The Cowboy and the Angel

“What’s it like to pick up stakes and start over in a city where people don’t recognize you?” She’d dreamed of doing that exact thing, but felt beholden to her mother and Rich for the blessed life they’d provided her. Now she was too entrenched in her job to ever consider leaving.

“Not as difficult as I’d imagined. I like Detroit.” At her eye-roll he insisted, “There’s a lot of energy here with the younger generation taking over the older neighborhoods and restoring them. I hope the Riverfront experiences the same revitalization sooner rather than later.”

“Difficult to picture a cowboy fitting in with automotive workers.”

“I’m not really a cowboy.”

The rogue smile…the muscular body…the self-assured attitude…yeah, right. “So the boots and hat are for show?”

“The hat became a habit. And I told you the boots were a gift from my mother. She gave them to me shortly before she passed away, and you can’t beat a sheepskin jacket in this bitter cold.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Ready to discuss the warehouse?” he asked, ignoring Renée’s condolence. His mother must be a touchy subject.

“Let’s not beat around the bush. I need you to hold off on the demolition for a week.”

“Give me a reason.”

Suddenly she lost her appetite and left the table to stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the suite. The lights of Windsor, Ontario twinkled across the river. “Can’t you trust me?”

“Trust you? I don’t even know you.” He joined her at the window, shoving his fingers through his dark hair, mussing the recently combed strands. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than trust me to convince me to halt anything.” When her gaze remained trained on Canada, he clasped her shoulder—his fingers firm, yet gentle. “Maybe I can help. I’ve got some pull with the—”

She stepped aside, breaking contact. The wealthy assumed they had the answer to every problem, when in fact, their interference usually made things worse. Right now she was battling a community development board comprised of local businessmen. She needed their approval for a recreation center for at-risk kids, which she hoped to open in the Warehouse District.

A year ago she’d acquired funding for the project and had approached the board for permission to purchase a deserted building that had once housed a dry cleaners and a food market. The board members denied her request citing that a center for undesirable kids would have a negative impact when they were trying to attract new businesses to the area.

For over a year Renée had worked tirelessly on the project, believing at-risk kids deserved a safe space to hang out and socialize after school. Instead, the children were left in the cold—like those she was attempting to assist now.

“What’s it going to be, Renée?”

Dear God, she hoped she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. “I can’t tell you. I’ll have to show you.”

Chapter Three

A night sky of sparkling stars greeted Renée and Duke when they left the hotel. “Maybe we should wait until tomorrow,” he suggested. “It’s dangerous along the Riverfront after dark.”

“If you’re concerned about safety, why are you moving your company there?” She marched toward the visitor parking lot.

Picking up his pace, Duke followed. “My office building will have surveillance cameras and a security guard 24/7.”

“Not to worry. I doubt even criminals are foolish enough to venture out in these frigid temps.”

The fact that Renée had grown up in Detroit and knew the area did nothing to ease his anxiety. “Should I follow you?”

“We’ll take my car.”

When they reached the wagon, he held open the driver-side door for her, then skirted the hood and hopped into the passenger seat. He fumbled with the lever then shoved the seat as far back as possible, which still left his knees pressed against the glove compartment.

She eyed his scrunched frame. “Would you rather drive your truck?”

“I’ll manage as long as you don’t slam on the brakes.”

They made the short trip in silence. She turned into the Screw & Bolt Factory parking lot and drove past the construction crane to the far end where the gloomy outline of the building materialized. His muscles tightened with dread as he unfolded his long legs and got out of the car. A sixth sense warned he’d be better off never learning what Renée wanted with the warehouse.

“This way.”

Duke walked at her side, his cowboy boots dragging across the brittle pavement. Hands fisted, his eyes fixated on the shadows, ready to protect Renée from whatever evil lay in wait.

As they drew closer to the building, he spotted the rusty sign: Industrial Public Warehouse. Renée paused to pull a flashlight from her coat pocket. She switched it on and they entered through a side service door. The yellow beam splashed across the chipped brick walls displaying the tags spray-painted by a local graffiti artist. Duke indicated the image of a bear-shaped man surrounded by smaller bear women. “The drawings are pretty good.”

“I’ve encouraged Troy to apply to art school.”

“You’ve met the kid who vandalized this property?” Duke’s eyes prowled the area as they crossed the first floor. The popping and cracking of glass beneath their shoes echoed through the emptiness.

“Troy’s nineteen. Doesn’t have a job. Runs around with a group of troublemakers.”

The kid should put his talent to better use than defacing public warehouses. Duke imagined his colleagues’ astonishment if he commissioned the delinquent to sketch bears on the walls of the lobby in the new Dalton Industries building.

“Watch your step,” she said as they entered a stairwell.

When they reached the third floor, light from the full moon spilled through a gaping hole in the wall, illuminating battered parts of thirty-year-old cars used for spray-painting practice. A skateboard ramp claimed the fourth floor. Someone had put in a lot of effort and time hauling large planks of plywood up four flights to construct the ramp.

They continued to the fifth and final floor. Duke and his Realtor hadn’t bothered to investigate the top floor, assuming they’d find more of the same—debris and trash. She knocked on the door. Once. After a long pause she added two more knocks.

Was that a signal? What or who occupied the fifth floor?

Flashlight aimed in front of her, Renée opened the door.

Piles of newspapers and empty food containers littered the area. After several steps, she held up a hand and he stopped. The beam of light skirted across a maze of cardboard boxes that connected to form a tunnel. A towel concealed the opening at one end.

“It’s me. Everyone okay in there?” Renée spoke in a hushed whisper.

Seconds ticked by and no sound. Finally a small hand pushed the towel aside and a face popped into view. A kid’s face. Although the temperature in the building hovered below freezing, Duke’s forehead broke out in a sweat. Images of a wrecking ball slamming into the side of the brick wall and children falling to their deaths flashed before his eyes.

One face turned into two. Three…four…holy, hell. A gang of kids had set up camp in his warehouse.

Renée ignored Duke’s sharp indrawn breath, focusing on the children in front of her. “Hey, everyone. I brought a friend.” Duke Dalton wasn’t a friend by a long shot, but she didn’t wish to frighten the children. Renée had discovered the clan a few days ago thanks to a tip from a transient woman in one of the city shelters. The elderly lady had overheard teenagers whispering about a group of kids hiding in a building along the Riverfront and had reported the news to shelter personnel.

The kids, save one, were familiar to Renée—most had been in and out of the foster-care system for years. Timmy, a shy, petite boy, slipped from the tunnel first. “Did you bring food?”

Oh, shoot. Guilt pricked her that she’d lounged in Duke’s hotel room enjoying pizza while the kids had waited for supper—which she’d forgotten.

“Ms. Sweeney wanted to ask what everybody’s hungry for.” Duke’s masculine voice sent Timmy scampering inside the tunnel.

Renée shot Duke a startled glance, surprised he’d come to her rescue. Flustered, she said, “Mr. Dalton won’t hurt you.”

Crystal, the Goth thirteen-year-old, emerged. Dressed from head-to-toe in black, she wore bell-bottom cargo pants with silver chains attached to the waistband, a T-shirt and clunky combat-style boots. Eyes rimmed with dark shadow and mascara, the teen had dyed her eyebrows and hair to match the ebony polish on her nails. Her menacing gaze fixated on Duke and she snarled, “Who’s that?”