The Cowboy and the Angel

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Renée narrowed her eyes, held out her hand and dared the teen to defy her. After a tense standoff, the teen withdrew an almost empty pack of cigarettes from his pants’ pocket and handed it over. “Thank you.” Then she spoke to the group. “What about breakfast foods and snacks?”

“We’re good,” Crystal answered.

The parishioners of Most Holy Trinity Church had donated granola bars, crackers, cookies and a bottle of chewable vitamins for the children. She hadn’t dared leave the vitamins with the kids or they’d gobble them up like candy and become ill. She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a bag filled with the animal-shaped supplements. “Hands out,” she instructed, placing a tablet on each palm.

“Okay, then. Any last requests before Mr. Dalton and I fetch supper?”

Timmy raised his hand. “I finished my math problems.”

“Bring me the workbook so I remember what level to get next time.” A retired teacher in Renée’s neighborhood had dropped off boxes of outdated math and reading materials to area shelters and Renée had confiscated a few for Timmy. “Anyone else need a workbook?”

A mini revolt erupted, and she laughed. “All right, all right.” The last thing on these kids’ minds was learning.

When Timmy handed over his work packet, Renée said, “This is fourth-grade level. I’m impressed.” Out of all the kids, Timmy loved to learn. “I’ll find you a fifth-grade level.” She hugged each child again. Except José—he stepped aside, being too tough for affection.

“Stay safe and warm and—”

“Watch out for each other,” Evie finished for her.

Renée waited until the kids crawled inside the cardboard tunnel. This was the most difficult part—leaving them behind. Then she felt Duke’s hand on her elbow. Drat the man for his solicitous support—he was the enemy. In silence they navigated the stairwell to the first floor.

As soon as they exited the building he growled in her ear, “Why the hell are those kids living in my warehouse? And why the hell are you allowing them to?”

DUKE ESCORTED RENÉE to the station wagon, glancing over his shoulder, worrying that the drunks in the nearby building might follow them. Cold wind whipped his face, but red-hot anger melted the icy sting.

Gut clenched as if he’d been punched by the world’s biggest bully, he forced his fingers to relax against Renée’s arm lest he give in to the temptation to squeeze until he cut off her blood supply. He was on the verge of losing control—both terrifying and humiliating. He teetered on the rim of an emotional cliff unsure how to combat the surge of feelings assaulting him physically and mentally.

Fear. That the kids on the fifth floor might be dead right now if Renée hadn’t arrived at the warehouse in time to prevent the wrecking ball from pummeling the brick walls. Anger. That Renée hadn’t come clean with him Friday night at the diner. Fury. That the children had been deserted and left to fend for themselves like a pack of wild dogs. And lastly, guilt of all things. Tonight he’d sleep in a warm, clean bed while the kids on the fifth floor huddled together in a cardboard tunnel.

When they reached the car, he yanked open the driver’s-side door for Renée, then crawled into the passenger seat. With new clarity, he appreciated the saying ignorance is bliss. Through the years, he’d read newspaper articles and viewed newscasts about the country’s homeless. He accepted that these people inhabited the world. But until tonight they’d never been a part of his world.

“Duke?” The soft, shaky question snuck past his fury.

“I’m thinking,” he snapped. Was he nuts? An idiot to believe he’d relocate his company to Detroit and the process would unfold without a hitch? He envisioned a new glass-and-steel structure replacing the old warehouse—an architectural showpiece standing tall and proud in the middle of blocks of rubble. Had he been so determined to escape his stepfather’s shadow that he’d convinced himself buying that block of rubble was a wise decision?

“Are you okay?” Worry carved a line across Renée’s forehead.

“No, I’m not okay.” He clenched his hands into fists. “And you’d better not be okay with the kids living in those conditions.” She jerked as if he’d slapped her.

Add remorse to the list of feelings gutting him.

“It’s a long story.” Her sigh reached inside his chest and yanked hard. “Sure you want to hear?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

She started the car and left the lot. As she navigated what little traffic there was on a Sunday night, he muttered, “I can’t get their faces out of my mind.” There was something terribly unconscionable about discarded children.

Duke had felt alone when his father had passed away, but he’d had his mother. She might not have spared much time for him, but at least she hadn’t left him to fend for himself the way these children had been.

“I’ve seen more bad than good in my line of work,” Renée said. “Believe me, there are worse dwellings for those kids.”

“They shouldn’t be allowed to stay there,” he argued.

“They aren’t being allowed.” At his fierce scowl, she added, “There’s a reason they’re getting away with hiding out in a derelict building.”

“I’m listening.”

“The city doesn’t have enough foster parents available on a continuous basis for kids in crisis. When a child is taken from a parent or found on the streets they often end up in city shelters while we investigate their situation and attempt to make permanent arrangements for them.” She turned left at the corner and drove along a street lined with fast-food restaurants.

“The holidays are a difficult time to secure permanent care for kids. Most parents are already struggling to put gifts under the tree and a nice meal on the table. Many foster parents refuse to bring a troubled child into the mix during a time when families are supposed to rejoice and get along.”

“Why not put the kids in a shelter until after Christmas? They’ll freeze to death in this weather.” Even though the children wore heavy coats, that didn’t mean their toes and fingers weren’t constantly numb.

“Shelters aren’t safe for young children or teens.”

“Better to take their chances there than die of hypothermia,” he argued.

“Typical comment from someone who doesn’t have a clue.” Renée’s fingers tightened until the knuckles turned white, and Duke figured she’d rather choke his neck than the steering wheel.

“Then give me a clue.”

“Shelters are magnets for child predators and gangs. Kids risk getting raped, molested or beaten in them.” She glanced across the seat. “You’d be wrong if you believed for a minute those children would rather stay in a shelter than out in the cold.”

“Okay, so there are problems with a shelter, but those same problems exist on the streets. What if gang members discover the kids and harass them? Or those drunks who sleep next door suddenly pay a visit in the middle of the night? At least in a shelter they’d sleep on a bed instead of cold concrete. And they’d eat regular meals.”

Renée didn’t comment as she pulled into a drive-through restaurant and ordered eighteen tacos and twelve cartons of milk.

Duke pulled out his wallet. “I admit I grew up with advantages most kids only dream about.” Even before his father had died and his mother had hooked up with her second husband, his family had lived in a nice home in an upper-middle-class neighborhood.

“Put your wallet away,” she grumbled, digging through her purse.

“I insist.” He doubted a social worker made enough money to feed herself let alone six kids. When Renée refused the two twenty-dollar bills he held out, he stuffed the cash into the purse on the seat between them. “At their age I was contemplating my next Little League game. Those kids worry over where their next meal’s coming from.”

“They’re not starving to death.” She drove forward to the order window and paid. “I’m doing my best to care for them until foster homes become available.”

The bright lights of the restaurant flooded the car and Duke swallowed a curse at the unnatural sheen in her eyes. He’d been wrapped up in his own frustration and hadn’t considered how difficult the situation was for Renée. Hell, if he was this upset after only meeting the kids once, he imagined how disturbing it was for Renée to interact with the children on a daily basis.

The pick-up window opened and Duke lost his chance to apologize. Renée set the bags of food on the seat, then drove off. “Tell me about the kids.”

“Crystal and Evie are sisters,” she began. “Their mother’s been in prison the past two years and DCFS hasn’t been successful in locating their father. Until a few months ago, the girls had been living with an aunt, but she became ill and was unable to care for them.”

“And this DC…”

“DCFS—Department of Child and Family Services.”

“Can’t secure the girls a foster family?”

“We found a home for Evie. It’s easier to place the younger ones. But Evie ran away when she learned her sister wasn’t invited to go with her. Crystal lasted a day in a city shelter before she hit the streets. Luckily, a friend of Crystal’s spotted Evie after she’d run off and took the little girl to where Crystal had been living with a group of kids in a city park.”

Duke shuddered when he considered any of a hundred horrible fates the girls might have suffered. “What about the boy with the twisted foot?”

“Timmy’s nine.”

“You’re kidding? I’d have guessed six. Maybe seven.” But what did he know about kids?