Missing by Becky Citra Read Free Book Online Page B

can’t really. For the first time I wonder who took the photograph.

S even
    A small blue car is parked outside cabin two. I spot it just before supper the next day, on my way back to our cabin from the barn. The guest that Tully was expecting must have arrived while I was with Renegade.
    I brush bits of hay off my jeans before I go inside. Then I change my T-shirt, wash the horse smell off my hands and head to the lodge.
    Tully wants everything to be perfect for his first official guest. At the end of the long table, he has laid four places, with woven place mats and bluehandled cutlery I haven’t seen before. Wild lupins and brilliant Indian paintbrush fill a tall white vase. He’s lifting a pie with a brown-sugar-sprinkled crust out of the oven when I come in. I inhale a delicious breath of apples and cinnamon.
    A woman is standing in front of the wall beside the fireplace, her back to me, looking at some of Tully’s photographs.
    â€œThere you are, Thea,” says Tully, setting the pie on a rack. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Wilson.”
    â€œOh, please, call me Marion,” says the woman, turning around. She has a crisp English accent and is small and kind of birdlike, with short gray hair. She looks like she’s in her sixties. I was expecting someone younger. She’s dressed neatly in pressed blue jeans, a pink sweatshirt and white running shoes.
    Marion walks across the room to shake hands with me. “Tully’s been telling me about you,” she says. Her eyes are bright blue, and up close I can see fine wrinkles in her skin. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
    â€œIt’s great to meet you too,” I say. Marion Wilson seems nice, and I can’t think of a single reason why she would have lied about her friends staying here ten years ago. I decide that Tully must have got it wrong, or maybe the ranch was operating then and there just aren’t any guest books from those years.
    Dad arrives and Tully makes the introductions again.
    Dad and Marion talk about the flight from England and the drive up from Vancouver. I gravitate to Tully’s Africa photographs. Every time I look at them, I notice something new. This time it’s the soft downy manes on the backs of the baby cheetahs.
    At dinner, most of the conversation is about Italy. Marion has traveled there a lot, and she and Tully have been to some of the same places. Dad says that Italy is somewhere he has always wanted to go. For a moment I look at Dad with new eyes. This is something I never knew about him. The talk drifts to Italian wines and it turns out that Dad knows something about those too.
    After a while, Marion changes the subject. “I’ll join you for dinner and I’ll take you up on that offer of a bag lunch, but I’ll pass on breakfast. And I certainly don’t need maid service in my cabin or anything like that.” Her voice is brisk.
    Tully looks disappointed. He’s so excited about being a host. “How about clean towels every few days?”
    â€œThat would be fine. And I would like the use of a boat while I’m here,” says Marion.
    â€œNo problem,” says Tully. “We’ve got canoes and a couple of small boats with electric motors. Thea can show you.”
    Marion smiles at me. “That would be lovely.”
    â€œI’m sorry we can’t offer you riding,” says Tully. “You’ll have to come back next year.”
    â€œOh, I’m afraid my riding days are over,” says Marion quickly.
    â€œYou used to ride?” I say, for the first time really focusing on the conversation.
    â€œA lot. I had a bad fall about ten years ago. The doctor warned me that if I fell again, I’d do some serious damage to my back. But until then I rode almost every day.”
    â€œWhat kind of horses?” I ask.
    â€œThoroughbreds,” says Marion. “Steeplechasers.” There’s a slight pause and then she