Dakota Born

  “I know that now, but—”

  “You don’t know it, or you wouldn’t be phoning me,” she told him, amazed at how unemotional she felt. She’d agonized over this decision—to leave him, leave Georgia—but once it was made, she’d known it was the right thing to do.

  “Is there still a chance for us, Lindsay?”

  “A chance?” He really didn’t understand. It was over, completely and totally over. Furthermore, she knew through the grapevine—mostly from Maddy—that Monte hadn’t lost any time looking for her replacement. He’d dated several women in the months she’d been gone.

  “I didn’t know what I had in you,” he said with the same frantic edge in his voice. “You wanted marriage—”

  “And you didn’t. We’ve been through all this.”

  She heard him take a deep breath. “If marriage is what it takes to keep you in my life, then so be it.”

  “This is a serious proposal?”

  He paused. “Yes,” he finally said, his voice stiff.

  Laughing probably wasn’t the most delicate or diplomatic response, but she couldn’t help herself. “Monte, forgive me for being so insensitive, but no woman wants to spend the rest of her life with a man who grits his teeth and offers to marry her. You make it sound like…like being tied to a stake.”

  “I can’t lose you!”

  “You already did, seven months ago.”

  He argued with her some more, insisting she loved him.

  This time she interrupted him. “Monte, I did love you, and I still have feelings for you—but not like I used to.”

  “You could learn to love me again, couldn’t you?” he pleaded.

  “Oh, Monte, can’t you see it’s too late?”

  “No,” he said. “It can’t be.”

  “I don’t mean to be cruel, but that’s the only way you’re going to hear me. It’s over.” Lindsay had come too far in the past seven months to feel any victory. She wasn’t interested in vengeance or reprisals. She wanted nothing from Monte now. If anything, his proposal embarrassed her.

  “You said you’d be back after a year. At least promise you’ll give me another chance once you’re home.”

  “Monte, please…”

  “You are moving back to Savannah, aren’t you?” He made it sound like she’d be crazy not to.

  “I…haven’t made up my mind yet.” For one thing, she hadn’t been offered a contract, although she hoped she would be.

  “You can’t mean to say you’d actually choose to live in Buffalo Gulch—”

  “Buffalo Valley,” she snapped. “By the way, it happens to be a perfectly wonderful town with good and decent people.”

  “Buffalo Valley. Sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely remorseful.

  She exhaled a deep sigh, surprised by her quick temper.

  “I should have remembered.” His voice lowered and he continued, “Don’t give up on me, Lindsay, please. I didn’t know how much I was going to miss you, didn’t know how bleak my life would feel without you in it. I want us to get married, I was sincere about that, and if you still want, we could have a baby. I’m not opposed to a family, you know that.”

  “Monte, I don’t think—”

  “Don’t say anything else. Wait until you’re home.”

  What he didn’t understand was that Lindsay thought of Buffalo Valley as her home now.

  Later in the week, Lindsay logged back on to the Internet. Finding the information about physicians had been relatively easy, but only a couple of the Catholic churches had Web sites. The on-line investigator had probably been to all the same sites, but Lindsay was impatient now. Between phone calls and the Internet, she’d been able to compile three lists of names. Then she’d compared those lists but found they had nothing in common, nothing to link them. Disheartened, she wondered about giving up the search.

  The next afternoon, everything changed—she received an e-mail from the on-line agency. They had a name.

  The girl had been called Angela and she’d been adopted on August 29, 1943, by Dr. LeRoy Farley and his wife, Eugenia. Stark County records showed a birth certificate listing Dr. Farley and his wife as the parents.

  Confirmation came via a baptismal certificate, signed by—and this was the clincher—Father Milton Farley.

  In addition, Lindsay was provided with a copy of the Stark County court records, a certificate of marriage for Angela Farley and Gary Kirkpatrick, filed in 1964.

  Now she had a married name. It seemed too much to ask that Angela Kirkpatrick would live her entire life in or around Bismarck—but she had. The agency e-mailed her the Kirkpatricks’ address.

  Once she had all this information, a sense of unreality came over her. Until then, this child—Gina’s daughter—hadn’t seemed quite real. A character in a sad story. The subject of a complicated search. Now, however, she not only had a name, but a family, a husband and perhaps children. She had a history. Angela Kirkpatrick was Lindsay’s aunt, and as such a part of her own life.

  She knew then that she had to find Angela and talk to her.

  Kevin drove with the window down and the cold wind buffeting his face until he lost feeling in his cheeks and had trouble seeing the road. The wicked cold brought stinging tears to his eyes and blurred his vision.

  He’d told his mother and Gage that he was going over to Jessica’s, and when he left the farm that had been his intention. But as he neared the turnoff, he realized he wasn’t going to stop at his girlfriend’s house.

  He just kept driving until he could no longer see the road and the lump in his throat wouldn’t let him swallow. He pulled off to the side, close to the ditch, and sat with his hands clenching the steering wheel. After a while he closed his eyes, trying to control the frustration and disappointment. He reminded himself that even as a farmer he could be an artist. It brought no comfort or solace.

  His mother knew something wasn’t right and had tried to get him to talk. He had nothing to say. Not to her and not to Gage. Neither of them understood. Even Jessica didn’t get it. Everyone he loved and trusted was trying to force him into something he could never be. His family, his girlfriend—they all assumed they knew what was best for him.

  Every morning, he looked at the letter from the San Francisco Art Institute and it reminded him what a selfish bastard he was. He wanted the chance to be the kind of artist he knew he could be, but that meant Gage wouldn’t be able to do what he wanted. So, art school just wasn’t going to happen. Obligation, duty, responsibility—they all worked against him. He owed Gage. His mother had pointed that out every day for weeks, as if she thought he was about to sell the farm out from under them.

  The farm was supposed to be this wonderful blessing; to Kevin it was more like a curse. That winter, Miss Snyder had the entire high-school class read the Melville novel, Billy Budd. Lately Kevin had begun to feel that he, too, had a noose around his neck, strangling his creativity and his joy.

  Some days, like today, he didn’t know if life was worth living.

  “Gage, have you seen Kevin?” his mother asked around nine o’clock.

  Gage sat in his study, going over a mountain of paperwork. “Not since dinner,” he murmured, unconcerned. His younger brother had been brooding for days. Damned if Gage knew what was wrong with him. He suspected Kevin fancied himself some temperamental artist and that gave him the right to subject the entire family to his moods. Come to think of it, though, Kevin had been more morose than usual.

  An hour later, his mother came into the study. She looked tense and worried. “I thought he said he was driving over to Jessica’s.”

  “That’s what I heard him say.” Gage had a vague recollection of his brother asking for the truck keys in order to visit his girlfriend.

  “Jessica phoned and asked why Kevin didn’t show up. She hasn’t seen him all night. They were supposed to study for a test together.”

  “Maybe he went over to see the Loomis twins.”

  His mother shook her head. “Not
according to Jessica. She’s talked to everyone in the class, and no one’s seen Kevin.”

  Not knowing what to think, Gage set his pen aside. “There’s no need for alarm. I’m sure he’s perfectly fine.”

  “My son’s missing—and all you can say is not to worry! Anything might have happened. He could be lying in a ditch bleeding to death, for all you know.”

  “Have you talked to Lindsay?” he asked.

  A look of relief washed over her face. “No, that’s probably where he is. Time must have gotten away from him. He just didn’t realize.” She reached for the phone and Gage crossed his arms and listened to her side of the conversation.

  It soon became apparent that Lindsay didn’t have any news of Kevin, either. “She hasn’t seen him.”

  Gage knew one thing; he fully intended to give his kid brother hell for worrying their mother like this.

  “I think we should phone the police,” Leta said frantically.

  “I’m sure he’s all right,” Gage insisted again, “although he won’t be once I get my hands on him.”

  The phone rang just then, and Gage nearly yanked it off the desk in his eagerness to answer.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Mr. Betts?”

  “No—I’m Gage Sinclair.”

  “Can I speak to Mr. Betts? This is in regard to his son, Kevin Betts.”

  Gage stiffened and avoided meeting his mother’s eyes. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “The Rugby Police.”

  “Rugby?” It seemed impossible that Kevin would have driven that far, but obviously he had. Gage couldn’t think of a single reason why. Rugby was a hundred miles west of Buffalo Valley, and the geographical center of North America.

  “We have Kevin here at the police station.”

  “For what?” Gage demanded. A list of possibilities raced through his mind, but no scenario seemed acceptable.

  “Can I speak to his father?” the office asked.

  “I’m sorry, he’s dead. You can speak to me. I’m Kevin’s half brother.”

  “Gage, what is it?” His mother was close to ripping the phone from his hand.

  He cupped the mouthpiece. “Kevin’s with the Rugby police.”

  “What?”

  “If you’ll give me a chance to find out, I’ll let you know,” he snapped.

  “We found him outside of town,” the police officer continued. “He’d run out of gas.”

  “That isn’t a crime, is it?”

  “No,” the officer continued. Then he hesitated. “Is Kevin undergoing some personal problems at the moment?”

  “What damn business is that of yours?” Gage asked angrily, taking a dislike to this form of questioning.

  “I suggest you come and pick Kevin up.”

  “Has he been drinking?” Gage asked.

  Leta gasped and placed her hand over her mouth.

  “To the best of my knowledge he hasn’t.”

  “Drugs?”

  A predictable gasp followed from Leta.

  “No. Perhaps it’d be best if you talked to the doctor yourself.”

  “Doctor?” No one had said anything about Kevin needing a doctor.

  April 4th

  Dear Mrs. Kirkpatrick,

  You don’t know me, but in many ways I feel like I know you. My name is Lindsay Snyder, and I believe you’re my aunt.

  I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to explain. Many years ago, when visiting my grandmother, I came upon her late at night. She was weeping and she held something in her hand. I was only ten at the time and I didn’t understand what had made her so sad. In retrospect, I realize the night I found my grandmother crying was your birthday, August tenth.

  My grandmother’s name was Regina Snyder, originally Colby, and I’m sorry to tell you she died many years ago. I believe what she held in her hand that night was a gold locket with her picture and that of your father. His name was Jerome Sinclair and he was a soldier during the Second World War.

  From letters and other things I’ve found recently, I know they were deeply in love, but your father was sent to the war in the Pacific. Shortly thereafter, Gina (my grandmother) discovered she was pregnant with you. She was able to write and tell Jerome, but before he could arrange for them to marry, he was declared missing in action.

  Believing him to be dead, my grandmother spent some time in a home for unwed mothers and signed the adoption papers for you shortly after you were born. Not until the end of the war did anyone learn that Jerome Sinclair had survived and been interned in a Japanese POW camp for nearly two years.

  How I discovered the above information is a remarkable story of its own, and one I would love to tell you. I have in my possession the gold locket and a few letters that I feel are rightly yours. It would give me great pleasure to give them to you.

  I’m going to be in the Bismarck area this weekend and will stop by your home. If you’re not interested in receiving the items that belonged to your birth parents, then you need not answer the door. But if you do wish to meet me—and I sincerely hope that’s the case—I look forward to the opportunity to know you.

  I don’t mean to intrude on your life. I understand and respect your need for privacy. Rest assured that I have told no one (other than one man, the grandson of Jerome Sinclair) the details I’ve unearthed. I will leave that option completely up to you.

  Thank you for your time and consideration.

  Sincerely,

  Lindsay Snyder

  Joanie’s feet hurt from an eight-hour shift at the convenience store and the ache in the small of her back refused to go away. This pregnancy hadn’t been an easy one; the physical strain coupled with the emotional stress of the separation was almost more than she could bear.

  The children had come home from their spring break in high spirits. Unfortunately, that hadn’t lasted long. Sage grew quiet and somber whenever anyone mentioned Brandon, and even Stevie, who’d accepted the upheaval in their lives with barely a murmur, broke into tears one night shortly after his return.

  “I don’t want you and Daddy to get a divorce,” he’d wailed into her arms, clinging to her.

  Joanie had held her son and wept, too. Soon Sage joined them and they’d all wept together, holding on to each other.

  “How’d the doctor’s appointment go?” her mother asked, when Joanie came by to pick up the kids after work.

  “I didn’t go.”

  “But, Joanie—”

  “I got out of the store late and traffic was heavy.” She hadn’t had the energy to battle her way across town to the free clinic. All she wanted was to get home and soak in a hot tub.

  “Did you reschedule?” her mother pressed.

  Joanie shook her head. “But I will, I promise.”

  Her mother walked them to the door and stopped Joanie just as she was ready to leave. “I’m worried about you, sweetheart.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.” She’d never realized a separation from Brandon would be this heart-wrenching for her and the children. At the time, it had seemed the only option, the only reasonable decision. She no longer knew if what she’d done was right.

  “You look wretched.”

  Joanie tried to smile. “You don’t know how long eight hours is unless you spend it on your feet.”

  Her mother didn’t crack a smile.

  “Thanks for watching the kids.”

  “Joanie.” Once again her mother delayed her. She hesitated and reached out a hand to touch Joanie’s shoulder. “Brandon phoned.”

  Joanie paused at the sound of her husband’s name.

  “I only talked to him for a minute. He phoned for the kids.”

  Since their return from spring break, Brandon had made a point of calling the children once or twice a week in addition to his weekly letters. But he avoided all contact with Joanie. They hadn’t said a word to each other in at least a month.

  “He says he misses his family,” her mother told her.

  “We miss him, too,”
Joanie said, not wanting to get trapped in this kind of conversation with her mother. Not tonight. “Are you telling me you want me to go back to him? Because if you are—”

  “Joanie, don’t be so defensive. I’m not suggesting anything. Go home, you’re tired.”

  Joanie wanted to weep with frustration and despair. She walked across the street where Sage and Stevie waited for her.

  “What’s for dinner?” Stevie wanted to know when she unlocked the front door. “Can we have chili and cornbread?”

  “I don’t make it nearly as well as your father,” Joanie said. She hadn’t realized Brandon knew anything about cooking, but the kids had raved about his chili and cornbread from the minute they got home. He must have found the recipe in one of her cookbooks.

  “Ask him how to make it,” Sage suggested.

  “I will,” she promised, “the next time we talk.”

  Stevie sat down in front of the cupboard and sorted through their dinner options. On the days she worked, they generally ate something that came out of a box or a can. She used to avoid feeding her family anything she hadn’t cooked herself, but her standards had lowered considerably.

  “Daddy phoned this afternoon,” Sage said, sitting at the kitchen table.

  “That’s what your grandmother said.”

  Stevie handed her a can of stew, then reached inside the refrigerator for the premade biscuit dough. Her son enjoyed slamming the cardboard tube against the kitchen counter and hearing it explode.

  It seemed to take Joanie forever to get their simple dinner on the table. By the time the kids were down for the night, her ankles had swollen drastically and she was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open.

  Missing the doctor’s appointment hadn’t been smart. She’d phone first thing in the morning and reschedule. She was sitting on the sofa with her feet propped up and her hands against her stomach. She leaned her head back and let her eyes drift shut. Her problem, she decided, was that she actually felt jealous of her own children.

  They’d talked to Brandon and she hadn’t. Not that she and her husband seemed capable of a civil conversation anymore. Lately, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her altogether. That was what she wanted, or so she’d thought at one time.