“Hey, Parker, wait up!”

Miranda called to the man who barreled on ahead like a steam engine. “I’m going to give the dog this bit of steak I saved from dinner.”

Stopping midstride, Lincoln Parker turned and noticed the mist from Randi’s breath curling around her head. “Okay, but make it snappy. If we stay out too long we’ll freeze.”

Smiling, she peered up from where she’d knelt to feed the shivering dog. “I love cold, crisp autumns. Reminds me of home.”

“Really? Where’s home?” Linc pounced on her statement.

Miranda felt the color drain from her face. She felt exposed. Trapped. “I can’t tell you that, Parker—Linc. Please don’t send me away. I’m…ah—”

“What? On the lam from the cops?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Stronger now, she didn’t fumble so much for words. “There’s some…one I’m running from.”

Linc drew back and studied her pale features. “A man?”

Looking stricken, Miranda nodded. She waited for the logical next question and then for the ax to fall.

“You’re running from a husband, then?” he asked harshly.

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Dear Reader,

The heroine of this story, Miranda Kimbrough, has lived inside my head for several years. She came to me one day when I overheard a well-known singer telling a companion that life at the top of the music charts isn’t always rosy.

Since then, I’ve listened to interviews with singing sensations from a variety of musical fields. Many hinted at what the first woman had said. Life at the top means hard work, sleepless nights, endless days on the road, constant pressure from managers, promoters and fans to keep producing hits. As the pressure builds, one singer said, “You lose pieces of your life and almost all of your heart.”

The love stories we write are about healing and redemption. It’s taken me all this time to find my exhausted country singer a fitting mate. But because love itself isn’t easy, and because I wanted to make Miranda’s love everlasting, I needed Lincoln Parker to have fought his own battles. So that when he commits himself to Miranda, it’s with all his heart.

I hope readers will come to appreciate, as I have, the long road to love embarked on by “Misty” Kimbrough, country legend, and Linc Parker, emotionally scarred former Hollywood financial wizard. And I hope you’ll take to heart the ragtag mix of homeless kids who help show them the way.

I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, AZ 85731 or e-mail me at rdfox@worldnet.att.net.

Best,

Roz Denny Fox

A Cowboy at Heart
Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my daughters, Kelly and Korynna. I’m so proud of you

for your patience in dealing with children, and for the

loving moms you’ve both become. This book’s for you.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

Los Angeles, California

HIGH ON A HILLSIDE above a posh Hollywood community where he served as financial adviser to a wide array of successful movie and rock stars, thirty-two-year-old Lincoln Parker stared absently down at the six-month-old grave of his kid sister, Felicity. Sinking to his knees, Parker anchored a small bouquet of yellow roses to the stone. He paid scant heed to the gusty Santa Ana winds tugging at his suit coat. Pretty as the roses were, Linc considered them a sad commemoration on what should have been his sister’s seventeenth birthday.

“Felicity, I, uh…I’m trying to make good on my promise. The one I…made far too late to help you.” Pausing, Linc scrubbed at tears that spilled over his cheeks. “Just…maybe I can save other kids from suffering your fate. God, honey, I hope you know how sorry I am that I didn’t s-see you were serious.”

Heaving himself up, Linc thrust shaking hands deep into the pockets of his pin-striped pants. Gazing across endless rows of flat, gray headstones, he swallowed the huge lump in his throat and clamped his teeth tight against further apologies his sister would never hear.

Damn, he’d tried to provide for her after their mom died. His sister had been a change-of-life baby for their movie-star mother and a much older director. Olivia Parker hadn’t wanted a second kid, and Felicity’s father reportedly still had a wife. Linc’s own dad was also in the film business, but he’d long before succumbed to alcohol and had never been part of Linc’s existence. At the time their mom ended her messed-up life, Linc had just finished high school. Because he’d been awarded a full scholarship to U.C. Berkeley, the family-court judge had asked his maternal grandmother to take charge of the Parker household.

Looking back, Linc saw that Grandmother Welch had been far too permissive a caretaker for an impressionable growing girl. At the time, though, he’d gone blithely off to university, glad to be liberated from the daunting task. After all, what had he, at eighteen, known about raising kids? “Not a damn thing!” Linc shook his head.

After a last grim perusal of his sister’s grave, he turned and strode briskly toward his silver Jaguar.

In the years between Grandmother Welch’s death, thanks largely to her hedonistic lifestyle, when he was twenty-five, and Felicity’s—of a street drug overdose, the cops said—Linc had committed sins of his own. Overindulgence of his sister was clearly uppermost among them. He accepted the blame. Hell, he’d burst onto the Hollywood scene with a shiny new MBA, and he’d obviously worn blinders when it came to anyone’s excesses. Including his sister’s… Still, he believed that his belated decision to atone for past transgressions was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

As if his musings triggered a response, his cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He retrieved it and flipped open the case as he slid beneath the car’s wood-grained steering wheel.

It seemed fortuitous to hear John Montoya’s voice. “Hi, Linc. I’m up north, at the ranch you asked me to check out.”

“I’m afraid to ask, John. Is the place a disaster or is it anything like the ad in Sunday’s paper?”

“Basically it meets your requirements—unless you count the fact that it’s twenty miles from anything resembling a town,” Montoya said with a chuckle.

“Good. Perfect. I’ve been reading up on ranching and on teen refugees, plus talking to people. So there’s a livable bunkhouse and main residence, as well as a parcel of raw land?”

“Uh…yeah. Three hundred or so acres. You’ll want to change the name, though. Rascal Ranch doesn’t seem appropriate for what you’ve got in mind. According to the representative from the Oasis Foundation—the current owners—the ranch has been used for various social-development programs over the past five years.”

“For instance?”

“Uh, a summer camp for underprivileged kids. A horse-therapy program for amputees that Oasis funded for a couple of years. Their last project, I think he said, was stopgap housing for kids awaiting adoption.”

“Why is Oasis dumping the ranch now?”

“Ted Gunderson said it’s difficult to get and keep houseparents way out here. I tell you, Linc, the property is smack in the middle of nowhere.”

“In the middle of nowhere suits me fine. A haven for ex-druggie street kids is better if it’s less accessible to temptations. Okay, John, you have my permission to start dickering. Now that I’ve made up my mind, I’m anxious to get going. If Oasis is willing to negotiate, I’ll go as high as the top figure we discussed. Oh, and John, if you close a deal, will you swing past the county courthouse and apply for whatever licenses I’ll need to house a dozen or so kids?”

“I almost forgot—that’s the big plus. Oasis will transfer their group-home license to you.”

“That’s permissible?”

“Must be. Gunderson seems to know. He says they have a year left on their state contract, but you’ll need to undergo a Social Services inspection. Gunderson claims it’s a mere formality. He implied there’s nothing much to qualifying as a bona fide shelter.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” For the first time since the idea had struck him, Linc felt the heaviness around his heart lift just a little. “I’m headed back to my office. If you work a deal, contact me there. Then I’ll put my house in Coldwater Canyon on the market and start notifying clients that I’m turning them over to my partner until I get the shelter operating. Thought I’d allow at least two years. By the way, Dennis has promised he’ll retain your firm for all the legwork I currently have you do.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence. I only hope I can work with Dennis. I realize you like the guy, but frankly, Linc, I hope you know what you’re doing. Rumor has it he’s pulled some shady stuff to get accounts.”

“You’ve been in Tinseltown long enough to know you shouldn’t listen to rumors.”

“I tell you, Dennis Morrison doesn’t have the same standards you do.”

“Name something he’s done besides drop a couple of going-nowhere B stars to make room for a few up-and-comers. I wouldn’t have done it, but our competitors do it constantly. I trust Dennis enough to hand him my personal portfolio. I doubt I’ll have time to follow the market for a while. Running a teen shelter is going to be a new experience for me. Once it’s up and running smoothly, I figure I can step back and just do the fund-raising for it. By then I’ll be ready to get back into the business.”

“Why risk your career at all, man? You’ve got it made where you are.”

“I’m doing it for Felicity.”

“I gotta be honest here. You’re putting your life on hold because you feel guilty about something no one could’ve foreseen. You gave that kid a life anyone in her right mind would grab in a minute. Felicity blew it, Linc. That’s the unvarnished truth.”

“She was sixteen, John, my responsibility any way you cut it. I spend part of every single day in the Hollywood trenches. I knew she didn’t have the talent to be a rock star. Instead of taking the time to try and steer her in a better direction, I shelled out bucks whenever she found some new bloodsucker to give her voice or music lessons. I guess I hoped she’d eventually see for herself. That was a big mistake. My mistake.”

“Yeah,” John muttered. “You think your crystal ball should’ve told you one of her so-called mentors or rocker pals was a drug dealer on the side.”

“According to the cops, not all street kids are losers. I can’t save all of them from Felicity’s fate, but maybe I can redirect one or two. All I know is that I’ll never be able to live with myself if I don’t try. Call me with a final deal, all right?”

There was an uncomfortable silence until Linc added, “This Gunderson guy you’re dealing with—he verified that there are no restrictions on the land against farming, right? I mean, part of my plan is to have the kids invest a little honest sweat plowing, planting and harvesting crops that’ll eventually pay for their upkeep. I’m not offering any other kid a free ride like I gave Felicity. That’s where I really fouled up.”

“You’ll have the land, Farmer Parker. Jeez, I have a hard time envisioning you with blisters on those Midas hands of yours. But if you’re serious, I’ll go dicker.”

“Hear me, John. I am serious. Never more so. I’ll be waiting for your report at my office. So long for now.”

Nashville, Tennessee

PHONY FOG hissed from canisters strategically placed behind a row of footlights. A single spotlight faded by degrees until it left the twenty-six-year-old country singer swallowed in darkness and her signature mist. Her body cringed away from a rolling swell of whistles and stamping feet.

Unsnapping her guitar strap, she passed the instrument to a stagehand who’d materialized from the wings. Her mind was fixed on the solace waiting in her dressing room.

“Awesome performance, Misty!” The stagehand’s shout was drowned out by the thunderous din from the auditorium. “Hey, where ya goin’?” The kid’s lanky frame blocked her passage.

“I’m fixin’ to go change out of this hot costume.” The singer blotted perspiration from her forehead with a satin sleeve. Eyes made electric blue—by contacts her manager insisted she wear to conceal what he called her blah gray eyes—closed tiredly.

“Wes said you hafta give four encores tonight.”

Her eyes flew open and she shook her head.

“Yep. It’s a packed house. Wes says you’re to give ’em a taste of your new songs so every fan here will stampede to the lobby and buy a CD.”

“Four encores?” She sounded dazed, as if he’d asked the impossible. Indeed, he had.

Four fingers were waggled under her nose. The crescendo beyond the stage had escalated to a degree that caused the young man to give up attempting to communicate. He pressed the guitar into her midriff and shoved her back toward center stage.

Miranda Kimbrough, known to country-music fans simply as Misty, dragged in a deep breath. Plastering on a smile as she’d done so many times, she edged into the bright spotlight. She was a corporation. A multimillion-dollar star to whom a host of folks had hitched their wagons. So many people now depended on her that she was afraid of cracking under the burden. Besides back-to-back concerts at home and abroad, there were charity events scheduled and a growing number of photo shoots. Recently, subsidiary companies using her image had marketed T-shirts, look-alike dolls, posters and glossy notebook covers. She needed a break. She felt weighted down. Yet no one heard her plea.

When the theater again fell silent, Miranda adjusted the microphone with a trembling hand. It took a Herculean effort, but finally the music transported her to a place where singing songs had been a joy.

Her newest piece, one she’d entitled “A Cowboy at Heart,” flowed easily from her husky voice. As well it should. She’d written it for her dad. And then she sang “A Last Goodbye,” which paid tribute to both her parents. Frankly, Miranda doubted anyone in this faceless audience knew or cared that eleven years ago on this very night, her father and his band had perished in the wicked storm raging across his beloved Tennessee hills. The new songs poured out her heartache for a dad she’d lost five days after her fifteenth birthday, and for a mom who’d died of pneumonia when Miranda was four.

Even the most cynical among her production crew considered these ballads her very best. Who’d have guessed they’d be her last? Certainly not Wes Carlisle, her manager, a soulless man who’d hustled her into a one-sided contract during the confusing days following her dad’s death.

Wes would be livid when his caged bird flew the coop, and that made her smile.

Her band? A different story. She regretted not confiding in them. Her piano man and steel guitarist were dedicated. And Colby Donovan, her arranger, was the only one left of her dad’s friends. It was a good thing he was home recovering from surgery. When she’d attempted to tell Colby how she felt, he’d dispensed his usual bear hug and said Doug would have been so very proud of her. She’d achieved the pinnacle of success that her dad’s band had almost but never quite reached.

Despite regrets, she’d planned her flight. It would be complete. And it would be tonight—while Carlisle and his henchmen licked their chops, counting the proceeds they raked in from her sold-out concert. Wesley pushed and pushed and pushed her to write more and better chart breakers. No more, no more, Miranda thought with astonishing relief as the audience went still. Perhaps the fans had seen her tears. She couldn’t stop them from running down her face.

One last bow. One last wave. She had nothing left to give.

Look at them. They all envied her fame and fortune. None would understand she’d never wanted to be a star. She loved singing, but…

This time when Misty passed her guitar to the kid holding Wes’s clipboard full of must-dos, he obviously sensed steel in her backbone. Still, he cautioned, “Wes won’t like that you only gave two encores.” Jogging to keep up with Miranda’s long strides, he panted. “Wes has you timed to the second. Now you’ll hafta sit in your dressing room until he frees up a bodyguard to escort you to your bus. So I better stay with you.”

Miranda’s steps faltered as she neared her dressing room. “Remind Wes I said at rehearsal that this sequence would drain me. I need to have some time to myself. He’ll recall the conversation, uh…Dave, isn’t it?”

“Hey, you know my name. Cool! Wes hired me for this tour, ’cause your new CD’s gonna be a smash. He gave me strict instructions, but hey, you’re the star, Ms…. Mis…Misty,” the smitten kid stammered.

Miranda hated that Wes would fire this boy for losing her. But it couldn’t be helped. Dave’s very inexperience played into her hands.

AS IT HAPPENED, her escape turned out to be ridiculously easy. Inside her star quarters, Misty meticulously transformed herself back into the nondescript persona of Miranda Kimbrough. First, she hacked her long blond hair into a short spiky mop—carefully storing the cuttings in a plastic bag to be tossed later. Then she dyed her hair black. Without her blue contacts she barely recognized the woman staring out from the full-length mirror. Add ragged jeans, a faded blouse and a denim jacket straight off a boys’ rack, plus run-down combat boots and an old army backpack she’d scrounged from a thrift shop, and her getaway ensemble was complete. Inside the pack, she’d squirreled away cash withdrawn from one of her accounts. Considering she had millions, it was a pittance.

She worried that the meager funds wouldn’t last. But because Wes scrutinized her bank statements, she’d been afraid to take more. Miranda hoped what she had would keep her fed and on the road until her disappearance became yesterday’s news. For good measure, she’d sewn a pair of diamond earrings into the lining of her jacket. She didn’t need diamonds. Only freedom. A chance to be herself.

While Dave guarded the front entry of her dressing room, Miranda slipped out a rarely used back door. Head down, she sped down a hall and merged with a teeming horde purchasing CDs from Wesley’s hawkers. Rick Holden, Wes’s right-hand man, even tried to sell her a compact disc.

Shaking her still-damp curls, Miranda popped a stick of sugarless gum in her mouth and blended with a group of boisterous teens leaving the arena. Once free of the building, she ran for six blocks. Only then did she haul in a lungful of crisp October air. But she didn’t relax until a Greyhound bus bound for Detroit left the glittering lights of Nashville behind.

Starting in Detroit, her plan was to hop a string of buses that would eventually deposit her in far-off L.A. She reasoned that if one small woman couldn’t lose herself on the streets of Los Angeles, she couldn’t find anonymity anywhere.

IT TOOK THREE WEEKS after she pulled her disappearing act for Miranda Kimbrough to reach her destination. She hadn’t reckoned on Wes suggesting to police that she’d been kidnapped, possibly for ransom. The band, all the staffers and roadies, everyone had heard her beg him for time off. But when her bus hit Kansas City, it was a shock to see headlines screaming KIDNAPPED! above her most recent promo photo now plastered on the front pages of major newspapers and magazines.

Panicked, Miranda had taken refuge on the streets with the homeless. Luckily she’d met some kind folks. And vowed that if she ever managed to access her bank funds again, she’d help the homeless in some manner.

When temperatures dropped into the twenties, Miranda began to feel guilty for taking up space at the cramped shelter. And guiltier still accepting a handout of food, knowing all the while that she could, with one phone call, return to a life of privilege.

Could. But she didn’t make that call.

Wes virtually owned her. He pointed out often enough that she’d signed an ironclad contract. He’d find a way to turn her disappearance into a windfall. Going back would change nothing—except that she could expect to be watched twenty-four hours a day.

In the aftermath of her dad’s death, Miranda learned that few people in the industry performed for the sheer pleasure of it. Her dad had been a rarity. Doug Kimbrough had placed family at the top of his priorities. He’d loved her mother and Miranda and successfully juggled work and his home life.

Since Wes had signed her, she hadn’t spent more than two nights in a row in her own bed at home. And she’d like to make just one friend who didn’t eat, sleep and breathe music at warp speed. Someday she’d like to meet a man who could see beyond her voice. Someone who really cared about her likes, dislikes, needs and fantasies.

Her murky thoughts turned inward as Miranda hitched her backpack higher and trudged out of the busy L.A. bus terminal, and headed for an inner-city park she’d scoped out on a seat companion’s map. Another helpful tip she’d picked up in K.C. was that the homeless congregated in parks. By mingling with them, a newcomer could glean information vital to survival. This particular park was maybe a ten-block hike away, but Miranda didn’t care. L.A. was much warmer than Kansas.

Pausing a moment, she slipped out of her lined denim jacket.

“Hi. Is that your dog?” A breathy voice spoke directly behind Miranda, causing her to whirl and duck sharply. A savvy homeless woman in K.C. had repeatedly warned Miranda about not letting anyone come up too close behind her.

“Uh…no. I don’t have a dog. I just got off a bus.”

“Oh.”

“Do you live around here? If so, maybe you can help me get my bearings.” Miranda extracted a pack of gum from her pocket and offered a stick to the unkempt brunette—a young woman probably not even out of her teens.

With her face free of makeup, Miranda thought she probably didn’t look much more than a teenager herself.

“Thanks for the gum. I’m Jenny, by the way.” Shrugging, she said, “I guess you could say I live here. I caught some z’s last night at the bus depot. Sometimes the cops run us out. Last night I got lucky.” She stripped the paper off the gum. Both women cast sidelong glances at the scruffy black-and-white terrier now sitting placidly at Miranda’s feet.

“If he’s not yours or mine, then whose is he?” Kneeling, Miranda ran a hand around his neck in search of a collar. She and Jenny were alone on either side of the street for at least a block. “He’s not tagged.”

“Big surprise. He’s been dumped. This area’s well-known as a dumping ground for homeless people and strays.”

“So are you, uh, homeless?” Miranda asked hesitantly.

The girl’s grin softened otherwise hard features. “Depending on who you ask, I’m both homeless and a stray. You by chance got any smokes?”

“Sorry, it’s not a habit I ever picked up.”

“Lucky you.” Jenny continued to stare. “You have a smoker’s voice. Unless it’s your accent. Are you from down South?”

“Used to be.” Miranda rolled one shoulder. Preferring to change the subject, she straightened and said, “I may not have cigarettes, but I have two sandwiches. A guy on the bus took pity on me at the last stop. I wasn’t hungry then, but I’m fixin’ to be now. He said one’s roast beef on wheat. The other’s tuna on rye. I’ll give you first pick.”

“Cool. How about we split fifty-fifty? I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Eric, he’s my buddy, lucked out and got a gig playing at a wedding reception last night. He promised me he’d nab leftovers. Anyway, he’ll come away with a chunk of change. It won’t be that much, though. And Eric needs new strings for his guitar.”

Miranda’s stomach sank. “Oh, your friend is a musician?”

“Yeah. Me, too. Well, not really.” She pulled a wry face. “Me and a girlfriend tried to break into rock and roll. But Felicity—that’s my friend—she, uh, died.” Sudden tears halted Jenny’s explanation.

Miranda’s sympathetic murmur prompted the girl to continue. “Felicity and me had a real scummy audition, see. They’re all hard. Some are really bad. The jerk in charge made us feel like shit. And my friend had her heart set on getting that job. Felicity’s brother is, like, some finance guru to big-deal stars. She wanted to impress him. So it, like, hit her super hard when the guy said we were totally awful. Felicity must’ve gone straight out and bought some bad dope. Eric and me, we found her and carried her to County Hospital straight away. But it was too late.”

“I’m sorry.” Miranda’s temples had begun to pound, if not from trying to follow Jenny’s narrative, then from hunger. She took out the sack of sandwiches and sat on the low brick wall fencing an empty lot.

Wasn’t it her bad luck to run into a wannabe songbird? And did this girl take drugs? Still, how could she renege on her promise to share her sandwiches? Handing over half of one, Miranda asked casually, “Is rock and roll all you sing? What about rap, or…uh…country?”

“Bite your tongue. Don’t say a dirty word like country around my crowd. They’ll run you out of town on a rail.”

Relieved, Miranda looked up and realized the dog had followed her. He gazed at her hopefully, his liquid brown eyes tracking her every move. “Okay, mutt. Jeez. I’ll give you the meat out of my sandwich.”

Jenny was already wolfing down her portion. “I hope you wanted a pet…uh… What’s your name, anyway? Just a warning, but if you feed him, he’s yours forever.”

“I’ve never had a pet,” Miranda confessed. “I wouldn’t mind keeping him. For…companionship.”

Jenny bobbed her head. “I hear you. I would’ve loved a dog or cat, but my mom couldn’t feed her kids, let alone pets.”

“My dad fed me fine. It’s more that we traveled a lot. More than a lot,” Miranda admitted, tossing another thin slice of beef to the dog. The poor starved beast didn’t gobble it in one bite as one might expect. Instead, he thanked her with his eyes, then sank to his belly to take small, dainty bites.

“Would you look at that.” Jenny paused to smile. “I still didn’t catch your name. I can’t be calling you, hey you.”

Just in case the girl read the newspapers, Miranda stammered a bit and then settled on a short version. “It’s…Randi.”

“Cool. I wish my mom had come up with a classier name than Jennifer.” The girl frowned.

“I spell Randi with an i, not a y,” Miranda said for lack of a better comment.

Jenny raised a brow. “Doesn’t matter how you spell it down here. Only time spelling’s an issue is if a cop hauls you in or you end up in the morgue.”

Pondering that chilling statement, Miranda halted in the act of feeding the last of her sandwich meat to the terrier. As if to punctuate Jenny’s words, a police car rounded the corner and slowed. Both women stiffened. “Cripes, now what?” Miranda muttered.

Jenny swallowed her final bite, wiped her mouth and said, “It’s okay. That’s Benny Garcia. This is his beat. For a cop, he’s cool. All the same, let me do the talking.”

Miranda noted that the uniformed man and Jenny exchanged nods. But her blood ran cold as he pulled to the curb and stepped out of his cruiser. What if he recognized her from the flyers that had surely circulated through major police departments?

He didn’t. He gave her only a cursory glance, frankly taking more interest in the dog. “Cute little guy.” Bending, he rubbed the wriggling animal’s belly. “If you’re planning to stick around here, kid, you’ll need to leash and license him.”

Opening her mouth to deny the dog was hers, she stopped abruptly at the cop’s next words. “If he’s lost or a stray, I’ll phone the pound to pick him up.” The man stood and reached for a cell phone clipped to his belt.

“I’ll get a license.” Miranda scooped up the black-and-white bundle of fur. “Where do I go? I’m new to L.A.”

“Thought so. Hmm. The bad news, kid, is that you’ve gotta supply your full name and home address to get a dog license.”

Miranda bit down hard on her lower lip.

“Figures.” Garcia let out a long sigh. “Why can’t you kids just stay home? Running away solves nothing. Trouble always follows. What kind of way is that to live?”

“The cops couldn’t stop my mom’s drunken rages,” Jenny snapped. “Out here, I have a fighting chance. My friends and me do fine.”

“Weather bureau says it’s gonna be a cold winter. You and your friends should reconsider moseying up north to that new ranch for teens. I gave Eric a flyer for it yesterday. A guy I know, John Montoya, he’s seen the place. Says the owner’s ordered cows and chickens. Imagine—fresh milk and eggs every morning without having to scrounge for leftovers from restaurant Dumpsters.”

With one holey sneaker, Jenny scraped at a weed struggling up through a crack in the sidewalk. “Eric’ll want to stay near the action. He’s got some contacts. Any minute he could land a gig that’ll make us stars.”

The cop eyed her obliquely. “How many times have I heard that one? At least think it over. Like I said to Eric, Montoya tells me it’ll mean hot meals and a solid roof over your heads through a bad winter. Weigh that against the scuzzy shelters around here. The owner isn’t asking much in return. Help tilling a few fields so there’ll be produce to eat in the spring. Eric can drive a tractor, can’t he?”

“He grew up on a farm in the Sacramento Delta, so of course he can. Question is, does he want to? Here, he gets an occasional chance to play, like last night. I don’t imagine there’ll be many opportunities for a guitarist on some dumb ranch.”

Garcia removed his foot from the low wall. “Suit yourselves. I’ve got a month’s vacation due. I can’t promise my replacement will be as easy on vagrants as I am.”

“We’re not vagrants,” Jenny blustered. “Me, Eric, Greg and Shawn are down on our luck is all. We’ll get work for our band soon. You’ll see.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Shaking his head, the cop started to walk away.

“Wait,” Miranda called. “It’s been a while, but I’ve lived on a farm. You think this ranch owner might let me keep, uh, Fido?” Her gaze swung from the cop to the terrier.

“Maybe. Hop in and I’ll give you a lift to the precinct. I left the extra flyers in my desk. There’s a map on the back showing how to locate the ranch.”

Miranda’s uneasiness about visiting a police station came to the fore.

Jenny correctly read her discomfort. “Hey, Randi, I’ll give you Eric’s flyer. I owe you for lunch. That’ll be a fair trade.”

“Sounds good. That’d be better, Officer. I’ve got no idea how well the mutt does in cars. Wouldn’t want him to pee on your upholstery.”

Garcia laughed. “Wouldn’t be the worst my upholstery’s had done to it. But I know you kids are leery of visiting the station. You say you’re new here? Can you promise me there aren’t any warrants out for your arrest?”

Miranda blanched. Wes Carlisle would use every means at his disposal to get her back under his thumb. Everybody in the business said his contracts were airtight. If a warrant was necessary, there might be one. But because Garcia’s eyes hardened in the fading sunlight, Miranda declared firmly, “No warrants. My folks are…both dead. I just decided to see the country before I settle down to work a day job.”

“Tough life. There’s lot of thugs on back streets ready to prey on skinny little girls like you.”

A ripple of unease wound up Miranda’s spine. It was Jenny who waved Garcia off. “We’re not stupid, you know. Come on, Randi. Let’s go.”

LINC DROVE his new Ford Excursion along a lumpy path that led to his new home. At this moment, everything in his life was new—right down to this gas-guzzling monster vehicle he’d bought to replace the silver Jag. There was growing resentment in the U.S. against purchasing gas hogs, but he’d let the salesman talk him into this one because it would carry a bunch of kids into town in a single trip. Now, after seeing the condition of the road, he knew buying a workhorse SUV had been smart. Rascal Ranch? “Ugh.” Linc grimaced as he drove beneath the arch bearing the ridiculous name.

First to go would be that sign, he mused. Linc recognized the house from a picture John Montoya had taken. It was the photo Linc had copied onto his flyer. In two weeks, John had promised he’d pass the flyers to a cop friend who knew street kids. Two weeks ought to allow Linc enough time to set up the basics.

An old car stood inside the carport where he’d planned to park. Staring at it, Linc swung around and stopped in front of the house. Surely a rep from Oasis didn’t own that rusty monstrosity. But then, Linc had only ever dealt with the firm via phone, fax and John Montoya. Perhaps the former owners felt compelled to transfer licenses and keys in person.

Sliding off the leather seat, Linc started for the steps. The day was waning, and he saw that a light burned inside the house. Torn and stained lace curtains rippled as if someone was watching from within. The next thing he knew, the door flew open. A bald man dressed in overalls and a dumpy middle-aged woman squeezed through the door simultaneously.

“About time you showed up. Lydia and me went off Oasis’s time clock at noon. Nobody asked us to stick around an extra six hours to look after the brats. You owe us a hundred bucks. Or…we’ll settle for eighty since Lydia didn’t cook them no supper.”

“Them?” Lincoln gaped at the couple. “Who are you, and who are you calling…well, brats isn’t a term I’d use under any circumstance.”

“I would’ve thought your man, Montoya, would’ve passed along our names. We’re George and Lydia Tucker. We spent the last four months as houseparents for Oasis Foundation. Never been so glad to get done of any job. So if you pay up, me and the missus’ll be on our way.”

Linc withdrew his booted foot from the top step of a porch that wrapped the weathered house. In doing so, he glimpsed three ragtag children on the porch, ranging in age, he’d guess, from four to eight or nine. All peered at him distrustfully.

“Oh, you have a family.” Lincoln reached for his wallet. “I don’t think I owe you, Mr. Tucker. But rather than hold you up, I’ll give you the money and settle with Oasis later.” He handed over the bill, which Tucker snatched and shoved in a pocket. Without further ado, he and his wife shot past Linc and jumped into the dilapidated car. They’d shut their doors before Linc realized the children, one of whom sat in a wheelchair, remained on the porch as if glued there.

“Hey. Wait!” Feeling as if he’d missed some vital part of the conversation, Linc rushed to the driver’s door and pounded on George Tucker’s window.

The man rolled it down an inch or so. He’d already started the engine and the car belched blue smoke. Coughing and waving the smoke away, Linc gasped, “Aren’t you forgetting something? Like your kids?”

“Ain’t ours,” George declared. “Top dog from Oasis came last night. He left the foundation’s Social Services contract with the state on the kitchen table. Said it lets you continue on the same as before. Ted Gunderson’s his name.” George fumbled a business card from his shirt pocket and passed it to Linc. “The area’s getting a new Social Services director, a Mrs. Bishop. Ted said she’d be by one of these days to see how you’re doin’. Step aside, son. This buggy don’t have much gas.”

Aghast, Linc shouted, “But…but…what about those kids?” He stabbed a finger toward them, not liking one bit how they all cringed and drew closer together.

“They’re your problem now. The nine-year-old swears like a trucker. Oh, and he bites somethin’ fierce. Outside of that, cuff ’em upside the head a few times and the others won’t give you no lip.”

“What? No, George. You don’t understand. My facility’s a haven for street teens. I won’t be accepting young children. And special-needs kids…well, absolutely no way,” Linc added, frowning at the wheelchair.

“You’re the one who don’t get it, mister. The kids are wards of the court. Oasis left the lot of ’em to you. Good luck findin’ houseparents. We’re the third set in less than a year. Too far from town for most folks.” George took his foot off the brake and the old car started to roll.

Linc latched onto the side mirror. “Hey! Hey, give me ten seconds. Just until I contact my liaison who dealt with Oasis. I’m sure we’ll clear this up. There are probably foster parents in town where Gunderson intended for you to drop the children.”

“No. But fine, call. Just make it snappy.”

Linc already had his phone out and was furiously punching in John Montoya’s number. “John, it’s Linc. Yeah, I’ve arrived. What’s the deal with the kids? Three of ’em,” he yelled. “Little ones.” Then, because three sets of wary eyes unnerved him, Linc turned his back to the children and lowered his voice. “No, you most certainly did not mention them to me, John.” Hearing his voice rise, Linc took a deep breath. “I don’t just sound pissed off, pal. I am pissed off. You know this place is for teens. What am I supposed to do with three little kids?” His frustration peaked. Linc stood his dark hair on end by raking one hand through locks that needed more than a trim. “This isn’t funny. How could they—Oasis, or for that matter, you—how could you foist off innocent children? They’re not livestock included in the transfer, for pity’s sake!”

Linc slammed a fist down on the rusted car trunk. “Kids are not just kids. Okay. Okay, you didn’t know I’d freak out over it. But you haven’t heard the last from me about this, that’s for damned sure!”

Linc snapped his phone shut, took another deep breath and dredged up a semblance of his old self. “Mr. Tucker, uh…George. Er…Lydia…” Linc’s usual aplomb faltered. “I’m the last guy equipped to deal with small kids. Won’t you please stay? Just until I straighten out this mess with Oasis. Shouldn’t take a day. Two, max.”

“Forget it,” George snarled. “We stuck it out long enough. As far as my wife’s concerned, four months was too long. They’re yours, with our blessing. Oh, the wife says there’s meat in the freezer. Should last until you can get to town.” With that, the old car rumbled off in a trail of blue smoke.

Linc felt as near to breaking down as he had since losing Felicity to a life he desperately hoped to change for other teens. Teens! That was the operative term.

Then, as if his day wasn’t already in the toilet, Linc saw a band of scraggly teens ambling toward him along one side of the rutted lane. Five in all, preceded by a yappy dog of indeterminate origin. This couldn’t be happening! He needed at least two weeks to ready the place for occupation, as John had been well aware. Clearly he’d jumped the gun. John must have contacted his cop friend. How else would these kids know to come all the way out here?

Linc unleashed a string of colorful curses, which he bit back the instant he caught a huge grin lighting the dirty face of the boy on the porch. Had to be the biter.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Linc smacked his forehead hard with the heel of one hand. This was definitely not turning out to be his finest hour. What in hell was he supposed to do now?

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?”

“Uh…those were the names of two of my kid sister’s friends. Police said they…” Linc broke off suddenly. “They’re common enough names. Merely coincidence, I’m sure. Look, I can offer a place to crash for tonight. I…think,” he added, frowning at the two units flanking the house. “To be truthful, I’ve got no idea how many beds are in those bunkhouses. Nor their condition. As you might have gathered from my phone conversation, I didn’t get a positive impression of the houseparents the Oasis Foundation had in charge here.”

“I don’t understand any of what you’re saying,” Miranda said. “But the gang and I can make do. Sleeping under a roof will be a bonus. But we’d sure like a hot meal. We last ate yesterday when some hikers gave us a leftover pack of hot dogs and a few buns.” Again she waved a hand toward the four hunkered some yards away.

“Food? Damn! Wait—Mrs. Tucker mentioned meat in a freezer.”

“That sounds encouraging. If there’s a microwave, we can thaw it out. So, if you don’t mind my asking, why are you conducting business out here in the wind and cold? Why aren’t you inside fixing supper for those poor kids?”

“Well, I…” Linc stopped, panic swamping him. “For one, I can’t cook. I’ve lived and worked in the city all my life. I either order in or eat out.”

Miranda waved the flyer in his face. “Did you think street kids don’t eat?”

“For your information, I intended to hire a cook and a housekeeper before any kids showed up.” Linc glared. “Not that I owe you any explanation. And let me guess, your smart mouth has landed you in trouble before.”

Miranda ground her teeth to keep from lashing back. Here she was again, responding like a twenty-six-year-old, instead of the way someone like Jenny would. “Sorry,” she mumbled, biting her lip.

“Forget it.” Linc shook back a lock of dark hair and offered a tentative smile as he glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s too late to rectify the cook-housekeeper issue today. Whistle up your friends. For now, we’ll all have to make the best of a situation none of us invited.”

The smile altered his stern features, and Miranda responded accordingly. “Hey, great! Jenny’s worn a hole in her shoe, and the guys stayed behind to try and fix it, in case we had more walking to do.”

“Do any of you have injuries?”

“No, we’re just tired. I’ll go fetch them. Then maybe Jenny and I can check what’s in your freezer. I’ll bet we can toss together a meal of some sort.”

“Really?” Linc felt more grateful for that one simple statement than she could know. His life lately had been hectic. He’d been involved in selling his house and storing the furnishings, as well as studying ranching techniques. He probably should’ve asked John to make a cursory inventory of what was needed here. Under no circumstances, however, would it have occurred to him to take a crash course in cooking. “Damn John—and Gunderson,” he muttered, swinging his fierce gaze back to the three young children he had yet to deal with.

“Don’t swear at them,” Miranda said testily, again forgetting herself. “Can’t you see they’re scared?” She didn’t care if this jerk took his anger out on her, as long as he left those poor kids alone.

“I’m not swearing at them. My anger’s directed at the guy who got me into this mess, and at the Oasis rep who sold me a pig in a poke. What makes you even imagine I’d swear at children?”

“Oh, I don’t know, probably the way you’re glowering.” Miranda stopped and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me. I’ll just go get my friends.” She hugged Scraps to her chest and sidled around Linc. Once past him, she broke into a run.

Staring after the young woman, he noticed her shapely backside and quickly controlled a punch to his gut that he shouldn’t be feeling. He turned his attention to the problems on the porch.

John Montoya thought he was crazy to leave his old job. But in the past few years, Linc found himself growing more short-tempered and less tolerant of people. No doubt the dog’s owner had glimpsed and had wrongly assumed he’d swear at little kids. Well, the red-haired boy wasn’t so little. He must be the one George Tucker had said was the biter.

Linc approached the trio slowly. “Hi. My name is Lincoln Parker. Call me Linc.” He mustered a smile. “Sorry about the phone call and the time I spent talking to the lady with the dog,” he added for good measure, as he’d seen the kids’ interest in the dog. “Let’s go inside and you can give me your names. Hey, hey, relax. I don’t know when I’ll be able to reach your social worker—this…Mrs. Bishop.” Lincoln unfolded the paper and read the woman’s name. “What I’m saying—” he spoke through a thinning smile “—is that we may as well be on a first-name basis because it looks as if we’re stuck with each other for a while.”

“Screw you,” sneered the boy. Linc stiffened when the kid barreled off the porch straight at him. He didn’t relish getting bitten; Tucker hadn’t warned about kicking, though. The little monster landed a bone-breaking blow to Linc’s left shin. “Damn, damn, damn!” He swore and hopped around holding his ankle as the kid disappeared in the thickening dusk.

“Wolfie!” The girl not confined to the wheelchair cried out and stumbled on one of the wheelchair foot plates. She fell flat at Linc’s feet, sobbing too hard to get up right away and follow the boy.

“Easy, easy.” Linc reached for her gingerly.

“Wolfie is Hana’s brother,” said the round-eyed girl in the chair. “His real name’s Wolfgang, but he hates it, so everybody calls him Wolfie.”

Bending, Linc gently lifted the hysterical child. He was amazed by how fragile her bones felt under his hands and was reminded of a frightened bird he’d rescued from a cat once when he couldn’t have been much older than Wolfie. “It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “You girls go in out of this wind. I’ll find your brother, I promise,” he told the child who shook violently and watched him in abject fear.

Linc set her down and at once limped off. He could no longer see the boy, but he’d heard a door slam in the distance, in the direction of an outbuilding. Linc supposed he’d find Wolfgang in the bunkhouse. At least, he assumed the low structure was one of the two bunkhouses John said came with the ranch.

Afraid the little hellion might have time to rig some kind of trap at the door, Linc stood well to one side of what appeared to be the only way in. Cautiously, he shoved the door open with a toe. The interior, dark as a cave, smelled of urine and decay. Wrinkling his nose, Linc called, “Wolfie, either turn on a light or come outside so we can talk.”

The silence stretched, but Linc felt the boy’s presence.

“God, this place stinks like a sewer. Please tell me this isn’t where you kids sleep.” He reached inside and felt the wall for a light switch. Finding one, he flipped it on. A single bulb in the center of the room sprang to life, barely illuminating the area directly beneath the fixture. Not so much as a glimmer reached into any of the room’s four corners, but the bulb gave off enough power for Linc to see two sets of bunk beds. A cracked mirror hung over a single dresser with a broken leg. The mirror reflected the filament inside the bare bulb. As his eyes adjusted, Linc made out the boy crouched against the wall between the two sets of beds.

His heart lodged in his chest. “Look, son,” he said, attempting to calm his voice in spite of the fact that it remained rough with emotion. “I can only guess what you’ve put up with in the past. I promise you here and now, for however long you’re in my care, you won’t be hit—and your sleeping conditions will darned well improve.”

Freckles stood out on the boy’s pale cheeks. Wide blue eyes under a shock of sandy red hair warily assessed the man who barred the room’s only door.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Linc tried again to reassure the boy. “I only took over ownership of the ranch today. I can’t make instant changes. But I wouldn’t let a dog sleep in this rat hole. I hope the house is in better shape. If so, we’ll all bunk there tonight.” He shivered and stopped speaking to rub his arms. “What’s the heat in this building set at?”

“Ain’t no heat,” the boy growled. “But even if I gotta take the girls and run away in the dark, ain’t none of us sleeping with you, creep. So get that in your head.”

“God! That’s not what I meant by all of us sleeping in the house.” Shaken, Linc withdrew fractionally. “Did you see the older kids by the road? I simply meant it’s unacceptable to think anyone would have to sleep here with no heat. I trust the main house has a furnace. It’s probably big enough for everyone to stake out a sleeping spot for one night. Tomorrow, we’ll clean this place and locate a hardware store where I can buy baseboard heaters. To say nothing of mattresses that don’t sag or smell.” Linc eyed the definite bow in the beds.

“Why would you go to all that trouble before you get hold of Mrs. Jacobs?”

“Who?” Linc’s ears perked up at a new name tossed in the mix.

“Our social worker. I heard you talkin’ on the phone about her.”

“Jacobs isn’t the name I was given. But I gather Mrs. Bishop is new at the agency. I have no idea when we’ll be able to connect. So while you’re in my care, I want you kids sleeping on clean sheets and mattresses.”

“Hana wets. She don’t do it on purpose. The house mom said she wasn’t washin’ sheets for no brat big ’nuff to get up and go to the outhouse. I used to have a flashlight, but it broke. Hana’s scared to walk the trail by herself. I told her to wake me up, but she says I sleep too hard.”

“You mean…this bunkhouse has no bathroom, either?”

The boy’s stringy red hair slapped his ears as he shook his head.

“Where do you kids shower? Or bathe?” Linc amended his statement when the word shower drew a blank look from the boy.

“Fridays, Lydia used to toss me and Hana in the creek with a bar of soap. Before she took over from Judy Rankin, we got to wash in a dishpan Miz Judy set on the back porch. After the Tuckers came, they only let Cassie use the pan. On account of her not being able to get in the water ’cause of her twisted hip.”

A rough expulsion of breath left Lincoln’s lungs. “The news gets worse by the second. I can’t listen to any more. Except… Wolfie, how often did Mrs. Jacobs come to inspect the place? What agency worker would approve of kids living in such squalor?”

“She ain’t never come that I know. Not since she brung me and Hana here to live. Cassie and some others were already here. One house mister griped to Oasis, and somebody came at night and took the other kids away. That was before Rob Rankin. He said Oasis put them in another group home.” Climbing to his feet, the boy hiked a thin shoulder. “They coulda kilt ’em. That’s what Hana thinks.”

“I doubt that.” Although… Linc swept the room with a scowl. “How any adult could visit this mess and close his or her eyes to conditions here is beyond me. Look, I’m sure you have few reasons to trust anyone, but I wish you’d give me a chance. At least come back to the house and let your sister see that you haven’t run off without her. She was crying her eyes out when I left to find you.”

“Hana bawls a lot, but she’s only four. Don’t hold it against her, okay?”

“No, I wouldn’t hold crying against a child. How old are you, Wolfie?”

“Ten. I had my birthday last month. Lydia Tucker said I was just lying so she’d bake a cake. She never did, so Hana and Cassie think I’m still nine.”

Linc couldn’t even bring himself to comment on the Tuckers’ callous treatment of the children they were supposed to care for. He met the guarded eyes of the shivering boy. “Will you walk with me to the house?”

“O…kay,” Wolfie agreed, a catch in his voice. “But if anybody lays a hand on me or Hana, they’ll wish they hadn’t. I have sharp teeth and I can bite hard.”

“So George Tucker told me.” Linc waited to smile until he turned his back on the ten-year-old. “Biting’s not the way men solve things, Wolfie. Not even if they’re bad things. So before you go biting any of the folks up at the house, I’d like you to promise you’ll talk to me first. Trust me to handle the problem. Will you do that?”

“I ain’t makin’ no promises till I see.”

“I guess that’s fair enough. I’ve never met the older kids. But I suspect life’s been no picnic for them, either. I’ll start by giving them my house rules.”

“Rules?”

“Dos and don’ts. They’re pretty simple.”

“Oh.” The boy tucked his chin against his thin chest and tried to match Linc’s longer stride while leaving plenty of space between them.

Entering the ranch house provided instant respite from the stinging wind. The room was well lit and warm. The little dog dashed up, barking its head off. But otherwise, if Linc expected to walk into a beehive of activity, he was doomed to disappointment. Each teen appeared to have staked out his or her wedge of real estate. The three boys sat on the floor, propped against their possessions, which included backpacks and guitar cases. Randi and the other girl sat on a raised hearth in front of an empty fireplace. Hana and Cassie did their best to melt into a dark corner as far away as possible from the teens. To the last kid, all tensed visibly when Linc walked in with Wolfie.

Linc homed in on Randi. “Was Mrs. Tucker wrong about there being meat in the freezer?”

“I, uh, we didn’t check. Eric said we shouldn’t rummage in the kitchen without you. That way you can’t claim something ought to be there that isn’t.” At Linc’s vacant expression, she added a qualifier. “You know, in case you try to tell the cops we stole from you.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Lincoln loosely bracketed his hips with his hands. He studied the room’s occupants. One older boy wore a long, ratty velvet coat over holey jeans. The baggy pants of the other two dragged on the ground. One wore leather wrist bands. All had numerous earrings in both ears, and the girl with the lighter brown hair— Jenny—had her lip, eyebrow and, Lord knew what else, pierced. Distrustful expressions, identical to Wolfie’s, were mirrored five times over.

He slowly released a pent-up breath. “It’s safe to say the ranch doesn’t meet any of our expectations. I counted on having time to spruce it up and lay in supplies. And you thought you’d walk into an operating shelter.” Linc’s gaze shifted to Wolfie, his sister, and Cassie in her pint-sized wheelchair. “On top of that, I never planned on hosting…small children. But they’re here and will be until I reach the new director of Social Services.”

“None of us formed any preconceived notions,” Miranda muttered. “Why don’t we start over? Introduce ourselves, and then food can be our next priority.”

“Right.” Linc rubbed the back of his neck, beginning to feel overwhelmed by everything facing him. It embarrassed him that the girl, Randi, was the first to voice a mature approach. He was, after all, the adult in charge. Although it struck him that, as John Montoya had said, he’d jumped into this venture without a shred of actual experience.

“I’m Lincoln Parker,” he said. “Linc, if you like. Until a few weeks ago I lived and worked in Hollywood. My aim in starting this retreat is to provide a safe, substance-free home for up to a dozen teens who’ve lived hand-to-mouth on city streets.”

“Parker?” Jenny gasped. “You’re not Felicity’s brother, are you? I mean, you couldn’t be that Lincoln Parker.” She shot Eric a funny look and they both uttered uneasy choking sounds.

“As a matter of fact, I am that Parker.” Linc’s eyes clouded. He was getting a bad feeling about these kids again. “No. It’s too unbelievable to think you’d be… Not even the cops were able to find the kids who dumped my sister at an inner-city L.A. emergency room and then ran off.”

“We didn’t dump her,” Jenny sputtered. “Two cops at the ER told us to get lost.”

Eric scrambled to his feet. “Yeah, I went back the next day and nobody would tell me a thing. We heard later she’d OD’d. Felicity was our friend, you know.”

“I spent weeks combing backstreets, asking information of anyone who might have seen where you were.”

“Gosh, didn’t Felicity ever talk about us? When you were out of town, she let us crash at your place,” Jenny said edgily, beginning to chew her nails, which was something Miranda noticed the girl did in tense situations.

“You brought drugs into my home?”

“No!” Jenny seemed horrified.

“Don’t lie. I have an autopsy report that shows alcohol, marijuana and embalming fluid in my sister’s blood, for God’s sake. Oh, what’s the use of talking to you? The police were adamant that even if I found you, you wouldn’t rat out a dealer.” Linc’s dark eyes glittered as his anger centered on Jenny. “I won’t tolerate drugs here. Maybe you’d better move on.” His voice shook with anger.

Eric stepped protectively in front of Jenny. “You’ve got no right to yell at us, man. Me and Jenny tried to help Felicity.”

Jenny’s white face bobbed out in the open as she grabbed Eric’s arm. “It was wet, Eric. That’s what made Felicity act so crazy.”

Linc’s scowl returned to the girl. “What are you yammering about? The night you took Felicity to emergency, the city hadn’t seen rain in months.”

“Not rain, stupid,” Eric spat. “Wet’s a street name for weed—marijuana—laced with PCP, soaked in embalming fluid and dried. Felicity knew—we all know that’s evil shi—er, stuff,” he finished lamely, watering down his language when Miranda jabbed him in the ribs and rolled her eyes at the children still huddled in a corner. Wanting to defuse the situation, she hauled Jenny toward the kitchen.

“Today has turned out to be a shocker for everyone, Mr. Parker,” she said. “My dad used to say trouble’s better met and dealt with on a full stomach. Why don’t Jenny and I see what we can find to make for supper? Y’all can talk afterward.”

Linc leveled a frown at the girl with the too-dark hair, pale skin and smoke-gray eyes. “If you have a dad worthy of quoting, why are you hanging out with this riffraff?”

Miranda’s chin shot up. “My dad died. And we’re not riffraff. If that’s your attitude, and if you want kids with pedigrees, why advertise this place as a haven for homeless teens?”

Her barb struck Linc in an unprotected spot and triggered a load of guilt. Why had Felicity, who had access to a nice home and best of everything money could buy, chosen friends among druggies and derelicts? He obviously wouldn’t find out by attacking the very kids he hoped one day to wrest answers from.

Still gruff, he waved the two girls away. Wheeling abruptly in the direction of his youngest guests, Wolfgang in particular, Linc rattled off their names by way of introduction. “Wolfie, you go help Randi and Jenny. You know better than I do where cooking supplies are kept. Eric and company can help me inventory the rest of the house. Between now and suppertime, we’ll sort out equitable sleeping spots for the night.”

Wolfie, mulled over Linc’s words. “What’s equit…that word you said. What’s it mean?”

“It means fair. Elbow room for everyone, like we discussed earlier. I don’t want anyone encroaching on his or her neighbor’s sleeping space.”

“I guess that’s okay,” the boy muttered. “You sure use big words, mister. Me, Cassie and Hana ain’t no walking dictionaries, you know?”

The kid sounded so serious, Linc laughed. “Okay, I’ll watch the four-bit words.”

Even the older teens broke out in approving grins. For the moment, the strain that had permeated the room evaporated.

Greatly relieved, Miranda picked up Scraps and nudged Jenny into the kitchen.

“Remember to wash your hands before you touch any food,” Parker yelled after them. He didn’t really expect an answer and wasn’t surprised when none came. But he realized that John Montoya had been more right than wrong. He might be in over his head here.

CHAPTER THREE

JUST BEFORE RANDI found the light switch and spilled light into the dark kitchen, Jenny grabbed her. “I’m no cook, are you? What if Lincoln Parker hates what we fix?”

Miranda didn’t answer. “Eew…ew!” Pinching her nose closed, she surveyed a mountain of dirty pots, pans and dishes stacked haphazardly on every surface of an equally dirty stove, sink and counter. “Not only were those houseparents despicable,” she said in a nasal voice, “they were pigs.”

“Yeah, this is disgusting.” Jenny covered her nose and mouth with one hand.

“Jenny, go find Mr. Parker. Tell him we can’t do anything about starting supper until we’ve made a dent in cleaning up this mess. Warn him that some of these pans look so corroded they’ll have to be trashed. Beginning with this one.” She gingerly picked up a saucepan with moldy macaroni and cheese burned to the bottom and sides.

Jenny wasted no time hightailing it out of the smelly room.

Not caring how chilly it had grown outside, Miranda flung open what windows she could budge. She sucked in great gasps of fresh air and wondered how anyone could live this way.

She returned to the sink and began emptying it of unwashed dishes when she heard heavy footsteps coming closer, followed by a partially muffled, “Good Lord!”

Miranda couldn’t help laughing. “My sentiments exactly.”

“This kitchen’s a pigsty. No wonder your dog’s out by the door hiding his head. I thought the bedrooms were bad. They’re the Ritz compared to this.” Linc made a slow circuit of the room. “The boys are bagging rubble from the four bedrooms. God only knows what condition the sleeping bags are in. I unearthed them from a back closet.” Linc felt his burgeoning headache begin to pound in earnest.

“At least we have hot water,” Miranda said brightly. Steam rose from the sink she’d plugged, but her attempt to find dish soap in the cabinet below met with no luck. After searching several more places, she puffed out a breath. “I can’t find any soap. I guess they ran out. Maybe that’s why they stopped washing dishes.”

“A kitchen in a home for kids and no dishwasher? That’s idiotic. Shoot, heck and damn. The minute I set eyes on this unholy mess, I figured it’d be midnight or later before we could reach a point where cooking was possible. But without soap and disinfectant, I doubt it’ll happen at all.”

“So, we’ll, uh, tighten our belts again tonight.” Miranda knew her friends had hoped to have a decent meal. But it wouldn’t be the first night they’d gone to bed hungry. “At least we’ll be sleeping out of the cold. That’s something.”

Known in the world of finance for making quick decisions, Linc made one now. “Look, Randi—that is your name, right?” At her nod, he continued. “I don’t see that we have a choice but to load everyone in my Excursion and go in search of a restaurant. And if there’s a motel with vacancies anywhere in town, two rooms should do us, I think. Tomorrow, before we head back, I’ll buy supplies. I’d appreciate it if you’d make a list of what’s needed for this kitchen to be operational.”

“A shovel?” Her smile brought out a dimple in one cheek.

Once again Linc felt a tug that was almost physical. Frowning, he said, “Put a case of jumbo trash bags and a new set of cookware on the list.” He took a giant backward step toward the door. “While you work on that, I’ll round up the others. I’ll see if the little squirts have nightclothes and clean clothes for morning. If I ever saw kids in need of a good scrubbing, it’s them.”

As he turned to go out, Linc almost fell over the gum-chewing girl who’d purportedly been friends with his sister. Given the circumstances, it was all he could do to mutter a civil, “Excuse me.”

Jenny, who’d overheard part of his and Randi’s discussion, blocked Linc’s exit. “You really intend for us to eat at a restaurant and then go to a motel?”

“I see no other choice. Help put those pans in to soak, please. By tomorrow, steel wool might get some of them clean. Right after heat for the bunkhouses, I’m adding an industrial-size dishwasher to my list.”

Linc made a second attempt to leave the kitchen, but something in the way Randi studied him through narrowed eyes gave him pause. “If you’ve got a problem with my solution, spit it out. From what I saw of the towns I went through on the way here, they’re liable to be the type that roll up their sidewalks at nine o’clock.” To keep from reaching out and giving her arm a reassuring squeeze, he glanced at his watch.

“I think Jenny means money’s an issue,” Randi blurted. “We may be able to pool our pennies and buy burgers. But…well, we can’t begin to cover the cost of a motel.”

Miranda still had her diamond earrings, but since throwing in her lot with Jenny and the boys, she’d found no opportunity to visit a pawnshop. And she dared not risk the kinds of questions that would crop up if any of her new friends got a glimpse of the rocks she had sewn in the lining of her jacket.

“You think I’d expect you kids to pay?” Linc exploded. “Like any of this is your fault.” He swept an arm to encompass the mess. “It’s a damned good thing I’m not within reach of my buddy who negotiated for me on this place. All I can think is that John Montoya never set foot inside the house, or else he’s blind and missing his sense of smell.”

Linc wrung a low laugh from Randi. A husky sound that slid up his spine the way her voice did. Her voice made him think of a piano bar and mellow scotch.

Suddenly Linc found himself wondering why, if she hung out with Felicity’s starstruck groupies, some producer hadn’t seen her potential? True, her skin tone and unusual eye coloring were at odds with hacked-off, too-black hair. But a hairdresser and color could remedy that. It flitted through Linc’s mind that black wasn’t Randi’s natural shade. Probably a phase she was in. A few years back Felicity had dyed her rich brown curls a dull black, too. She’d also worn black lipstick and nail polish. She described the style as “goth” and refused to speak to him for weeks when he’d objected to her appearance.

Though he couldn’t say why, Linc was glad that Randi saw fit to leave her lips and nails bare. Of course, she and Jenny wore too many sets of earrings. And like his sister, Jenny sported tattoos. If Randi had any, they weren’t visible.

He didn’t even want to recall the argument he’d had with Felicity the evening he’d come home from a road trip and discovered her first tattoo. Had his failure to understand her need to look bizarre been the beginning of their estrangement? He erased that thought from his mind and returned to his evaluation of Randi. Why had she landed on his doorstep, instead of on her way to being a new soap or big-screen movie star?

Because she was short? About five-three. Otherwise she had that look producers liked. And she walked as if she owned the world. Linc would bet his bottom dollar that before Randi whatever-the-hell-her-last-name-was ended up living on the street, she’d known a better life, too.

“Are you changing your mind about going to town, Mr. Parker?”

Jerked back from his meandering thoughts, Linc all but snapped at Jenny. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. And, Randi, start writing that damned list, okay? Here, take my pen,” he said roughly, extending one he yanked from his shirt pocket. “Tear a piece of paper off one of the hundreds of grocery sacks piled around here. Jeez, add all this junk to what we found in the bedrooms and it’s a miracle the place didn’t burn down. Come to think of it, I want a lot of answers from Oasis.”

Miranda, who had no idea what she’d said or done to bring a return of Parker’s bad humor, immediately set about starting a list.

And this time Linc lost no time in stomping out.

He should’ve guessed Wolfie would be next to object to his proposal.

“Hana and me ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the boy declared flatly, not caring that the older kids were already moving toward the door.

“Mind telling me why?” Linc inquired mildly.

“’Cause you’ll make all nice, and then take off and leave us there. You think I’m stupid, mister?”

“Good grief. You have a wild imagination. I already explained that you’ll have a home here until I can get in touch with the area’s new social worker. Not only that, I intend to grill her about a system that leaves children living in squalor.”

“Yeah, I know that’s what you said. But you don’t want us. We’re—” the boy screwed up his face and hesitated “—we’re a comp…comp—something I heard the fat dude say.”

“Watch who you’re calling fat.” Shawn’s face erupted in fury as everyone swung toward him. “So shoot me for thinking the kid had left the room before I said those little farts were a complication for you, Parker. They are. I didn’t say anything that’s not true.” He thrust his jaw out pugnaciously.

“Are not…whatever you said!” Wolfie yelled, descending on Shawn with fists flying and teeth bared.

“Are, too,” Shawn shot back, holding the wiry boy off with a stiff arm.

“All right! Enough!” Flinging out his own hand, Linc hooked Wolfie around the waist and easily dangled the fist-swinging boy three feet off the ground. “Hold on there, pardner. Remember what I told you earlier about biting not being how men solve things?”

For a few seconds, Wolfie actually looked chastened. “You didn’t say nothin’ about kickin’ or hittin’.”

“I didn’t then, but I am now. And, Shawn, I don’t want any pissing contests going on, understand?” Linc leveled a stern glare at the older boy as he turned Wolfie loose. “Everyone, go climb into my SUV. You’ll have to keep quiet during the drive so that on the way to town, I can tell you my house rules.”

Shawn led the charge to the door. He stopped and said to Linc, “The kid calls me a fat dude again and I’ll kick his ass.”

Linc took a moment to study the unkempt overweight teen with a face full of zits. Cutting through the bluster, it wasn’t hard to see the unhappy boy underneath. “Look, Shawn. I know the kid’s abrasive, and you’re tired. We all have our hot buttons. I’m not planning to implement a lot of rules. But number one is respect. Respect for the other guy’s person and his space. The rules apply equally across the board. Anyone who can’t live with them can hit the road.”

Shawn nodded shortly and stalked out.

Linc eyed the next two boys getting ready to pass him. Eric and Greg. They hunched over their packs. Eric clutched a guitar case, while Greg carried a narrower case that obviously held a keyboard.

“No need to lug that stuff along. We’ll only be gone one night. And I’m locking the house.”

Greg leaned his keyboard up against the couch. Eric elbowed him sharply. “Me and the guys don’t go nowhere without the tools of our trade, man.”

“Tools of your trade?” Linc all but sneered. “Like you’re such frigging successes.”

Miranda sensed a fight in the making. And although it’d suit her if music was downplayed here at the retreat, she’d had her fill of bickering. In an effort to distract the participants, she tucked Scraps inside her partially buttoned jacket and stepped between the combatants. “Do you think they’ll mind if I have a dog in the motel?”

Linc’s eyes shifted away from the hostile kid with the awful dreadlocks. He wasn’t at all prepared to see that scruffy dog nestled against his young charge’s generous breasts. For a moment, his tongue tangled with his teeth. What came out sounded like a stutter.

Randi waited, not sure what Parker was trying to say.

“Hell, take the dog! Take everything,” he finally managed to spit out. Afraid he was in deep trouble when it came to playing houseparent to this particular group, Linc put some space between himself and Randi. He waved a hand toward the open door, through which the heavyset boy had already disappeared.

Linc disliked starting his new endeavor by losing control. Especially since turning a blind eye and deaf ear to Felicity’s behavior had been his big mistake. One he didn’t intend to repeat. But maybe after a meal and a good night’s sleep, he’d be on more certain footing.

Pocketing his house key, he made directly for the driver’s door of the Excursion. He veered off course when it appeared no one was helping Cassie. Linc lifted her out of her wheelchair and set her gently down in the middle row of seats, buckling her in. He folded her pathetically small chair, then went around and tucked it in the space behind the last row of seats. Wondering what had caused her condition, he slammed the door and returned to watch as the others climbed inside.

Earlier, when he’d convinced Wolfie to leave the bunkhouse, Linc had considered that his first small victory. But now, as Eric knocked into him with his guitar case, determined to sit in the very back of the big SUV, Linc tasted the bile of defeat. He foresaw his tussle with Eric as the first of many. After learning these kids were bent on becoming rock stars, the way his sister had, he could no longer stand the thought of listening to their music. John Montoya had intimated Linc was deluding himself to think he had a prayer of guiding kids like these away from the fickle field of music or acting into other less risky pursuits. Once again, Linc was afraid he’d been right.

After they were all seated in the SUV, Greg demanded a rundown of Linc’s rules. Eric dissented loudly at Linc’s order that they needed to buckle their seat belts or the Excursion wasn’t going anywhere.

“Wearing seat belts isn’t my rule.” Linc raised his voice over their grumbling. “It’s California state law. And while I’m in charge, we will obey the laws of the land.” He segued right into his vision for the group. “Being law-abiding citizens is in sync with my idea of rules to live by. I assume you’re all too young to drink alcohol and buy cigarettes. Weed and other drugs are against the law. Those head my list. It goes without saying that I expect everyone to pitch in with the chores. I’m not going to harp at you or mete out punishment. Shirkers will, however, get privileges taken away. That’s about the extent of my rules for the moment, especially since we already touched on respecting the personal privacy of your neighbors.”

Jenny let silence settle inside the vehicle before she spoke. “What kind of chores, Mr. Parker? I already told Randi I can’t cook.”

“Asking you girls to cook tonight was because of our unusual circumstances. I plan to hire a cook-housekeeper. In fact, I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

“What chores, then?” Shawn persisted.

Linc glanced into his rearview mirror. “I’ve ordered a tractor and all the attachments needed to plow enough acres to grow a vegetable garden, plus olives and walnuts, which I hope will help defray some of the operational costs. I plan to keep a few head of beef, mostly to teach responsibility. And chickens, for eggs. Don’t you agree a little honest labor ought to rid us all of our city pallor?” He shot them a smile via the mirror.

“We’re only staying here through the winter,” Shawn said, breaking off suddenly when someone—Eric, Linc saw—cut the heftier boy off with a solid jab to his solar plexus.

“I’m figuring kids will come and kids will go,” Linc said with a shrug, looking forward to the day this particular group would pull up stakes and leave. “I’ve arranged to have cattle feed delivered for the winter. The guy who sold me the farm implements was very helpful. He said there should be enough nice days before the snow hits to till the soil and plant the olives and walnuts.”

“How many acres?” Eric asked as if he’d taken an interest.

“Three hundred including where the buildings sit. I have a guide in my briefcase that shows how many acres need to go in sweet grass, how many in grain, walnuts and olives. The folks I consulted said ten acres of garden ought to feed the dozen or so mouths I’m licensed to take in.”

“You’re licensed?” Randi threw out casually.

“Certainly. Oasis transferred its permit to my name. The rep said the same state regulations apply to housing teenagers as little children.”

“Yeah, well if you’re relying on the folks who were in charge… It’s a wonder they weren’t shut down ages ago.”

Linc hadn’t noticed Randi’s Southern drawl so much before. Just now it was quite pronounced. “What brings you out West, Randi?” Linc cast a glance over his shoulder. “I have…er, had a client from North Carolina who sounds exactly like you. Is that where you’re from?”

Miranda cursed silently for drawing attention to herself. Because now the others appeared interested, too. “Don’t all Southern accents sound alike?”

“No,” Linc said. “I recognize when someone’s from Mississippi or Alabama as opposed to Texas or the Carolinas.”

“The day we met, Randi said she’d moved around a lot,” Jenny put in.

“I like how she sounds when she talks.” Cassie spoke up for the first time. “And I think she’s real pretty. Don’t you, Hana?”

The smallest child sucked her thumb and battled against falling asleep, tucked tight against her brother’s skinny side.

Miranda noted that tough as the kid, Wolfie, tried to act, he frequently combed comforting fingers through his little sister’s curls. Washed, Miranda thought Hana’s hair would probably be strawberry blond. The girl and her brother were both freckled redheads. She flashed the kids a warm smile.

Hana took her thumb out of her mouth and whispered to Cassie, “Yes, she’s pretty. She looks ’xactly like the Barbie doll Mrs. Tucker taked away from Cassie and frowed in the trash.”

Then, because the older boys chortled and poked fun at Miranda—calling her Barbie—Hana shrank against Wolfie, as if fearing the noisy teens might attack her.

“Stop,” Miranda ordered. “You guys are scaring Hana.”

“Yeah, dickheads, tone it down.” Jenny batted at the boys nearest her, defending her newest friend.

“Who’re you calling a dickhead, Jen?” Eric pouted. “The little kids had better toughen up. If name-calling is all they encounter in three outta five foster homes in this state, they’ll be lucky.”

Linc couldn’t resist commenting. “You’re not being fair in your assessment of our foster-care system, Eric,” he said.

The teen snorted. “That’s because there’s nothing fair about the system. Why do you think so many kids opt to go it alone on the streets?”

“I honestly have no idea. Care to enlighten me?”

“Man,” Shawn broke in, “it’s because most foster homes suck. Those people are in it strictly for the cash.”

“It’s words like most I take exception to,” Linc responded. “Instead of rushing to hang out in street packs, maybe kids ought to complain to someone in a position to make their homes better and safer.”

“Like, who would that be?” Jenny blazed, leaning forward.

“In the case of foster homes, it’d be the social worker in charge.”

The interior of the SUV filled with hoots. “Get real, dude. And don’t lecture us. You and Shawn’s dad are so like…twins,” Eric said. “You’re both so blind, you think tossing money at a kid or handing him over to somebody with a slew of letters after their name is an automatic cure. Felicity told us how you sent her to shrink after shrink. They’re about as far from the truth as this planet is from Mars.”

“Our grandmother sent Felicity to counselors, not me.”

Jenny sat forward in her seat. “She said you shelled out the bucks for everything, including her music lessons.”

“I was the only one in the household who was employed. Not that I owe you any explanations. Felicity should have listened to what the counselors said. If she had, maybe she’d still be alive.”

“Or maybe she would be if you’d listened to her, man,” Eric murmured just loud enough for everyone in the vehicle to hear.

A red haze interfered with Linc’s ability to see for a fraction of a second. Then, remembering he was dealing with kids who had a skewed perspective on life, he kept his mouth shut and promised himself he wouldn’t be drawn into pointless discussions like this in the future.

“Hey,” Greg called after they’d bounced and jounced in silence for a time, “can you turn on the radio or something?”

Linc pushed the start button on the CD unit and shoved in the disc he’d been listening to on the last phase of his journey to the ranch. Soon the dramatic sounds of an orchestra filled the vehicle’s interior.

Eric leaned as far forward as his seat belt would allow and shouted over the music, “What the hell kind of tune is that you’re playing, Parker?”

“That, young man, is Wagner.” He pronounced it with the German V. “It’s the overture to Tristan und Isolde.”

“Never heard of those dudes,” Eric muttered. “Are they on the charts?”

Miranda waited a heartbeat for Linc to explain. When he said nothing, she rattled off a brief description of the opera. “The opera depicts a beautiful but tragic love story set in medieval Ireland. Isolde nurses Knight Tristan back to health, only to discover he killed her fiancé in battle. To make matters worse, Tristan is sworn to deliver Isolde as a bride for his uncle. She mixes a potion to kill him, and he offers her his sword, instead. That’s when they discover they really love each other. So they kiss…. A lot happens in the next scenes. The king brands them traitors. A battle takes place where Tristan is badly wounded. Isolde believes if she can get to him, her magical powers will heal him. When they’re reunited, Tristan declares that, as a knight, he cannot bear to live as an outcast. He falls dead at her feet. She drinks her potion just as a courier arrives from the king ready to pardon her and Tristan. The last scene of the opera is her collapsing across his body. It’s difficult to describe quickly, but if you listen to the entire score, you can feel the scenes unfold. ‘Liebestod’ is probably my favorite piece.”

The other teens gaped at Miranda, as did Linc.

“Wow,” Jenny said, continuing to bite her nails. “That sounds so cool, Randi. I wouldn’t have believed it, but you can feel grief in the music. Except…I thought you told me you didn’t know much about music.”

Linc found himself straining to hear Randi’s reply. Something about her was out of step with her companions. And he doubted that opera was normal fare for street kids.

Miranda couldn’t deny the knowledge that had obviously caused the others to regard her suspiciously. She shrugged. “Funny how things can slip your mind. I totally forgot about picking up that community-college class. The prof who taught basic music appreciation was an opera buff. He took us to see Puccini’s La Boheme and Verdi’s Rigoletto and Aida. Oh, and Bizet’s Carmen.”

“You went to college, studied highbrow music and it slipped your mind?” Shawn roused himself from his slouched position in the far back seat.

“Intro to Music sounded like an easy class.” Miranda felt herself being drawn deeper and deeper into revealing bits of her past. Maybe she should just admit her age. But then what? “Gee, guys, why the grilling?”

“So you’re how old?” Linc asked offhandedly.

Miranda’s heart thumped hard and fast. “Old enough. I, uh, graduated from high school at sixteen.” And that was the truth. Still, she didn’t like the way Parker kept staring at her in his rearview mirror. It seemed the more she said, the farther she put her foot down her throat. Please, someone change the subject.

Eric did just that when the Excursion bounced off the last few feet of rutted lane and Parker swung onto the smoother highway. “Why turn east? Don’t you go west to get to town? That’s the direction we came in from.”

“According to the friend who scoped out the ranch for me, Susanville is really the closest town to the property. Because there’s national parkland in between, it’s not the most well-traveled stretch of road. But, John, my friend, is an avid outdoorsman. He said the streams and lakes are stocked with several kinds of trout. Do any of you fish?”

Wolfie perked up. “I ain’t never fished with anything but a skinned tree branch with a string and a safety pin. The houseparents before the Tuckers used to let me fish our creek. But Mrs. Tucker said she wouldn’t eat no fish from where us kids took baths. And Mr. Tucker, he said fishing was a waste of time. He only wanted me to chop wood for their fireplace.”

The more Linc heard about George and Lydia Tucker, the angrier he became. What kind of man sent a boy Wolfgang’s age to tackle a dangerous job?

He mustered a smile he didn’t feel. “Fishing season here runs from Memorial Day to December thirty-first. Since it’s early November, we might find time to fish, even with the work I want to accomplish. It’s something I’ve always wanted to try, but never had the opportunity. If you’re our resident expert, Wolfie, I’ll buy rods and you can teach the boys and me how to catch trout.”

“What’s resident…whatever you said?” the boy asked, puckering his brows.

Jenny heaved a sigh. “Man, are you dense. Resident expert means you’re the best person to demonstrate a skill. Fishing, duh! What I want to know is why only the boys get to go. Why not Randi and me, too?”

“If you girls want to slog through underbrush for hours on end, I’ve got no objection.”

“But you’re gonna make ’em put their own worms or bugs on their hooks, ain’t you, Mr. Parker?” This gleeful addendum from Wolfie was the most animated he’d been. His smile showed two teeth in different stages of coming in.

Jenny recoiled at the very mention of baiting a hook. Miranda said nothing at first. She’d learned her lesson about jumping in too fast. You could give away too much that way. From here on, she’d weigh everything she said. “My dad liked to fish.” It was true. “He took me a time or two when I was Cassie’s age.” Also true. “You’re about eight, aren’t you, Cassie?”

“Seven, I think.”

“You think?” Greg scoffed from behind the girl. “Don’t you know?”

The child blinked owlishly, and large tears welled up behind her smudged lenses. Miranda reached out and clasped the child’s hand. “It’s okay, Cassie. Mr. Parker can find out. There must be school and health records on each of you back at the house. Do you know why you can’t walk?” Miranda asked softly.

The girl nodded. “Because my spine’s twisted at the bottom.”

Wolfie cleared his throat. “We heard Mrs. Rankin, one of the house moms, say Cassie’s mama had a boyfriend who threw Cassie down the basement steps.”

Jenny sucked in her breath. And Scraps emitted what could pass for a sympathetic growl. Miranda merely tightened her grip on the child’s fingers. “But, honey, you probably don’t remember the details of the accident.”

“I do sorta,” Cassie said solemnly. “I remember being cold for a long time. And I remember some policemen took Joey and Mama away. Then I was in the hospital for a lot of days and nights. I’ve lived a lotta places since. Nobody ever wants me to stay, ’cause it’s hard having a kid around who can’t walk.”

A heavy silence descended on the vehicle. Miranda stroked the girl’s small hand as her gaze met Linc’s in the mirror. She could only guess that her horror matched the sick expression she saw in his eyes.

“Look,” Eric announced, a catch evident in his voice, as well. “We’re coming to some lights. That must be the town up ahead.”

Gladly latching on to a chance to avoid what he read as censure in Randi’s cool gaze, Linc switched his attention to the glow Eric pointed out.

“Get outta here,” Shawn said. “If that’s the town, I’d say we’re in deep shit when it comes to finding a motel. Looks like nothin’s goin’ on here.”

“Please watch your language, Shawn.” Miranda cast her eyes toward the younger members of their group.

“Come on, kids.” Linc injected a cheery note in his voice. “Susanville is the county seat. Montoya said it’s a hub for serious hikers, sport fishermen and mountain bikers. There have to be motels to accommodate those groups. And it’s not so late that there won’t be a choice of restaurants still open.” Even as he spoke, they passed a well-lit café.

The kids all clamored for him to stop, but Linc drove on. “I think we should book a motel before we eat. Let’s get our sleeping arrangements nailed down, and then we’ll worry about filling our bellies.”

There was a lot of grumbling, but in the end the kids capitulated.

At the first motel with a vacancy sign, Linc swung in. He told everyone to stay put, but no one listened and they all got out and trooped into the office behind him.

The clerk took one look at the kids and immediately informed Linc she couldn’t accommodate his party.

“That’s odd. I only saw three cars in your parking lot. And you have two floors of rooms,” he said, smiling as he leaned an elbow on the counter.

“Uh…it’s the dog. We don’t allow pets,” the woman said, almost happily trumping Linc’s ace.

He recognized her shallow ploy for what it was, and while he wouldn’t stay here now if it was the last motel in town, he didn’t intend to go without leaving her something to think about. “That’s too bad for your establishment. This dog is a movie star. We’ve had a long drive today—up from Hollywood, haven’t we, kids? I told my cast this looked like a perfect spot to film.” Turning, he motioned them out. “That’s okay. We’ll take our money down the road.”

Even though the woman sputtered behind him, Linc steadily moved everyone outside. As they reloaded the SUV, silence reigned. Then Eric crowed, “That was sweet, man, how you made her look at us with respect.”

“Let that be a lesson, Eric. All people are worthy of respect. Note that I wasn’t disrespectful to the clerk. The choice was hers. And she’s entitled to her beliefs no matter how much I disagree with her.”

“But you flat-out lied,” Miranda said. “Scraps isn’t a movie star. And we don’t even know that he won’t mess in a room. I mean, we’ll have to leave him in there with a bowl of water while we go eat.”

“I bent the truth. Jenny said you found him near Burbank. You don’t know that he hasn’t been in films. And he won’t mess up the room if you walk him before we go eat and again before you turn in.”

The kids mulled over Linc’s words as he drove down the main street to another motel. This time when he asked them to stay put while he booked rooms, no one objected. They gave high fives all around, however, when he came back a few minutes later wagging three keys. “And Scraps is legally in.”

“I thought you said two rooms earlier,” Miranda said.

“Yes, but I have to make some phone calls. I booked a single for me and two doubles. Splitting up the boys and girls means everybody has more space.”

“Uh, that’ll be great.” Miranda capitulated fast enough. “It means an extra shower. I could almost skip eating to enjoy a hot shower. How about you, Jenny?”

Before she could answer, Linc interrupted, “Do you girls mind bathing Cassie and Hana tonight?”

“They’ll be glad to.” Shawn readily volunteered them. “Now can we please go find a burger joint? I’m starved.”

With moods greatly improved, they all laughed.

“I’m three steps ahead of you, Shawn.” Linc handed out the room keys and then went to unload the packs. “I told the clerk I had eight hungry mouths to feed. Taking pity on me, she drew a map to the closest steak house.”

“Steak?” The older boys chattered excitedly among themselves as they dropped stuff in their rooms and Miranda prepared to leave the dog.

Linc had never gone hungry in his life. And this one night, steak was the least he could offer pathetic kids whose stories had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

CHAPTER FOUR

LINC RESENTED the surreptitious looks they got from other patrons as they ambled in. They were seated at a large oval table near the back of the restaurant, shown to their seats by a hostess wearing a red-checkered dress that matched the décor. He dismissed her look of pity as he took the stack of menus she thrust into his hands.

Miranda waited for Parker to request booster seats for Cassie and Hana. Not that Cassie wasn’t old enough to sit in a regular chair. But these were wooden ones, built low, probably for big men—the sportsmen Linc had mentioned earlier.

In gentlemanly fashion, Linc pulled out Jenny’s chair, then Randi’s. “We got enough chairs?” He glanced around the table and counted.

“Don’t you think we need boosters for the little girls?”

“High chairs, you mean?” He frowned, letting his mind drift back to when his kid sister had needed a chair that had its own tray.

Miranda rolled her eyes. “Boosters are molded plastic seats that go on regular chairs.”

She didn’t tack stupid onto the end of her sentence, but she might as well have, Linc thought. “Does this restaurant have such an item?” He squinted to see into the dimly lit corners.

“We do have boosters, sir,” the hostess assured him with a broad smile. “How many do you need for your family?”

“Oh, they’re not mine,” he said, refocusing on the woman who looked as if she belonged at a square dance.

“Two, please,” Miranda rushed to say. Turning, she followed the hostess to where the multicolored seats were stacked. Miranda selected a blue one and a red one. The red had a cushion made of fabric like the woman’s dress. It turned out to be oilcloth, more like the tablecloths. Regardless, she judged the cushion better for Cassie and had barely started back to the table when the seats were whisked from her hands. Glancing up in surprise, she discovered Parker had relieved her of them.

“Give Cassie the red one,” she said quickly. “It was the only one with a cushion. I think it’ll be softer on her poor back.”

“I’m not dense, Ms—what in hell is your last name?” Linc demanded, suddenly perplexed.

“Ah…uh…according to Jenny, street people never give their surnames to anyone. It’s for protection,” she said when Linc stopped to stare at her.

“So does that mean you weren’t a street person before you hit California?”

“No. I mean, I was…for a while. In Kansas City,” she blurted, trying to stick as close to the truth as possible.

“Kansas City.” Narrowing his eyes, Linc turned that tidbit of information over in his mind. “You didn’t get that thick drawl there. Where did you live before K.C.? And why did you leave?”

Miranda drew herself up to her full height, yet she was still woefully shorter than the man studying her like a specimen under a microscope. “My past is my own business. And your silly interrogation is holding up the waitress who wants to take our drink orders.”

Feeling smartly put in his place, Linc set the booster seats into the chairs. He gently lifted the little girls into them. The only two empty chairs at the table were quite far from each other.

Damn, he’d wanted to probe deeper into the mystery that came packaged as a woman calling herself Randi with no last name. If Randi was even her name… Why he cared about her history, Linc didn’t know. After all, he’d been warned not to expect the truth out of street kids. Yet Randi managed to irritate him while simultaneously giving him pause. Linc vowed he’d unravel her story or know the reason why.

“Are you kids ready to order?” Linc asked as the waitress stood patiently by his chair.

“We don’t know how much you are letting us spend,” Greg said, his English showing traces of his Asian background. “Have you looked at the cost?”

Linc opened the menu, expecting to see something outrageous. In actuality, the steaks were cheap. “Order whatever suits your fancy. Let me worry about the bill.”

There wasn’t one person at the table who didn’t show shock at that news. Miranda alone noticed how Parker had softened his tone so that his statement, which might have sounded as if he lorded it over them, held no patronizing inflection.

She imagined her former manager in a situation like this. Wes Carlisle would have found a way to put everyone at the table in his debt. Which was how Wes had operated from the minute he’d stepped into a job previously handled by her father. Throughout the years that Doug Kimbrough had made decisions for her, she’d remained blissfully ignorant about the working end of her singing career. The rude awakening came the moment Carlisle stepped in. It hadn’t taken Miranda long to figure out that she’d made a horrible mistake in signing an open-ended contract with Carlisle’s agency.

As they awaited their food, Miranda recalled something Jenny said the day they met. She’d said her good friend Felicity’s brother was some guru who worked with movie and singing stars. Miranda couldn’t help wondering if Parker managed his stars in a manner similar to Carlisle’s handling of country singers. Try as she might, she couldn’t picture Wes giving up his rich lifestyle to go to some remote locale and set up a safe house for street kids. The two types of personalities—manager to the stars and socially conscious benefactor—weren’t mutually compatible. So maybe Jenny was wrong about Parker’s occupation.

After everyone had their drinks, Miranda lent a hand to Hana so the girl didn’t spill her milk all over the place. Catching Parker’s eye, she asked casually, “What did you do before you bought the ranch? I know you worked in Hollywood. Did it involve teens? You’re not the type to have been a cop.” Miranda pretended she knew nothing about his background.

Jenny frowned. “I thought I told you about Felicity’s brother.”

“Unlike some people,” Linc said, aiming a pointed stare at Miranda, “I’m not secretive about my past. I graduated from a California college with a master’s in finance. I became a CPA and then set up a partnership with a guy I met in grad school. We invest our clients’ excess capital and do their quarterly taxes.”

“Felicity said his clients are top movie and rock stars,” Jenny said in a tone filled with awe.

“No kidding?” Greg’s face was a mask of envy. “I guess I joined the group after Felicity mentioned that,” he whispered to Jenny. “Anyway, I didn’t know her as well as you guys did. But the house…wow! Megabucks.”

Linc sliced an impatient hand through the air. “A firm doesn’t start off working for big names. It takes time to earn respect in any field.”

“There’s that word again,” Eric pointed out. “Respect’s a big word in your vocabulary, isn’t it, Mr. P.?”

“No more than honesty, reliability and diligence.”

Wolfie, who now had a white mustache after draining his glass of milk, asked in a small voice what diligence meant.

“Sorry,” Linc said. “I know you aren’t a walking dictionary. Diligence is a high-priced word for hard work.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say hard work?” Wolfie sighed, then launched another question. “I guess you gotta go to school to learn big words, huh?”

Linc flashed him a grin. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Learning anything takes time. You’re only in what—fourth grade?”

“No grade. Well, I used to go to school before the Tuckers came to Rascal Ranch. They didn’t like to drive me and Cassie out to the highway to catch the bus. And Miz Lydia never liked taking care of Hana by herself.”

Miranda exhaled loudly. “You mean they arbitrarily stopped sending you to school?”

When all three kids gaped at her without comprehension, she hastily rephrased her question. “Arbitrarily means the Tuckers took it upon themselves to take you out of school. Is that what they did?”

Wolfie thought a minute, then nodded.

“Nothing about that couple would surprise me,” Linc exclaimed when Miranda telegraphed him a look of outrage.

“Before we head back to the ranch, shouldn’t we, uh, you find out how long this has gone on? Surely you can reinstate them in school.”

“Yes, if they are going to remain with me. Tomorrow, though, among other things, I hope to contact a living breathing soul who knows what agency ought to be taking responsibility for them.” Fortuitously, in Linc’s estimation, their meal arrived. Otherwise he was certain Randi would have given him hell. She’d made it plain in a glance what she thought of him for shucking off what she mistakenly considered his responsibility for the children’s welfare. But why in hell should he care what a woman, who had no apparent direction in her own life, thought about the way he chose to manage his contribution to charity?

The answer was, Linc didn’t care. Or rather, he shouldn’t care. It so happened he did. Because throughout the meal, she sent him darting looks that penetrated deeper and deeper into his fairly thick skin. Why couldn’t she attack her steak with the same fervor showing in those expressive gray eyes?

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