Page 206 of Lost Then Found
My eyebrows lift. “She’s a twin?”
“Oh yeah,” Estelle says, laughing. “Born two minutes apart and she’llhold that over him ‘til the day she dies.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“They’re twenty. A pain in my ass sometimes, but we love them.” She points to the young man holding the little girl. “That’s Crew. Twenty-five. Works the horses mostly. Quiet, doesn’t ask for much.”
Estelle’s hand shifts, moving across the photo to two more boys. “That’s Mason—twenty-two—always got his hands in something mechanical. Tractors, trucks, anything with an engine, he’ll take it apart just to see how it works.”
She taps the space beside him. “Luke’s the oldest of the younger bunch. He’s been in Missoula a while now, working logistics for a feed company.”
I nod, absorbing all of it, the way she shifts from one name to the next like she’s turning pages in a book she knows by heart.
Her hand hovers over the little girl in Crew’s arms. “That’s our Nora.”
Her eyes shift to another photo on the wall—smaller, and clearly newer. Nora’s perched on a hay bale, boots too big for her feet, one slipping halfway off. Her cheeks are smudged with dirt, and she’s holding a handful of flowers like a trophy, grin wide enough to knock you back a step. Whole picture feels alive somehow, like she might step right out of it and start bossing you around.
Estelle walks over to it, her expression softening in that way that only happens when someone talks about a kid they love with every piece of them. “She’s three—Crew’s girl. Sharp as a tack. Already runnin’ this whole place, or at least she thinks she is. Talks nonstop, always asking questions. Wants to help with everything, from feedin’ the horses to foldin’ laundry. Has her Grandpa wrapped around her little finger, which he swears isn’t true, but we all know better.”
She touches the edge of the frame, light and careful. “She’s pure joy, that one. There’s not a soul in this house she hasn’t got in her pocket.”
I glance at the photo again—Nora still grinning like she’s just won something big and wants you to know it. “She’s cute,” I say.
Estelle doesn’t miss a beat. “Cutest thing on two legs.”
There’s no argument to that, not with the way she’s looking at the kid,like the whole world shrinks down to about three feet tall.
I set the empty glass down on the coffee table. “Any of your boys looking to take the reins here someday?”
Her eyes go back to the photo, settling on Crew. “That one,” she says, nodding toward him. “Crew’s always known this was his path. Never had to wonder.”
I nod, watching her face as she shifts focus to Sawyer’s part of the photo.
“Sawyer helps too,” she says. “When he’s not working. Got a house here on the property, back past the west ridge.”
“Didn’t know he lived out here.”
“He likes the space,” she says, nodding. “Comes out after shifts at the clinic and on the weekends, helps where he can. Always been drawn to the animals.”
Her voice dips, just slightly. In a way that’s almost…sad. “He’s been…through some things these last couple years. Stayin’ busy helps.”
She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. Not my place.
Just then, the front door swings open, the sound of boots hitting hardwood behind it. Vaughn comes through first, voice already raised like someone dragged him inside against his will.
“Estelle, who the hell needed me back here—”
His eyes land on me, and the rest of the sentence dies in his throat.
Vaughn Hart’s not a man you forget. Early sixties, maybe, but built the way men used to be—broad, solid, hands that’ve seen a lifetime of work. His dark hair hasn’t gone gray yet, not a strand of it. Deep lines mark the corners of his mouth and eyes, carved there from squinting into sunrises and working long days. He doesn’t need to tell you he runs the place—it’s obvious. From the way he walks to the way he looks at you, always assessing, always ten steps ahead.
Sawyer steps in behind him—way taller than I expected. Taller than me, and I’m no small guy, sitting at six-two. The motherfucker looks like a cross between Chris Hemsworth and the Hulk in a pair of cowboy boots—broad chest, thick arms, shoulders made to fill a doorway. Blondish-brown hair trimmed short, jaw sharp enough to cut that’s dusted in stubble, andthat easy tan you only get from working outside for hours.
I don’t get intimidated often. Don’t need to. But Sawyer? He’s intimidating as fuck. Not that I’d let it show.
I push up from the chair, tugging off my hat as I step forward. Got to play this right.
“Vaughn,” I say, offering my hand. “Good to see you.”
