A Cowboy at Heart

A ray of hope glimmered and he snatched up his phone again. The solution was simple, really. Ted Gunderson from Oasis would just have to come and collect these leftover children. Tonight. That was all there was to it.

CHAPTER TWO

MIRANDA ADJUSTED her heavy backpack on already aching shoulders. Several miles back, she’d ceased having any feeling in her blistered heels. No matter what negative things people might say about street kids, somewhere around Fresno it became clear to her that they couldn’t be faulted for lack of stamina.

She, Jenny and her pals had been on the road for more than a week. Sometimes they hitched rides, but because they refused to split up, mostly they relied on shank’s mare, as her daddy used to call hoofing it.

Eric, Shawn and Greg had started complaining in earnest after the last town disappeared and they’d entered this desolate road. If not for the fact that the nights were pitch-black and cold, Miranda would’ve been content to let the others turn back. She felt most sympathetic toward Jenny, whose thin jacket was no barrier against the weather. Midweek, long-haul truckers they encountered at a rest stop said it was spitting snow atop the Siskiyou mountain pass. Practically overnight, Mount Lassen, visible in the distance, looked like a vanilla ice-cream cone sparkling in weak sunlight.

“Hey, look over there!” Miranda’s excited voice rose above Shawn’s griping about the driver who’d just passed. “Shh!” Again she tried to compete with Shawn’s swearing and the barking dog. They’d voted to name him Scraps to depict his throwaway status.

Making little headway, Miranda placed two fingers between her teeth. Her whistle garnered the attention of all but the dog. Sparing the dog a last exasperated glance, Miranda pulled out the battered flyer she’d kept as a guide-post. “I think we’ve found it. The ranch. Doesn’t that house at the end of this lane look like the one pictured here?”

Scraps scampered on ahead while the road-weary teens circled around Miranda to peer at the badly crumpled paper.

“It’s about time,” Eric grumbled. “Jenny’s got one sneaker worn all the way through.”

Shawn, the heftiest of the three boys, rubbed his belly. “I hope they haven’t already eaten. I’m starved.”

Greg punched his arm. “You’re always starved. You think we didn’t see Randi slip you half a pack of the hot dogs we bummed off those hikers yesterday?”

The always-hungry boy glanced guiltily at his companions. “I can’t help it that my bones weigh more than your whole body, Greg. We didn’t all have itty-bitty Korean moms. And for all we know, your dad could’ve been a squirt. Not all sailors are bruisers, you know.”

Miranda uttered a cranky sigh. A guaranteed way to create dissension was for anyone to bring up the shortfalls of a parent. Before starting out, they’d made a pact, agreeing that attacks of this nature were taboo, which had suited Miranda. Eric, who obviously had mixed-race parents, and Greg, who admittedly did, were touchiest. Before Miranda joined their ranks, Greg had confided to the others that his mom had made him learn English and had sent him to California, hoping her great-uncle would help Greg find the sailor who’d left her pregnant and alone in Seoul. But the relative, an elderly man, had passed away. And Greg soon ran out of cash. Alone, he’d had no luck locating the sailor in a grainy snapshot. His only clue other than the photo was the name Gregory Jones, which might or might not have been valid. The navy had a plethora of Gregory and G. Joneses, none of whom claimed to have fathered a child out of wedlock. But thanks to his early experience in Seoul, Greg was adept at street living. Even so, he was defensive as hell about almost everything.

Shawn, by contrast, was apparently the product of a wealthy but abusive dad and an actress who’d flown the coop. Miranda would have thought he’d be more sympathetic toward poor Greg. Instead, the boys bickered constantly, and she was getting fed up.

“Guys,” she cautioned, “let’s try and be on our best behavior when we meet the ranch owner. I, for one, am too beat to want him kicking us out of his program.”

“What do you mean, program?” Eric narrowed perpetually angry dark eyes. “The flyer didn’t say we had to join any program to stay here.”

Jenny curled a hand around Eric’s suddenly rigid forearm. “I’m cold, Eric. And Shawn’s starved. Can we quit arguing long enough to check out this guy’s gig? Back in L.A., we agreed Benny Garcia was right when he said we’d be happier bunking here than hustling cots at fleabag shelters.”

“Who agreed?” Eric, his thin face framed by shoulder-length dreadlocks that tended to make people view him as a hoodlum, grimaced. “I let you talk me into it.”

Miranda hadn’t witnessed more than a close friendship between Eric and Jenny—certainly not a romance. He was prone to fly off the handle, and the younger girl provided a calming influence for the boy. But she’d discovered that all small homeless pods had a leader, and Eric, despite his moods, was theirs. So she was doubly relieved when, by tacit agreement, they moved in the direction of the sprawling ranch.

The barn, which they passed first, looked sturdy, even though it needed paint. Two long outbuildings flanking the main house were equally weathered but appeared to have new roofs. One, if not both, could house teens and/or serve as sleeping quarters for ranch workers. Miranda doubted Jenny and the boys had taken notice of the amenities, and she wouldn’t bring it to their attention. Being older, and possessing a great deal more travel savvy that she needed to conceal, she took care during this trek not to preach—a trait that ranked low with street kids. Nor did she want them speculating that she wasn’t really one of them.

When they’d passed through the town of Chico, Miranda had managed a good look at a Sunday newspaper someone had left at a rest area. The story of her disappearance, while no longer front-page news, still rated a two-inch column in the entertainment section. She needed a place to lie low until there was no mention of her at all.

It shook her to see Wes Carlisle pretend to mourn her publicly, when she knew how fraudulent it was. The article mentioned a deal Wes had worked to reissue all volumes of Misty’s back albums—to keep her memory alive, he claimed. Ha! Nothing but pure greed and ambition lay behind Wes’s rerelease of her hits. He would exploit her absence for all it was worth. And once her name ceased being profitable, he’d cut his losses and find some other naive singer to “manage.” Then she could go back and, with a clearer head, finally confront him.

The group stopped within a hundred yards of the house, where they could see a man stalking back and forth in front of a wide, inviting porch.

Miranda fell instantly in love with the porch. Her dad’s house had boasted one roomy enough for a swing, and the band had often gathered to make music there. Instant warmth toward this ranch began to replace her weariness.

That wasn’t the case for Eric. He stopped to squint at a rusty wrought-iron arch. “Rascal Ranch? How hokey can he get? Does the dude expect us to be wannabe bronco busters, or what?”

“Maybe this is the wrong ranch.” Jenny pointed at the front porch. “Look at all those little kids.”

Miranda followed Jenny’s finger. Indeed, a young boy and a smaller girl hovered around a third child in a wheelchair. The hope that had begun to mount in Miranda suddenly plummeted.

“This obviously isn’t the teen retreat we’re looking for,” she murmured. “But…the architecture’s so similar, we must be near the place. Eric, take our flyer and go ask that man if he knows this ranch. It may take a minute, since he’s on his cell phone.”

“I’m surprised there’s cell reception out here in Nowhereville,” Eric responded. “Damn, look! Scraps is attacking the guy’s pant legs. Wow, is he ever pissed off.”

“Let Randi go,” Shawn said. “Scraps is her mutt.”

“Shawn’s right.” Eric nudged Randi forward. “I’ll stay and do what I can to plug Jenny’s shoes. Especially since we’ve probably gotta hike who knows how many more friggin’ miles. Just everybody remember—I voted to stay in L.A.”

The others groaned and plopped down on the ground, heedless of the damp. Miranda reluctantly took the flyer and set out, girding herself to be yelled at by the rancher.

The first thing that struck her as she drew near was that the man shouting at someone on the phone was younger than she’d judged him at first glance. Mid-thirties at most. But regardless of age, he was furious. The cords in his neck bulged as he stomped around, gesturing wildly. A lock of sun-streaked light-brown hair fell stubbornly across his forehead, in spite of the fact that he kept shoving it back. Mad or not, he was fine to look at, Miranda thought, slowing her approach. And if that was his Excursion with a vanity plate reading BAD SUV, it showed he had a sense of humor.

“Hold on a minute, Gunderson.” The man whirled and glared at Miranda. “If this barking beast belongs to you, shut him up. I’m trying to have a serious discussion, and I can’t hear a damned thing.”

Oops. So his disposition was nowhere nearly as fine as his looks. And forget what she’d said about his sense of humor. Miranda scooped up Scraps, who obviously felt that snapping at the man’s shiny boot heels was great sport.

The minute the dog stopped his incessant barking, Linc Parker felt the pounding in his head slowly begin to subside. He flashed a thank-you with his eyes toward the woman responsible for the pest’s capture. Linc intended to get immediately back to dickering with Gunderson, but words failed him momentarily as—both fascinated and horrified—he watched the newcomer let that damn dog lick her nose and lips. Yuck! Did she know her pet had just been sniffing a pile of cow pucky?

“What? Yes, I’m still here, Ted.” But Linc, affected by the sultry laugh of the dog’s owner, had to tighten his grip on the phone. Eventually he shook himself back to the present. “Like I said, the situation you foisted on me is totally unacceptable. Why? You have the nerve to ask?” Linc flung an arm toward the three youngsters huddled in a knot on his porch. “I’ve explained twice. I don’t know squat about little kids. Plus…well, you leaving them here isn’t right.”

He swallowed what he might have added, noticing that the gray eyes of the woman darted sympathetically to the cringing children. He also noticed that she clutched one of his flyers.

Feeling guilty, Linc let his voice trail off and his arm drop. “Look, I’ve got other problems on top of this one. I agree, John Montoya missed a lot. Apparently he also passed out flyers in L.A. inviting street kids to my facility before I planned on opening, so why am I surprised he loused up with you?”

Linc paced several steps to the open door of his Ford Excursion and rummaged inside until he came up with a notebook and pen. Anchoring the phone between his chin and shoulder, he said, “If you insist there’s nothing you can do today, give me the name and number of that social worker again.” Listening intently, Linc scribbled on his pad. “I know you said the agency is in disarray. I understand she’s not available until after the Thanksgiving holiday. But surely someone in her office can deal with this problem. What? Yeah, I guessed it was a small agency. I also guaran-damn-tee I’ll start there and climb up the chain of command until I reach someone in Sacramento if I have to. For one thing, I intend to report those houseparents of yours. The Tuckers should be barred from ever working with kids again. George claimed the way to keep them in line was to slap them around. Come to think of it, where’s your organization’s responsibility?”

“Gunderson? Ted?” Linc made a disgusted sound and threw his cell into the front seat of his vehicle as he ripped the sheet off the pad and stuffed it in his pocket. The Oasis rep had flat-out hung up on him.

Lincoln didn’t like that the woman holding the dog was scowling at him as if he’d just crawled out from under a rock. Hell! Judging by the storm gathering in her eyes, she could well be another of his mounting problems. All he needed to cork his day was a spitfire street kid with a temper—if that was actually what she was. Oddly, she struck him as older.

He smoothed a hand down over a chin grown prickly with late-in-the-day stubble. “I’m sorry, uh…Miss, er Ms.? I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a disadvantage. I’m Lincoln Parker, new owner of this facility. I, uh, see you’re in possession of a flyer I’m assuming you picked up down south?”

Miranda nodded as she pushed Scraps’s nose out of her face. “L.A. My friends and I have been on the road awhile. We’re tired and hungry.” She extended the creased flyer. “So, are you open or not? I wasn’t purposely eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help overhearing part of your conversation.”

“Not!” Linc snapped. “Open,” he added with less force as he saw the defeated slump of her slim shoulders. Shaking his head, he dropped his gaze to the toes of her battered army boots. “I just got here myself. Not only did I expect to have time to fix things up before any teens arrived, but the previous owner threw me a curve by leaving behind three former tenants.”

Lincoln pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He didn’t know why he was confiding so much in this stranger who clearly expected a haven for herself and the friends she’d left at the side of the road.

“Look, what’s your name?”

“Randi,” she supplied. “And this is Scraps.” She jerked a thumb toward the road. “Out there are Jenny, Shawn, Greg and Eric.”

“Jenny? Eric?” Linc spun around and strained to see through the waning light. Even now, hearing the names of Felicity’s so-called friends, who’d dumped her at the hospital and then taken off, made his stomach churn.

“Do you know them?”