Missing (4 page)

On one page someone—probably a child— has printed
Don't forget to give Benny a carrot every
day from me
. I look at the photograph of a man, a woman and a little girl who looks about nine. She has braids and a wide smile with a gap between her front teeth. I imagine her falling in love with some kind old horse who probably carried her around the ranch for a week.

I wonder if our family ever looked like that, like we really belonged together. Mom wasn't living with us when she died, so maybe we never were much of a family. When Mom left, I didn't get it. I kept asking Dad where she was and when she was coming back.

I finally found out the truth when Samantha Higgens, a girl in my grade-four class, told me. She'd heard her mother and father talking about it. She said Mom had moved in with a trainer that she and Dad had known for years. According to Samantha, she wasn't planning on living with us ever again. End of story. That's what she said.
End of story
.

Only it wasn't the end of the story. And how would Samantha know anyway? Before I had time to find out if Mom was ever coming back, her horse rolled over on top of her on a slippery hillside and she was killed. She was riding by herself on Sumas Mountain on a colt that had just been broken. A search party found her late at night. I remember the phone waking me up and Dad coming in and sitting on the end of my bed and telling me.

Thinking about Mom and my old life makes me feel crappy. I push it out of my mind now and turn to the next page in the guest book:
July 10, 1953
. Tucked into the book's spine is a piece of tightly folded yellowed newspaper. Curious, I spread it out, smoothing the creases. It's a clipping that someone has cut out carefully with scissors. The date at the top says
July 9, 1954
, almost exactly one year later than the date in the book.

I read the article slowly.

DOUBLE TRAGEDY AT
CARIBOO GUEST RANCH

On the afternoon of July 7, four-year-old Livia
Willard was reported missing from the Double R
Guest Ranch in the heart of British Columbia's
Cariboo. Wayne and Joan Willard from North
Vancouver and their three daughters, fourteen-year-
old Esta, eight-year-old Iris and four-year-old
Livia, had arrived on Saturday, July 2, at the
guest ranch for their annual holiday. They were
accompanied by twenty-six-year-old Melissa
Ryerson, the Willards' niece, who has been visiting
the family from England since early May.

Livia was reported missing at three o'clock.
Her parents had returned to Vancouver the
day before due to a family emergency, leaving
their daughters in the care of their niece. They
planned to return to the ranch later in the week.
The Willards were notified immediately of their
daughter's disappearance and left Vancouver in
the late afternoon to drive back to the ranch. Their
vehicle was struck by a truck on the Trans-Canada
Highway near the small town of Boston Bar. Both
parents were pronounced dead on arrival at the
hospital in Hope.

At the present moment, the Willard girls, Esta and
Iris, and Melissa Ryerson are under the care of
Pat and Margaret Hunter, owners of the Double
R Guest Ranch, until Melissa's mother, Jane
Ryerson, arrives from England. She is expected
early tomorrow morning.

Livia Willard was last seen wearing pink
shorts, a pink T-shirt and running shoes with
bunnies on them. She is blond and blue-eyed.
A massive search is continuing for the little girl,
and the police say that at this time they have no
leads. Ranch owner Pat Hunter has declined to
comment.

There are two photographs on this page in the guest book: one of a young grinning couple and one of a family—a man, a woman and three girls. In the comment section beside the family picture, someone has written neatly
We had a wonderful time
as usual. See you next year! Joan and Wayne Willard.
Underneath are the three girls' names:
Esta
in perfectly formed slanting letters,
Iris
in slightly uneven loopy handwriting and
Livia
in large babyish printing.

I check the names of the girls in the newspaper article again to figure out who is who and then study the photograph. That must be Esta at the edge of the picture, a little apart from everyone else. She would have been thirteen then, like me, because the photograph was taken a year before the newspaper article. She's tall, almost as tall as her mother, and she has dark hair and eyes. She's frowning and looks like she'd rather be anywhere than posing for this photograph. Iris is standing in front of her mother. She has straight shoulder-length hair and a thin face with a pointed chin. She's smiling, but her smile looks self-conscious.

Livia is beautiful. She has a mass of blond curls, a heart-shaped face and huge eyes. She is standing beside her father, holding his hand. A stuffed bear dangles from her other hand.

See you next year.
I imagine Joan Willard writing that in the guest book, the girls waiting their turn to sign their names, the parents bursting with pride that Livia could print her name at three years old. The owners of the ranch must have gathered everyone together for their photograph, like they did with every visitor. Then the Willards would have piled into their car and headed back to Vancouver. For some reason I even imagine that the car was one of those old-fashioned station wagons with the wood trim.

See you next year
.

According to the newspaper article, they
had
come back. But there wouldn't be anything in the guest book that year. No enthusiastic
We had a
wonderful time
.

I flip through the rest of the book to see if there are any more newspaper articles, but I don't find anything. I don't know how long that piece of newspaper has been hidden in the book but I feel that it is important to put it back.

I fold it carefully and then take one last look at Livia's face before I close the book. A tiny shiver runs up my back. Children don't go missing forever, do they? I wonder where they found her.

F
our

The next day at school I have a free block last period so I go to the computer lab and google
Livia Willard
. Nothing comes up. I guess the story isn't important enough, but I'm dying to know what happened to her. I type in
Double R Guest Ranch
. Tully has set up a website with some photos of the lake and cabins. I get a few other hits too, mostly tourism sites with directions, maps and some old guest reviews. No mention of a little girl disappearing almost sixty years ago.

Before the bell rings at the end of the school day, I type in
horse training + round pen
and am amazed at how much information there is. We're supposed to have permission from a teacher to use the printer, but there's no one around, so I print off six articles.

My cell phone vibrates. It's Dad. Something's come up and he can't come to town to pick me up. I have to take the school bus. I have a note for the driver, asking him to drop me off at the ranch gate, but I didn't think I would have to use it until tomorrow. The bell rings and I start worrying about how I'm going to find the right bus and who I'll have to sit with. I turn off the computer and join the crowds of kids waiting outside the school.

When three buses finally pull up to the curb, I have no idea which one is mine. I hang back for a bit, trying to figure out what to do. I see a girl who's in my
PE
class and who was my partner once for badminton. She was pretty nice, so I ask her if she knows which bus goes out to Gumboot Lake. She points to the last bus, and I fall in at the tail end of the line of kids pushing their way on.

There's an empty seat right behind the bus driver. I give him my note, and he grunts that the closest he can let me off is Thurston Road. I haven't a clue where that is, but I nod and slide into the seat. At least I don't have to walk down the aisle with everyone staring at me. I gaze out the window, shutting out the noise, and watch the scenery slide by. The bus turns off the highway onto the gravel road. It makes lots of stops and gradually empties until it's absolutely quiet, and I'm thinking I'm the only one left. I don't want to turn around and look though.

Then someone flops into the seat behind me and a voice says, “Hi. You're Thea, aren't you?”

I don't have much choice, so I turn around. It's a boy from my social studies class, perched on the edge of the seat. I know him from somewhere else too, but I can't think where. He has fairly long blond hair and he's tanned and wearing a baseball cap. I even know his name—Van—though I'm shocked that he knows mine.

“That's right,” I say.

“I'm Van,” he says.

“I know,” I say, and then my cheeks turn hot. “I heard your name in social studies,” I mumble.

“I thought you lived in town,” he says.

“I did. We just moved out to the Double R Guest Ranch. My dad's working for the owner.”

“You're getting off at my stop then.” He grins. “You'll have to. That's where the bus turns around.”

I feel awkward, twisted around in my seat to face him, and I'm not sure what to do next. He stands up. “It's just around the corner.”

Van gets off the bus first, and I follow him. I know where I am now. On the left side of the road there's a big field with a brown shed at one end, and on the other side is thick forest. Thurston Road goes off to the right. The ranch is about a quarter of a kilometer from here.

The bus turns around and rumbles away in a cloud of dust. Van jumps into the bushes and comes out a few seconds later, lifting a blue bike over the ditch. It's kind of battered-looking and has a bent fender. I guess he doesn't worry about it being stolen.

“I keep it stashed here,” he says. “I live at the end of the lake.”

I remember Tully telling us that there are some year-round homes farther down the lake. That makes Van sort of a neighbor.

He walks beside me, pushing the bike.

“You don't have to walk with me,” I say.

“I like walking,” says Van.

He leans over, picks up a rock and skitters it down the road in front of us. “How do you like our school?” he says.

So he knows that I'm new; that means he must have noticed me, but that's all it means. It's not a big school, and new people stick out like sore thumbs.

I shrug and say, “It's just a school.”

Van doesn't say anything after that and I'm furious at myself. I should have at least said it's all right. When we get to the ranch gate, he says, “See you,” and hops on his bike and pedals off fast.

I try to think where I've seen him before, but I can't place him.

After I get home, I go for a swim off the end of the dock in front of our cabin. The water is warm on the surface but icy cold where my feet dangle down. I have to swim through a patch of lily pads to get out to where it's clear. I duck right under, letting my long hair float around me, and then push it out of my eyes when I pop to the surface. I feel the sweat washing off me. I float on my back for a few minutes, staring at the blue sky, and then swim back to the dock.

A breeze has come up, ruffling the lake. I lie facedown on the smooth weathered boards, the hot sun soaking into my back. The water laps gently under the dock, making it rock. I can hear hammering in the distance: Dad working on cabin five. It's peaceful and a hundred times better than living in that crummy trailer.

When I'm dry, I go inside and change into shorts and a halter top. I've got homework, but that can wait until tonight. I grab an apple for Renegade, cut it into four pieces and head out to the barn.

Renegade's standing in the middle of the corral, his head drooping, his tail gently swishing away flies. He lifts his head when he sees me; his dark eyes look suspicious. I climb onto the top rail and hold out a piece of apple for him. I make a clicking sound with my tongue, encouraging him to walk over and take a look. “I won't touch you,” I say.

He doesn't move. His gaze shifts away from me, outside the corral to the big field that slopes up to the ridge of forest and the hills in the distance. His ears are pricked forward. I try to see what he's looking at, but there's nothing there. And then I spot two tawny deer bounding through the long grass. I have a feeling nothing gets past Renegade.