The Rough Riders

Chapter Five

Dirt was ground into his eyes and he couldn't see a damn thing. Even when he knew he'd sat up and pawed it off of his face, Slate's eyes wouldn't focus properly and his vision was blurry.

...he was still home.

The clock on the wall was askew—the Texas Panhandle was pointing at the floor and the piece of turquoise that marked off the 3 on the face was missing—but the second hand was still moving. It was past four in the...

He pushed himself up, wondering why there was so much dirt in the house. It wasn't until Slate had gotten shakily to his feet that he realized he wasn't in his house. He was in the side yard, that "eyesore" Marguerite was always complaining about, and staring into the living room through a gaping hole in the wall.

Everything spun for a moment and he stumbled, feet coming down on a patch of goatheads he hadn't grubbed out yet.

Oughta get to that before Cassie runs out barefoot.

Why was he barefoot? And in his boxers? His head throbbed dully and Slate balanced on one foot, brushing goatheads from the sole of the other with his hand. A few of the thorny seeds stuck to his hand, but he didn't look down as he plucked them off and was only dimly aware of stepping in yet another patch as he approached the house.

Wood, insulation and wiring were bristling from it; he could see clearly through the living room and into the front hall where his boots were still sitting at the foot of the stairs. Furniture had been overturned; Marguerite's prized collection of porcelain bud vases was gone with only a few gleaming white fragments showing they'd been on the overturned shelf.

Tammy's suitcase was still on the table, open and spilling clothing onto the floor. Slate's eyes focused on his eldest daughter's belongings. There was a mark in the middle of the white cashmere sweater he'd gone to such lengths to get for her, only last Christmas.

...the mark was reddish-brown and smelled metallic.

Before he realized he'd moved, Slate was through the hole in the wall and scrambling up the stairs, screaming his daughter's name. Tammy's door was open, the hand-lettered sign he'd made for it years ago hung from one brass hook. There were tracks covering the carpet and he was confused enough to wonder why Marguerite hadn't gotten the vacuum out before he thrust the door open.

His daughter's room was empty.

Slate thought he'd known fear. When Tammy had fallen off of the barn roof at nine, he'd been petrified. And two years later, her younger sister had nearly drowned in the horse trough, too young to realize what had happened when Slate's prized stallion had given her a friendly nudge and sent her flying into the steel container. Cassie had struck her head and been stunned. Slate had almost been too late in getting to her.

That had been fear.

He didn't know what to call this emotion that closed his throat and made everything look sharper.

Cassie's door was closed. She had a sign similar to her sister's on the door, and it was undisturbed. Slate almost hesitated to open his younger daughter's door and knew, even as he hoped otherwise, that she wouldn't be peacefully sleeping.

Her bed was rumpled, the covers at the foot of it, and the teddy bear she'd begun sleeping with again was by the window. Slate walked to it, picked it up and looked blankly into the bear's glass eyes. Cassie was nearly eleven; she'd only started sleeping with the bear again after Marguerite's last demand for a divorce.

When he looked at the bed, he moved his feet, and looked down at the sound of breaking glass.

Her window was broken. Her bed was empty.