Home To Stay

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u1cda32a7-428c-5674-a338-a4a643e28692)

SAWYER EVANS WAS in that languid state of semi-consciousness, waking from a restful sleep. It must have been the insistent chirping of a bird outside that had drawn him from his dreams. The muted glow of the early-morning light filtering in through the tent infused him with a sense of serenity.

As a single father and a professor of law, serenity wasn’t something Sawyer experienced frequently. He smiled as he remembered that he’d categorically rejected the idea of a weeklong camping trip at Cuyamaca Rancho State Park with his sister, Meghan, and their parents when Meg had first suggested it. He wasn’t the rugged, outdoorsy type, not by any stretch of the imagination. He thought of himself as the nerdy academic, more comfortable with his head in a law book than plodding up a mountain trail. He’d felt that way even before he’d left the San Diego County District Attorney’s office to teach, which he’d done to give him more time with Dylan after Jeannette abandoned them.

Three days in, and who’d have guessed he’d enjoy the experience so much?

And Dylan? He worried about his son becoming a bookish geek like him, and constantly encouraged him to play sports and spend time outdoors. But the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree with his kid. Dylan had to be the most studious four-year-old on the planet. Yet Dylan loved it here. He seemed to be in his element, despite this being his first camping trip. Dylan had been full of energy and enthusiasm ever since they’d arrived. And the exercise was doing him good. The fact that he was sleeping in, and without the nightmares that had plagued him the last couple of years, made Sawyer immensely glad he’d let Meg cajole him—maybe bully was a better word—into coming along.

Dylan was his life. He’d do anything for his son.

Sawyer rolled onto his side and tucked an arm under his head. He considered drifting back to sleep for a few more minutes as he listened to the sounds of nature and the gentle flapping of canvas...

Flapping of canvas?

That wasn’t right.

He bolted up and stared at the tent flap, unzipped and fluttering in the light breeze. He immediately shifted his gaze to Dylan’s cot. From this angle, and with Dylan’s form as slight as it was, he couldn’t tell if his son was in his sleeping bag. Sawyer wasn’t taking any chances. He scrambled out of his own bedroll and hurried over to Dylan’s.

The adrenaline rush had him gasping for air.

The sleeping bag was empty.

Sawyer burst out of the tent and glanced frantically around.

No Dylan. Anywhere.

It must have been just past dawn. The sky was tinged with the first weak rays of sunlight, and a hazy mist shimmered across the water’s surface. Meg and his mom, both early risers, weren’t up yet.

Where was Dylan?

Sawyer’s heart pounded so hard, he was surprised it didn’t slam right through his rib cage.

“Dylaaan!” he bellowed. “Dylaaan!”

His gaze was drawn to the small lake that their campsite edged, and his heart stopped.

“No. Please God...no,” he mumbled as he ran toward the water. He’d been teaching Dylan to swim, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have wandered into the lake and... No! He wouldn’t think about that.

“Dylan!” Sawyer shouted again as he waded in.

A hand latched on to his arm and tugged him back. Too big a hand to be Dylan’s.

He turned and stared into Meg’s huge eyes.

“Sawyer, what are you doing? Where’s Dylan?”

“I...I don’t know where he is.” He noticed his parents standing a few feet back at the edge of the lake. “Dylan wasn’t in his sleeping bag...” His voice cracked, and he willed himself to stay calm.

“Dad, dial 911!” Meg, obviously thinking more coherently than Sawyer, called to their father. “And the park ranger.”

As his father hurried to his parents’ tent, Sawyer shook off Meg’s grasp and took a few more unsteady steps into the lake. Other than the ripples he and Meg had created, the water’s surface was smooth as glass. No disturbance...no air bubbles. He turned and brushed by Meg, hurrying toward his mother. She, too, was looking anxiously about, concern furrowing her brow.

Sawyer yelled Dylan’s name several more times, then he, his mother and Meg stood motionless and quiet, hoping for a response. Only birdsong filled the silence until his father returned. “The park ranger’s on his way. The San Diego Police Department is also sending someone,” he said.

“Okay. Okay,” Sawyer murmured, trying desperately to think coherently. “Mom, you stay here. Wait for the ranger and the cops. I’m going over there.” He gestured vaguely toward the left. He pointed again. “Meg, you look in that direction. Dad, can you search back there, behind the camp?”

Not waiting for replies, Sawyer raced back to his tent, pulled on his running shoes, then took off at a run.

He had to find Dylan. The thought of his son alone in the woods, frightened, maybe injured, terrified him. He didn’t know how long Dylan had been gone.

Animals, including coyotes and mountain lions, inhabited the forest. He remembered reading in the guide book that the California mountain king snake lived in the park, too. He couldn’t recall if the book said the snake was venomous.

“Dylaaan!”

His voice was hoarse from shouting his son’s name. Occasionally, he heard Meg or his father calling out, too, but without response.

Never a response.

They had to find Dylan.

Tripping over an exposed tree root, Sawyer landed hard on his hands and knees. He pushed back up to his feet, absently brushed at the grime and the blood, and moved on.

He hadn’t bothered with his watch when he left, and he had no idea how long he’d been stumbling around in the forest. He was barely aware of the cuts and scrapes he’d sustained running through dense growth and falling a couple of more times.

An incongruous sound caught his attention. Was it a rustling in the brush?

He paused to listen and began to wonder if he’d imagined it.

Then he heard it again. It was his name.