Just go with your heart and you’ll be fine.”
Henry Adams had no secrets. Everyone knew how antsy she was about this whole marriage thing. Jack loved her and she definitely loved him, but she continued to believe he could do much better than a motorcycle-loving chick like herself who preferred riding leathers over fancy dresses and couldn’t let go of the fear that the mental illness that claimed her mother would suddenly rise from within and take her, too.
But each and every time his eyes met hers like now, his smile seemed to vanquish her inner demons and fears, and all she could see was happiness. “Will you get the order from booth number four so I can go say good morning?”
“Sure can.”
Arriving at Jack’s booth, she poured coffee into his cup. “Morning, Professor. How are you?”
“Always better when I see you.”
Jack was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, gorgeous male who flirted better than anyone she’d ever met. “Are we still on for the movie tonight?” he asked.
“Yes.” Every Friday night Henry Adams showed movies in the recreation center’s auditorium and people of all ages came from miles around to attend the family friendly event. “Jurassic Park is one of my all-time favorites.”
“Mine, too.”
Rocky realized she was staring at him like something she wanted to spend a lifetime savoring. As if reading her mind, he chuckled, “You should probably take my order before someone yells at us to get a room.”
Embarrassment heated her cheeks and she dropped her gaze. When she raised it again his eyes sparkled with humor and she said, “You’re right. I’ll get your order out asap.”
“Thanks.” But before she got too far, he caught her hand.
She stopped.
“I love you,” he said.
Wondering how she’d make it to the kitchen on water-filled knees, she gave him a nod and tried not to fall down on her way to put in his order.
Over in Henry Adams’s small subdivision, Gemma Dahl’s twelve-year-old grandson, Wyatt, was in bed still asleep when she settled into her car for the drive to Clark’s, the grocery store where she worked as a cashier. The sun was up and the day promised to be bright and beautiful after last night’s storms. Turning the key in the ignition made the need gas light flash on. Irritated and kicking herself for not dealing with this the day before, she considered walking. The store was close enough for her to get there on time, but she didn’t feel like it, so instead, she backed out of the garage to drive the short distance to the gas station.
Gemma and her grandson had been living in Henry Adams for almost a year, but she’d been born and raised in the neighboring town of Franklin. Memories of her life there and afterward were bittersweet. Pregnant at sixteen. Shipped off in disgrace to an aunt in Chicago. Raising her daughter Gabby alone on the city’s rough South Side. Watching her daughter become a pregnant teen, too. The joy of holding baby Wyatt for the first time and then heartbreak as she stood with him at Lieutenant Gabrielle Dahl’s grave at Arlington National Cemetery after an IED took her life during her second tour in Afghanistan.
Now, at forty plus, she was back in Kansas. She had a good job and Wyatt had a future that didn’t include daily beatdowns from the South Side gangs he’d refused to join. In Henry Adams, there was support for a woman starting over like herself, strong male role models for Wyatt to emulate and look up to, and friends for him with goals as lofty as his own. Problems remained, however, and one stood behind the counter when she went in to pay for her gas.
“Well, if it isn’t Hester. Where’s your scarlet letter?”
Gemma met the mocking eyes of Astrid Franklin Wiggins and wanted to slap the smirk off her face. Instead, she tossed back coolly, “Where’s your bridle, Seabiscuit?”
Astrid flinched. A woman in line behind Gemma snorted. Astrid’s wealthy family founded Franklin. In middle school her long face and horselike teeth earned her the disparaging nickname Seabiscuit. Back then she and her clique of mean girls savaged Gemma and other less fortunate kids like wolves on elk. Recently however, as mayor of Franklin, she’d made the mistake of taking on Henry Adams and Bernadine Brown. When the dust settled, Astrid went from a fur-wearing, big-house-living, rich witch to residing in a trailer park and working behind the counter at her family’s gas station for minimum wage. “Any other questions for me?” Gemma asked.
Astrid’s red, tight-lipped face said no. Gemma tossed the twenty she owed on the counter. “Have a nice day,” she lied, and walked out.
Only after she’d driven away did she acknowledge her hurt and fury. Being sixteen and pregnant by the married Owen Welke became even more horrifying once her pregnancy began showing and the kids at school figured it out. Having to read Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter in English class and be called Hester behind her back, or in Astrid’s case to her face, had been so painfully humiliating she’d been glad when her parents sent her to Chicago. Her parents were both dead now and went to their graves still ashamed. Her only shame lay in being so naïve as to believe Owen would leave his wife and child for her. She heard he’d left Franklin shortly after she did but she didn’t know or care where he lived now. Last year, when she moved back to Franklin with Wyatt, she’d initially rented an apartment but everywhere she went whispers followed. Tramp. Whore. Homewrecker. Not wanting her grandson subjected to the ugliness, she inquired about living in Henry Adams because she’d heard about its excellent new school and she wanted Wyatt to have the best. It turned out to be a smart move. Ms. Brown was an angel. She had no problem with Gemma and Wyatt not being African American, and even helped her find a home that she was renting to buy, but she wondered if people in her hometown would ever see her as anything other than a pregnant unwed teenager. In spite of their opinions, she was proud of the life she’d carved out for herself and Wyatt, and for putting that witch Astrid in her place. Hopefully, the next time their paths crossed, Seabiscuit would think twice before opening her mouth.
Lucas Herman opened his eyes and saw the sun above him. His back felt wet. He vaguely realized it was because he was lying in a muddy field, but he didn’t know why or where he was. He sat up slowly and his head hurt so badly he dropped it for a minute hoping the pain would stop. Raising it again he looked around and saw debris scattered around him: tree limbs, splintered wood, shingles, coiled wire, a mangled “STOP” sign. There was even a white bathtub. About fifty feet away stood what was left of a small house. The walls were caved in and it had no roof. His roaring headache kept him from thinking clearly, so he closed his eyes again and tried to remember how he’d come to be where he was. Then it all rushed back. Heart racing, he looked at the house again. Uncle Jake! He spun his attention to the busted-up SUV a few yards away. There was a huge tree lying on top of it. Stumbling to his feet he screamed, “Jazzy!”
Head throbbing, he ran to the SUV, tripping over wood and limbs. “Jazzy!” The tree’s big leafy branches covered the entire driver’s side. Peering through the foliage he saw that the door was gone but the tree’s trunk and branches blocked access to the inside.
“Lucas!” his sister screamed.
Thankful she was alive, he ran around to the passenger side and looked in through the cracked muddy window. Her clothes were soaked, there was blood on her face, and when she saw him she began to cry. Frantic, he pulled on the handle but the door was so buckled and damaged it wouldn’t budge. “Hold on! I’ll be right back.”
Visually searching the piles of debris, he spotted bricks. Grabbing one he hurried back and shouted, “Cover your face so the glass won’t get in your eyes.”
Using his arm to shield his own, he smashed the brick into the window again and again until it shattered enough to make a hole large enough for her to maybe climb through. Jagged pieces remained though, framing the opening like a shark’s gaping mouth. Removing his tee shirt, he folded it a few times and laid it over the bottom of the window. It didn’t go all the way across but he hoped it created enough of a cushion to keep her from getting too badly cut. She scooted over, carefully avoiding the sharp shards on the seat, and stood up as much as the caved in roof would allow. He reached in and grabbed her around the waist. “Try and lift your knees real high.”
As he pulled her through her knees and legs grazed the points of glass beneath his shirt and she cried out in pain, but he managed to ease her to her feet. Once she was standing, he held onto her like she was made from gold and she held him just as tightly. They cried together for a long minute while he prayed silently to God and their dead parents for help. He leaned back and looked down at her. “You okay?”
She wiped her dirty face and nodded. She had cuts on her hands and arms. Little rivulets of blood trickled down her knees and the front of her legs below her black-and-pink polka-dot shorts.
“Do you hurt anywhere else?” he asked.
She shook her head no. “What about you?”
“Got a ginormous headache.” He’d never had a concussion but the last thing he remembered before blacking out was something crashing into his head, so he figured that might be what was wrong. He turned his attention to the remnants of the house. He already knew Uncle Jake was dead, either inside or close by and his heart twisted into knots.
“Uncle Jake’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“Yeah, probably.” No sense in lying to her. He didn’t know what lay ahead but they were alive and together so that helped him not be so messed up. “Do you want to stay here while I go check or come, too?”
“No. I’m going with you.”
He nodded. Since the death of their parents they’d been forced to deal with stuff no kids should have to endure. He wished for a time machine so they could go back to the life they used to have but . . . He took her hand.
They crossed the field of debris and found Jake lying facedown beneath a large section of the roof.
She whispered, “What do we do now?”
“Probably see if we can find his phone in the car and call 911.”
Lucas wondered what life might have been like with Uncle Jake had they made it to California. Filled with sadness, he forced his mind away from what would never be and walked with Jaz over to the SUV. They looked through the window but didn’t see the phone. The interior was soaked from all the rain so even if they did find it, he figured it probably wouldn’t work. But he climbed back in through the hole he’d made earlier, cutting his arms and legs in the process. After a bit of searching he found it beneath the front seat. It was dead. Of course, he said to himself.
He climbed back out. Using his shirt to wipe the blood off his legs, hands, and arms he put it back on. The few changes of clothing they owned were in trash bags in the trunk, but the keys were nowhere to be found. He looked out at the road running by the field they were in. “Let’s start walking. Maybe we can get somebody to stop and call 911 for us.”
“I don’t want to go back to foster care.”
Her soft plea put a lump in his throat. “I know. Me neither.”
Gemma was driving and singing to Adele at the top of her lungs when she spotted two kids, a boy and a girl walking hand in hand up ahead along the side of the road. The boy turned and upon seeing her car began waving frantically as if attempting to flag her down. Surprised, she slowed. When she stopped, they stood back as if uncertain but it was the sight of the dirt and blood covering them and their clothing that widened her eyes. Checking her mirror to make sure there was no oncoming traffic, she got out.
The boy appeared on the verge of tears but said firmly, “We need help. Can you call 911, please?”
Taking in their faces and bloodied and muddy clothes again, she asked, “What happened?”
He replied in an emotion-filled whisper, “We got caught in a storm last night. Our uncle is dead and we don’t have any place to go.”
Her heart broke. Tears stung her eyes. “I’ll call 911. You come on and get in the car. I know I’m a stranger but I promise I’ll take care of everything. Okay?”
The boy nodded and dashed away the tears on his cheeks. The little girl just looked incredibly sad.
“What’re your names?”
“I’m Lucas Herman. This is my sister Jasmine.”
“My name’s Gemma Dahl. Come, get in.”
Once the two were in the backseat, she took out her phone.
Two minutes later, Gemma was talking to County Sheriff Will Dalton. She explained what little she knew of the situation and where she was. He promised to send a car immediately. She thanked him and then ended the call. “Help’s on the way,” she told the children. “I have some water in the trunk, do you want something to drink?”
They shook their heads no. She wished she had a first aid kit to take care of their cuts, but assumed the officer would.
Jasmine asked, “Will the police take us back to foster care?”
Gemma paused, eyed their bleak faces, and wondered what their story was. She answered truthfully, “I don’t know, honey.”
“Can we go home with you, please?” Jasmine asked.
Gemma glanced between them. Lucas was staring out the window as if he’d been turned to stone. Jasmine, whose face was framed by a soft cloud of natural hair that had shriveled from the ordeal, had a plea in her eyes that tugged at Gemma’s heart so keenly, she almost said yes. However, she knew the decision was beyond her control. “We’ll see what the sheriff says.”
“You don’t have to take us in,” Lucas said quietly. “You probably have kids of your own.”
“Just my grandson, Wyatt. He’s about your age.” She wanted to pull him into her arms and let him cry. It was obvious they’d been through a lot. “While we wait, how about you tell me what happened.”
They took turns telling her about the storm, the death of their parents, their stint in foster care, and the ill-fated adoption by the man whose body they said lay outside a house back down the road. Once they were done, all she could think was, things happen for a reason, and she knew as sure as she knew her name that she’d been sent to find these children—she felt it in her bones. And with that she was determined to take them home and ensure that at some point soon they’d feel safe enough to smile again.
A county sheriff’s vehicle pulled up and Gemma was surprised to see Sheriff Dalton himself step out. With him was a young African American female deputy Gemma had never met. When he reached the car, he leaned down and peered in through her lowered window. He was a big man and the kids drew back sharply. “Sheriff Dalton’s a friend,” she said, hoping to reassure them. “He’s one of the good guys.”
Will seemed pleased by that and gave her a silent nod of thanks. “Hi kids. I’m County Sheriff Will Dalton and this is Deputy Davida Ransom.”
The deputy said, “Hi you two.”
The kids gave both officers tentative nods of greeting.
Will asked them a few of the same questions Gemma had earlier. Once satisfied with their responses, he said. “I’m so sorry you’re having to go through this. I’m going to have Ms. Gemma follow me back to where you said your Uncle Jake is. Do you think you can find the place again?”
Lucas said, “Yes, sir.”
“Okay. It shouldn’t take us long to get things settled there.”
Jasmine said, “Then can we go home with Ms. Gemma?”
Before the sheriff could respond, Deputy Ransom spoke up. “Unfortunately, no. When we’re done, you’ll ride back with us. A social worker from Child Services will take care of you from there.”
Gemma saw Will’s lips thin for a second as if the deputy had spoken out of turn, but he kept whatever he was thinking to himself. Instead, he asked Gemma, “Does that sit right with you, Ms. Dahl?”
“Truthfully, no. I’d rather take them home. They’ve been through enough for the moment. They need to get cleaned up, fed, and have a doctor check them out. I want to talk to Ms. Brown about their situation, too.”
Ransom opened her mouth, but a pointed look from her boss shut her down immediately. He said to Gemma, “I agree with you. It could be hours before a caseworker shows up. Let’s see what Ms. Brown can work out.”
Ransom seemed shocked. “Sheriff, the law—”
“I know the law, Deputy, been handling it since you were probably in middle school. Ms. Brown knows the law, too, and if anybody can work the system so these kids can settle in with Ms. Dahl, it’s her. Now, how about we go see to their uncle so they can be on their way.”
She nodded tersely.
He told Gemma, “We’ll follow you. I’ll call Ms. Brown on the way.”
Gemma turned her car around so she could lead the sheriff, and Lucas asked her, “Does that mean we’re going home with you?”
“At least for now. Is that okay with you?”
Eyes glistening, he gave her a quick nod. “Yes. Thank you.”
She checked out Jasmine in the mirror. “That okay with you, Jasmine?”
She responded with a quiet, “Yes, ma’am. Real okay.”
“Then let’s help the sheriff take care of your uncle.”
Once the sheriff finished his tasks and the county coroner was called to transport Mr. Gleason’s remains, a crowbar was used to open the SUV’s trunk to retrieve the trash bags holding the children’s clothing.
Gemma thought it sad that it was all they owned in the world, then reminded herself it could be worse. The children could have lost their lives in the storm too, and be riding with their uncle to the morgue, leaving the bags to serve as the only testaments to their having lived at all.