"Little Boy Blue," a voice whispers into the phone.

I know the voice. My heart races in my chest.

Ten years ago, Barbara, my daughter, gave me that code in case of an emergency, but before I can say a word, the line goes dead.

"Dave," I call to the senior partner at the law firm where I have worked for over fifteen years. "I've got to go."

"What's wrong, Eleanor?"

"Family emergency. I'll call you later." I grab my purse and rush out the door, glad I filled my gas tank the day before. Traffic seems unusually heavy around the Larimer County courthouse this morning. Waiting for a red light, I realize I've been clutching the steering wheel. Letting go and shaking my hands, I take a deep breath. It's going to take me an hour to get there. Another five minutes won't matter.

Once I get out of town on 287 heading north toward Laramie, Wyoming, the traffic thins out and I make good time. Alone in the car, I have a chance to think about my daughter and what her message meant. In the thirteen years since she ran away, I've only seen her three times. The first time, she called and asked me to be with her when her daughter, Sunflower, was born. Having my daughter give birth at eighteen and becoming a grandmother at forty definitely wasn't part of my plan. Shocked at her home delivery in a grimy apartment without a doctor, I said things I should have kept to myself. She didn't speak to me for over a year.

The second time, on a cold February day, she just showed up at my door. Wearing faded jeans and a sweatshirt several sizes too big, I hardly recognized her. Sunflower, at almost two, clung desperately to her mother's neck wearing a thin dress and no shoes. She begged me to keep my granddaughter until she could come back for her. She gave me no reason why. For ten days, Sunflower became the center of my life. We played. I bought her warm clothes, toys, and books. At last, I could really be a grandmother and spoil this beautiful child who looked so much like her mother with curly blond hair and deep blue eyes. Memories of Barbara as a sweet and innocent child, rather than a rebellious teenager, gave me hope my daughter would change.

The time flew by, and Barbara showed up one afternoon to pick up her daughter. That's when she gave me the code.

"If I need you to come and get Sunflower, I'll use the code. I know you don't approve of Johnny, or our lifestyle, but I love him. He's in trouble, and we're moving to a ranch where we can be free. Here's the address." She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her jeans pocket and passed it to me. "Please, don't tell anyone where we are."

Without another word, she picked up her daughter and left. If she had torn my heart out with her bare hands, I would not have felt as much pain. I missed my sweet granddaughter and longed to see her again. The note had an address and a map to a ranch somewhere outside of Laramie, Wyoming, but no phone number. I wanted to follow them, go to see Sunflower before she forgot me, but I waited for Barbara to contact me. Since then, only occasional phone calls from Barbara letting me know they were well.

I went over the nursery rhyme in my head. "Little Boy Blue" means trouble. "Come blow your horn" means come. The next two lines mean nothing. "Where's the little boy" means Sunflower is hiding. "He's under the haystack fast asleep" means she's under a haystack. Worrying about Sunflower's welfare, I drive faster.

Once off the main highway, I drive along a two-lane road leading away from Laramie for about ten miles. The next direction takes me onto a much narrower road. It's still paved for about two miles before the map has me turn onto a dirt road, hardly more than two ruts in the ground.

Just as I contemplate turning around, I see cars coming toward me. Three or four, it's hard to tell with the dust billowing up behind them. I slow down and pull over as far as I can to let them pass. I look to see if Barbara and Sunflower are in any of the cars. The first two, black SUVs with two men in each, drive past me. The third car, a black sedan with only the driver and no passengers, pulls over behind me and stops. The last vehicle, a white truck with "Albany County Sheriff" in black and gold letters on the side, stops in front of me. Surrounded, I roll down my window and smile at the Sheriff's deputy walking toward me. I've always been good at thinking fast if need be, and it seems like it will come in handy here.

"Where are you going, ma'am?" he asks.

Remembering the name of a ranch I saw a few miles back I reply. "I'm looking for The Double Crown Ranch. Is it much farther?"

His right hand, which had been resting on his gun belt, drops to his side. "You missed the turn about five miles back. And you should have turned left, not right."

"Oh my." I do my best to act like a frustrated old lady.

"Once we're out of your way, just turn around and go back to the paved road. Go left, and you'll see their sign in about five miles. This time, it will be on your right."

"Thank you, officer," I say as he walks away.

He tips his hat to me, turns, waves to the vehicle behind me, and calls out. "No problem. She's just lost."

I sit in my car as they drive away, but they're going slowly. They may be watching me. Not wanting another encounter, I turn around and head back the way I came. By the time I get to the paved road, they are nowhere in sight. With a sigh of relief, I turn around again and follow Barbara's directions back to the spot where the sheriff stopped me. Continuing down the dirt road, I pass a grove of aspen trees, and the road veers to the right. In the distance, buildings appear. Driving closer, I see an old VW van parked next to an ill-kept garden. A row of sunflowers planted along the side of the barn is a sure sign Barbara lives here, but I don't see a haystack anywhere.

What I do see is yellow crime tape blocking off the van and the doors to the house and barn. I shake my head. Do the police really think yellow tape with 'do not cross' will stop anybody?

Getting out of the car, the wind blows dust in my face as I walk slowly toward the house. I look over my shoulder for anyone who may still be here, then duck under the crisscrossed yellow tape and enter the house.

The kitchen has makeshift shelves holding a few cans of food against one wall. Dirty dishes cover the table and fill the sink. A wood stove in the corner must have been used for cooking and heat, and a dilapidated refrigerator, most likely run by propane, sits against the back wall. Looking through the house, I find no clues as to my granddaughter's whereabouts. Back outside, I quickly head for the barn. Yellow tape blocks the large sliding door. I rip it loose and go inside. Boxes are scattered along the wall on my right, and bales of hay are piled in the corner to my left. Pulling and pushing at the heavy bales reveals a crack in the wooden floor. Moving another bundle, I see a small trapdoor.

"Sunflower, are you down there?" I squeeze my hand into the tiny metal ring that passes for a handle.

No answer.

I pull open the little door and peer down into the hole. The only light comes from the barn window beside me. An old ladder leans against the side of the hole. Lying on a blanket, barely visible, I see my grandchild asleep with her head resting on a paper sack. Glad I had worn slacks and not a dress to work today, I start down the ladder. The rungs creak as I step on them. Please don't break and send me...