“Not at all. I love having babies around, and being able to take care of Grace is such a blessing. She’s a sweetheart.” Ellen winked. “She’s got everyone wrapped around her finger already. Raymond was up with her at dawn, and Dawson insisted on giving her a morning bottle. I think you might have to fight us all in order to get a second with her, and that’s before the rest of the family sees her.”
Peyton laughed and poured herself a cup of coffee. “From what I hear, Claire and Marcus have their hands full already.”
Ellen chuckled and went back to icing her cookie. “They do, but don’t let them fool you. They’re enjoying every minute. And so am I. Having all these grandkids underfoot is wonderful. The laughter, the crying, and the glitter.”
Peyton smiled. “It sounds wonderful.” A pang of sadness hit her. Samuel should be here with them. He’d be nearly five now,running through the house wearing a cape and begging for a cookie from his grandmother. Not a day went by that she didn’t think of him, but somehow, the loss was more poignant standing in this familiar kitchen with its ancient cabinets and the rooster clock hanging above the doorway.
Maybe coming to the ranch had been a mistake. But what choice did she have? The attack yesterday proved Grace was in danger, and above all else, it was Peyton’s job to protect her.
The back door opened, and her heart pitched as the low rumble of Dawson’s voice reached her ears. A moment later he appeared in the kitchen, dressed in ranch clothes. Worn work jeans, a flannel over a T-shirt, and a silver belt buckle. He’d removed his boots, but even in stocking feet, his presence made an impact. He brought with him the scent of fresh air and a hint of hay. She breathed it in, letting it soothe her.
His brown eyes met hers, and he smiled. “Look who’s finally up.” His gaze swept over her, and Peyton felt him cataloguing her features. “How do you feel?”
“Much better.” The sleep had erased her headache and most of her muscle soreness.
Raymond Graham entered the kitchen. Dawson’s father was as tall as his son, and just as wide. His jet-black hair held a tinge of gray, but his dark skin was unlined. He greeted his wife with a kiss on her cheek before heading to the coffee machine. “We mended the broken fence in the back fifty, but the Sutters across the street have a fallen tree on their shed. They’re still in Florida visiting their daughter until the end of the week, so I’ll take my chainsaw over this afternoon and handle it.”
The Sutters were in their seventies and had been neighbors with the Grahams for decades. For as long as Peyton had known them, Ellen and Raymond had cooked, cleaned, and helped care for their property. That was who they were. They helped everyone who needed it. When Raymond became assistantpastor of the local church, the demands on their time increased. It was a lot to keep up with the ranch and serve their community, but Peyton had never heard them complain once.
“Is there any news about Lilia?” she asked Dawson.
He shook his head, and the flare of hope she’d allowed herself to feel died. Her cousin had been missing for over 24 hours.
“We’re all praying for Lilia.” Raymond rested a giant hand on Peyton’s shoulder. “Not just us, but the whole church. Chief Garcia was on the local news last night asking for leads. I know everyone in town will keep an eye out.” He kissed the top of her head as if she was one of his own children, and the tender move sent another wave of aching nostalgia through her. Despite her reservations about seeing the Grahams again, they had been nothing but supportive and loving from the moment she’d arrived yesterday morning.
As if nothing had changed. As if she hadn’t divorced their son.
As if she were still family.
Several phones chimed at once. Raymond removed his cell from his pocket and grinned. “Uh oh. Incoming.”
Peyton’s brow crinkled as she glanced at Dawson. “What does that mean?”
He chuckled. “You’ll see.”
Moments later, the back door swung open with the force of a hurricane. “Grandma!” Feet beat against the tile seconds before two curly haired kids streaked into the kitchen. The room dissolved into chaos, as kisses and hugs were exchanged, and the kids asked a million questions. Marcus, Dawson’s younger brother, appeared in the doorway. He looked rumpled. His hair stuck up in different directions, and his shirt was misbuttoned. He had a baby carrier slung over one arm and a thick bag hooked on one shoulder.
“Here, let me help you, son.” Raymond took the baby carrier from him. Nestled inside was a little girl, roughly the same age as Grace.
“Thanks, Dad.” Marcus collapsed into the nearest chair. Oliver, a chubby-cheeked little boy of around two, instantly climbed into his dad’s lap and started reaching for a muffin from a stack on the table. His dad ignored him. “Someone get me some coffee, please.”
Dawson obliged, setting a mug in front of his brother with a grin. “You okay there, baby brother?”
“Jessica is running on fumes, so I thought it would be a good idea to take the kids this morning by myself so she can rest.” He sucked down the coffee in a huge gulp. “I’m outnumbered and outsmarted. Before I could even get them dressed, Izzy colored on the walls and Oliver spilled an entire box of cereal on the floor.”
Dawson chuckled and scooped up Oliver into his broad arms, muffin and all. The little boy had a bit of a runny nose, so he gently wiped it with a napkin before settling him in a highchair. Peyton’s heart squeezed tight. And then her breath caught when Dawson grabbed her hand. “Come on. Let’s escape the chaos. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”
She dragged her feet. “What about Grace?”
Dawson leaned closer to Peyton. “Mom will never give you that baby back, you know that, right?” His whispered voice was purposefully loud enough for his mother to hear. She threw a potholder his way. It bounced off his massive chest and fell to the floor. He picked it up, laughing. “Don’t be mad at me for speaking the truth, Mom.”
Ellen’s eyes sparkled with love and laughter. “You’re a troublemaker, that’s what you are.” Her voice was warm with affection. Then she turned to Peyton. “I promise I will give her back.” She paused. “Eventually.”
Peyton giggled. She realized as she stepped out onto the front porch, bundled in a jacket, that she’d somehow slid right back into her place on the ranch. Sunshine spilled over the grass. The fields were enclosed with white picket fences and horses grazed near the country road leading to the property. It was picturesque and peaceful. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly, stealing one last moment for herself before the weight of it all returned.
Dawson joined her at the railing. He’d lingered in the kitchen long enough to pour his own cup of coffee. Steam drifted up from the dark brew into the frigid air. The easy expression he’d worn in the kitchen was gone, replaced by a furrow of worry on his brow. That, more than anything, sent Peyton’s heart skittering. She felt a momentary bite of fear. “What aren’t you telling me? Is it Lilia?”
“No, there’s been no sign of her.” Dawson turned and leaned against the railing. It creaked under his weight, and Peyton wondered if the wood—worn from generations of use—would give out from underneath him. “But there are two pieces of news. First, you were right about the fingerprints on the toolbox.”
