Page 42 of The Cowboy and the Baby

“Cade, this is Michael Knowles at the Valley of Grace church in Tallahassee. I met you a week or so ago. You may remember me as Pastor Mike.”

My stomach knotted up. There was only one reason for Pastor Mike in Florida to call me. Before I anticipated trouble, I said, “Good to hear from you, Pastor Mike. How can I help you?”

“I’ve found your mother.”

“Oh?”

“She came in this morning, seeking some help. You left behind some instructions to contact you if we found her. I believe very strongly that we found her, but, of course, I’m sure you’d like to verify?”

“Yes. Yes, I would be interested in that.”

Mom didn’t always have enough of her wits about her to repeat or remember her name. If she remembered it, she didn’t often state it. But, sometimes, when lucidity dawned and she recalled details, she stated them.

“She allowed me to take her picture to send to you. Can I text it here?”

“She did?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, please send it. She hasn’t allowed photos in . . . years.”

She thinks it creates an opening into her mind for the aliens to enter, I added silently.

Pastor Mike chirped, “Give me just a moment. I’m not always the greatest at this technology thing.” He chuckled.

The phone made static noises and rhythmic pulses, as if he tapped on the screen. I waited, heart in my throat, until the telltale tink of a new message arrived.

“There. Sent.”

I closed my eyes, preparing myself. Did I want to look? Yes. But no. I’d traveled to Florida eager and willing to see her, but since returning home, that part of my brain shut down. Maybe my heart. Over the years, I’d learned the hard way that I couldn’t leave my heart open to her all the time.

Years had passed since my last physical contact with Mom, and seeing her was a double-edged sword, every time. Yet the sheer dumb luck of this situation kept me too on the edge to stop now. My eyes fluttered open and latched on the screen.

“I can see it,” I immediately said. “Thank you.”

Pastor Mike let the quiet ride while I comprehended the photo. A woman, for sure. Scraggly hair, face stacked with age and sun wrinkles. Her eyes lacked luster, and avoided the lens directly. There was a perpetual down swoop to her lips, a thinness that spoke to hardship. Her clothes weren’t horrendously used, but clearly unclean.

My mom.

“That’s her,” I said, my voice raspy. “Her name is Charlaine.”

“She responded with surprise when I asked if that was her name. She said she hadn’t heard it said in a while.”

“Is she still with you?”

“No, she left. But she said she’d return tomorrow around the same time. I asked if I could contact you about her and she agreed. She departed shortly after.”

The budding horror and hope that shared my mind diminished. I’d be a fool to think she’d return. There had been other close calls with homeless shelters scattered across the years, and Mom always seemed to vanish right when I thought her close.

“Can I send you some money to help her buy what she needs? Food. Medicine. New clothes. And, if she’s open to it, I would like to talk to her. Most of the time, she turns me away. You may not want to tell her I’ve sent the money. Sometimes, she won’t take the help if it ties back to us. I can compensate you for?—”

“No,” he cut in, half-laughing. “No, Cade, no need. No compensation to speak with her would be necessary. And yes, I would love to help her obtain some necessities. It’s our pleasure to do what we can to unite families. Particularly in these circumstances . . .”

That closing thought dwindled, no doubt a nod to her homelessness and the miles separating us.

“Do you have the moneychanger app?” I asked.

Just where I’d find the money to send him, I wasn’t sure yet. After flying to Florida to find Mom, those wells weren’t deep. Dropping twenty-five grand left my chest feeling tight and sore at the same time.