“Did she die?”
“No, she….” Smiling, she gave a little shrug. “It’s not important. I’m being nosy.”
“I don’t mind saying why I’m here.” Sara wouldn’t be a source of information, but Justine’s parents would have been running the shop at the time the postcard was mailed.
He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “Thirty years ago my mum traveled to America with a man named Ronny Smith, a plonker, for sure. She sent postcards along the way, and this is the last one that came. We never heard from her again.”
Sara’s breath hitched. “Thirty years ago?”
“That’s a long time,” Justine said, her voice soft.
“I doubt she’s alive. A postcard isn’t much to go on, but if there’s any chance I can find out what happened to her….”
“Of course.” Compassion darkened Sara’s green eyes. “How old were you when she left?”
“Barely two. Granny convinced her not to take me.”
She nodded. “Good for your granny.”
“I’ll find out what my folks know,” Justine said. “Do you have a picture?”
“I do, yeah.” Plucking his wallet from his back pocket, he took out the worn photo of him sitting on her lap. Her long dark hair was wavy like his. Although the picture didn’t show her eye color well, Granny said she’d had green eyes. Did he remember? Almost.
“Let me get my phone.” Justine hurried over to the sales counter.
“I’ll take a picture of it, too.” Sara pulled a mobile out of her handbag and glanced at him. “If that’s okay.”
“It’s better than letting the original out of my sight.”
“You should never do that.” She leaned in to get the shot, bringing her intriguingly spicy scent closer. “She’s very pretty.”
How kind of her to use the present tense.
“I suppose that’s you.”
“Yes.”
“You were a cute baby.”
“Most are at that age.”
Justine returned with her mobile and quickly took a picture of the photo. “I’ll show it to Mom and Dad first chance I get and see if they remember. Did you say her name? I didn’t catch it if you did.”
“Freya.” He turned the postcard over so her signature was visible, in case Justine didn’t know how to spell it.
His mum had made a production of signing her name — an elaborate F, a big loop for the y and a flourish at the end. “Freya Haggerty.”
“Got it.” She made a note on her mobile and took down his number. “If they had any contact with her at all, I think they’ll remember a woman from Ireland visiting Wagon Train.”
“I hope so.”
“I’ll let you know.” She glanced up. “Can you guys hang here for a bit while I help those two with their boot purchase? Eddie’s at the barber’s so it’s just me for the next thirty minutes or so.”
He nodded. “I can wait.”
“We’ll be fine, Justine. I’ll see if I can sell him a hat.”
“Go for it.”
