His Personal Mission

The light changed. As she turned her attention back to driving, she was inwardly chiding herself for coming down so hard. This was, after all, none of her business anymore. It probably never had been. But it had been a measure of how much she liked the guy that she’d even tried to change his attitude about some things that were very basic to her.

Teach you to be a foolish female, try to change a male who doesn’t want to change, she thought, and not for the first time.

“Sorry,” she said into the silence of the car, “you came to me for help, not criticism.”

She heard him let out a compressed breath before he said levelly, “If one’s the price for the other, I’ll take it.”

Now that was a change, she thought, surprised anew.

“Besides,” he went on, “I realize now how you could spend twenty years in the same place. I never want to leave Redstone. I still don’t get the accounting thing, but what you said about the numbers…that makes sense.”

My God, Sasha thought. He really has changed.

The old Ryan would have either laughed her off, or gotten even more defensive.

Had he finally grown up? Had the boy who had wanted only to slide along smoothly, the only challenges he enjoyed coming from his beloved computers, finally realized that people were what really mattered?

She didn’t know. Couldn’t be sure, at least, not yet. Maybe he was just putting on a front of connecting with real people, knowing—because she’d told him so bluntly—that she thought him lacking that skill.

And there you go again, making it all about you. When did you get so stuck on yourself?

She lectured herself for another moment, ending with the truth that there was only one thing she could be sure of at the moment: that her own, deep-down reaction to the possibility was unsettling. She shouldn’t care, it shouldn’t matter, she’d left Ryan Barton long behind.

Hadn’t she?

Chapter 4

Sasha was still pondering the changes in Ryan, wondering just how deep they went, when the GPS he’d been so enamored of announced their destination was one mile ahead on the right. She slowed, looking, and saw a long, low, red-barn-style building set back from the road. A smaller one was off to one side, and what had apparently once been a small house sat at the end of a long driveway behind a secured gate.

The traditional rail fencing was high, and screened on the inside to make it secure, but painted pristinely white so that the first thing you thought of was charm rather than serious function. The grounds were tidy and well kept, and the small pack of five dogs who raced along the fence to greet them, tails up and tongues lolling, gave a homey air to it all.

“They look happy,” Sasha said as she pushed the button on the gate beneath the small plaque with those instructions.

“Yeah. And healthy.”

The little house was clearly the office, and was surrounded with plants, trees and flowers that looked as happy and healthy as the dogs. Beside the house Sasha saw a path that led through a big, open field toward a thick grove of trees, where it disappeared invitingly into the deep shade.

They went up two steps to the broad front porch, and stopped at the bright red front door.

“This is quite a place,” she said as she looked around.

“We like it,” came a female voice from inside the door where they’d stopped. “Come on in.”

The interior of the office was as tidy as the grounds. Sasha couldn’t help smiling at the photos on the walls, images of animals captioned imaginatively in the vein of a popular Web site that she’d come across recently, the funny spelling contributing to the humor.

“Very nice place,” Sasha said. “I’m Sasha Tereschenko,” she added, offering her hand to the young woman coming toward them.

“I’m Sheila McKay,” the woman said, drying her hands on a bright blue towel before she held out a hand first to Sasha, then Ryan. “I sort of run this place, when the real boss is away.”

“Mrs. McClaren?”

Sheila blinked at Ryan. “Yes. You know her?”

“Of her. I work for Redstone.”

The smile that lit the woman’s face made Sasha reassess her looks; she’d thought her a bit plain at first, although her shoulderlength hair had a lovely reddish tint that went well with her fair skin and the faint sprinkling of freckles across a pert nose. But that smile could light up a city block, Sasha thought now.

“Bless Redstone,” Sheila said fervently. “We were nearly going under, a few years back. The rent kept going up, the county was threatening to rezone us, we could barely keep up with the maintenance.”

Sasha looked around. “Obviously that’s not a problem now. This place is perfect.”

“Well, not quite. But we own the land now—it was Emma’s wedding present from her husband—and Emma’s got big plans. An aviary, so the birds we get have room to fly, if they can. And her husband’s building a corral for us out back, because Emma wants to take on a couple of abused horses the county shelter doesn’t have room for.”

“He’s building it? Himself?” Sasha asked, startled at the idea of a man like Mac McClaren doing something so mundane.

“Yep. For a rich guy, he’s pretty handy,” Sheila said with a grin. “And we love him around here. He’s made it all possible. Anything Emma wants for this place, she gets. Including the county off our back, since they surely don’t want to make Redstone mad. Or have Mac McClaren, famous treasure hunter, talking to the press about their interference in our innocent, benevolent enterprise.”

“Wise,” Ryan said with a crooked grin back at her.

“Yes. Now, what brings you here? Do you need us to take an animal?”

“No,” Sasha said, “it’s something else.”

“Then how can I help you?”

“It’s my sister,” Ryan said.

Sheila looked puzzled. “Your sister?”

“Trish Barton.”

Sheila looked startled. “You’re Ryan?”

He nodded. Sheila looked him up and down, then smiled impishly. “Well, she was right. You are cute.”

Sasha smothered a grin as Ryan flushed. She knew that term grated on him. It always had. She sort of understood, cute was such a high school term. But he was cute, there was no getting around that. And she had the feeling that with his boyish face, he’d still be cute at fifty.

“Better than pretty,” she said to the room at large, and Sheila’s laugh got them through the moment, even though it made Ryan grimace.

“I don’t think we realized how hard Trish worked around here until now,” Sheila said. “I know I didn’t. I’m trying to pick up the slack, but the therapy program alone has me exhausted.”

“Therapy?” Sasha asked. “For the animals?”

“No,” Sheila said. “We started a program where we take animals to visit nursing homes and hospitals, to cheer up patients. Started with one dog, a very special one, and Whisper did so well we’ve now got three dogs, a cat, two hamsters and a ferret in the program.”

“A ferret?” Ryan said, distracted.

“Kids,” Sheila explained with a smile. “They love the dogs, but they’re fascinated with the more unusual stuff.”

“And…my sister did this?”

Sheila frowned. “Yes. You didn’t know?”

“I know she took the animals to visit their owners a lot, but not about this part.”

“You should be proud of her. She has built up that program almost by herself, from the moment Emma gave her a shot at it. She has more energy than the rest of us put together.”

“She is…happy here?” Sasha asked carefully.

Sheila looked puzzled. “Very. Emma always has to be careful to make sure she doesn’t neglect the rest of her life to do it, always nagging her about schoolwork, and telling her she should have a social life, too.”

She shoved a hand through her hair, brushing back a lock that stubbornly wanted to fall over her forehead. It looked like she was growing out bangs, Sasha thought, an annoyance she’d been through herself a time or two before she’d settled on the sleek bob she wore now.

“We were glad she finally took that advice. How’s her trip going? Will she be back soon?”

Sasha saw Ryan’s reaction, the disappointment in his eyes that this woman apparently didn’t know any more than he did.

“You haven’t heard from her?” Sasha asked.

“Since she left? No. We’re all hoping she’s having too much fun.”

“What did she tell you about where she was going?”

Sheila glanced at Ryan, obviously assuming he must already know all this; after all, Trish was his sister.

You don’t know Ryan, Sasha thought. He likes his world without ripples.

And even as she thought it, she realized that for all the difference in his talk, it seemed Ryan hadn’t really changed at all. Not at heart.

And that, she thought sadly, was where it mattered the most.

“Just that it was somewhere she’d never been. And that she’d heard it was beautiful there.”

“Where?” Ryan asked, as if he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“She didn’t say,” Sheila answered. Then, curiously, “Don’t you know?”

“No one does,” Ryan said flatly.

Sheila’s eyes widened. “Not even your folks? That doesn’t sound like Trish.”

“Exactly,” Ryan said.

“She hasn’t called them, either? Or you?”

“No. Or answered our calls. And her voice mail is full.”

“That’s very odd. She adores you.”

Ryan flushed again, but his voice held a note of bitterness when he said, “So much she wouldn’t even tell me about this.”

Maybe she thought you wouldn’t understand, Sasha thought, but kept that to herself as she asked, “She didn’t say anything else, even in passing, about where she was going or why?”

Sheila seemed to hesitate for a second. “Not directly, no.”

“Then indirectly?”

“Nothing she said. But…”

“But what?” Ryan said urgently.

Sheila studied him for a moment, and Sasha saw the moment when the woman realized what was really happening. “You’re afraid for her,” she said, worry suddenly transforming her face. “You think something’s happened to her?”

“We don’t even have a clue that anything’s happened. But for Ryan’s parents’ sake, we want to be sure.”

Sheila shifted her focus to Sasha. “Are you a friend of Trish’s?” she asked, somewhat belatedly.

“More of Ryan’s,” Sasha said. “I have some…practice looking for people, so I’m helping out.”

Sheila wasn’t distracted by the purposeful vagueness. “Are you a cop?”

“No. I’m only here as a friend.”

“Are you Redstone?”

“No,” she said again. “Except by extension. Where I do work is funded in part by Redstone.”

“Oh. Kind of like us, then.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

Finally, the woman seemed content to leave it at that. Sasha was glad; sometimes just the idea of the Westin Foundation being called in frightened people. They’d handled several highprofile cases, and some of them had not ended prettily. The case the foundation had been born of, the kidnapping and murder of Zach Westin’s small son, had been one of the ugliest.

“What was it you were thinking, Sheila? At this point, anything will help.”

The woman’s mouth twisted slightly, as if she weren’t sure what she’d thought wasn’t silly.

“Before she left Trish was acting…different. Excited. Almost giddy. We all thought it was graduating high school, turning eighteen, all that. But then she told us she was going on this trip, her first one ever by herself, and it seemed obvious that was what had her so wound up.”

Sasha listened silently, and when Ryan opened his mouth as if to speak she hushed him with a gesture.

“And…?”

Sheila lowered her gaze. “It’s just a feeling I got. Nothing I can say for sure.”

“Sometimes feelings are more accurate than what we think we see,” Sasha said.

“It was just the way she talked about it. Like there was more than just the trip she was looking forward to. She never said, but…I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that we don’t remember how exciting that first solo trip can be.”

“Did she talk about what she was taking? Shopping for things to take, that kind of thing?”

She sensed rather than saw Ryan grimace, as if he thought the question foolish. She didn’t care; she knew what she was doing.

“You know, she did say something one day about having to find a heavier jacket. She said it was going to be hard to do in Southern California in the summer.”

Sasha sensed Ryan’s sudden alertness. Not so foolish after all, she silently told him.

“When did she first start talking about this trip, do you remember?”

“Shortly before she graduated,” Sheila said. She flicked a glance at Ryan. “We thought maybe the trip was a graduation present, from her folks or something. That maybe that was why she wouldn’t talk about any details, that it was supposed to be a surprise, and she didn’t want to let on that she’d found out about it. But I guess that wasn’t it, was it?”

“No,” Ryan said grimly. “We didn’t know anything about it.”

Before Sheila could react to that, Sasha asked, “Do you still have the note she left here?”

“I don’t know. She left it for Emma. She might have kept it. I can ask.”

“Please do.” She handed Sheila one of her Westin Foundation cards, figuring it didn’t matter now if the woman knew where she worked. “My number’s on there, if you could let me know as soon as possible.”

She definitely wanted that note, she thought. She wanted to compare it to the one left at home. If they were different, that would be significant—people often told the people they worked with different things from what they told their family. Especially if those people shared the bond of dedication the people of Safe Haven seemed to.

If they were the same, that would also be significant, indicating Trish had been truly intent on keeping her secret. Or secrets.

If they were identical, that would be even more significant, Sasha thought grimly. There were few circumstances where a person used exactly the same wording, and not many of them were very good.

“You don’t really think anything bad has happened, do you?” Sheila asked, anxiety breaking into her voice now, especially after she’d read the business card. “We all love Trish, she’s so dedicated, and Dr. Burke thought she had a real chance to make it as a vet.”

“Dr. Burke?”

“Elizabeth Burke. She’s retired now, but she donates her services to us. Trish worked with her a lot, made a point to be here to assist anytime she was scheduled to visit. I think that’s what inspired Trish to want to go to veterinary school.”

“There’s no reason yet to think anything bad has happened,” Sasha reassured the woman.

They were walking back to Sasha’s car when Ryan’s cell phone rang. Once she was sure it wasn’t the errant Trish, Sasha walked ahead a little, to give him some privacy.

She thought about what Sheila had told them. If Trish had been excited about more than just a trip alone—to, apparently, a cooler clime—Sasha was willing to bet she was right.

“My folks are home,” Ryan said, catching up with her. “Dad can’t concentrate at work. He’s really worried.”

“Then let’s head there. I want to see the note, and talk to them, let them know that something’s being done. That means a lot.”

“Thank you,” Ryan said.

There was no denying the fervency.

“You really do care about them.”

His sandy brows lowered. “Of course I do. Just because I don’t talk about it every waking minute doesn’t mean I don’t care. I love them, and I love my sister.”

Sasha’s brows shot upward in turn. She tried to remember if he’d ever been prodded to such a stinging retort when they’d been together. She didn’t think so. When she had a moment, she’d ponder that change, along with the rest.

She drove, following the directions he’d programmed into the GPS—never mind that he’d never seen this exact system before, it seemed no computer was beyond his scope—wondering yet again if he’d actually grown up in the past two years.

And steadfastly not wondering why it seemed to matter so much.

Chapter 5

“The note she left at home, was it handwritten?”

Ryan snapped out of his thoughts, which had been focused mainly on how, if they’d been closer, Trish might have told him where she was going and why.

That had always been one of Sasha’s main complaints about him; family was everything to her, and she couldn’t understand his attitude toward his own. She’d more than once told him if anything ever happened to one of them, he’d be sorry he’d taken them for granted.

He’d blithely brushed it off as a skewed view because of the work she did. But now…

He made himself focus on her question. “No. It was printed, on her ink-jet printer. Why?”

“Hand-signed?”

“Yes. And she handwrote ‘Don’t worry,’ at the bottom. As if,” he ended with another grimace. “Why does it matter?”

“Not sure it does yet. Is that her normal way of communicating? Does she leave notes often?”

“I don’t know if she does at home. She usually texts me.”

“Does she use computers like you do?”

He gave her a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This isn’t about you, Ryan,” she said. “I’m just asking if this would be her typical way of doing this, leaving a computer-generated note rather than a handwritten one.”

“Oh.” At her patient tone, he felt like a fool. “Yes, she probably would. She uses her laptop for most things like that, but she’s not…into them like I am.”

“Few people are,” Sasha said, and Ryan reined in his initial gut reaction with the ease of long practice. He’d heard the sentiment, often in tones of derision, too many times to get upset, he told himself.

That it still stung coming from her was something he’d just have to deal with.

“But to be fair,” she went on, “few people can make them dance to order like you can, either.”

He blinked. “I…Was that a compliment?”

She looked surprised as she glanced at him. “Of course it was. That software program you wrote for us, the one that links us to all the databases, that’s been an incredible help.”

“Oh.” A kernel of warmth blossomed inside him.

“I could tell you about at least half of my past ten cases where something we found with your system got things going when we were at a loss. And at least three of those…well, it probably made the difference between life and death.”

Startled, Ryan turned in his seat and stared at her. “You mean that literally?”

“I do,” she said firmly.

“That’s…wow.”

She glanced at him. “That wasn’t why you did it though, was it?”

He looked away, shifted his gaze to the front, through the windshield again, his thumbnail digging into the side of his finger.

“I admit,” he said finally, “when they asked me about doing it, it was just a challenge. Setting up all the parameters, the search engine, the query path, all of that, and to get it to work with all the different databases when each one was set up slightly differently.”

“You were focused on the how, not the why.”

“Yes,” he said, glad she understood at least that much. They’d talked about this when they’d been together, but she hadn’t listened to him before. She’d been so astonished that the why, helping find lost souls, hadn’t been the moving force behind his work, that she’d been almost angry with him.

One of the many times she’d been almost angry with him.

And he hadn’t understood. Not at all. “If the end result is what you need, do the reasons matter?” he’d asked.

“Only because I was starting to care about you,” she’d retorted.

He’d realized later that was the beginning of the end.

“So it doesn’t bother you now that my motivation wasn’t the same as yours?” he asked, wondering if he was going to regret asking.

“No,” she said. “Not now.”

He smiled, relieved, although not quite sure why it still mattered after all this time.

It wasn’t until they pulled up in front of the house he’d grown up in that it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t be relieved at her words at all. That “not now” merely meant it didn’t bother her because she truly didn’t care.

No surprise, Barton. You knew that.

No, no surprise that she didn’t care.

The surprise was that it stung.

“Your home is lovely,” Sasha said.

“Thank you,” Joan Barton said.

Ryan watched his mother bustle around, fussing over the plate of cookies she’d put out with the fresh coffee she’d served. He knew it was just her way—when she was worried, she fussed—but Sasha didn’t. He should have warned her.

Then again, maybe not; she seemed unflustered by it. Indeed, she’d been effusive in her thanks, and her compliments about the house, especially the colorful garden out front, his mother’s ongoing pet project, the cookies, the coffee, everything.

Ryan thought she was going a bit over the top. It was just a house, after all, and the cookies were good, but his mom made them all the time, it wasn’t anything unusual. But Sasha was chatting away, as if she were worried about making a favorable impression.

As if he’d brought a date home to meet the parents, he thought suddenly, tensely. The idea put a whole new light on her easy chatter.

“Your home is also very comfortable,” Sasha was saying. “In my parents’ place, you’re almost afraid to move. My mother, she collects. Mostly small, breakable things.”

“Dustcatchers,” Joan said with a laugh. “That’s what Patrick calls them.”

Sasha looked at his father and smiled. “And right you are.”

“Hate all that clutter,” he muttered, but he smiled back at her.

Ryan realized abruptly that this was the first time in a week he’d seen a real smile out of either of his parents. And certainly the first time he’d heard his mother laugh, even though it had been a bit faint.

He looked at Sasha with a new admiration. He’d never seen her work before, but if this was how she did it, he was impressed. In a matter of minutes, she’d not only charmed them, but relieved at least some of their tension.

He felt a little silly. He should have known there was good reason that she’d become so quickly indispensable at the foundation.

“I remember you,” Patrick Barton said suddenly. Then, with a sideways glance at his son, he added, “Always thought Ryan should never have let you get away.”

“Dad!”

It burst from him before he could stop it. And he wished he had stopped it; he would have liked to hear what Sasha’s answer to that would have been. But after his yelp, she merely smiled.

“I thank you for the compliment,” Sasha said. “Now shall we get to why I’m here?”

“I thought your foundation only worked with children? The police keep telling us Trish isn’t one anymore,” Joan said, sounding aggrieved.

Sasha hesitated for a moment, and Ryan wondered if she’d guessed that his mother had asked not only out of curiosity, but to delay the inevitable. He also wondered how she’d answer.

“I’m not here officially, but as a friend,” she finally said. “I work missing children cases mostly, but I thought perhaps I could help. The fact that there’s no sign Trish is in danger doesn’t mean you’re not still worried.”

Ryan could almost feel his mother relax slightly, and his admiration grew into awe at how easily and quickly Sasha accomplished what he’d been trying to do for a week.

“And,” Sasha added, “I know it’s hard to talk about it like this, because it’s admitting she’s gone and facing how frightening it is.”

And just like that she put her finger on the reason his mother had been acting like this was merely a social occasion. Or trying to.

“It’s horrible,” his mother whispered.

Hearing the pure pain in her voice, Ryan ached to ease it, to do something, but he didn’t know what. His mother was generally a cheerful, easygoing woman, always looking on the bright side. He supposed that was where he got his own usually sunny outlook.