It didn’t matter that the hamburger joint was littered with uniformed police officers. Mia knew it was him the moment he walked in the door.

Officer Collin Grace sure stood out in a crowd. Brown eyes full of caution swept the room once, as if calculating escape routes, before coming to rest on her. She prided herself on being able to read people. Officer Collin Grace didn’t trust a soul in the place.

Mia fixed her attention on the policeman. With spiked dark hair, slashing eyebrows, and a five-o’clock shadow, he was good-looking in a hard, manly kind of way.

He came over and jacked up an eyebrow. “Miss Carano?”

A bewildering flutter tickled her stomach. “Yes, but I prefer Mia.”

He slid into the booth, and didn’t ask her to use his given name. She wasn’t surprised. He was every bit the cool, detached cop. This wasn’t going to be easy.

LINDA GOODNIGHT

A romantic at heart, Linda Goodnight believes in the traditional values of family and home. Writing books enables her to share her certainty that, with faith and perseverance, love can last forever and happy endings really are possible.

A native of Oklahoma, Linda lives in the country with her husband, Gene, and Mugsy, an adorably obnoxious rat terrier. She and Gene have a blended family of six grown children. An elementary school teacher, she is also a licensed nurse. When time permits, Linda loves to read, watch football and rodeo, and indulge in chocolate. She also enjoys taking long, calorie-burning walks in the nearby woods. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

A Season for Grace

Linda Goodnight

A father to the fatherless, defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families.

—Psalms 68:5–6

Special thanks to former DHS caseworker Tammy Potter for answering my social services questions, and to my buddy Maggie Price for helping me keep my cop in the realm of reality. Any mistakes or literary license are my own. I would also like to acknowledge the legion of foster and adoptive parents and children who have shared their insight into the painful world of social orphans.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

The worst was happening again. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Collin Grace was only ten years old but he’d seen it all and then some. One thing he’d seen too much of was social workers. He hated them. The sweet-talking women with their briefcases and straight skirts and fancy fingernails. They always meant trouble.

Arms stiff, he stood in front of the school counselor’s desk and stared at the office wall. His insides shook so hard he thought he might puke. But he wouldn’t ask to be excused. No way he’d let them know how scared he was. Wouldn’t do no good anyhow.

Betrayal, painful as a stick in the eye, settled low in his belly. He had thought Mr. James liked him, but the counselor had called the social worker.

Didn’t matter. Collin wasn’t going to cry. Not like his brother Drew. Stupid kid was fighting and kicking and screaming like he could stop what was happening.

“Now, Drew.” The social worker tried to soothe the wild brother. Tried to brush his too-long, dark hair out of his furious blue eyes. Drew snarled like a wounded wolf. “Settle down. Everything will be all right.”

That was a lie. And all three of the brothers knew it. Nothing was ever all right. They’d leave this school and go into foster care again. New people to live with, new school, new town, all of them strange and unfriendly. They’d be cleaned up and fattened up, but after a few months Mama would get them back. Then they’d be living under bridges or with some drugged-out old guy who liked to party with Mama. Then she’d disappear. Collin would take charge. Things would be better for a while. The whole mess would start all over again.

People should just leave them alone. He could take care of his brothers.

Drew howled again and slammed his seven-year-old fist into the social worker. “I hate you. Leave me alone!”

He broke for the door.

Collin bit the inside of his lip. Drew hadn’t figured out yet that he couldn’t escape.

A ruckus broke out. The athletic counselor grabbed Drew and held him down in a chair even though he bucked and spat and growled like a mad tomcat. Drew was a wiry little twerp; Collin gave him credit for that. And he had guts. For what good it would do him, he might as well save his energy. Grown-ups would win. They always did.

People passed the partially open office door and peered around the edge, curious about all the commotion. Collin tried to pretend he couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them. But he could.

“Poor little things,” one of the teachers murmured. “Living in a burned-out trailer all by themselves. No wonder they’re filthy.”

Collin swallowed the cry of humiliation rising up in his stomach like the bad oranges he’d eaten from the convenience-store trash. He did the best he could to keep Drew and Ian clean and fed. It wasn’t easy without water or electricity. He’d tried washing them off in the restroom before school, but he guessed he hadn’t done too good a job.

“Collin.” The fancy-looking social worker had a hand on her stomach where Drew had punched her. “You’ve been through this before. You know it’s for the best. Why don’t you help me get your brothers in the car?”

Collin didn’t look at her. Instead he focused on his brothers, sick that he couldn’t help them. Sick with dread. Who knew what would happen this time? Somehow he had to find a way to keep them all together. That was the important thing. Together, they could survive.

Ian, only four, looked so little sitting in a big brown plastic chair against the wall. His scrawny legs stuck straight out and the oversized tennis shoes threatened to fall off. No shoestrings. They stunk, too. Collin could smell them clean over here.

Like Collin, baby Ian didn’t say a word; he didn’t fight. He just cried. Silent, broken tears streamed down his cheeks and left tracks like a bicycle through mud. Clad in a plaid flannel shirt with only two buttons and a pair of Drew’s tattered jeans pulled together at the belt loops with a piece of electrical cord, his skinny body trembled. Collin could hardly stand that.

They shouldn’t have come to school today; then none of this would have happened. But they were hungry and he was fresh out of places to look. School lunch was free, all you could eat.

Seething against an injustice he couldn’t name or defend against, he crossed the room to his brother. He didn’t say a word; just put his hand on Ian’s head. The little one, quivering like a scared puppy, relaxed the tiniest bit. He looked up, eyes saying he trusted his big brother to take care of everything the way he always did.

Collin hoped he could.

The social worker knelt in front of Ian and took his hand. “I know you’re scared, honey, but you’re going to be fine. You’ll have plenty to eat and a nice, safe place to sleep.” She tapped his tennis shoes. “And a new pair of shoes, just your size. Things will be better, I promise.”

Ian sniffed and dragged a buttonless sleeve across his nose. When he looked at her, he had hope in his eyes. Poor little kid.

Collin ignored the hype. He’d heard it all before and it was a lie. Things were never better. Different, but not better.

The tall counselor, still holding Drew in the chair, slid to his knees just like the social worker and said, “Boys, sometimes life throws us a curveball. But no matter what happens, I want you to remember one thing. Jesus cares about you. If you let him, He’ll take care of you. No matter where you go from here, God will never walk off and leave you.”

A funny thing happened then. Drew sort of quieted down and looked as if he was listening. Ian was still sniffin’ and snubbin’, but watching Mr. James, too. None of them could imagine anybody who wouldn’t leave them at some point.

“Collin?” The counselor, who Collin used to like a lot, twisted around and stretched an open palm toward him. Collin wanted to take hold. But he couldn’t.

After a minute, Mr. James dropped his hand, laid it on Collin’s shoe. Something about that big, strong hand on his old tennis shoe bothered Collin. He didn’t know if he liked it or hated it.

The room got real quiet then. Too quiet. Mr. James bowed his bald head and whispered something. A prayer, Collin thought, though he didn’t know much about such things. He stared at the wall, trying hard not to listen. He didn’t dare hope, but the counselor’s words made him want to.

Then Mr. James reached into his pocket. Drew and Ian watched him, silent. Collin watched his brothers.

“I want you to have one of these,” the counselor said as he placed something in each of the younger boys’ hands. It looked like a fish on a tiny chain. “It’s a reminder of what I said, that God will watch over you.”

Collin’s curiosity made his palm itch to reach out, but he didn’t. Instead, Mr. James had to pry his fingers apart and slide the fish-shaped piece of metal into the hollow of his hand.

Much as he wanted to, Collin refused to look at it. Better to cut to the chase and quit all this hype. “Where are we going this time?”

His stupid voice shook. He clenched his fists to still the trembling. The metal fish, warm from Mr. James’s skin, bit into his flesh.

The pretty social worker looked up, startled that he’d spoken. Collin wondered if she could see the fury, red and hot, that pushed against the back of his eyes.

“We already have foster placements for Drew and Ian.”

But not for him. The anger turned to fear. “Together?”

As long as they were together, they’d be okay.

“No. I’m sorry. Not this time.”

He knew what she meant. He knew the system probably better than she did. Only certain people would take boys like Drew who expressed their anger. And nobody would take him. He was too old. People liked little and cute like Ian, not fighters, not runaways, not big boys with an attitude.

Panic shot through him, made his heart pound wildly. “They have to stay with me. Ian gets scared.”

The social worker rose and touched his shoulder. “He’ll be fine, Collin.”

Collin shrugged away to glare at the brown paneled wall behind the counselor’s desk. Helpless fury seethed inside him.

The worst had finally happened.

He and Drew and Ian were about to be separated.

Chapter One

Twenty-three years later, Oklahoma City

Sweat burned his eyes, but Collin Grace didn’t move. He couldn’t. One wrong flinch and somebody died.

Totally focused on the life-and-death scenario playing out on the ground below, he hardly noticed the sun scalding the back of his neck or the sweat soaking through his protective vest.

The Tac-team leader’s voice came through the earphone inside his Fritz helmet. “Hostage freed. Suspect in custody. Get down here for debrief.”

Collin relaxed and lowered the .308 caliber marksman rifle, a SWAT sniper’s best friend, and rose from his prone position on top of the River Street Savings and Loan. Below him, the rest of the team exited a training house and headed toward Sergeant Gerrara.

Frequent training was essential and Collin welcomed every drill. Theirs wasn’t a full-time SWAT unit, so they had to stay sharp for those times when the callout would come and they’d have to act. Normally a patrol cop, he’d spent all morning on the firing range, requalifying with every weapon known to mankind. He was good. Real good, with the steadiest hands anyone on the force had ever seen. A fact that made him proud.

“You headed for the gym after this?” His buddy, fellow police officer and teammate, Maurice Johnson shared his propensity for exercise. Stay in shape, stay alive. Most special tactics cops agreed.

Collin peeled his helmet off and swiped a hand over his sweating brow. “Yeah. You?”

“For a few reps. I told Shanita I’d be home early. Bible study at our place tonight.” Maurice sliced a sneaky grin in Collin’s direction. Sweat dripped from his high ebony cheeks and rolled down a neck the size of a linebacker’s. “Wanna come?”

Collin returned the grin with a shake of his head. Maurice wouldn’t give up. He extended the same invitation every Thursday.

Collin liked Maurice and his family, but he couldn’t see a loner like himself spouting Bible verses and singing in a choir. It puzzled him, too, that a cop as tough and smart as Maurice would feel the need for God. To Collin’s way of thinking there was only one person he trusted enough to lean on. And that was himself.

“Phone call for you, Grace,” Sergeant Gerrara hollered. “Probably some cutie after your money.”

The other cops hooted as Collin shot Maurice an exasperated look and took off in a trot. He received plenty of teasing about his single status. Some of the guys tried to fix him up, but when a woman started pushing him or trying to get inside his head, she was history. He didn’t need the grief.

The heavy tactics gear rattled and bounced against his body as he grabbed the cell phone from Sergeant Gerrara’s over-size fist, trading it for his rifle.

“Grace.”

“Sergeant Collin Grace?” A feminine voice, light and sweet, hummed against his ear.

“Yeah.” He shoved his helmet under one arm and stepped away from the gaggle of cops who listened in unabashedly. “Who’s this?”

“Mia Carano. I’m with the Cleveland County Department of Child Welfare.”

A cord of tension stretched through Collin’s chest. Adrenaline, just now receding from the training scenario, ratcheted up a notch. Child welfare, a department he both loathed and longed to hear from. Could it finally be news?

He struggled to keep his voice cool and detached. “Is this about my brothers?”

“Your brothers?”

Envisioning her puzzled frown, Collin realized she had no idea he’d spent years trying to find Ian and Drew. The spurt of energy drained out of him. “Never mind. What can I do for you, Ms. Carano?”

“Do you recall the young boy you picked up last week behind the pawn shop?”

“The runaway?” He could still picture the kid. “Angry, scared, but too proud to admit it?”

“Yes. Mitchell Perez. He’s eleven. Going on thirty.”

The kid hadn’t looked a day over nine. Skinny. Black hair too long and hanging in his eyes. A pack of cigarettes crushed and crammed down in his jeans’ pocket. He’d reminded Collin too much of Drew.

“You still got him? Or did he go home?”

“Home for now, but he’s giving his mother fits.”

From what the kid had told him, she deserved fits. “He’ll run again.”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling you.”

Around him the debrief was breaking up. He lifted a hand to the departing team.

“Nothing I can do until he runs.”

He leaned an elbow against somebody’s black pickup truck and watched cars pull up to a stop sign adjacent to the parking lot. Across the street, shoppers came and went in a strip mall. Normal, common occurrences in the city on a peaceful, sunny afternoon. Ever alert, he filed them away, only half listening to the caller.

“This isn’t my first encounter with Mitch. He’s a troubled boy, but his mother said you impressed him. He talks about you. Wants to be a cop.”

Collin felt a con coming on. Social workers were good at that. He stayed quiet, let her ramble on in that sugary voice.

“He has no father. No male role model.”

Big surprise. He switched the phone to the other ear.

“I thought you might be willing to spend some time with the boy. Perhaps through CAPS, our child advocate program. It’s sort of like Big Brothers only through the court system.”

He was already a big brother and he’d done a sorry job of that. Some of the other officers did that sort of outreach, but not him.

“I don’t think so.”

“At least give me a chance to talk with you about it. I have some other ideas if CAPS doesn’t appeal.”

He was sure she did. Her type always had ideas. “This isn’t my kind of thing. Call the precinct. They might know somebody.”

“Tell you what,” she said as if he hadn’t just turned her down. “Meet me at Chick’s Place in fifteen minutes. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

She didn’t give up easy. She even knew the cops’ favorite hamburger joint.

He didn’t know why, but he said, “Make it forty-five minutes and a hamburger, onions fried.”

She laughed and the sound was light, musical. He liked it. It was her occupation that turned him off.

“I’ll even throw in some cheese fries,” she added.

“Be still my heart.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. Regardless of her sweet voice, he didn’t know this woman and didn’t particularly want to.

“I’ll sit in the first booth so you’ll recognize me.”

“What if it’s occupied?”

“I’ll buy them a burger, too.” She laughed again. The sound ran over him like fresh summer rain. “See you in forty-five minutes.”

The phone went dead and Collin stared down at it, puzzled that a woman—a social worker, no less—had conned him into meeting her for what was, no doubt, even more of a con.

Well, he had news for Mia Carano with the sweet voice. Collin Grace didn’t con easy. Regardless of what she wanted, the answer was already no.

Mia recognized him the minute he walked in the door. No matter that the hamburger café was littered with uniformed police officers hunched over burgers or mega-size soft drinks. Collin Grace stood out in a crowd. Brown eyes full of caution swept the room once, as if calculating escape routes, before coming to rest on her. She prided herself on being able to read people. Sergeant Grace didn’t trust a soul in the place.

“There he is,” the middle-aged officer across from her said, nodding toward the entrance. “That’s Amazin’ Grace.”

Mia fixed her attention on the lean, buff policeman coming her way. With spiked dark hair, slashing eyebrows and a permanent five o’clock shadow, he was good-looking in a hard, manly kind of way. His fatigue pants and fitted brown T-shirt with a Tac-team emblem over the heart looked fresh and clean as though he’d recently changed.

Officer Jess Snow pushed out of the booth he’d kindly allowed her to share. In exchange, he had regaled her with stories about the force, his grandkids, and his plan to retire next year. He’d also told her that the other policemen referred to the officer coming her way as Amazin’ Grace because of his uncanny cool and precision even under the most intense conditions. “Guess I’ll get moving. Sure was nice talking to you.”

She smiled up at the older man. “You, too, Jess.”

Officer Snow gave her a wink and nodded to the newcomer as he left.

Collin returned a short, curt nod and then jacked an eyebrow at Mia. “Miss Carano?”

A bewildering flutter tickled her stomach. “Yes, but I prefer Mia.”

As he slid into the booth across from her the equipment attached to his belt rattled and a faint stir of some warm, tangy aftershave pierced the scent of frying onions. She noted that he did not return the courtesy by asking her to use his given name.

She wasn’t surprised. He was every bit the cool, detached cop. Years of looking at the negative side of life did that to some social workers as well. Mia was thankful she had the Lord and a very supportive family to pour out all her frustrations and sadness upon. Her work was her calling. She was right where God could best use her, and she’d long ago made up her mind not to let the dark side of life burn her out.

Sergeant Grace, on the other hand, might as well be draped in strips of yellow police tape that screamed, Caution: Restricted Area. Getting through his invisible shield wouldn’t be as easy as she’d hoped.

He propped his forearms on the tabletop like a barrier between them. His left T-shirt sleeve slid upward to reveal the bottom curve of a tattoo emblazoned with a set of initials she couldn’t quite make out.

Though she didn’t move or change expressions, a part of her shrank back from him. She’d never understood a man’s propensity to mutilate his arms with dye and needles.

“So,” he said, voice deep and smooth. “What can I do for you, Mia?”

“Don’t you want your hamburger first?”

The tight line of his mouth mocked her. “A spoonful of sugar doesn’t really make the medicine go down any easier.”

So cynical. And he couldn’t be that much older than she was. Early thirties maybe. “You might actually enjoy what I have in mind.”

“I doubt it.” He raised a hand to signal the waitress. “What would you like?” he asked.

She motioned to her Coke. “This is fine. I’m not hungry.”

He studied her for a second before turning his attention to the waitress. “Bring me a Super Burger. Fry the onions, hold the tomatoes, and add a big order of cheese fries and a Mountain Dew.”

The waitress poised with pen over pad and said in a droll voice, “What’s the occasion? Shoot somebody today?”

One side of the policeman’s mouth softened. He didn’t smile, but he was close. “Only a smart-mouthed waitress. Nobody will miss her.”

The waitress chuckled and said to Mia, “I never thought I’d see the day grease would cross his lips.”

She sauntered away, hollering the order to a guy in the back.

“I thought all cops were junk-food junkies.”

“It’s the hours. Guys don’t always have time to eat right.”

“But you do?”

“Sometimes.”

If he was a health food nut he wasn’t going to talk to her about it. Curious the way he avoided small talk. Was he this way with everyone? Or just her?

Maybe it was her propensity for nosiness. Maybe it was her talkative Italian heritage. But Mia couldn’t resist pushing a little to see what he would do. “So what do you eat? Bean sprouts and yogurt?”

“Is that why you’re here? To talk about my diet?”

So cold. So empty. Had she made a mistake in thinking this ice man might help a troubled boy?

On the other hand, Grandma Carano said still waters run deep. Gran had been talking about Uncle Vitorio, the only quiet Carano in the giant, noisy family, and she’d been right. Uncle Vitorio was a thinker, an inventor. Granted he mostly invented useless gadgets to amuse himself, but the family considered him brilliant and deep.

Perhaps Collin was the same. Or maybe he just needed some encouragement to loosen up.

She pushed her Coke to one side and got down to business.

“For some reason, Mitchell Perez has developed a heavy case of hero worship for you.”

The boy was one of those difficult cases who didn’t respond well to any of the case workers, the counselors or anybody else for that matter, but something inside Mia wouldn’t give up. Last night, when she’d prayed for the boy, this idea to contact Collin Grace had come into her mind. She’d believed it was God-sent, but now she wondered.

“More and more in the social system we’re seeing boys like Mitchell who don’t have a clue how to become responsible, caring men. They need real men to teach them and to believe in them. Men they can relate to and admire.”

The waitress slid a soda and a paper-covered straw in front of Sergeant Grace.

“How do you know I’m that kind of man?”

“I checked you out.”

He tilted his head. “Just because I’m a good cop doesn’t mean I’d be a suitable role model to some street kid.”

“I’m normally a good judge of character and I think you would be. The thing here is need. We have so many needy kids, and few men willing to spend a few hours a week to make a difference. Don’t you see, Officer? In the long run, your job will be easier if someone intercedes on behalf of these kids now. Maybe they won’t end up in trouble later on down the road.”

“And maybe they will.”

Frustration made her want to pound the table. “You know the statistics. Mentored kids are less likely to get into drugs and crime. They’re more likely to go to college. More likely to hold jobs and be responsible citizens. Don’t you get it, Officer? A few hours a week of your time can change a boy’s life.”

He pointed his straw at her. “You haven’t been at this long, have you?”

She blinked, leaned back in the booth and tried to calm down. “Seven years.”

“Longer than I thought.”

“Why? Because I care? Because I’m not burned out?”

“It happens.” The shrug in his voice annoyed her.

“Is that what’s happened to you?”

A pained look came and went on his face, but he kept silent—again.

Mia leaned forward, her passionate Italian nature taking control. “Look, this may not make any sense to you. Or it may sound idealistic, but I believe what I do makes a difference in these kids’ lives.”

“Maybe they don’t want you to make a difference. Maybe they want to be left alone.”

“Left alone? To be abused?”

“Not all of them are mistreated.”

“Or neglected. Or cold and hungry, eating out of garbage cans.”

Collin’s face closed up tighter than a miser’s fist. Had the man no compassion?

“There are a lot of troubled kids out there. Why are you so focused on this particular one?”

“I’m concerned about all of them.”

“But?”

So he’d heard the hesitation.

“There’s something special about Mitch.” Something about the boy pulled at her, kept her going back to check on him. Kept her trying. “He wants to make it, but he doesn’t know how.”

Collin’s expression shifted ever so slightly. The change was subtle, but Mia felt him softening. His eyes flicked sideways and, as if glad for the interruption, he said, “Food’s coming.”

The waitress slid the steaming burger and fries onto the table. “There you go. A year’s worth of fat and cholesterol.”

“No wonder Chick keeps you around, Millie. You’re such a great salesman.”

“Saleslady, thank you.”

He took a giant bite of the burger and sighed. “Perfect. Just like you.”

Millie rolled her eyes and moved on. Collin turned his attention back to Mia. “You were saying?”

“Were you even listening?”

“To every word. The kid is special. Why?”

Mia experienced a twinge of pleasure. Collin Grace confused her, but there was something about him…

“Beneath Mitch’s hard layer is a gentleness. A sweet little boy who doesn’t know who to trust or where to turn.”

“Imagine that. The world screws him over from birth and he stops trusting it. What a concept.”

The man was cool to the point of frostbite and had a shell harder than any of the street kids she dealt with. If she could crack this tough nut perhaps other cops would follow suit. She was already pursuing the idea of mentor groups through her church, but cops-as-mentors could make an impact like no other.

She took a big sip of Coke and then said, “At least talk to Mitch.”

The pager at Collin’s waist went off. He slipped the device from his belt, glanced at the display, and pushed out of the booth, leaving a half-eaten burger and a nearly full basket of cheese fries.

Mia looked up at the tall and dark and distant cop. “Is that your job?”

He nodded curtly. “Gotta go. Thanks for the dinner.”

“Could I call you about this later?”

“No point. The answer will still be no.” He whipped around with the precision of a marine and strode out of the café before Mia could argue further.

Disappointment curled in her belly. When she could close her surprised mouth, she did so with a huff.

The basket of leftover fries beckoned. She crammed a handful in her mouth. No use wasting perfectly good cheese fries. Even if they did end up on her hips.

Sergeant Collin Grace may have said no, but no didn’t always mean absolutely no.

And Mia wasn’t quite ready to give up on Mitchell Perez…or Collin Grace.

Chapter Two

“Hey Grace, you spending the night here or something?”

Eyes glued to the computer screen, Collin lifted a finger to silence the other cop. “Gotta check one more thing.”

His shift was long over, and the sun drifted toward the west, but at least once a week he checked and re-checked, just in case he’d missed something the other five thousand times he’d searched.

Somewhere out there he had two brothers, and with the explosion of information on the Internet he would find them—eventually. After all this time, though, he wasn’t expecting a miracle.

His cell phone played the University of Oklahoma fight song and he glanced down at the caller ID. Her again. Mia Carano. She’d left no less than ten messages over the past three days. He had talked to her twice, told her no and then hadn’t bothered to return her other calls. Eventually she’d get the message.

The rollicking strains of “Boomer Sooner” faded away as his voice mail picked up. Collin kept his attention on the computer screen.

Over the years, he’d amassed quite a list of names and addresses. One by one, he’d checked them out and moved them to an inactive file. He typed several more names into the file on his computer and hit Save.

The welfare office suggested he should hire a private search agency, but Collin never planned to do that. The idea of letting someone else poke into his troubled background made him nervous. He’d done a good job of leaving that life behind and didn’t want the bones of his childhood dug up by some stranger.

Part of the frustration in this search, though, lay with his own limited memory. Given what he knew of his mother, he wasn’t even sure he and his brothers shared a last name. And even if they once had, either or both could have been changed through adoption.

Maurice Johnson, staying late to finish a report, bent over Collin’s desk. “Any luck?”

He kept his voice low, and Collin appreciated his discretion. It was one of the reasons he’d confided in his coworker and friend about the missing brothers. It was also one of the reasons the man was one of his few close friends. Maurice knew how to keep his mouth shut.

“Same old thing. I added a few more men with the last names of Grace and Stotz, my mother’s maiden name, to the list, but I’m convinced the boys were moved out of Oklahoma after we were separated.”

Their home state had been a dead end from the get-go.

“Any luck in the Texas system?”

“Not yet. But it’s huge. Finding the names is easy. Matching ages and plundering records isn’t quite as simple.”

“Even for a cop.”

A lot of the old files were not even computerized yet. And even if he could find them, there were plenty of records he couldn’t access.

“Yeah. If only most adoption records weren’t sealed. Or there was a centralized listing of some sort.”

“Twenty years ago record-keeping wasn’t the art it is today.”

“Tell me about it.”

He’d stuck his name and information on a number of legit sibling searches. He’d even placed a letter in his old welfare file in case one of the boys was also searching.

Apparently, his brothers weren’t all that eager to make contact. Either that or something had happened to them. His gut clenched. Better not travel that line of thinking.

“Did you ever consider that you might have other family out there? A grandma, an aunt. Somebody.”

He shook his head. “Hard as I’ve tried, I don’t remember anyone. If we ever had any family, Mama had long since alienated them.”

He’d had stepdads and “uncles” aplenty. He even remembered Ian’s dad as a pretty good guy, but the only name he’d ever called the man was Rob.

A few years back he’d tracked his mother down in Seminole County—in jail for public intoxication. His lips twisted at the memory. She’d been too toasted to give false information and for once one of her real names, anyway a name Collin remembered, appeared on the police bulletin.

Their subsequent visit had not been a joyous reunion of mother and son. And, to his great disappointment, she knew less about his brothers’ whereabouts than he did.

After that, she had disappeared off the radar screen again. Probably moved in with her latest party man and changed her name for the tenth or hundredth time. Not that Collin cared. It was his brothers he wanted to find. Karen Stotz-Grace-Whatever had given them birth, but if she’d ever been a mother he didn’t remember it.

“Do you think they’re together?”

“Ian and Drew? No.” He remembered that last day too clearly. “They were headed to different foster homes. Chances are they weren’t reunited either.”

His mother hadn’t bothered to jump through the welfare hoops anymore after that. She’d let the state have custody of all three of them. Collin, who ended up in a group home, had failed in his promise to take care of his brothers. He hoped they had been adopted. He hoped they’d found decent, loving families to give them what he hadn’t been able to. Even though they were grown men, he needed to know if they were all right.

And if they weren’t…

He got that heavy, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and logged out of the search engine.

Leaning back in the office chair, he scraped a hand over his face and said, “Think I’ll call it a night.”

Maurice clapped him on the shoulder. “Come by the house. Shanita will make you a fruit smoothie, and Thomas will harangue you for a game of catch.”

“Thanks. But I can’t. Gotta get out to the farm.” He rose to his feet, stretching to relieve the ache across his mid-back. “The vet’s coming by to check that new pup.”

“How’s he doing?” The other cops were suckers for animals just as he was. They just didn’t take their concern quite as far.

“Still in the danger zone.” Fury sizzled his blood every time he thought of the abused pup. “Even after what happened, he likes people.”

“Animals are very forgiving,” Maurice said.

Collin pushed the glass door open with one hand, holding it for his friend to pass through. Together they left the station and walked through the soft evening breeze to the parking garage.

“Unlike me. If I find out who tied that little fella’s legs with wire and left him to die, I’ll be tempted to return the favor.”

Another police officer had found the collie mix, but not before one foot was amputated and another badly infected. And yet, the animal craved human attention and affection.

They entered the parking garage, footsteps echoing on the concrete, the shady interior cool and welcome. Exhaust fumes hovered in the dimness like smelly ghosts.

Maurice dug in his pocket, keys rattling. “Did your social worker call again today?”

Collin slowed, eyes narrowing. “How did you know?”

His buddy lifted a shoulder. “She has friends in high places.”

Great. “The department can’t force me to do something like that.”

“You take in wounded animals. Why not wounded kids?”

“Not my thing.”

“Because it hits too close to home?”

Collin stopped next to his Bronco, pushed the lock release, and listened for the snick.

“I don’t need reminders.” Enough memories plagued him without that. “You like kids. You do it.”

“Someday you’re going to have to forgive the past, Collin. Lay it to rest. I know Someone who can help you with that.”

Collin recognized the subtle reference to God and let it slide. Though he admired the steadfast faith he saw in Maurice, he wasn’t sure what he believed when it came to religion. He fingered the small metal fish in his pocket, rubbing the ever-present scripture that was his one and only connection to God. And to his brothers.

“Nothing to forgive. I just don’t like thinking about it.”

Maurice looked doubtful but he didn’t argue. The quiet acceptance was another part of the man’s character Collin appreciated. He said his piece and then shut up.

“This social worker. Her name’s Carano, right?”

Collin glanced up, surprised. His grip tightened on the metal door handle. “Yeah.”

“She goes to my church.”

Collin suppressed a groan. “Don’t turn on me, man.”

He’d had enough trouble getting Mia Carano out of his head without Maurice weighing in on the deal. The social worker was about the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time. She emanated a sincere decency that left him unsettled about turning her down, but hearing her smooth, sweet voice on his voice mail a dozen times a day was starting to irritate him.

“Single. Nice family.” White teeth flashed in Maurice’s dark face. “Easy on the eyes.”

Was she ever! Like an ad for an Italian restaurant. Heavy red-brown hair that swirled around her shoulders. Huge, almond-shaped gray-green eyes. A wide, happy mouth. Not too skinny either. He never had gone for ultra-thin women. Made him think they were hungry.

“I didn’t notice.”

“You’re cool, Grace, but you ain’t dead.”

“Don’t start, Johnson. I’m not interested. A woman like that would talk a man to pieces.” Wasn’t she already doing as much?

Maurice chuckled and moseyed off toward his car. His deep voice echoed through the concrete dungeon. “Sooner or later, boy, one of them’s gonna get you.”

Collin waved him off, climbed into his SUV, and cranked the gas-guzzling engine to life. Nobody was going to “get” him. Way he figured, nobody wanted a hard case like him. And that was fine. The only people he really wanted in his life were his brothers. Wherever they were.

Pulling out of the dark underground, he headed west toward the waning sun. The acreage five miles out of the city was a refuge, both for the animals and for him.

His cell phone rang again. Sure enough, it was the social worker. He shook his head and kept driving.

The veterinarian’s dually turned down the short dirt driveway directly behind Collin. The six-wheeled pickup, essential for the rugged places a vet had to traverse, churned up dust and gravel.

“Good timing,” Collin muttered to the rearview mirror, glad not to be in back of Doc White’s mini dust storm, but also glad to see the dependable animal doctor.

If Paige White said she’d be here, she was. With her busy practice, sometimes she didn’t arrive until well after dark, but she always arrived. Collin figured the woman worked more hours than anyone he knew.

The vet followed Collin past the half-built house he called home to the bare patches of grass that served as parking spots in front of a weathered old barn.

A string of fenced pens, divided according to species, dotted the space behind the barn. In one, a pair of neglected and starved horses was slowly regaining strength. In another, a deer healed from an arrow wound.

To one side, a rabbit hutch held a raccoon. And inside the small barn were five dogs, three cats and ten kittens. He was near capacity. As usual. He needed to add on again, but he also needed to continue the work on his house. The bank wouldn’t loan money on two rooms, a bathroom and a concrete slab framed in wood.

Booted feet first, the vet leaped from the high cab of her truck with a whoop for a greeting.

“Hey there, ornery. How’s business?” she hollered as Collin came around the front of his SUV.

“Which one?”

“The only one that counts.” She waved a gloved hand toward the barn, and Collin nearly smiled. Paige White, a forty-something cowgirl with a heart as big and warm as the sun, joked that animals liked her faster, better and longer than humans ever had.

One thing Collin knew for sure, animals responded to her treatment. He fell in step with the short, sturdy blond and headed inside the barn.

Without preliminary, he said, “The pup’s leg smells funny.”

“You been cleaning those wounds the way I showed you?”

“Every day.” He remembered the first time he’d poured antiseptic cleaner on the pup’s foot and listened to its pitiful cries.

Doc stopped, stared at him for a minute and then said, “We’ll have a look at him first.”

Paige White could always read his concern, though he had a poker face. Her uncanny sixth sense would have bothered him under other circumstances.

The scent of fresh straw and warm-blooded animals astir beneath their feet, they reached the stall where the collie was confined.

From a large, custom-cut cardboard box, the pup gazed at them with dark, moist, delighted eyes. His shaggy tail thumped madly at the side of the box.

As always, Collin marveled at the pup’s adoring welcome. He’d been cruelly treated by humans and yet his love didn’t falter.

Doc knelt down, crooning. “How’s my pal today? Huh? How ya doin’, boy?”

“I call him Happy.”

“Well, Happy.” The dog licked her extended hand, the tail thumping faster. “Let me see those legs of yours.” She jerked her chin at Collin, who’d hunkered down beside her. “Make sure this guy over here’s looking after you.”

With exquisite tenderness, she inspected one limb and then the other. Her pale eyebrows slammed together as she examined the deep, ugly wound.

Collin watched, anxious, when she took a hypodermic from her long, leather bag and filled it with medication.

“What’s that?”

“More antibiotic.” She held the syringe at eye level and flicked the plastic several times. “I don’t like the way this looks, Collin. There’s not enough tissue left to debride.”

“Meaning?”

“We may have to take this foot off, too.”

“Ah, man.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, heard his whiskers. He knew Paige would fight hard to avoid another amputation, so if she brought up the subject, she wasn’t blowing smoke. “Any hope?”

“Where there’s life, there’s hope. But if he doesn’t respond to treatment soon, we’ll have to remove the foot to save him. Infection like this can spread to the entire body in a hurry.”

“I know. But a dog with two amputated feet…”

He let the thought go. Doc knew the odds of the pup having any quality of life. Finding a home for him would be close to impossible, and Collin only kept the animals until they were healthy and adoptable or ready to return to the wild. He didn’t keep pets. Just animals in need.

Doc dropped the empty syringe into a plastic container, then patted his shoulder. “Don’t fret. I’ll run out again tomorrow. Got Jenner’s Feed Store to donate their broken bags of feed to you and I want to be here to see them delivered. Clovis Jenner owes me.”

Warmth spread through Collin’s chest. “So do I.”

Doc was constantly on the look-out for feed, money, any kind of support she could round up for his farm. And she only charged him for supplies or medications, never for her expertise.

“Nonsense. If it wasn’t for me and my soft heart, you wouldn’t have all these critters. I just can’t put them down without trying.”

“I know.” He felt the same way. Whenever she called with a stray animal in need of a place to heal, Collin took it if he had room. He was stretched to the limit on space and funds, but he had to keep going. “Let’s go check on the others.”

Together they made the rounds. She checked the cats and dogs first, redressing wounds, giving shots, poking pills down resistant throats, instructing Collin on the next phase of care.

At the horses’ pen, she nodded her approval and pushed a tube of medication down each scrawny throat. “They’re more alert. See how this one lifts her head now to watch us? That’s a very good sign.”

One of the mares, Daisy, leaned her velvety nose against Collin’s shirtfront and snuffled. In return for her affection, he stroked her neck, relishing the warm, soft feel against his fingers.

The first few days after the horses had arrived, Collin had come out to the barn every four hours to follow the strict refeeding program Doc had put them on. Seeing the horses slowly come back from the brink of death made the sleepless nights and interrupted days worth the effort.

Sometimes the local Future Farmers of America kids helped out. The other cops occasionally did the same. Most of the time, Collin preferred to work alone.

At the raccoon’s hutch, Paige declared the hissing creature fit and ready to release. And finally, she stood at the fence and watched the young buck limp listlessly around the pen.

“He’s depressed.”

“Deer get depressed?”

“Mmm. Trauma, pain, fear lead to depression in any species.” She squinted into the gathering darkness, intelligent eyes studying every move the deer made. “The wound looks good though.”

“You do good work.”

Some bow hunter had shot the buck. He had escaped with an arrow protruding from his hip, finally collapsing near enough to a house that dogs had alerted the owner. Paige had operated on the badly infected hip.

“I do, don’t I?” The vet smiled smugly before sobering. “Only time will tell if enough muscle remains for him to survive in the wild, though.”

She turned and started back around the barn to her truck. Collin took her bag and followed.

Headlights sliced the dusk and came steadily toward them, the hum of a motor loud against the quiet country evening.

Collin tensed. “Company,” he said.

“Who is it?”

“My favorite neighbor,” he said, sarcasm thicker than the cloud of dust billowing around the car. “Cecil Slokum.”

Collin and his farm were located a half mile from the nearest house, but Slokum harassed him on a regular basis with some complaint about the animals.

The late-model brown sedan pulled to a stop. A man the size and shape of Danny DeVito put the engine in Park and rolled down a window. His face was red with anger.

“I’m not putting up with this anymore, Grace.”

The sixth sense that made Collin a good cop kicked in. He made a quick survey of the car’s interior, saw no weapons and relaxed a little.

“What’s the problem, Mr. Slokum?” He sounded way more polite than he felt.

“One of them dogs of yours took down my daughter’s prize ewe last night.”

“Didn’t happen.” All his animals were sick and in pens.

“Just ’cause you’re a big shot cop don’t make you right. I know what I saw.”

“Wasn’t one of mine.”

“Tell it to the judge.” The man shoved a brown envelope out the window.

Collin took it, puzzled. “What is this?”

“See for yourself.” With that, Slokum crammed the car into gear and backed out, disappearing down the gravel road much more quickly than he’d come.

Collin stared down at the envelope.

“Might as well open it,” Doc said.

With a shrug, Collin tore the seal, pulled out a legal-looking sheet of vellum and read. When he finished, he slammed a fist against the offending form.

Just what he needed right now. Someone else besides the annoying social worker on his back.

“Collin?” Doc said.

Jaw rigid, he handed her the paper and said, “Nothing like good neighbors. The jerk is suing me for damages.”

Chapter Three

Mia perched on a high kitchen stool, swiveling back and forth, her mind a million miles away from her mother’s noisy kitchen as she sliced boiled zucchini for stuffing.

At the stove, Grandma Maria Celestina stirred her special marinara sauce while Mama prepared the sausages for baked ziti.

The rich scents of tomato and basil and sausages had the whole family prowling in and out of the kitchen.

“Church was good today, huh, Mia?”

“Good, Mama.”

At fifty-six, Rosalie Carano was still a pretty woman. People said Mia favored her and she hoped so. She’d always thought Mama looked like Sophia Loren. Flowered apron around her generous hips, Rosalie sailed around the large family kitchen with the efficient energy that had successfully raised five kids.

The whole clan gathered every Sunday after church for a late-afternoon meal of Mama’s traditional Italian cooking, which always included breads and pastries from the family bakery. In the living room, her dad, Leo, argued basketball with her eldest brother Gabe and Grandpa Salvatore. Gabe’s wife, Abby, had taken their two kids outside to swim in the above-ground pool accompanied by Mia’s pregnant sister, Anna Maria. The other brothers, Adam and Nic, roamed in and out of the kitchen like starving ten-year-olds.

Mia was blessed with a good family. Not perfect by any means, but close and caring. She appreciated that, especially on days like today when she felt inexplicably down in the dumps. Even church service, which usually buoyed her spirits, had left her uncharacteristically quiet.

Collin Grace had not returned one of her phone calls in the past three days, and she’d practically promised Mitchell that he would. She disliked pulling in favors, tried not to use her eldest brother’s influence as a city councilman, but Sergeant Grace was a tough nut to crack.

Nic, her baby brother, snitched a handful of grated mozzarella from the bowl at her elbow. Out of habit, she whacked his hand then listened to the expected howl of protest.

“Go away,” she muttered.

His grin was unrepentant. At twenty, dark and athletic Nic was a chick magnet. He knew his charms, though they had never worked on either of his sisters.

“You’re grumpy.”

Brother Adam hooked an elbow around her neck and yanked back. She tilted her head to look up at him. Adam Carano, dark and tall, was eleven months older than Mia. From childhood, they’d been best friends, and he could read her like the Sunday comics.

“What’s eating you, sis? You’re too quiet. It scares me.” He usually complained that she talked too much.

Gabe stuck his head around the edge of the door. “Last time she was quiet, Nic and Adam ended up with strange new haircuts.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “I was eight.”

“And we’ve not had a moment of peace and quiet from you since,” Adam joked.

“And I,” Nic put in, “was scarred for life at the ripe old age of one.”

“I should have cut off your tongue.”

“Mom,” Nic called in a whiney little-boy voice. “Mia’s picking on me.”

Mia ignored him and set to work stuffing the zucchini boats.

“What is it, Mia?” Mama asked. “Adam’s right. You are not yourself.”

“It’s a kid,” Adam replied before she could. “It’s always one of her kids.”

Mia pulled a face. He knew her so well. “Smarty.”

Mama shushed him. “Let her tell us. Maybe we can help.”

It was Mama’s way. If one of her chicks had a problem, the mother hen rushed in to fix it—bringing with her lasagna or cookies. So Mia told them about Mitch.

“He’s salvageable, Mama. There is a lot of good in him, but he needs a man’s influence and guidance. I tried getting him into the Big Brothers program but he refuses.”

“One of the boys will talk to him. Won’t you, boys?” Rosalie eyed her three sons with a look that brooked no argument.

“Sure. Of course we would.” All three men nodded in unison like bobble toys in the back window of a car.

Heart filling with love for these overgrown macho teddy bears she called brothers, Mia shook her head. “Thanks, guys. You’re the best. But Mitch is distrustful of most people. He’d never agree. For some reason, he zeroed in on one of the street patrolmen and will only talk to him. The cop is perfect, but—”

“Whoo-oo, Mia found her a perfect man. Go, sis.” The brothers started in with the catcalls and bad jokes.

When the noise subsided, she said, “Not that kind of perfect, unfortunately. I don’t even like the guy.”

But she couldn’t get him out of her mind either.

“Mia!”

“Oh, Mama.” Mia plopped the last zucchini boat on a pan and sprinkled parmesan on top. “Our first meeting was disastrous. I bought the man a hamburger to soften him up a little, and he didn’t even stick around long enough to eat it. And now he doesn’t bother to return my phone calls.”

“You’ve lost your charm, sis. Need some lessons?” Nic flexed both arms and preened around the kitchen, bumping into Grandma who, in turn, shook a gnarled finger in his laughing face.

Rosalie whirled and flapped her apron at the men. “Out. Shoo. We’ll never get dinner on.”

Gabe and Nic disappeared, still laughing. Adam stayed behind, pulled a stool around the bar with one foot, and perched beside Mia.

The most Italian-looking of the Carano brothers, Adam was swarthy and handsome and a tad more serious than his siblings.

“Want me to beat him up?”

“Who? Mitch or the cop?”

He lifted a wide shoulder. “Either. Say the word.”

“Maybe later.”

They both grinned at the familiar joke. All through high school Adam had threatened to beat up any guy who made her unhappy. Though he’d never done it, the boys in her class had thought he would.

“If I could only convince Sergeant Grace to spend one day with Mitch, I think he’d be hooked. He comes off as cold and uncaring, but I don’t think he is.”

“Some people aren’t kid-crazy like you are. Especially us men types.”

“All I want is a few hours a week of his time to save a kid from an almost certain future of crime and drugs.” Mama swished by and took the pan of zucchini boats. “The couple of times I managed to get him on the phone, he barely said three words.”

Adam swiveled her stool so that her back was to him. Strong hands massaged her shoulders.

“The guy was short and to the point. No. The least he could do is explain why he refuses, but he clams up like Uncle Vitorio.”

Adam chuckled. “And that drives you nuts in a hurry.”

“Yes, it does. Human beings have the gift of language. They should use it.” She let her head go lax. “That feels good.”

“You’re tight as a drum.”

“I didn’t sleep much last night. I couldn’t get Mitch off my mind so I got up to pray. And then, the next thing I know I’m praying for Collin Grace, too.”

“The cop?”

“Yes. There’s something about him…sort of an aloneness, I guess, that bothers me. I can’t figure him out.”

Adam squeezed her shoulders hard. “There’s your trouble, sis. You always want to talk and analyze and dig until you know everything. Some people like to keep their books closed.”

“You think so?” She swiveled back around to face him. “You think I’m too nosey? That I talk too much?”

“Yep. Pushy, too.”

“Gabe thinks I’m too soft.”

“That’s because he’s the pushiest lawyer in three states.”

Didn’t she know it? She’d lost her first job because of Gabe, and though he’d done everything in his power to make it up to her in the years since, Mia would never forget the humiliation of having her professional ethics compromised.

Nic stuck his head into the kitchen, then ducked when his mother threw a tea towel at him. “Mia, your purse is ringing. Should I get it?”

Mia slid off the stool and started toward the living room. She might be pushy, but she played fair.

A large masculine hand attached to a hairy arm— Nic’s—appeared around the door, holding out the cell phone.

Taking it, Mia pushed the button and said, “Hello.”

“Miss Carano, this is Monica Perez.”

“Mrs. Perez, is something wrong?” Mia tensed. Today was Sunday. A strange time for calls from a client. “Is it Mitchell?”

The woman’s voice sounded more weary than worried. “He’s run away again. This time the worthless little creep stole money out of my purse.”

Collin kicked back the roller chair and plopped down at his desk. He’d just returned from transporting a prisoner and had to complete the proper paperwork. Paperwork. Blah. Most Sundays he spent at the farm or crashed out on his couch watching ball-games. But this was his weekend to work.

“I need to see Sergeant Grace, please.”

Collin recognized the cool, sweet voice immediately. Mia Carano, social worker to the world and nag of the first order, was in the outer office.

“Dandy,” he muttered. “Make my day.”

Tossing down the pen, he rose and strode toward the door just as she sailed through it. She looked fresh and young in tropical-print capris and an orange T-shirt, a far cry from the business suit and heels of their first meeting.

“Mitch has run away again,” she blurted without preliminary.

“Nothing the police can do for twenty-four hours.”

“We have to find him. I’m afraid he’ll get into trouble again.”

“Probably will.”

Her gray-green eyes snapped with fire. “I want you to go with me to find him right now. I have some ideas where he might go, but he won’t listen to me. He’ll listen to you.”

The woman was unbelievable. Like a bulldog, she never gave up.

“It’s not police business.”

“Can’t you do something just because it’s right? Because a kid out there needs you?”

Collin felt himself softening. Had any social worker ever worked this hard for him or his brothers?

“If I take a drive around, have a look in a couple places, will you leave me alone?”

“Probably not.” Her pretty smile stretched wide beneath a pair of twinkling eyes.

She was a pest. An annoying, pretty, sweet, aggravating pest who would probably go right on driving him nuts until he gave in.

Against his better judgment, he reached into a file cabinet and yanked out a form. “Sign this.”

“What is it?”

“Department policy. If you’re riding in my car, you gotta sign.”

The pretty smile grew wider—and warmer.

He was an idiot to do this. Her kind never stopped at one favor.

Without bothering to read the forms that released the police department of liability in case of injury, Mia scribbled her name on the line and then beat him out of the station house. At the curb, she stopped to look at him. He motioned toward his patrol car and she jumped into the passenger’s seat. A gentle floral scent wafted on the breeze when she slammed the door. He never noticed things like that and it bugged him.

He also noticed that the inside of his black-and-white was a mess. A clipboard, ticket pad, a travel mug and various other junk littered the floorboards. Usually a neat freak, he wanted to apologize for the mess, but he kept stubbornly silent. Let her think what she liked. Let her think he was a slob. Why should he care what Mia Carano thought of him?

If she was bothered, she didn’t say so. But she did talk. And talk. She filled him in on Mitch’s likes and dislikes, his grades in school, the places he hung out. And then she started in on the child advocate thing. She told him how desperately the kid needed a strong male in his life. That he was a good kid, smart, funny and kind. A computer whiz at school.

This time there was no Delete button to silence her. Trapped inside the car, Collin had to listen.

He put on his signal, made a smooth turn onto Tenth Street and headed east toward the boy’s neighborhood. “How do you know so much about this one kid?”

“His mom, his classmates, his teachers.”

“Why?”

“It’s my job.”

“To come out on Sunday afternoon looking for a runaway?”

“His mother called me.”

“Bleeding heart,” he muttered.

“Better than being heartless.”

He glanced sideways. “You think I’m heartless?”

She glared back. “Aren’t you?”

No, he wasn’t. But let her think what she would. He wasn’t getting involved with anything to do with the social welfare system.

His radio crackled to life. A juvenile shoplifter.

Mia sucked in a distressed breath, the first moment of quiet they’d had.

Collin radioed his location and took the call.

“It’s Mitchell,” Mia said after hearing the details. “The description and area fit perfectly.”

Heading toward the complainant’s convenience store, Collin asked, “You got a picture of him?”

“Of course.” She rummaged in a glittery silver handbag and stuck a photo under his nose.

Collin spotted the 7-Eleven up ahead. This woman surely did vex him.

He pulled into the concrete drive and parked in the fire lane.

“Stay here. I’ll talk to the owner, get what information I can, and then we’ll go from there.”

The obstinate social worker pushed open her door and followed him inside the convenience store. She whipped out her picture of the Perez kid and showed it to the store owner.

“That’s him. Comes in here all the time. I been suspicious of him. Got him on tape this time.”

Collin filled out the mandatory paperwork, jotting down all the pertinent information. “What did he take?”

The owner got a funny look on his face. “He took weird stuff. Made me wonder.”

Mia paced back and forth in front of the counter. “What kind of weird stuff?”

Collin silenced her with a stare. She widened rebellious eyes at him, but hushed—for the moment.

“Peroxide, cotton balls, a roll of bandage.”

Mia’s eyes widened even further. “Was he hurt?”

The owner shrugged. “What do I care? He stole from me.”

“He’s hurt. I just know it. We have to find him.”

Collin shot her another look before saying to the clerk, “Anything else we should know?”

“Well, he did pay for the cat food.” The man shifted uncomfortably and Collin suspected there was more to the story, but he wouldn’t get it from this guy. He motioned to Mia and they left.

Once in the car, he said, “Any ideas?”

She crossed her arms. “You mean, I have permission to talk now?”

Collin stifled a grin. The annoying woman was also cute. “Be my guest.”

“I know several places around here where kids hang out.”

He knew a few himself. “I doubt he’ll be in plain sight, but we can try.”

He put the car in gear and drove east. They tried all the usual spots, the parks, the parking lots. They showed the kid’s picture in video stores and to other kids on the streets, but soon ran out of places to look.

“We have to find him before he gets into more trouble.”

“I doubt he’d come this far. We’re nearly to the city dump.”

As soon as he said the words, Collin knew. A garbage dump was exactly the kind of place he would have hidden when he was eleven.

With a spurt of adrenaline, he kicked the patrol car up and sped along the mostly deserted stretch of highway on the outskirts of the city.

When he turned onto the road leading to the landfill, Mia said incredulously, “You think he’s here? In the city dump?”

He shot her an exasperated look. “Got a better idea?”

“No.”

Collin slammed out of the car and climbed to the top of the enormous cavity. The stench rolled over him in waves.

“Ew.” Beside him, Mia clapped a hand over her nose.

“Wait in the car. I’ll look around.”

Collin wasn’t the least surprised when she ignored him.

“You go that way.” She pointed left. “I’ll take the right side.”

Determination in her stride, she took off through the trash heap apparently unconcerned about her white shoes or clean clothes. Collin watched her go. A pinch of admiration tugged at him. He’d say one thing for Miss Social Worker, she wasn’t a quitter.

His boots slid on loose dirt as he carefully picked his way down the incline. Some of the trash had been recently buried, but much more lay scattered about.

He watched his step, aware that among the discarded furniture and trash bags, danger and disease lurked. This was not a place for a boy. Unless that boy had no place else to turn.

His chest constricted. He’d been here and done this. Maybe not in this dump, but he understood what the kid was going through. He hated the memories. Hated the heavy pull of dread and hurt they brought.

This was why he didn’t want to get involved with Mia’s project. And now here he was, knee-deep in trash and recollections, moving toward what appeared to be a shelter of some sort.

Plastic trash bags that stretched across a pair of ragged-out couches were anchored in place by rocks, car parts, a busted TV set. An old refrigerator clogged one end and a cardboard box the other.

Mia was right. The kid had smarts. He’d built his hideout in an area unlikely to be buried for a while and had made the spot blend in with the rest of the junk.

As quietly as he could, Collin leaned down and slid the cardboard box away. What he saw inside made his chest ache.

The kid had tried to make a home inside the shelter. An old blanket and a sack of clothes were piled on one end of a ragged couch. A flashlight lay on an up-turned crate. Beneath the crate, the kid had stored the canned milk, a jar of water, cat food and a box of cereal.

In the dim confines Mitchell knelt over a cardboard box, cotton ball and peroxide in hand.

Collin had a pretty good idea what was inside the box.

At the sudden inflow of light, the kid’s head whipped around. A mix of fear and resentment widened his dark eyes.

“Nice place you got here,” Collin said, stooping to enter.

“I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“Stealing from convenience stores isn’t wrong?”

“I had to. Panda—” Mitchell glanced down at the box “—she’s hurt.”

Curiosity aroused, Collin moved to the boy’s side. A mother cat with three tiny kittens mewed up at him. Mitchell stroked the top of her head and she began to purr.

Collin’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Oh, man. Déjà vu all over again.

“Mind if I take a look?”

The kid scooted sideways but hovered protectively.

Collin frowned. The cat was speckled with round burns, several of them clearly infected. “What happened?”

“Some kids had her. Mean kids who like to hurt things. She was their cat, but I took her when they started—”

Collin held up a hand. He didn’t need the ugly details to visualize what the kid had saved the cat from.

“You can’t stay here, Mitchell. Your mother is worried.”

“She’s just worried about her ten bucks.”

“You shouldn’t have taken it.”

The kid shrugged, didn’t answer, but Collin’s own eyes told him where the money had gone. And if his nose was an indicator, the kid had scavenged a pack of cigarettes somewhere too which would explain the store owner’s guilty behavior. He’d probably sold cigarettes to a minor.

“I’m not going back to her house.”

“You have to.”

“I can’t. Panda and her babies will die if I don’t take care of her. Archie, too.”

“Archie?”

The kid reached behind them to the other couch and gently lifted a turtle out of a shoe box. A piece of silver duct tape ran along a fracture in the green shell.

Emotions swamped Collin. He felt as if he was being sucked under a whirlpool. Memories flashed through his head so fast he thought he was going blind.

At that moment, little Miss Social Worker poked her head through the opening. “I thought I heard voices.”

Mitchell shrank away from her, blocking the box of cats with his body.

“I won’t leave her,” he said belligerently. “You can’t make me.”

“Maybe your mother will let you keep them,” Collin said, hoping Mitchell’s mother was better than he suspected.

“I’m not going back there, I said. Never.”

“Why not?”

The boy’s face closed up tight, a look Collin recognized all too well. Something ugly needed to be said and the kid wasn’t ready to deal with it.

As the inevitability of the situation descended upon him, Collin pulled a hand down his face.

After a minute of pulling himself together, he spoke. “Nothing’s going to happen to your cat. You have my word.”

Mitch’s face lightened, though distrust continued to ooze out of him. “How can you be sure?”

“Because,” Collin said, wishing there was a way he could avoid involvement and knowing he couldn’t, “I’ll take her home with me.”

The boy’s face crumpled, incredulous. The belligerent attitude fled, replaced by the awful yearning of hope. “You will?”

“I know a good vet. Panda will be okay.”

Mia ducked under the black plastic and came inside. Her eyes glowed with pleasure. “That’s really nice of you, Sergeant Grace.”

“Yeah. That’s me. Real nice.” Stupid, too.

He was a cop. Tough. Hardened to the ugliness of humanity. He could resist about anything. Anything, that is, except looking at Mitch’s face and seeing his own reflection.

Like it or not, he was about to become a big brother—again.

He only hoped he didn’t mess it up this time around.

Chapter Four

Mitchell sat huddled in the back seat of the patrol car, tense and suspicious. The cardboard carton containing cat, kittens and turtle rested on the seat beside him. The rest of his property was in a battered paint bucket on the floor.

“I told you I’m not going back there.”

Mia turned in her seat, antennae going up. “Why not? Is something wrong at home?”

The boy ignored her.

Ever the cop, Collin spoke up. “Juvie Hall is the other alternative.”

“Better than home.”

The adults exchanged glances.

Collin hadn’t said two complete sentences since they’d left Mitch’s lean-to. He’d simply gathered up the animals and the rag-tag assortment of supplies and led the way to the cruiser. Mitchell had followed along without a fuss, his only concern for the animals. For some reason that Mia could not fathom, the two silent males seemed to communicate without words.

Right now, though, Collin’s words were not helping. Mia stifled the urge to shush him. Something was amiss with the child and he was either too scared or too proud to say so.

She pressed a little harder. “I wish you’d talk to me, Mitch. I can help. It’s what I do. If there is a problem at home I can help get it resolved.”

Dirt spewed up over the windshield as they bumped and jostled down the dusty road out of the landfill. Once on the highway, Collin flipped on the windshield washers.

“How do you and your mother get along? Any problems there?”

Mitch turned his profile toward her and stared at the spattering water.

Mia softened her voice. “Mitch, if there’s abuse, you need to tell me.”

His head whipped around, expression fierce. “Leave my mom out of this.”

Whoa! “Okay. What about your stepdad?”

Collin gave her a sideways glance that said he wished she’d shut up. She didn’t plan on doing that any time soon. Something was wrong in this boy’s life. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be running away. He wouldn’t be shoplifting, and he wouldn’t dread going home. She would be a lousy social worker and an even worse human being if she didn’t investigate the very real possibility of abuse.

“Mitchell,” she urged softly. “You can trust me. I want to help.”

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