A Mother's Secret. Pat Warren

Nick Prescott, stopped on the sidewalk one floor down and called out a greeting. “Hey, Sara, are we climbing today?” he asked, looking up.

      Several times a week, she and Nick and a few of the other singles in the complex would pile into Nick’s Jeep and drive to Camelback Mountain, then set out to climb, usually Echo Canyon Trail. Still in her robe, Sara hadn’t planned on going today. She had too much on her mind.

      Moving to the railing, she shook her head. “Not for me today, but thanks. Catch you later in the week.”

      Nick gave her a wave and jogged off in the direction of the parking lot.

      Sitting back down, Sara frowned, wondering what she was going to do. She had to make a revised plan now that she’d struck out with Graham Kincaid. She’d tossed and turned half the night, but hadn’t come up with a viable solution.

      She should probably go talk with her sister again. Sara had the distinct feeling that Meg hadn’t told her everything.

      There were few other options, slim and not necessarily productive. Sara had thought working with the detective, bouncing her ideas off him, listening to his ideas after years of experience, they’d come up with a plan to find Mike. But alone, she felt overwhelmed. After all, she ran a boutique; she wasn’t a cop.

      Rising, her thoughts agitated, she wandered to the living room. Pausing by the end table next to her favorite chair, she picked up Mike’s picture. A sudden rush of tears clouded her vision as she studied the dear, familiar face.

      “Mike, Mike, where are you, sweetie?” Setting the picture down, she choked back a sob. “Oh, Lord, I just have to find you,” she whispered, nervously fingering her pearl bracelet with a gold heart engraved with the words I Love You, a gift from her nephew.

      The doorbell startled her. Dabbing her eyes with a tissue, she cleared her throat and wondered who’d be looking for her this early. Maybe Nick had returned to coax her into joining him.

      The bell rang again. Tightening the belt of her robe, Sara walked to the door and opened it.

      “Good morning. For a minute there, I thought you were already up and gone.” Graham Kincaid, carrying a fragrant Krispy Kreme bag, strolled in right past her and headed for the kitchen as if he belonged there.

      Stunned, Sara slowly closed the door and trailed after him. She was unprepared for her reaction to his physical presence in her home, those wide shoulders and that lean face, the lingering scent of soap. “You shaved,” she said, then chastised herself for the idiotic comment.

      “Yeah, I do that from time to time.”

      “How did you know where I live?”

      “You forget I’m a cop?” Digging in the sack, he removed two cups of steaming coffee followed by two doughnuts on napkins. “You have a choice of glazed or chocolate.” He finally stopped to look at her shower-fresh face devoid of makeup and was surprised that she was just as lovely as he remembered. Maybe more. Except for the strain around her eyes. “Which one do you want?” he asked, indicating the doughnuts.

      As she recovered from the shock of seeing him, Sara decided he must have had a change of heart. Why else would he come to see her? “Chocolate, of course,” she said, taking the doughnut over to the small glass-topped chrome table by the window and sitting down.

      Kincaid followed, bringing the cups. “Not your ordinary coffee, these. Latte, if you please.” That hard mouth shifted into a quick smile as he removed the lids.

      The smile changed his whole face, Sara thought, making him more human, adding a sexy edge. “To say that I’m surprised to see you would be a gross understatement, Graham,” Sara told him. “May I call you Graham?”

      “Not if you want me to answer. I was named after my grandfather. I was real fond of him, but I can’t stand the name. Everyone calls me Kincaid.” Taking a large bite of the sugary confection, he leaned back and momentarily closed his eyes in satisfaction. “I only let myself buy these every couple of months because I could eat a whole dozen all by myself. ’Course I’d soon be big as a house.”

      Glancing at his lean frame dressed in a navy Polo shirt and tan slacks, she doubted that and told him so.

      “It’s true. My brother, Ken, is a couple of inches shorter than me and weighs around three hundred. He’s a farmer in the Midwest and lives to eat. Literally. His wife, on the other hand, is thin as a shadow.”

      Inhaling the delicious latte fragrance, Sara was skeptical. “Is that a Jack Spratt story?”

      Swallowing, he nodded and gave her that killer smile again. “Kinda, yeah.” Finishing the last bite, he wiped his mouth, then took a sip of his latte. “You left that picture with me on purpose last night, didn’t you? You wanted to see if the boy would get to me, right?”

      He didn’t let his emotions show on his face, but Kincaid had spent a restive night, the boy’s face intruding on his dreams, those laughing blue eyes pleading. Just like the face of the other boy whose picture was in Kincaid’s wallet, a haunting reminder. Could he let himself be drawn into another search? And the bigger question, how could he not help if there was even a small chance of finding the boy?

      “Actually, I didn’t plan to leave it,” Sara answered, “but when I remembered that I had, I hoped looking at Mike might cause you to reconsider.”

      He took the picture out of his shirt pocket. “Good-looking boy. He’s got your coloring. Your son, I take it.”

      “No, my nephew. My sister, Meg, and her husband, Lenny, are his parents. The three of us are blond and blue-eyed, only Lenny’s dark-haired.”

      “I see. How long has Mike been missing?”

      Sara pushed back her hair with both hands, her expression thoughtful. “I’m not sure, exactly.”

      That stopped him. “All right. Did he just fail to return from school or somewhere else? Did the parents come home and find him gone? Is he unhappy, possibly a runaway? Twelve is a little old to be snatched by a stranger, but not out of the question.”

      Kincaid crossed his long legs. There was a story here. There was always a story. “Maybe you’d better start from the beginning.”

      “I’ll try.” Sara gazed down at the paper cup between her hands, finding it oddly difficult to think clearly with those sharp, intelligent eyes on hers. “My sister called me Sunday and said she was worried. It seems that the day before, she’d been out running errands and returned home to find a note from her husband saying he was taking Mike on a surprise trip to celebrate his graduation from grade school and starting junior high in the fall. Friday was the last day of school for the semester.”

      “Does Lenny do this often, surprise trips, not keeping his wife in the loop?”

      “Well, I know he’s impulsive. Last summer, he spent a small fortune on fishing gear, a tent, camping stuff and took Mike to Roosevelt Lake to fish. Meg wasn’t invited along and she was angry with him. So she went out and bought a big-screen TV and a VCR.”

      Irresponsible. Hell of an example for a kid, Kincaid thought. “Do they have that kind of money?”

      Sara sighed, uncomfortable with having to reveal so much about her family. But she had been concerned for some time about Mike’s home life, and wondered now if something had happened to cause Lenny to go off with the boy. “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly.

      “Not sure of much, are you?” he asked, wondering when she was going to start telling him the truth. She was busily shredding a napkin in her anxiety, her eyes downcast. People who didn’t look you in the eye were usually hiding something.

      “I need to go back further and explain that our parents were killed in a terrible auto accident when I was twelve and Meg just twenty-one. We were on our way home from Meg’s graduation from ASU. I was in the back seat when a drunk driver lost control of his car and hit us head-on. Mom and Dad died instantly and I was in the hospital for several