A Cowboy at Heart. Roz Fox Denny

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ