I said, “No, think about it, Luke. They have no reason to make a deal with you. They don’t know you, they don’t care what Dad did, right? But maybe if they see that we are living in reduced circumstances,” and I sort of gestured to my chair, but I can’t really gesture anymore, so I had to knock my hand against it, “they might be more sympathetic.” If you think that’s a totally
sick
idea and a gross manipulation of emotions, you are right. I think someone should pay me for my great ideas.
But Luke, he just shook his head and said, “Sometimes, I really worry about you, Leo.”
He doesn’t need to worry about me. I know where I am and where I’m going. He needs to worry about himself because his path isn’t so clear. That’s why he needs a certified genius in his corner.
With a carefully highlighted map, Madeline started for the ranch later that afternoon, driving cautiously on a narrow two-lane road. It wended up through a forest so thick with pines, spruce, and cottonwoods that the trees were forced to bend over the road, creating a canopy. Roads seemed treacherous enough, but they were made worse by the ground squirrels that sailed out of the underbrush and onto the road before her car, crisscrossing in crazy patterns and narrowly avoiding death beneath her wheels.
She finally reached a plateau where the road ran alongside a meadow bursting with daisies and sunflowers. A handful of horses grazed, their tails swishing away flies. It seemed to Madeline she’d driven miles and miles, when in fact, according to her speedometer, it had been only seven. She found the turn she was to take at mile marker 243, just as Jackson’s map said (kudos to him for accuracy) and turned onto a gravel road. The grade was steeper here, the curves around the mountainside longer. She drove through towering spruce trees until the road began to straighten out as it crossed another meadow. This meadow was much larger than the one she’d passed, and ahead, she could see the entrance to the ranch. It couldn’t be missed—two thick wooden posts held up a sign, faded by weather, that said H
OMECOMING
R
ANCH
.
Madeline coasted to a stop. Jackson had said the gate would be unlocked, but it was closed. She stepped out of her car, landing awkwardly in her pumps on the uneven road. The gate, all iron, came only to her waist; she gave it a healthy shove, and it swung back, clanging against the stretch of iron fencing that marked the entrance.
So this is where her father had lived? Madeline turned to look back down the road she’d driven. The forest, the mountains and meadow, all so breathtakingly beautiful. And so vast.
Too
vast. In Florida, one could hardly drive ten minutes without encountering another community. Madeline could get lost very easily out here without markers, without signs, without something to say where she was. Was that what her father had done? Put himself so far off the map that she couldn’t possibly find him and the family he’d had that didn’t include her?
Speaking of family, if only loosely, made the knot in Madeline’s gut tighten. She’d come this far, she told herself. There was no room for nerves now.
She got back into the car and drove up a lane lined with cottonwoods and spruce trees, all of which seemed to grow out of a carpet of black-eyed Susans and daylilies. Through the trees, Madeline could see another meadow fenced in by split rails. It was coffee-table book perfect, save one jarring sight—in that lush meadow, a line of portable toilets that had been set up next to a split rail fence. She could not imagine what purpose those toilets served in a place where there were no people, besides marring an otherwise perfect mountain vista.
As her little car bobbed and bounced along the rocky road, she could see a glimpse of the house through a stand of alder trees. It was set back against the mountain and tall Ponderosa pines, situated next to a red barn with a steep A-line roof.
Madeline’s heart began to beat a little faster. She didn’t know what she’d expected, really—when someone said ranch, she’d thought of dusty rodeos and low-slung houses baking in the midday sun. She hadn’t thought of
this.
It was impossible that her father had left her this. Impossible! Things like this did not happen to Madeline Pruett. She didn’t possess a single thing that she hadn’t worked hard to get, hadn’t put in long hours of study or work to have.
When she pulled into the small circular drive before the quaint house, she could see the wear on it, but it was charming. The roof was a collection of steeply angled pitches over various rooms and floors. The ground floor of the house was built with stone, and the second story, which looked to have been added on at some point, was made of tongue-and-groove logs as big around as the wheels on her rental car. Large, plate-glass windows lined the front of the house, looking out at the vista of mountains rising up from the opposite edge of the meadow.
The realtor in Madeline appreciated the charm. But the realtor in her also understood the remote location would be a huge obstacle to overcome. It was as far from anything as it could possibly be, far from the world, and it would take a feat of marketing genius to sell it.
On the right of the house was a large room that had been added on to the original structure, judging by the difference in wood. It had a flat roof and crankcase windows, most of which were open.
Madeline opened the door of her car and stepped out. In between the house and the barn was a grassy area enclosed by cottonwoods and alder trees. Faded Chinese lanterns had been strung through the trees, and three picnic tables were situated under the branches. From one tree, a tire swing spun lazily. She could picture her faceless sisters, growing up in this idyllic setting with toboggans and hayrides and sleepovers.
The knot in her belly tightened again. And now, her head hurt.
Madeline walked around the front of her car to the flagstone walk. That was when she saw the four dogs lying under the porch, their heads up, their eyes locked on her, She could just see them through the leggy daylilies that decorated the front of the house.
Her heart began to pound with panic. Madeline had never had a dog. As a realtor, she’d had her fair share of bad encounters with overly protective dogs. Her standard checklist when showing a house included some guarantee from owners that their pets had been removed from the property or put into proper crates.
The dogs lifted their snouts, sniffing the air, as if she gave off some sort of scent, and she wondered wildly if it was dogs or bears that one
should not look in the eye? Slowly, Madeline began to ease back, hoping to get around her car and in before they attacked, when the screen door opened and a woman with curly hair bounded out. “Hey!” she said.
All four dogs leaped to their feet and headed directly for Madeline. Madeline shrieked and raced around the car to the driver’s side, crashing into the bumper and stumbling in her shoes as she reached for the door handle.
“They won’t bite!” the woman shouted at her, following the dogs to her car. “Back to the garage, you beasts! Garage, garage!” she shouted at the dogs, and swung her arm out, pointing at the garage Madeline had not noticed until this moment. She had one hand on the car door, another gripping her bag, prepared to use it as a weapon. But the dogs suddenly pulled up and lazily trotted in the direction of the garage with peeling paint, disappearing between two cars parked there.
“Are you all right?”
Madeline jerked around. Across the top of her car, the woman with the crazy curly hair was staring at her with blue-gray eyes.
“I’m sorry if they scared you. They’re just mutts. Harmless mutts.”
“I’m fine,” Madeline said, breathless. She wasn’t fine—she was terrified. She straightened the jacket of her suit, pushed her hair behind her ears, trying to gather herself. She smoothed down her jacket again and glanced at the woman.
The woman was grinning.
The mess of curls was held off her face by a bandeau. She was wearing jeans, Converse sneakers, and a red-checkered shirt. She looked a little like a carhop, and Madeline guessed she was a caretaker or housekeeper.
“You must be Madeline,” the woman said, her expression hopeful as she walked around Madeline’s car to the driver’s side.
“Yes,” Madeline said, and extended her hand. “I’m here for the meeting. And you are…?”
The woman’s smile deepened. “I am
so
excited to meet you! I’m Libby!”
The name did not immediately register.
“Libby Tyler. Your
sister,
” she said, as if Madeline hadn’t heard the news that she had inherited two sisters. And she walked right past Madeline’s extended hand and threw her arms around her, hugging her tight.
Madeline had tried to prepare herself for meeting sisters, but nothing could have prepared her, not really. A thousand questions danced through her head as Libby hugged her, such as how old Libby was, and where did the hair come from, and were there more like her? But Madeline couldn’t speak. She was momentarily overwhelmed by the actual, physical proof of a sister. Someone who shared her DNA.
Libby was not what Madeline had imagined—she couldn’t even say
what
she’d imagined, really, but she supposed she thought her sisters would look like
her
: medium height, brown hair, a butt that was this side of bouncy. Madeline had not thought once about curly hair, or boyish hips and a toothy smile.
“You’re suffocating her, Libby,” someone said, and Libby laughed, her breath in Madeline’s hair, then let Madeline go.
“That’s Emma. Your
other
sister,” Libby said, and turned her head.
Madeline followed her gaze. Not only did Emma look nothing like Madeline, she looked nothing like Libby. She was tall and thin, almost painfully thin. Her hair was golden blond, sleek and hanging to her waist, the sort of hair Madeline knew cost hundreds of dollars to possess. She wore a flowing skirt that danced around her knees and a short brown leather jacket that matched the brown leather boots that were loose around her calves.
Emma eyed Madeline suspiciously, as if she’d caught her trying to make off with a cow. She casually perched one hip on the railing as she gave Madeline a good once over, and said, “You should probably know that we never heard of you until a couple of weeks ago.”
Madeline appreciated straight talk, but in this case, she didn’t care for the accusatory tone. “Same here,” she said. She didn’t add that she hadn’t heard anything about her father, either, until a couple of weeks ago.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Libby said again, looking between the two of them. “I mean, how often is it that you find out you have a
sister?”
“Never,” Emma said and stood up from the railing. “Leave it to Dad to omit that detail.”
Dad.
That casual reference did not escape Madeline’s notice. It suggested Grant Tyler wasn’t just a sperm donor to them, he was a
dad,
just as Madeline had assumed. A tiny bubble of resentment pressed against Madeline’s thoughts, making her head hurt worse.
“Come in!” Libby said. “Come in, come in, I have so many things to ask you!” She hopped up on the porch steps as Madeline moved carefully in her pumps on the gravel drive, watching the garage in case the dogs renewed their interest in eating her.
“So you live in Orlando, is that right, Madeline? Do you go by Madeline? Or do people call you Maddie? I knew a Madeline once and she went by Linny.”
Madeline couldn’t even begin to explain how far removed she was from a Linny. These questions, fired at a rapid clip, in a cheerful manner, made Madeline feel uncomfortable and exposed. Outside of her bubble as Trudi would say. Moreover, she was mystified and a little alarmed that she should feel so panicky. Control freak, yes, she was definitely that, but she didn’t generally
panic
.
“It’s Madeline,” she said. “And I live in Orlando.” Was that the question? She stepped up on the porch, noticed the sag in the steps. The roof looked old, and she could see evidence of rot around a couple of window frames.
“Have you always lived there?” Libby asked. “When I heard about you, I wondered if you were from there, or moved there?”
“I’ve always lived there.” Madeline didn’t think this meeting was supposed to go this way. She thought surely there would be some introductions, some facts presented. She didn’t think she would be questioned on the steps of the porch.
Order
—that’s what Madeline needed. But for once, Madeline’s curiosity won out over her need to shelter herself. “And you’ve lived here?” she asked, gesturing vaguely around her.
“Mostly,” Libby said.
Madeline could picture Libby here in this charmingly quaint house in the mountains. She could picture her swinging on the tire swing, or standing at the window and watching it snow.
“When I was little,” Libby said, “I lived in California for a while with Emma and her mother.”
Whoa.
Well that was a curve ball tossed out of left field—
Emma and her mother.
Did that mean there were
three
mothers? Good God, Grant was a serial monogamist! Hell, she didn’t know
what
the man was. “In California—with Grant?” Madeline asked carefully.
Libby paused on the top step next to Emma, who was casually studying Madeline. “Is that what you called him? Grant?”
Among other things, Madeline thought wryly. “I didn’t really call him anything,” she said with an uncertain shrug.
“What do you mean?” Libby asked.
“I didn’t know him.”
“Ever?”
Madeline resisted the urge to rub the nape of her neck. “I never met him. I mean, there was once, when I was a toddler. But I don’t really remember anything about it.”
“Sounds fishy,” Emma said.
“No it doesn’t!” Libby said, looking horrified by Emma’s remark.
But Emma’s gaze flicked over Madeline, lingering on Madeline’s briefcase before lifting her eyes to Madeline’s face again. She said nothing, but turned around and walked inside without a word, letting the screen door bang shut at her back.
Madeline looked at Libby.
Libby gave her an anxious smile. “Just ignore her. She may not be the warm and welcoming type, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you.”