Her Sister's Children. Roxanne Rustand

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      “Is your family along here somewhere?” Logan continued, keeping his tone friendly. “This area isn’t very safe.”

      The boy nodded again. His face averted, he started across the water-slick apron of granite at the base of the cliff. Two steps later his feet shot out from beneath him. With a small cry he fell, then gripped an ankle with both hands and threw his head back in a silent expression of pain. Surely he would begin crying in earnest now. Instead, he was oddly quiet.

      Hunkering nearby, Logan offered an encouraging smile. “Can I get your mom or dad? Where are they?”

      The kid was older than he’d guessed from a distance, probably middle school. He had a defiant tilt to his chin and a stubborn glint in his eyes despite the tear tracks trailing down his cheeks. That hint of rebellion triggered even more memories of Logan’s adolescence.

      “Is your family along the shore somewhere?” he asked again.

      The boy stared at the ground.

      “What’s your name?”

      No response. A stiff, rain-laden gust of wind came off the lake. The boy suppressed a shiver.

      “Cold?”

      “No.” His voice sounded subdued. His thin shoulders started to shake.

      Raindrops peppered the shoreline. Across the water, a wall of advancing rain turned sky and lake charcoal.

      “Come on, fella. Let’s get inside. You can use my phone.”

      Staring out at the advancing storm, the boy balked. Then he reluctantly stumbled to his feet.

      “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll help find your parents and get you home before you freeze.” Looping an arm around the boy’s shoulders for support, Logan turned toward the series of narrow, ascending ledges leading to his house.

      The boy whimpered, sagged after the first step. “I can’t!”

      “Want some help?” Logan waited until the child gave a grudging nod, then gently swung him up into his arms. “This is rough going down here. I’ll set you down as soon as we’re on level ground.”

      His face pale and clammy, the boy murmured some sort of indistinguishable protest, then melted into boneless surrender, his eyes closed. Logan’s heart caught for a beat, until he saw the narrow chest rise and fall in steady rhythm. A little hot chocolate and a blanket would help until a parent showed up.

      The child’s weight felt good in his arms, filling Logan’s heart with an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness. Probably just some latent, universal parent-mode kicking in, he thought wryly as he picked his way over the slippery rocks, though heaven knew when he’d ever hold another child in his arms. He sure as hell wouldn’t risk another marriage, and he’d never have a child without one. His own childhood had taught him that. Deep regret washed through him at the thought.

      By the time they reached the house, sheets of icy rain obscured the landscape, plastering Logan’s shirt and jeans against his skin. The child had burrowed closer to Logan’s chest for protection, and their shared warmth felt as deep and essential as the beat of his own heart.

      At the door of the house he stopped. “Think you can stand?”

      The boy nodded vigorously, but when he stood up he carefully avoided bearing weight on his injured ankle. “Thanks,” he mumbled, ducking his head.

      Logan pushed the door open. “Let’s get you out of this rain, bud.” Inside, he kicked off his wet sneakers and ushered the boy into the kitchen. The white cupboards and bleached-oak flooring had once appealed to his preference for wide, well-lit spaces, Logan thought as he glanced around, but the effect was nearly as cold as the weather outside.

      “Phone’s there,” he said, pointing to the wall next to the curved breakfast bar. “I’ll get you a towel and a dry shirt.”

      When he returned, the boy still stood at the kitchen door, a wary look in his eye. “I don’t bite,” Logan said, tossing him a blue bath towel and a faded Saint Olaf College sweatshirt.

      The boy wrapped the towel around himself and shivered into it, his lips blue against his white face. If he didn’t catch pneumonia after this, it would be a miracle.

      “Called your parents yet?”

      A flare of something—rebellion again?—turned the boy’s cheeks pink. Poor guy. When Logan met this kid’s mother, he would damn well tell her about the dangerous cliffs along the shore. Logan’s own mother hadn’t been any better; she’d never given a damn, either.

      Logan reached for the phone. “If you won’t tell me your name, I’ll need to call the sheriff. Someone must be worried about you, and a doctor should see that ankle.”

      “I’m J-Jason.” A look of anguish filled his eyes. “Please—please don’t tell—”

      He crumpled before Logan could reach him. The sound of his head hitting bare oak flooring echoed like a cannon shot in the vast emptiness of the house.

      CLARE FRANTICALLY pulled open the massive oak and leaded-glass door, then rushed into the kitchen. She’d gone down the shore both ways, then followed the paths she’d shown Jason just days before. There’d been no sign of him. Her fears had intensified with every step.

      After a last glance outside, she snatched the receiver and began dialing the sheriff’s office. Again. Why hadn’t a deputy arrived? Or the sheriff? The entire National Guard standing in her kitchen with muddy boots would have been a welcome sight. Her cold-numbed fingers fumbled over the last number. Punching the reset button, she redialed with a vengeance.

      Annie and Lissa sat at the claw-foot oak table, their milk and chocolate-chip cookies untouched and their faces reflecting her own concern. Jason had never been out past nightfall. The forest and shoreline were dangerous in the dark. One false step—

      “Hello?” Claire gripped the phone tighter.

      A sharp rap at the door jerked her attention away from the receiver. Jason? With a prayer on her lips, Claire dropped the phone, raced across the room and flung open the door.

      Omigod

      A gray-haired officer stood there, short and rumpled, with a belly the size of Hennepin County and a glaze of exhaustion in his eyes. After surveying the room, his gaze snapped back to Claire. “Dep-pity Miller, ma‘am. Anyone missin’ a boy?”

      Measured footsteps crossed the porch behind him. It was Logan, holding a limp figure in his arms. Jason—his eyes half-closed, his skin pale as flour—wrapped in a red plaid blanket.

      Claire’s heart faltered, then picked up a rapid cadence that made the room spin. She sprinted out onto the porch. Her hands flew lightly over Jason’s arms and legs. “Dear God, is he all right?”

      “Hold on. You’re going to embarrass the kid to death.” Brushing her aside, Logan strode into the kitchen, then lowered Jason into a high-backed chair between the twins. He kept a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder.

      Crimson flooded Jason’s cheeks when he saw the five pairs of eyes trained on his face.

      “He’s СКАЧАТЬ