Kansas City's Bravest

“Oh.” Dorie grimaced and ushered Meghan inside. “Come in, come in.”

Meghan followed the seventy-year-old woman through the house into the kitchen, then set up the carrier and bowls with food and water on the screened-in back porch. “Crispy is going to stay with us for a few days, until the humane society can verify whether she’ll go up for adoption or not.”

“Just like those boys. It’s a darn shame, living in limbo like that.” Dorie picked up a wooden spoon and stirred something wonderfully spicy and aromatic on the stove. “Don’t mind my fussin’. She can stay. My Jim had huntin’ dogs the whole thirty-six years I was married to him. That backyard was made for pets.” She covered the pot and rinsed the spoon in the sink. “I just hope those boys don’t get too attached in case she does have a home to go to.”

“I know. It’d be hard on all of us. But we’ll be there for each other, right?” Meghan smiled, well aware of the other woman’s penchant to helping anyone—or anything—in need. With shameless curiosity, Meghan opened the pot Dorie had just stirred. “Mmm. Homemade spaghetti sauce. Mind if I stay for dinner?”

Dorie propped her hands on her ample hips. Her green eyes twinkled. “Have I ever turned you away?”

Meghan crossed the room and traded hugs. “Thankfully, no.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Dorie dashed into the family room and Meghan stepped into double time to follow. “You’re going to be on TV. They showed a picture of you and that awful fire on the news teaser.” She perched on the vinyl couch and picked up two remotes. “I tried to program the VCR to record Channel Ten, but I never can tell if I got the right thing. Oh. There you are.”

Dorie’s infectious excitement lost its appeal when the familiar image of the old Meyer’s Textile warehouse flashed across the screen. The camera shot panned down across the crowd, as if drawn like a beacon to Saundra Ames’s striking red hair.

“That Saundra Ames is a real looker, isn’t she?”

Definitely, Meghan silently agreed. She looked like a small, pale shadow, by comparison, standing beside the statuesque reporter, clutching the dog. Meghan looked as if she’d been working a hard job on a hot day. A sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead in the light of the camera, while Saundra commanded attention with the just-powdered perfection of her taut cheekbones and bright blue eyes. The reporter’s soft blue silk suit looked stunning, while Meghan’s sweat-marked T-shirt and slacks just looked tired. Like her.

What kind of woman are you, anyway, freak? You can’t look the part, or act it, can you.

That was Uncle Pete’s wretched voice taunting her inside her head. Meghan squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block the vile memory. She couldn’t watch this. She could only see herself through Pete Preston’s eyes, and the image wasn’t very flattering.

She couldn’t even remember what lame answers she’d given Ms. Ames, but she was sure she didn’t want to listen to herself drone on about fire safety and her hopes that the young women of Kansas City would set goals and pursue them no matter what life threw at them.

Even if it threw you one doozy of a curve ball. Over and over again.

It was only in the past year or so that Meghan had learned to believe that a strikeout wasn’t her only option. A few times, in fact, she’d managed to take one of those curve balls and turn it into a hit. Her therapist had advised her that her past didn’t necessarily have to be a handicap. She could use it as a tool to help others.

That’s when she’d called Dorie to ask if she needed an extra hand at her group home.

But healing was a long process. What had still been an open wound two years ago was now a thin scar that could withstand day-to-day encounters with her co-workers and a few close friends. But she still wasn’t ready to see herself paraded in front of a camera as a potential object of ridicule. As a pariah who couldn’t quite measure up. One who wasn’t good enough or whole enough to be a success in a modern woman’s world.

She might never be.

Let Dorie satisfy her curiosity. Meghan wanted no part of this. “Been there. Done that.” She had already backed up to the open doorway. “I’ll just go hang with Eddie in the backyard.”

The older woman nodded without tearing her gaze from the television screen. “The little ones are outside, too. Would you mind checking on them?”

“Sure.”

The evening air didn’t feel any less scorching than this afternoon’s. But Meghan inhaled a muggy breath, grateful for the chance to be outside, far away from the uncomfortable image of her freckled face plastered on the news for all of Kansas City to see.

She stood at the top of the stoop and let the worries of the day fade into the present. Crispy charged across the length of the yard, with Eddie and a tiny toddler in hot pursuit. Little Mark Grimes had just turned two. About the same size as the dog, Mark’s dark brown curls bounced atop his head with each stiff-kneed waddle. His chubby fingers reached out for the dog, though he wasn’t catching anything but air. And his delighted giggle as Crispy changed course and circled around him could only be described as a chortle.

So young, so innocent. Orphaned six months ago by a tragic house fire, all he wanted was someone to love him.

Meghan did.

As he toddled past, she dashed down the stairs and scooped him up into her arms. “Whee-ee!”

Mark laughed. He stuck his arms out like an airplane and she twirled him around, finally setting him down in the middle of the yard where Eddie and Crispy were wrestling. Meghan plopped down onto the ground next to Mark and let him climb on her as if she were a jungle gym.

Mark was an adorable little tyke who would have been snatched up by adoptive parents in an instant if it wasn’t for one not-so-small thing. His brother.

Speaking of which…

With Mark and Eddie occupied, she let her gaze slide around the perimeter of the yard. The swing set was empty, the sandbox unused. The remote-control car on the patio sat untouched.

A tight fist of unease gripped her stomach.

She plucked Mark from her shoulders and sent him toddling off after the dog again. “Eddie?” She rose to her knees, then purposely climbed to her feet. “Where’s Matthew?”

Eddie’s thin chest rose and fell as he panted for breath. He pointed to the garage. “Last I saw, he was in there.”

Unlike his brother Mark, four-year-old Matthew Grimes remembered the night his home was destroyed and his parents were killed. The brothers were a matched set, legally and emotionally bonded to remain together. And Matthew was definitely a much harder sell to any prospective parent. Though child therapists had worked with him, he refused to talk about that night.

He refused to talk, period.

Feeling more than a twinge of concern tingling in her belly, Meghan hurried to the faded side door that opened onto the backyard. With the main door closed, the interior of the garage was dark and stale with humidity. She stood with her hand resting for a few moments on the peeling paint of the door frame, giving her vision a chance to adjust to the shadows. “Matthew?”

Not that she expected him to answer. She couldn’t imagine the terror and grief that must have shocked the boy into such a sullen silence. She scanned the interior, much as she would a smoke-filled building, holding herself still and patiently waiting for some sound or smell to give away the location of any victims trapped inside.

Dorie must have mowed today. The air in the garage was pungent with the scents of cut grass and gasoline. But she detected no light, soap-water scent of boy. Until…

The creak of old wood and the rattle of metal on metal turned her attention to the workbench that had once belonged to Jim Mesner. Perched on top, with his short legs hanging over the edge, sat Matthew.

“Hey, big guy.” Meghan greeted him with a smile and walked slowly toward him. The tension in her stomach eased a fraction at having located the boy, but the sadness in his eyes kept her from celebrating. “What are you doing out here? You know the garage is a ‘no’ place. Dorie wants you to play outside or in the basement or in your room. With the van and the tools—” not to mention the pesticides and can of gasoline for the lawnmower “—this isn’t a safe place to play.”

His gaze drifted over to her shoulder without really looking at her. Meghan climbed up beside him on the bench. Maybe he was making progress, after all—he didn’t slide over or jump off to get away from her.

“I’ll bet you didn’t come here to play.” She knew he hadn’t. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d actually seen him holding a toy or chasing a ball or doing anything as carefree and therapeutic as letting loose and running through the yard with a child’s energy and abandon. She tucked her hands between her knees and continued in a gentle voice. “Did you come in here to be alone?”

She’d almost given up hope of getting any kind of answer when he slowly nodded his head. Meghan pressed her lips together to keep herself from startling him with an effusive smile.

“I like to be alone sometimes, too.” She shrugged her shoulders with an honest sigh. “Especially on a day like today.” She skipped any talk about the fire. “Did you know I was on TV? Dorie’s making a tape. I looked pretty silly holding that dog. Did you meet Crispy?”

Matthew was watching her face now. This was the kind of therapy his counselor had said he needed. Just keep talking to him. Keep interacting. Keep including him in day-to-day activities. Eventually, when he was ready, he’d join in. He’d start talking when he had something he wanted to say.

With his brown hair and brown eyes, Matthew was a miniature version of Gideon. Instantly the illusory pain in her belly returned.

Just keep talking. “I met an old friend of mine today.”

Well, not exactly a friend. Not anymore.

“He looks a lot like you. Dark brown hair. Dark eyes.” She offered him a gentle grin. “He’s taller, though. I imagine you’ll be just as tall one day.”

Nothing.