Finding Stefanie Read online

  Lincoln wasn’t sure exactly which one to choose, but he had a gut feeling that only one would help him figure out how to live his new life.

  The new life he meant to find in Montana.

  Before it was too late.

  Libby Pike didn’t care what people said behind her back. She knew she wasn’t as pretty as her sister, Missy. Knew she didn’t have the curly blonde hair, the smile that made every cowboy in town head to Lolly’s Diner after work to get a taste of Missy’s homemade pies. But then, she wasn’t after the same life Missy desired. She didn’t want to own a business or bask in the attention of every eligible bachelor—and that wasn’t saying much—of Phillips. She had bigger dreams, overseas dreams. Eternal dreams.

  More than anything, Libby Pike wanted to be a missionary. And not just any missionary but the Amy Carmichael, Mother Teresa kind of missionary who comforted the hurting, fed the poor, and poured out her life for the ones the world forgot.

  For as long as she could remember, she’d had that dream. Maybe she’d been born with it. And lately, she’d had the opportunity to practice.

  She didn’t know what the little girl’s name was, but she had eyes as big as the sky—haunted eyes—and a ragged stuffed cat and a hunger about her that tore at Libby’s heart. She’d first seen the little girl a week ago, standing outside the Laundromat next to the car parts store. She’d been sitting on a bench, looking cold and grimy in a red winter jacket that swallowed her. When Libby walked by, something—maybe the way the little girl didn’t meet her eyes—made her stop.

  She’d crouched in front of the girl and said, “My name’s Libby. Are you out here all alone?”

  Which was how she’d met Gideon.

  The way he’d appeared, practically materialized, right there on the sidewalk, one would think she was trying to steal the kid. After meeting Gideon, she knew what a terrible mistake that would be. He didn’t seem any older than herself, but something in his blue eyes and the scar over his left eye told her that he meant business when he said, “Back off.” He’d grabbed the little girl by her jacket and pulled her behind him. She stared at Libby from under her scraggly dark blonde hair.

  Libby had looked at him and frowned. “She’s cold. And she looks hungry.”

  “Who are you, Social Services?” He wore only a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee, and she could see that his skin was red, as if he, too, might be cold. With the wind sliding off the hills, it had been in the low forties all week. Not sweatshirt weather. His face was gaunt, sallow, his dark hair long under the hood he’d pulled up.

  “No. I just saw her sitting here and thought she might like a cookie.” Libby directed those last words at the little girl, smiling. She thought she saw a flicker of life before the girl lowered her eyes.

  “She doesn’t need a cookie,” he said softly, but Libby caught the slightest hitch in his voice. “Thanks anyway.”

  It was the thanks that had given him away. The reason she couldn’t simply dismiss him as rude. That and the way he’d glanced down at his sister, as if he suddenly, desperately, wanted to give her a cookie.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back,” Libby said. “I’m just going over to the diner—”

  “No—”

  Only she didn’t wait, just jogged past him, ran inside the diner, and grabbed two peanut butter cookies from the glass jar on the counter. “Hey!” Missy yelled as Libby grabbed a napkin and wrapped them inside, before dashing back outside.

  The boy and his hungry kid sister had vanished.

  But the next day, she’d watched for them. And sure enough, they appeared about dinnertime, just as the shadows grew long between the buildings. Libby noticed the way he slunk inside the Laundromat and reappeared five minutes later.

  He certainly wasn’t doing his laundry.

  But Libby didn’t care. She’d figure out his creepy behavior later. She dashed out of the diner in her waitress uniform and caught them as they rounded the corner. She spotted an old, rusty blue Impala parked in the alley between the Buffalo Saloon and the feed store. “Hey! Hey!”

  The little girl turned. Then stopped.

  Her brother looked back, and for a second Libby saw anger, or perhaps fear, cross his face.

  “Go—”

  “I brought you cookies. And . . . bread and some leftover meat loaf.” She wasn’t sure why she’d grabbed all that. But she extended the foil-wrapped package.

  The boy stared at it. He glanced at his sister, who held his hand in a white grip, her eyes on the ground. Then he looked at Libby. “I can’t pay right now.”

  “Oh, for pete’s sake, do I look like I want to be paid? They’re leftovers. Take them.” She thrust the package at him.

  He met her eyes. And despite the hard set of his jaw, the muscle that tightened in his neck, everything that poured out of his eyes bespoke gratefulness. He let go of the little girl’s hand and took the food.

  “My name’s Libby,” she said softly.

  He glanced past her, looked behind him. Then he said, “I’m Gideon.”

  “You’re not from here. Did you just move here?” She ran her hands down her cold arms, shivering slightly.

  “You’d better get out of the cold.” He lifted the food. “Thank you.”

  She nodded. “If you . . . I mean, sometimes Missy has leftovers. I can leave them out back, if you . . . you know . . . want to—”

  “I could use a job.” His tone changed so quickly, from embarrassed to desperate, that Libby’s breath caught. But his earnestness vanished in a moment, replaced by hesitation. “I mean, if you . . .”

  “I’ll ask Missy. Come by tomorrow, okay?”

  She had known he would. Or rather, as he gave her the barest hint of a smile, she had hoped it with everything inside her.

  A week later, she could hardly believe that the guy doing dishes in the back room was the same boy she’d given a package of meat loaf to. Gideon had showed up, exactly as she’d suggested, and asked her sister for a job—any job.

  And Libby could have kissed her beautiful sister for giving him a chance. He’d rolled up his sleeves, plunged his arms deep into the hot soapy water, and scrubbed as if his life, and a flock of other lives, depended on him.

  She wanted to ask about his parents, but something inside told her no. That to raise the question might resurrect the wall that she was slowly chipping away.

  Libby’s persistence, her patience, seemed to be paying off. Gideon even smiled, at least twice, and once after wiping out the sinks, he’d snapped the towel at her. Like he might be trying to make friends.

  He had a real nice smile. It lit up his entire face and erased the haunting expression. He had a funny way of flipping his hair back when it hung over his eyes and a deep quietness about him that made her ache to unlock his secrets.

  As her father had always said—and she, unlike Missy, actually listened to his sermons—to be a good friend, one only needed to listen.

  There were many ways, however, to listen. Now Libby watched as he loaded a tray of dirty dishes, and she couldn’t help but notice his arms—strong arms, one of which bore a tattoo right above the wrist. He wore a chain around his neck with something dangling from the end. And, although he obviously had let the holes grow closed, she saw the markings of piercings on his left ear and above and below his eyebrow.

  He definitely wasn’t from around these parts.

  “Can you bus table four?” she asked as he walked past her toward the kitchen. He held the tray of dishes from three tables on his shoulder.

  “Yep,” he said, glancing at her.

  The sun had already begun to dip into the horizon on the back side of the school past Main Street. Libby loved Phillips in the evening, when the streetlamps would flicker on, bathing the street in pools of light. She loved to listen to the jukebox—she remembered when Lolly ran the place and she’d loaded up her favorite fifties tunes.

  At closing, music from the Buffalo Saloon, laughter, and sometimes
yelling from the parking lot punctuated the air, chorused by Egger Dugan’s junkyard dogs in the trailer park behind the diner. Why Missy had moved into Lolly’s old trailer, Libby couldn’t fathom. Not that she would judge, but just a few weeks ago someone had broken into the trailer and taken blankets and food from the fridge. And it wasn’t the first time—a couple of months ago, one of Egger’s dogs ended up dead—poisoned, murdered, according to Egger.

  Libby would happily let Missy back into the room they’d shared at the parsonage.

  “Dinner crowd will be coming in,” Missy said, carrying a pie from the kitchen. “Can you check the salt and pepper shakers?”

  Libby nodded, heading back toward the kitchen. The phone rang.

  “Pick that up, will you, Lib?”

  Libby grabbed the phone and tucked it onto her shoulder. “Lolly’s—”

  “Missy! There’s a fire at the Big K! Round up the volunteers!”

  “Stefanie?” Libby fumbled with the phone, but it had already been disconnected.

  “Who was that?” Missy said, squeezing past her in the door.

  “Uh . . .” Libby stared at the phone. “Fire . . . fire at the Big K!”

  Missy turned, her mouth open. “Call—”

  But Libby couldn’t hear her over the crash of dishes as Gideon dropped his tray into the metal sink, turned, and sprinted from the diner.

  CHAPTER 3

  FATE COULDN’T BE this cruel. The old Impala skidded on the dirt road as Gideon tore toward the ranch—good thing he’d found the name Big K etched into a board in the barn or he wouldn’t know that right now his sisters were burning to death in the house he’d found for them. The house he thought would harbor them, keep them warm, safe.

  He should have known that it couldn’t last—the place to stay, a job with abundant leftovers, even his friendship, or whatever it was, with Libby. All of it seemed too good, too happy for a guy with a past like his.

  He deserved this fire.

  But his sisters didn’t.

  Gideon could see the flames from here, a good mile away, clawing at the night sky. Adrenaline mixed with dread, and he thought he might retch.

  He’d been careful—so careful. Yes, the house had filled with smoke the first time he lit a fire, but that had been weeks ago. Since then he’d cleaned out the fireplace, opened the flue. And he’d taught Macey how to bank the fire, keep the place warm.

  If only they hadn’t had the cold snap. . . .

  No, if only he hadn’t snatched his sisters from the shelter. At least there they’d been fed and warm and . . . alive.

  He couldn’t breathe. His hand went to his neck, to the chain, traveled down to the cross at the base. He gripped it, letting it bite into his palm, squeezing hard because words couldn’t come.

  Then he hit the brakes and used both hands to turn the Impala into the Big K drive. A couple of women turned as he skidded into the yard and stumbled out of the car.

  Cars and pickups littered the yard, people dousing the blaze with a garden hose, dirt, buckets of water. Flames engulfed the house, a literal furnace of red and orange and yellow consuming the structure, breaking through the windows, curling toward the roof.

  His knees nearly buckled. Macey. Haley.

  “Hey, kid, are you okay?” A tall cowboy with dark hair came toward him, concern on his face.

  “Two girls—did you see two girls?” He didn’t wait for an answer and ran around to the back of the house.

  Haley liked to play in the back bedroom, in the closet, where they’d found a stash of old clothes, shoes, purses, and even a box of ceramic animals.

  Gideon shielded his face with his hand as he saw that the flames hadn’t yet reached the room. “Haley!” Grabbing a rock, he hurled it at the window. He pulled his hood over his head and sprinted toward the opening. “Haley!”

  He felt arms around his waist yanking him back, and he whirled, swinging.

  He connected, then couldn’t believe it when he saw he’d decked a woman. She winced, stumbling back.

  Gideon turned to the house. The heat burned his face and he flinched. But he couldn’t— “Macey!” He was crying now; he could feel his body lose control, hear his own agony as he danced there another second, hating himself for his fear. Help me. . . . He started for the house.

  “No!” Whoever the woman was, she wasn’t staying down and she grabbed his arm. “Get back!”

  He turned, more angry at himself than at her, using every ounce of adrenaline as he tried to push her away.

  More arms went around him, this time male, and he struggled against them. “Leave me alone!”

  “They’re out, man! They’re out!” The man dragged him away from the flames.

  Gideon saw it was the same man he’d spoken to moments earlier. He shoved him hard.

  The man seemed to expect it. He didn’t respond except to stay on his feet and guard him like a lineman from running toward the burning building.

  “Where?” Gideon screamed. “Where?”

  “Gideon!” He heard Macey then, her surly tone replaced with terror. He turned and she rushed at him, face blackened. He crushed her to himself, probably hurting her, but he didn’t have the power to do anything else. His body betrayed him and he fell to his knees, taking her with him. They both landed in a pile. He knew he was crying, but he didn’t care. Or maybe he did because one arm locked around her neck and the other hid his face.

  His body convulsed, and he became a fool, sitting there on the cold, soggy ground, weeping like a grade-schooler. Macey, for once, kept her mouth shut.

  When Gideon wiped his eyes, Haley had joined them, standing a few feet away, tears running down her face. Macey pulled away from him and reached out for her.

  A crack sounded from the house. Gideon turned just as the outer wall crashed in. Sparks flew over his head.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” the man said.

  The woman Gideon had hit—he easily recognized her from the goose egg on her chin—came up behind him. “Put them in the truck with Piper, Nick.” Without even asking, she took Haley’s hand.

  Haley stared up at her, and then, although Gideon expected her to pull away, she followed.

  The man named Nick had Gideon by the arm, and for a second he was again in the past, back at the crash scene, watching the cars burn, being dragged away by the cops. For a moment, it all pummeled him—the tragedy, the blame, the fear.

  He couldn’t go back to jail. He wasn’t worried for himself—he’d survive; he always figured out a way. But Haley needed him, didn’t she?

  One glance at her as she walked away from him, in the grip of the woman with the long black hair, told him the truth. Maybe she and Macey would be better off if he just disappeared.

  The man steered Gideon and Macey toward a black pickup parked safely away from the flames. A woman with blonde hair leaped out, worry on her face. She wore a baggy shirt, but even in the darkness, Gideon could see she was pregnant.

  “Is he okay?” the woman asked.

  “Shaken,” Nick said. “How about you sit in the truck for a while, huh, son?”

  Gideon glanced up at the guy, weighing his options. How soon before Nick—who had cop written all over him, from his stance to the accusatory look in his eyes—figured out that Gideon and the girls had been squatting?

  Oh, who was he trying to fool? Clearly the guy already knew.

  Gideon shrugged out of his grip. “I’ll stay out here, thanks.”

  He looked at Macey, standing with her arms folded across her chest, staring at the chaos he’d brought them to. Just yesterday, as she’d sat with Haley in her arms, he thought he’d seen the flicker of a smile.

  Gideon ached with how much he wanted that smile to stay. Because, though Macey didn’t know he’d noticed, he’d seen her arms, the marks in different stages of healing, some angry red, the older ones purple, and knew that she’d been cutting herself again.

  No. He couldn’t leave. Macey needed someone who understood.
Who knew what they’d all gone through. Who wouldn’t leave them.

  But . . . he looked at the house again, felt the heat burning his face. His gut twisted, and again, he had the stupid urge to cry.

  “How’d it happen, Mace?” he asked, grabbing her arm. The blonde woman gave him a frown, but he didn’t care, just pulled Macey away. “Tell me how it happened.”

  The fire glowed in Macey’s eyes as her face hardened. She yanked her arm away. “Haley was cold. So I stoked the fire. I only left the house for a second—to get more wood—and when I came back, the carpet was on fire. A log had rolled out.”

  “Why didn’t you put the screen on? I told you to—”

  “Shut up, Gideon! Why did you bring us here, anyway? We were fine back at the group home!”

  “That’s not what you told me.” He gritted his teeth, lowering his voice as the blonde shot him another look. “You told me to come and get you.”

  Macey’s eyes glistened. “What was I supposed to say? That once we were free from that place, I didn’t want you around?” She shrugged, as if to say, You forced it from me.

  Her words choked him, burning as they fell to his gut. He glanced at Haley, in the cab of the truck, dirty, cold, afraid.

  What had he been thinking? That he could somehow make things better? make them a family again? erase his crimes, his mistakes? start over?

  He turned away from Macey, from Haley, and stared at the house that he’d thought—what an idiot—he’d make into a home. Another wall fell in, crashing, flames shooting higher into the night. The crowd gasped, stepped back.

  Sometimes his naiveté scared even himself.

  When he heard another car door slam, Gideon glanced over his shoulder. As if to put a resounding finish on his failure, Libby, cute Libby, stood in the cold night, a sweater wrapped around her waitress uniform.

  She came toward him, concern on her face. He liked her eyes the most—hazel, with little flecks of gold around the edges. Although her sister, Missy, had the goods in the looks department, Libby, with her short brown hair and sweet smile, had a kindness about her that made her soft and pretty.