Chapter 22
Chapter 22
H e drove up the long lane to their house, heart thrumming. They lived on a little farm. Not that they ever grew anything, minus the herbs Jane grew for cooking. But the land and barn had given them space to raise all the animals they rescued—goats, dogs, children. Over the years they had fostered other kids. John was the only one who stuck.
Though not fancy, it was a vast improvement over the rundown little house of his first twelve years. They’d had acres of land, with woods and a stream. There had always been a fresh kitten, lamb, goat kid, or baby llama to play with and enjoy. There were also dogs, but John had avoided those, the memory of his own lost dog too fresh and painful. I think I’m ready for another dog, he thought, the unexpected thought jolting him with surprise. He had told himself he would never have another dog, and here he was, thinking about one again. Amazing how he had spent six years with the Dunbars and hadn’t unfrozen at all, and then spent a few days with Juniper and unbent completely. What made the difference?
He was so immersed in his thoughts it took him a minute to realize the farmhouse was dark and still, two things that never happened in relation to the Dunbars. Even when they were away the lights were on. He could blame it on an errant child, but Dustin had been the worst offender. Somehow it had fallen to John to be the last one out because he was the one most prone to turning everything off.
More than the darkness and silence, the house had an overgrown, unlived in feel to it. In fact the grass was knee high, weeds creeping around the foundation. Jane Dunbar never would have allowed that. Though he knew it was fruitless, John parked the car, got out, and peeked in the windows of the house.
Empty, barren, and had been for some time.
He stood on the porch, overlooking the vast yard, as wave upon wave of memory rushed to greet him. The house had been pure chaos, had felt like too much to a traumatized, closed off kid. But now, in retrospect, the memories were sweet, as were the feelings they evoked. He could almost hear the noise of children laughing, running, yelling, singing. Could almost smell the culinary delights emerging from Jane’s kitchen. Could practically see Juniper toddling up to him, arms aloft to be picked up. Why had he fought so hard against all of it when, at this moment, he would give anything for even a taste of it?
He sank to the front porch step and had a visceral, eerily real vision of Juniper approaching, dead frog clutched to her chest. Fix it, Bear. The frog had been so far gone it was practically mummified, squished and desiccated. But her face had been so earnest, so sad that he’d wished for some sort of wizardry to make the frog whole again, if only to make her smile. I can’t, Juni. It’s gone.
Gone? What do you mean gone? It’s right there.
It died.
What is ‘died’?
It went away forever; it won’t come back.
Like your Mama and Daddy?
Yes, like that, he’d replied, tone solemn and somber.
Juniper had studied him a few beats, then taken the frog out of his grasp and replaced it with herself, snuggling close, wrapping her little arms around his neck. She hadn’t been able to stand it when he was sad, had done everything in her power to try and fix him.
Some things never change, he thought, picking up a rock and tossing it absently. His glance slid to his rental car, the desire to pick up the adult version of Juniper and hold her close almost overpowering him. Had coming here been a mistake? He wasn’t sure what to do next. The feeling of uncertainty unnerved him, but it was more than that. Why hadn’t Juniper mentioned that the family had moved? And how was it possible they had? He had pictured them in this same house, carrying on as ever, possibly into eternity.
A bit of rational thought returned and he berated himself. Did you really think you would change and they wouldn’t? It had been fourteen years and all their children left home. Perhaps they moved into town, where there was less yard work. Maybe they moved somewhere else to be with one of their kids. Knowing them, they would be far flung, possibly even in other countries, if Juniper was any indication. They weren’t the sort of people who grew up and settled in their hometown; they were the sort who were launched into some interesting and creative new life.
One thing was certain: the people in town would know where they went. It wasn’t the nature of town to keep things private. Everything was everyone’s business. Strangely, John had never minded that. It seemed like the kind of thing he would, private as he was. Somehow he had accepted it as an intrinsic part of small town living, perhaps because it had always worked to his benefit. People had always been kind to him, extra kind, he thought. First because they knew what was going on in his home, and then because they knew how it ended up.
Unlike the Dunbars’ closed up homestead, the town looked exactly the same. There was even still a General Store on Main Street, the last of a dying breed. John parked and entered the store, steeling himself for glances, stares, and whispers.
Only one person was in the store, and he let out his breath. “John Caruthers, as I live and breathe.” The store’s owner, Mr. Elswick, spoke from his ubiquitous spot behind the counter.
“Sir,” John said, tipping his head in a respectful little nod.
“Look at you, all growed up and some kind of soldier. A major, last we heard. Course we all knew you’d turn out good.”
“Then you had better knowledge than I did, sir,” John replied.
Mr. Elswick chuckled. “It couldn’t have gone any other way, what with how Dustin Dunbar used to brag on you.”
“Sir?”
“There was hardly a time he came in my store that he didn’t talk about you. ‘That John Caruthers has a fine mind. You keep an eye on him, he’s going to go somewhere and do something great.’ You’da thought you were his natural born son, so proud was he of you.”
John’s throat felt uncomfortably tight and he cleared it. “Thank you, sir. That’s actually why I’m here. I went to the Dunbars’ homestead and found it empty. I wonder if you might know where they’ve gone.”
Mr. Elswick blinked at him, a deer in headlights expression. “Why, haven’t you heard?”
“No, sir,” John prompted, chest kicking with sudden anxiety. Maybe they’d gone to New York. That would certainly make a local look as panicked and heartsick as Mr. Elswick now looked. He scratched his temple and took a deep breath, letting it out in a heavy huff.
“I thought for sure somebody would have tracked you down. Juniper tried, God love her. When she disappeared, too, we assumed…” He motioned helplessly to John who took a step forward and gripped the counter between them.
“Mr. Elswick, what happened to the Dunbars?”
Mr. Elswick took another breath. When he let it out this time it sounded wet and rheumy, filled with sickness or sadness. Maybe both. “They died, John.”
John blinked at him, disbelieving. “Dustin and Jane died?”
Mr. Elswick shook his head. “All of them, every last one but Juniper. They were going to visit her in college for some award or something. In that big van of theirs, you know the one. A drunk driver crossed the median in the highway. Dustin lingered for a couple days, but then…” He paused and shook his head. “Poor little Juniper, the weight of all that, all those burials. We all helped how we could, mind, but she wasn’t the same after that. She got it in her head to find you, went all the way to West Point. And that was the last we heard. I take it she never found you. That’s a pity. Poor little thing. She was always so bright and cheerful. I hate to think what this has done to her.” He shook his head and bowed it.
John remained staring at him in silence, fists clenched on the counter. His first reaction was rage, white hot rage. The Dunbars…gone. All of them. Killed by a drunk driver. He wanted to pound his fists into…something. Surely not the old man in front of him, nor his beloved store. But something . Something had to take the brunt of his anger.
“The man who killed them,” John choked. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to track him down and kill him.
“Died. His car went up in a fireball. Thankfully that didn’t happen to the Dunbars, but… It was bad, son. It was bad.” He shook his head again. Slowly, sadly. He must have noted John’s stricken expression because his became stricken, too. He cleared his throat. “I’m awful sorry, son. Sorry to be the one to tell you, sorry it happened, sorry you lost them after losing your own folks. If only you could find Juniper, offer her some comfort. I’m sure she’d sore appreciate it, her all alone in the world now.”
John swallowed down waves of rage and revulsion. He felt like everything he’d ever eaten was about to come back up, but he wouldn’t let it. He sucked a deep breath and stuck out his hand for a shake. “I do appreciate you telling me, sir. Thank you for that, and for keeping an eye on me when I was young. One time you gave my mother an extra two cans of soup. I’ve never forgotten. I thank you for your kindness.”
Mr. Elswick blinked at him, shocked and a bit overwhelmed and embarrassed. “Oh, well, it weren’t nothing. Your mother was a fine lady and a good soul. You, too. You done this town proud, done your mother and the Dunbars proud, too. They never stopped loving you, used to talk kindly about you right up until the end. We all rather thought you and Juniper… That is to say… When she went searching for you… Well, it seemed like it would have been a good thing, you and her together. But last I heard she got herself engaged to some city slicker. I hope he’s a good one. She deserves it.”
“Yes, sir, she certainly does. Thank you, sir. You have a good day.”
“You too, son. Take care.”
John gave him a nod, walked out of the store, around the corner into the alley, bent over, and heaved until his stomach was empty, then heaved again for good measure. He rested his forehead against the brick, trying to breathe through the sudden heaviness in his chest. The Dunbars gone, all of them. Juniper all alone, and she hadn’t said a word. Or had she? I tried so hard to find you. I needed you. Can you just hold me? I’m so tired, John. And his response to her pain had been to laugh at her, to condescend and tell her she was too young and sheltered to know anything about suffering. He’d sent her back into the world with the knowledge that she’d be safe in the shelter of her family. Instead he’d sent her back into the world alone, unprotected, unloved.
He straightened and blinked. No. Absolutely no. Juniper Dunbar alone and unloved was too ridiculous a prospect to even speculate. It would not, could not happen, not on his watch.
Seemingly John had been born in need of a mission. The army had given him many of those over the years, along with great purpose. But now he’d found his own objective. Nothing had ever been more important, more urgent, or more necessary than the one now running through his mind: Find Juniper Dunbar.
With no time to lose, he hopped in his car and drove away, leaving dust trails in his haste to get started.