Three Boys and a Baby. Laura Altom Marie

voice scared.

      What was it with women? Why couldn’t they just say what they felt? Why couldn’t she admit she was upset and ask for his help?

      Maybe the better question was, what was it about her heartbreakingly concerned expression that made him care?

      Chapter Two

      Please, God, let Hank find them all safe.

      Ella had said the prayer hundreds of times during the endless night, but now, with the early-morning sun filling the boys’ second-story bedroom, why did her throat ache worse than ever? Why, when Hank had told her to stay put, had she desperately wanted to help with the search?

      The living room and kitchen teemed with concerned friends and family. Tables were laden with cold cuts, cookies and cake, as if food could somehow fill the gnawing emptiness that had consumed her since Jackson’s promised thirty minutes had faded into ten hours without her boys.

      As a doctor, she’d trained for all sorts of emergencies. Broken arms and legs she could handle, but this not knowing just might be the end of her.

      A knock sounded on the boys’ open door. “Your friend Claire said I’d find you up here.”

      “Jackson.”

      Hugging Owen’s favorite stuffed tiger, she glanced the man’s way. “Any sign of them?”

      “A dirty diaper and a few granola-bar wrappers out by the old Hampstead place. Looks as if they may have camped there for the night, but no sign of them now.”

      She nodded, willing down the bile rising in her throat. “What’s next?”

      “A couple of hours ago, we called in help from Buckhorn County. About fifty National Guardsmen have also joined the search. My…um…ex has connections. She called in favors. It won’t be long till we bring them home.”

      “I know,” Ella said, adding a new wish to her litany of prayers—that she wouldn’t break down now. Not in front of this virtual stranger.

      “We’ve got tracking dogs. They’re good.”

      I miss my boys. Please, God, bring them home safe.

      Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…

      “I’m thinking thirty more minutes is all it’s going to take. Tops.”

      “Y-you said that last time.” Her eyes stung.

      “Obviously, I underestimated, but this time—”

      “This time, what?” she all but shrieked. “Do you have a crystal ball? Have you also called in a psych—” A sob racked her body. Tears flowed and she looked away, but then Jackson pulled her against him, wrapping her in his strength. As if she’d known him a lifetime, because exhaustion and terror and a sense of unbearable helplessness had taken a toll, she clung to him. “I—I’m so afraid,” she cried. “W-what if you don’t find them? Or, w-worse—”

      “Shh…” He held her tightly, cupping his hand to the back of her head, as if sheltering her from the harsh realities of what had become of their world. “We’ll bring them all back safe. If not in thirty minutes, then soon. Everything’s going to be okay.”

      Because of the sureness of his tone, his powerful hold made her believe him. The worry gripping her insides refused to let her believe anything else.

      Once her cheeks had dried and her labored breathing had returned to normal, Jackson released her with an awkward pat to her back, stepping away.

      “I should rejoin the others,” he said, already edging toward the door.

      She followed. “I want to go. I can’t stand just sitting here. I feel helpless.”

      “Look…” He released a deep sigh. “On the off chance you’re needed, you should stay.”

      “What do you mean?” she asked, gaze narrowed. “Needed? Why do I get the feeling you’re trying in a polite way to prepare me for one or more of our boys needing medical attention?”

      “All I’m saying is just in case. There’s no sense in you being exhausted. Should the need for first aid—for anyone, be it the boys or the baby or one of the search party—arise.”

      Despite knowing Jackson was right in his request for her to stay put, Ella wasn’t sure her heart could withstand one more moment of inactivity. “Please, Jackson, there must be something productive I can do.”

      “I suppose making sandwiches is out?”

      Shooting him a sarcastic smile, she said, “There are already enough sandwiches downstairs to feed every man, woman and child in the state.”

      “Come on,” he said, gesturing for her to follow. “I’ll see what I can do.”

      

      “IT STINKS IN HERE,” Owen said, looking up at the storm-drain tunnel’s cobwebbed ceiling, then clutching his backpack tighter. “I’m hungry. Let’s go home.”

      “We can’t just go home,” Oliver pointed out. Truthfully, deep inside his belly where the hunger pangs were starting to hurt really bad, he kind of wanted to go home, too. Eat a big plate of his mom’s blueberry pancakes with one of those whipped cream smiley faces she drew on them. After that, he’d play video games, then crawl into his mom’s big bed. She had more pillows than him and Owen. She’d asked if he wanted more pillows, but he’d said no, seeing how having his bed covered in soft stuff wouldn’t be very manly. Since his dad had taken off and Oliver was oldest, that made him man of the house and in charge. He had to set a good example for his little brother, for Dillon and the baby. “If we go home, we’re gonna get grounded and Daffodil’s gonna get sent to jail.”

      “I still think that’s a stupid name for a baby,” Owen said, “and they won’t take her to jail, but juvie.”

      “You’re both wrong.” Dillon hugged the sleeping infant.

      “She’ll go to the big house. I saw it on TV. It’s way worse than just jail or juvie. She’ll probably have to be in a gang and stuff.”

      Oliver rolled his eyes. “She’s a baby. How’s she gonna be in a gang?”

      “Gangs are smart.” Dillon kissed the top of the baby’s head. “My teacher, Mrs. Henseford, says gang leaders like to get their new members young.”

      “Please,” Owen whined, “let’s go home.”

      “No.” Oliver pitched a rock at a tin can. “We have to get jobs—and a car.”

      “Yeah,” Dillon said with a heavy sigh. “But before that, you guys ever come up with what we want to name her?”

      “I already told you, Rapunzel,” Owen said.

      “That’d be fine,” Dillon said, “only she doesn’t have any hair.”

      “How ’bout Baldy?”

      Dillon wrinkled his nose. “That’s not very pretty. We have to give her a girly name.”

      “Fluffy? Kimmy? Cassie?”

      “Nah,” Dillon said. “I’m not feeling any of those.”

      “Okay, well if you don’t like Daffodil, what about calling her Rose? Roses are pretty, and they smell nice.”

      “Yeah,” Dillon said, “but most times, this baby smells bad.”

      “That’s just because she poops a lot,” Owen pointed out.

      “But she’ll stop that when she’s old.”

      “So you want to call her Rose?” Oliver asked.

      Dillon gazed down at the baby girl and smiled. “Yeah. Rose…I think that sounds really pretty.”