Hannah Alexander - A Killing Frost

Clancy had light brown hair, and he wore a black-and-red plaid shirt. The black-red-brown pattern blurred beneath her. All he had to do was look up. The least sound from her, the slightest movement, and she could be captured again…or die.

Good thing he didn’t have a gun.

He passed beneath the tree, then out of her sight. She listened to his footsteps disappear into the woods, brush rustling every so often until all she heard was her own breathing and the trickle of a thin stream along the creek bed.

Too, too close.

She couldn’t see anything from this tree trunk, just green needles in every direction, and other treetops, a small cliff above the dry creek…

She studied the cliff more closely. A crevice halfway up the side of the rocky wall looked big enough for somebody to hide for a while, almost like a small cave.

She’d already fallen asleep outside the barn, and couldn’t take the chance she’d fall from this height. Also, it would be colder up here in the tree than down on the ground. She would wait for a few minutes, until she was sure he wouldn’t hear her, then climb down. There were better places to hide, and if possible, she might even find the river and start following it to River Dance.

Tyrell ran his hand gently along a grapevine. The air was about fifteen degrees colder than when he had left for the clinic, but the weather could change at any time. He didn’t want to ruin a single one of these expensive bales unless it was necessary.

“Clouds are still covering the sky,” Daniel said, joining Tyrell at the end of the row.

Tyrell pointed to the western horizon. “But they’re moving out. You can see sunlight spreading toward us. I figure by nightfall the sky will be clear. We’ll get our frost. Below freezing temperatures.”

“It’s so unusual for this time of year.”

Tyrell gave his brother a humorless grin. “This is Missouri. Expect the unusual.”

“That’s why I’m not a farmer. You always did like to gamble.”

“I’ve never gambled in my life.”

“Maybe not on the riverboats, but you gamble, just like Dad. How much does this ranch stand to lose if the freeze happens?”

“Hard to tell. We’ll see the impact on the vines and trees for years to come.”

“And yet you’ll keep doing it,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “Just like Dad.”

“He did okay, didn’t he? He has no outstanding debts, and he has enough to retire comfortably, and soon.”

“He worked his tail off to get it all done.”

They were both silent for a moment, and Tyrell wondered if Daniel had the same thought he did. Dad could have died today. What if he still didn’t make it? Then there would be no retirement.

“He taught me as much as, or more than, I learned in college,” Tyrell said. “He thought this freeze could hit after the unusually warm March we had.” The sunshine and seventy-degree weather had coaxed the shoots out early. Right now, he could knock into one of those shoots accidentally, and it would fall off.

Tyrell studied a row of Vignoles vines. “You’re right, life is a gamble. That’s one reason Dad diversified years ago. The cattle aren’t going to freeze. And besides, stressed vines often make the best wine.”

“That’s an interesting thought, Tyrell, but a stressed Dad doesn’t make for good healing. The guys are wanting to know if we should do something about the fruit trees down around the lower forty.”

“No. Let’s stop here. There’s no guarantee we’ll save the crops anyway, and we need to save a few more bales for the cattle. We could lose the grass for a while.”

“Great attitude, there, brother.”

“I’m not being pessimistic, I’m just saying-”

Tyrell’s cell phone beeped. Caller ID showed it was their sister Renee.

“Tyrell?” Though not as characteristically serene as her twin, Renee nevertheless knew how to keep her cool most of the time. She didn’t sound cool now. She sounded as if she’d been running. “Mark and Heather have an FBI agent at their place. They got a call just now. A motorist reported seeing an old brown pickup suddenly leave the right lane of eastbound I-70 and bounce down an embankment. It matches the description of the vehicle driven by the abductors.”

Tyrell felt his gut clench. “Where on I-70?”

“Just east of Columbia. It’s estimated that this happened about the same time the all points bulletin was issued on the truck.” She paused for breath. “There was a report of a stolen vehicle that matches the truck’s description. Want to know where from?”

He really didn’t. “Where?”

“Swope Park area. And that truck had a scanner. Which means the kidnappers were probably listening to the scanner when the bulletin went out. That’s likely why they stole that particular vehicle. Tyrell, this is…this is-”

“Take another breath, sis. Are the authorities focusing their search in the direction the truck went over the embankment?”

“Yes. The area south of I-70 should be crawling with police or FBI by now.”

Tyrell handed Daniel his fuel can. “Renee, have you heard if anyone is searching the section of Mark Twain National Forest near Columbia?”

“No one has said.”

“I have some friends in the forestry department up there. I think I’ll give them a call.” In fact, he could think of quite a few people he could call in this part of the state, all of whom would be eager to hunt for a brown pickup carrying a terrified eleven-year-old. “How are Mark and Heather holding up?”

“Not the best.” Renee paused, took yet another audible breath as if to steady her runaway thoughts. “Heather’s blaming herself, and the worry about Dad is putting everybody here over the edge.”

Tyrell glanced at his brother. “Daniel says she’s alive.”

He caught his brother’s approving gaze as he sensed the flare of hope those words gave his sister.

“He did, really?” she asked. “I mean, he’s not just saying that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is he there?”

“Standing beside me.”

“May I talk with him?”

Tyrell handed his phone to Daniel, and turned to gaze out across the rows of gray-brown vines, barely clothed with shoots of new green.

Tyrell had lived through some bad times, but he’d never had this much worry gnawing at his gut. As he listened to Daniel reassuring their sister, he tried hard to let his brother’s words give him comfort.

It didn’t work.

Ruth Lawrence taped a makeshift sign to the broken window of the front door and turned back to Jama, hands on hips. “No more patients. It’s way past normal office hours, anyway.”

Jama nodded. She had called Zelda Benedict and had her drive their final patient to the E.R. in Hermann.

“I’m sure no one else will come through that door,” Jama said.

“Applicants only.”

“How many more do you expect?”

“Two.” Ruth straightened an already perfectly straight stack of periodicals and walked to the reception window, her brisk footsteps squeaking across the polished wood floor.

Jama followed her. “Is there any reason to interview more? I thought you’d made your decisions.”

“We have no idea if Zelda or Chelsea will work out for us. I need more possibilities on file, just in case.”

Jama studied her director. The telephone answering system had been switched on-it had taken them thirty minutes to decipher the directions and set up the recorded announcement. The task had focused Jama’s mind and reduced her stress workload, but this left her more time to worry about Doriann.

Ruth’s movements were erratic. She didn’t seem able to sit in one place for long. She continually tugged at her braid, and several strands of wavy hair had escaped the weave.