скачать книгу бесплатно
“I’m not looking for oil.”
“No dinosaur bones, either.” Garth added the other disclaimer. Ever since those dinosaur bones had been discovered up by Choteau, tourists thought they could stop beside the road and dig for bones.
“I’m not interested in bones. I’m looking for a campsite.”
Sylvia stifled a groan. If they set up the camp there, she’d never be able to sleep again. “Montana would never do. These kids are all used to the urban situation.”
“I thought you wanted to get them out of the city.” Mrs. Buckwalter waved her arm to indicate the windows. “They don’t have drive-bys in Montana.”
Garth had already started to join John, but he turned back. “You’re talking about a camp for these kids?”
Mrs. Buckwalter nodded emphatically. “Sylvia and I were just talking about it.”
Some opportunities in life came from sweat and hard work. Others drop from the sky like summer rain. When Garth figured out what was happening—he’d heard Sylvia talk about her camp when she was in Dry Creek—he knew he wasn’t about to let this opportunity get away. “I could rent some space to you for the camp—fact is, I’ll give you some space for the camp. No charge.”
“But it’s not that easy—” Sylvia was feeling cornered. She didn’t like the glow on Mrs. Buckwalter’s face. Granted the woman was senile, but one never knew whether or not the rest of her family would indulge the woman and let her play out her fantasy of teaching inner-city kids to use salad forks. Not that Sylvia was fussy. She’d thought more along the lines of rock climbing than etiquette, but she’d welcome a camp no matter what classes she needed to offer the kids. But not Montana. Not close to Garth. “We’d need to have dormitories—and classrooms—it’s not just the land, it’s the facilities.”
“I’ve got two bunkhouses I never use and a couple of grain sheds that could be cleared out and heated,” Garth persisted. He tried not to press too hard. He didn’t want to make Sylvia bolt and run. He knew from riding untamed horses that it was best not to press the unwary too hard. “And it would only be temporary, of course, until you can locate another place that you like.”
“We’ll take it,” Mrs. Buckwalter announced eagerly.
“But we have staff to consider.” Sylvia stood her ground. “We’ve got Melissa and Pat, but we’ll need another one, maybe two counselors. I can’t just move them to Montana at the drop of a hat.”
Mrs. Buckwalter waved her hand, dismissing the objection. “There are people in Montana. We’ll hire them.” She pointed at Garth. “We could hire him. He could teach these boys what they need to know to be men.”
Garth swallowed. He couldn’t claim to be a role model for anyone. His relationship with his son wasn’t one he’d brag about. And he wasn’t proud of some of the things he’d done in his life. Now that Dry Creek had a pastor, he’d thought about going back to church, but he was a long way from role-model material. Still, he heard himself say it anyway. “I’ll do it.”
Sylvia looked at him skeptically. “But we can’t just hire anyone. They need to be a licensed counselor. Besides, I’m sure it would be too much trouble for Mr. Elkton. He can’t possibly want twenty or thirty teenagers around.”
Garth didn’t bother to think about that one. He might not want thirty teenagers around, but he wanted Sylvia around, and if he had to take thirty teenagers as part of the deal, he’d welcome them. After all, he’d had killer bulls in his corrals and free-range stallions in his fields. How much trouble could a few kids be?
“Besides, there’s the matter of the rustling—” Sylvia remembered the fact gratefully. This was her trump card. No one would suggest putting down in the middle of a crime circle a camp to get kids out of crime.
“They’ve been quiet for a bit.” Garth squeezed the truth a little. He knew for a fact the rustlers were still there. He’d even been asked to help tip the Feds off on their whereabouts. He’d told the Feds he knew nothing. He didn’t. But he knew instinctively the rustlers were still there. He suspected they were just regrouping their distribution efforts before swinging back into operation.
“These kids aren’t interested in stealing cows,” Mrs. Buckwalter interrupted impatiently. “Mr. Elkton’s ranch is the place for them. Besides, if you wait to find the ideal camp, you’ll be waiting three, maybe four years.”
And in three years who knows who will run the Buckwalter Foundation, Sylvia thought to herself in resignation. It surely wouldn’t be Mrs. Buckwalter. Sylvia doubted the older woman would be allowed very many of these eccentric fundings.
Sylvia steeled herself. She needed to put her own nervousness aside and at least consider the options. If the kids were going to have a camp anytime soon, they would have to do it Mrs. Buckwalter’s way. And there were some pluses—the facilities were ready. She could take the kids away now. Especially John.
She knew the codes that the gangs lived by and, even though the Seattle gangs weren’t as territorial as some, she knew that gangs lived and died by their reputations. Whoever was after John would want him even more now that they’d been stopped.
And it might not just be John. The kids in the center stood up for each other. They might all be in extra danger.
“Okay, I’ll think about it.” Sylvia said.
She didn’t realize how intently the teenagers were listening until she heard a collective groan. “They ain’t even got TV there,” one of the older boys yelled out as though that automatically vetoed any decision. “Not in the middle of Montana.”
Garth grinned. “Sure we do. Satellite. You can see educational programs from around the world.” Garth grinned again. “Even get some old Lawrence Welk reruns.”
An expression of alarm cross the boy’s face.
“I’m not interested in educational TV or no Welk stuff. I want to know if you get Baywatch.”
“You’ll be too busy to watch TV,” Sylvia interjected. She wasn’t as optimistic as she sounded. Thirty teenagers and educational television. She wasn’t ready for this. “We could have lessons in the various plants and animals around the area.”
Another collective groan erupted.
“And maybe we can learn to—” Sylvia hesitated. What would they do in Montana in the winter? She couldn’t see the kids taking up quilting. Or playing checkers.
“Skiing,” Mrs. Buckwalter announced grandly. “In all that snow there should be good skiing.”
The protest this time was halfhearted and the kids all looked at their shoes.
“That stuff’s for rich kids,” one of the girls finally muttered. “Skiing’s expensive.”
Sylvia hated it when she could see how some of her kids had been treated. The center served a mixture of races. Some Asian, some African-Americans and a handful of whites. All of the kids felt poor, like all of the good opportunities in life had gone to someone else. The fact that the kids were right made Sylvia determined to change things.
“We’ll have enough to rent some skis,” Sylvia promised, resolving to make the budget stretch that far.
“Rent?” Mrs. Buckwalter snorted. “I’ll personally buy a pair of skis for anyone who learns how to ski.” She gestured grandly. “Of course, that only comes after they learn how to dance.” The older woman’s face softened with memories only she saw. “They’ll need to learn to waltz for the formal dinner/dance.”
Garth looked at Sylvia. He could tell from the resigned look on her face that she wasn’t surprised.
“Mrs. Buckwalter wants the camp to teach them manners,” Sylvia explained quietly to Garth.
“And you, of course, can help.” Mrs. Buckwalter smiled at Garth. “A gentleman of your obvious refinement would be a good teacher for the boys. Opening doors, butter knives—that sort of thing.”
“Me?” Garth choked out before he stopped himself. He already knew he’d do anything—even stand on his head in a snowdrift—if that’s what it took to have Sylvia around long enough to know her. But gentleman! Butter knives! He was becoming as alarmed as the teenagers facing him.
“And, of course, you’ll help with the dance lessons,” Mrs. Buckwalter continued blithely.
“I don’t—I—” Garth looked around for some escape. Butter knives were one thing. But dancing! He couldn’t dance. He didn’t know how. Still—He steeled himself. He’d flown fighter planes. He’d tiptoed around minefields. “I’d be delighted.”
“Good,” Mrs. Buckwalter said. The older woman’s face was placid, but Garth caught a slight movement of the chin. The woman was laughing inside, he was sure of it.
Oh, well, he didn’t care how she amused herself. Rich society people probably had a strange sense of humor. He didn’t care. He’d gotten what he wanted. Sylvia was coming to his ranch.
Maybe. He cautioned himself. He’d been watching the kids. He knew the battle wasn’t over. As they’d listened to the older woman, their initial alarm had increased until they were speechless.
“Manners—” the smallest boy in the group finally croaked out the words. “We’ll get beat up for sure when they find out we’ve been sent off to learn manners.”
“We’ll show them manners,” John declared, standing defiantly. “We’ll get them for what they’ve done.”
“There’ll be no payback,” Sylvia said sternly. “We’ll let the police handle it.”
Meanwhile, at an early-evening meeting in Washington, D.C.
Five men, some of them balding, all of them drinking coffee from disposable cups, were sitting around a table. A stocky man chewing on an unlit cigar worried aloud. “Would he do it? The cattle rustling is only a small part of this operation, you know. He might not want to tackle a crime organization over a few head of beef.”
“He would do it if he got mad enough,” the youngest man said. He was on the shy side of thirty and was holding a manila folder. “His psychological profile shows he’s strongly territorial, he protects his own, has a fierce sense of fairness—”
A third man snorted derisively. “That test was given twenty-some years ago before he got us out of that mess in Asia. What do we know about Garth Elkton today?”
There was a moment’s silence.
The man with the folder set it down on the table. “Not much. He pays his ranch hands well. Health benefits even. That’s unusual in a ranch community. He’s widowed—he’s got a grown son. His neighbors respect him. Closemouthed about him, though. Our agents couldn’t get much from them. Oh, and he has a sister who’s visiting him.”
“Sister?” one of the men asked hopefully. “Maybe we could get to him that way—if he likes the ladies.”
“No, the sister is really his sister,” the young man verified.
“That’s not much to go on.”
“He’s our only hope,” the young man said. “We have more leaks around there than Niagara Falls. They’ve picked off every agent we’ve put on the case. If we assign another agent, we might as well send along the coroner. If we want someone who isn’t with the agency, he’s it. Besides, he knows how to handle himself in a fight—he was in a special combat unit in the army. He missed the main action in Vietnam—too young—but he went deep into ’Nam with his unit, five, six years later to get some POWs. Top secret. Bit of a problem. The operation turned sour and he took the hit for the unit. He spent six months in a POW camp himself. Barely made it out alive. We’ve checked out all the ranchers in Montana—he’s the only one who could pull it off.”
The third man sighed. “I guess you’re right. We may as well offer again. Most likely he’ll say no anyway.”
“I don’t think so.” A man who sat apart from them all spoke up for the first time.
The other four men looked at each other uneasily.
“What have you done?” one of them finally asked.
“Nothing yet,” the man said as he rose. As if on cue, his cellular phone rang in his suit pocket. The rest of the men were silent. They knew a call on that phone was always important and always business.
“Yeah?” the man said into the phone. “Did you get it set up?”
The man started to grin as he listened. “What did I tell you? Some of these things go down easy.” The man snapped his cell phone shut. Revenge was sweet. “I’ve taken care of it. If Garth Elkton’s anything like his old man, he’ll say yes.”
“You know the family personally?” The stocky man removed his cigar.
“About as personal as it gets.”
The stocky man grunted. “Well, see that it doesn’t get in the way.”
The man with the phone didn’t answer. He couldn’t stop grinning. Leave it to Mrs. Buckwalter to make the deal sweeter. He’d sure like to see Garth Elkton stumbling around a dance floor. Let him see how it felt to be clumsy in love with no hope in sight.
Chapter Three
Sylvia stood on the steps of the Seattle police station, as close to swearing as she was to weeping. She’d almost gotten them away. If she’d taken Mrs. Buckwalter at her word and gathered the kids under her wing yesterday and run off to Montana, she wouldn’t be climbing these steps now on her way to try and bail them all out of jail.
The irony was she’d worked through her resistance to the idea of staying on Garth’s ranch and decided she would do it. She had no other options for the kids.
She’d take the kids to Montana she decided—at least the ones for whom she could get parental consent. Likely, that would be all of them as long as she promised to only keep them for a month. A month wasn’t long enough to interfere with any government support their parents were getting for them. And they’d get permission from the schools. Both of her staff were teachers as well as counselors and gave individual instruction to the kids.
Even a month would let the kids start to feel safe. She’d learned early on that a month’s commitment was about all the kids could make in the beginning. They couldn’t see further into the future than those thirty days. So that’s how she started. Once one month was down, she’d ask for another. Lives were being changed one month at a time.
But the kids getting arrested made everything so much more difficult. Some of the boys were on probation. A couple of the girls, too. The others had probably walked close enough to the edge of juvenile problems to be placed on probation with this latest episode. They might not have the freedom to decide what they wanted—not even for a month.
What, she thought to herself in exasperation, had possessed these kids to tackle a dangerous gang? But she knew—gang thinking was vicious. It made war zones out of school grounds and paranoid bush soldiers out of ordinary kids. She was lucky it was the police station she was visiting and not the morgue.
Sylvia swung open the heavy oak doors that led into the station’s waiting area. There were no windows, but the ceilings were high and supported a dozen fans that slowly rotated in an attempt to ventilate the place. Even with the fan blades buzzing in the background, the cavelike room still smelled slightly on days that weren’t wax days.
On Thursdays, when the janitors did an early-morning wax job on the brown linoleum floors, the room smelled of disinfectant. On other days the odor was people—too many, too close together and stuck there for too long.
Benches lined the room and there were two barred cashier cages on one side. The other side funneled into a long aisle that led into the main part of the police station. Sylvia’s friend, Glory Beckett, worked as a police sketch artist and her workroom was down that hall and off the main desk area.
Sylvia started in that direction.
Glory might know a shortcut to get the kids out. The two of them had worked the system before. Sylvia said a quick prayer that Glory would be in her office. Yesterday morning Glory had called, worried about having dinner last night with Matthew Curtis, the minister who’d come to Seattle from Dry Creek to ask—Sylvia sincerely hoped—Glory to marry him. In Sylvia’s opinion, it was about time. Glory hadn’t been herself since they’d come back from Dry Creek after Christmas.
The door to Glory’s workroom was closed and a note had been taped to the front of it. “She’ll be in later today—try back again. The Captain.”
Well, Sylvia thought, so much for some friendly help. She glanced at the police officer who was sitting at the desk in the open area across from Glory’s workroom. She wondered how late Glory would be. It was almost ten o’clock now.
“Do you know—” she began.
“I don’t know anything, lady,” the officer said, clearly busy and exasperated. “All I got is what you see. I can’t be answering questions every five minutes. You’ll have to wait just like the other guy.” He glared down the hallway.
“The other guy?” Sylvia’s eyes followed his gaze.
The bench was at the end of the hall and a square of light shone in through a side window. That was the only natural light. In addition a row of ceiling lights burned weakly, leaving more shadows than anything. A man sat on the hall bench, staring at the brown wall across from him. Sylvia was too far away to see his face. But she didn’t need to see it to know who he was. How many gray Stetson hats were there in Seattle in February?
The hall seemed far from the hub of the station and the noises that filled the rest of the building were muffled here. Sylvia was aware of the sharp snap of her heels as she marched down the hall.
Garth Elkton was the last person she wanted to face today. Correction. He was the second to the last. Mrs. Buckwalter was the absolute last, and as friendly as the two of them had been when they parted yesterday, she wasn’t sure that what one discovered wouldn’t be shared soon enough by both of them.
Ordinarily she wouldn’t mind. She didn’t have anything to hide. But this… She shook her head. She knew it would not look good to their potential sponsor to find all thirty-one kids from her center behind bars this morning.
As eccentric as Mrs. Buckwalter appeared, even she could hardly think this was a good beginning to their plans. Sylvia only hoped the woman wouldn’t find out about the arrests. The older woman had made a verbal commitment yesterday. But nothing had been put in writing. Everything could change if Mrs. Buckwalter knew about the kids being in jail and had sent Garth to find out whether the arrests were justified.
Sylvia was halfway down the hall when the hat moved.
Garth didn’t know why someone would put a stone bench in the hall of a police station. He’d perched on mountain rocks that were more comfortable. Not that anything about the building had been designed for comfort. Made a man feel as if he was locked up behind bars already. Guilty before he was even sent to trial.
The only good thing about the building was the hard linoleum floor. He loved the sounds of a high-heeled woman walking across a hard surface. Something about the tip-tap was thoroughly feminine. He hoped Sylvia would walk right up to him before she started to talk.
She didn’t.
“What are you doing here?” Sylvia was a good five feet from him. The question could have been friendly. But it wasn’t.
Garth eyeballed her cautiously. Sylvia had more quills than a porcupine and, unless he missed his guess, she’d just as soon bury them one by one in his hide. Slowly. He’d seen what tangling with a mad porcupine could do. He’d just as soon save his skin.
“Glory called me,” Garth answered quietly. That much he could tell her. He wasn’t sure her pride would want to know Glory had asked him to help keep Sylvia calm until she got there. “Asked me to meet her here.”
Garth watched Sylvia’s face. She might have porcupine quills, but her eyes were the tenderest blue he’d ever seen. And right now he wasn’t sure whether they were snapping with anger or tears. Maybe both. Her cheeks were red and he noticed she hadn’t pinned her hair back, instead sweeping her coal-black tresses back into a scarf.
