A Cowboy at Heart

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.