When Snow Falls (Whiskey Creek #2)(53)
Author: Brenda Novak

She planned to choose wisely. There was so much she wanted to learn about Dylan Amos, and he wasn’t easy to know. In her opinion, that was why he was so misunderstood. “What do you want most out of life?”

It took him a few seconds to respond. “I’m not sure,” he said when he answered. “I guess…success. No, more than that. Balance. What do you want?”

“Freedom,” she decided.

“What kind of freedom?”

“Freedom from my past. Freedom from all the questions and suspicions.”

“What questions and suspicions?”

She inhaled deeply. She’d never told another soul, except her mother and Presley, about the memories that didn’t seem to fit the life she’d known. But there was something about Dylan that made her trust him. Maybe that was because they’d slept together. She’d already shared a deeper intimacy with him than anyone else, and he’d kept that secret by hiding her car behind the barn so his brothers wouldn’t see it and by treating her as he had tonight, without too much familiarity, when they were with others.

Or maybe she trusted him because he’d been through enough to understand certain nuances that would be lost on Eve or Callie or Gail—or any of the guys she hung out with, for that matter. Although her friends had each suffered tragedy and faced difficulties, some more than others, they’d always been affluent, popular, attractive, well-liked and secure. They didn’t have to wonder who they were and where they came from. Even Dylan didn’t have to do that. But Cheyenne was willing to bet he could relate to her pain and confusion better than anyone else.

“I have these memories.” She told him how empty and odd she felt when it snowed, about the blonde lady and the birthday party and the pretty room with the canopy bed. “I have no idea who that woman is, but she was significant to me, you know? I can feel it, deep in my bones. It’s almost as if…as if I miss her.”

“Have you asked your mother about it?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“She says she’s never met anyone like the person I describe. She accuses me of making it all up. She says I think I’m too good for her and Presley, so I’ve created this fantasy to explain why.”

“Is there any proof that Anita might not be your mother?”

“None. Except she can’t even tell me where I was born.”

“What does it say on your birth certificate?”

“What birth certificate?”

“You don’t have one?”

“None of us do. My mother didn’t bother to hang on to stuff like that. And what we did have got thrown out.”

“How did you and Presley get into school?”

“One of the men my mother was with for a brief period years ago knew how to make fake IDs. She had him make us each a birth certificate. We used it to get into school wherever we went—when we attended, which wasn’t often—but he wasn’t very good. It’s a miracle they accepted it.”

“They probably didn’t look at it too closely.”

“No one did. She’d hand them a bad photocopy, and they’d chalk up the imperfections to that, I guess. Then she’d tell them that getting immunizations was against our religion, and we were in.”

“Where were you born?”

“My mother says in Wyoming. That’s why she named me Cheyenne. But I wasn’t born there. I’ve checked.”

“So…you think she might’ve stolen you from someone else?”

It sounded crazy to hear her suspicions spoken aloud. Already, she regretted sharing what she had. The alcohol had loosened her tongue. But now that she’d revealed her doubts, she figured she might as well admit the truth. “I’ve always wondered.”

“That would explain why you look nothing like your sister.”

“My mother, if she’s my mother, says we come from different fathers.”

“Obviously. Presley’s father was Hispanic, wasn’t he? But you’re saying you might not be sisters at all?”

Guilt for suggesting such a thing suddenly overwhelmed Cheyenne and she rubbed her face. “Or my mother’s right. Maybe it’s all some weird attempt on my part to pretend I belong somewhere else, somewhere better. Forget I said anything.”

She added a humorless chuckle, but he didn’t seem willing to drop the subject quite so easily.

“What do you know about your father?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even his name?”

“My mom claims she met him at a bar. They went to a motel together. He was gone less than an hour later. I’m sure she wasn’t sober.” She drew the blanket higher. “Touching encounter, right? You see why I might’ve been tempted to create a prettier picture.”

“Children are stolen every day,” he said. “Some are found, some are not. Those who aren’t, if they’re alive, have to go somewhere, grow up somehow. Considering your mother, and what you know her to be capable of, it’s at least as likely that you didn’t dream it up.”

It felt great to have some support, someone else suggesting she might not be crazy for suspecting the worst, especially since Presley had discounted those memories as much as Anita had.

“Have you gone to the police?” he asked.

“Once.”

“And?”

“If I was kidnapped, my case wasn’t as widely publicized as Jaycee Dugard’s, that’s for sure. They couldn’t match me to any missing persons.”

“There could be plenty of reasons for that.”

“I know. We traveled a lot, were always on the go. That could’ve been one of the reasons. When I went in, it’d been ten years, which is a long time, so that didn’t help, either.”

“Not all police departments communicate as well as they should. Or they didn’t back then. And there are thousands of missing children.”

“Exactly. It feels futile.”

“Maybe it’s not.”

“In any case, what I’d like most in life is to either forget the blonde woman—or answer the question of who she is.”

“I doubt you’ll be able to forget her.”

“You’re saying my only choice is to answer the question.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Even though I don’t have any way to figure out what my original name was, or if my birthday is really my birthday?”