Page 204 of Lost Then Found
I need to ease into it. Let him think I’m here for neighborly reasons, keep the conversation casual until I can steer it where I want. Let him feel like he’s still in control, even when he’s not. I reach over, grab my Stetson off the passenger seat, and push the door open. The gravel crunches under my boots as I step out, heat rising from the ground already, the sky stretched wide and clean above me. I set the hat on my head, adjust the brim, then start up the walk toward the front door.
There’s a polished brass knocker in the shape of a horseshoe on the light wood door, gleaming in the sun like someone polishes it daily. Probably do. Everything here feels maintained to within an inch of its life. I knock twice, sharp, and step back, tucking my hands into my pockets while I wait.
A few beats pass, then footsteps sound on the other side—quick, light, confident—and the door swings open.
“Boone Wilding,” Estelle Hart says, her smile wide and warm, her accent thick with Texas in the vowels. “Well, look at you.”
She doesn’t look much older than when I left town, though I know she’s somewhere in her late fifties, early sixties now. Chestnut hair pulled back neat, makeup just enough to look effortless, bright blue eyes with more sparkle than most women half her age. Always looks like she knows something you don’t, but in a way that doesn’t put you off. I’ve always liked Estelle. She’s good people. Makes me wondersometimes how the hell she ended up married to Vaughn.
“Afternoon, Estelle,” I say, tipping my hat as she opens the door wider.
“What can I do for you?” she asks, stepping back, still smiling.
“I was hoping to speak with Vaughn,” I say. “Wanted to see if he was around.”
She waves me inside without hesitation. “He’s here somewhere. I’ll send one of the kids to go find him.”
I step into the house, boots landing soft on the hardwood floors. The place is big and clean, open concept with high ceilings and exposed beams. Everything’s sleek—leather, metal, glass—but with touches of country still clinging on. A horseshoe over the archway, a painting of a rodeo scene hanging over the fireplace, that unmistakable scent of saddle soap and wood polish that has a habit of settling into old ranch houses.
It’s a hell of a place. Too perfect, maybe, but you can’t deny it’s put together well.
Estelle walks over to the stairwell, plants a hand on the banister, and hollers up with zero hesitation. “Nathan! Emily! Go find your daddy, tell him he’s got someone here to see him.”
Her voice carries like she does this all the time, and from the sound of feet thudding somewhere above, I can tell she’s got a pretty solid system. She turns back to me, smile still fixed in place, not in a fake way—just practiced, warm in that effortless Southern way that makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.
“You want a glass of lemonade, honey?” she asks, already heading toward the kitchen. “I know it’s heating up out there in the middle of the day.”
I nod once, smiling back at her. “That sounds great, actually.” Truth is, I wasn’t about to turn down Estelle’s lemonade. It’s the best in Summit Springs, better than my mom’s even—not that I’d ever say that out loud in front of Molly Wilding unless I wanted to lose an eye.
“I’ll pour you a glass. Go on and sit, make yourself comfortable.”
Estelle disappears into the kitchen, her sandals slapping softly against the hardwood, and I drop into one of the leather chairs near the entryway.Across from me, a wall of family photos, most in matching black frames, stretches above the stone fireplace.
One of them’s blown up bigger than the rest — a formal shot, clearly planned, everyone dressed in coordinated blues and whites, standing out in a field with the mountains directly behind them. Vaughn’s in the center, looking like he’s running for office, Estelle on his arm, and surrounding them? Seven kids. Fuckingseven.
Unbelievable.
I thought I was going crazy growing up with three siblings, always tripping over someone or fighting for space. Couldn’t have imagined growing up in this house with this many kids. I don’t know all their names, but I’ve seen them all around town before.
One of the boys in the photo’s holding a little girl, maybe three or four, balanced on his hip. She’s grinning wide, blond hair caught in pigtails, face scrunched from laughing. I lean in a little, squinting. Had no idea any of the Harts had a kid. Must be one of the older boys’—fuck if I know which one. They’re all grown now, scattered around town, some still working the ranch, others doing God knows what.
Before I can get a closer look, footsteps thud down the stairs behind me, fast and careless, and then a voice calls out.
“Dad’s out on the ranch somewhere,” a girl says. “Probably in the barn.”
I turn as she steps into the room, long brown hair pulled into a loose braid over her shoulder, bright blue eyes nearly identical to Estelle’s. She’s maybe a couple years younger than Sage, tall and lean, sun-kissed like she spends more time outside than in. She doesn’t look too pleased about being the one delivering news.
Estelle breezes in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Go get him for me.”
The girl groans, already turning toward the door. “Why me? Why can’t Nathan—”
“Emily.” Estelle’s voice sharpens just enough, eyes cutting over with that look every kid recognizes.
Emily mutters something under her breath, then stalks toward theentryway, snatching a pair of cowboy boots off the mat with a sigh.
“Don’t be rude now,” Estelle calls out after her. “Introduce yourself first.”
Emily pauses, boots dangling from one hand, then glances back at me. “Sorry. Hi, I’m Emily,” she says, tone polite, if not a little reluctant. She offers a quick smile, one that’s more like Estelle’s than she probably realizes.
