Sweet Mountain Rancher
“Foreman’s quarters,” he explained. “The walls are thin, so it doesn’t offer much in the way of privacy, but it’s clean.” He nodded toward the foot of the bed. “Everyone’s got fresh linens, but the nights can get cold this time of year, so if anyone needs extra blankets, help yourselves.”
She pressed her fingertips into one of the pillows. “Fat and fluffy,” she said with a wink. “Just the way I like ’em.”
“Think the guys will be okay with these rugged accommodations?”
She glanced at the boys, who were snickering and exchanging good-natured shoves as they flapped sheets and shook pillows into their pillowcases.
“This place is like Buckingham Palace compared to where some of them lived before Latimer House. And you worked them hard. I have a feeling they’ll be dead to the world long before dark.” Eden started for the door. “Walk with me?”
Outside, she removed the baseball cap, freeing a mass of curls that spilled down her back like a cinnamony waterfall.
“Two of them were homeless. Living in alleys and under bridges before the cops picked them up.” She harrumphed. “And trust me, they were better off there than under their parents’ roofs. Every time I think about the things they must have seen and survived...”
He remembered Thomas’s dark, darting eyes. What had the boy experienced to inspire that look of fear and apprehension...and simmering anger?
“I’m guessing you’re not allowed to get specific about their pasts.”
“You’re right. But you’d be less than normal if you didn’t wonder how they all ended up with me.” She crossed both arms over her chest. “Let me put it this way: Kids who end up in places like Latimer House usually have fairly long records. Nothing overtly violent, mind you, but repeated offenses, like arson, breaking and entering, shoplifting, assault, even loitering and curfew violations. With no parental supervision, they were well on their way to a prison cell. Latimer House is the end of the line. One more goof-up, and it’s off to juvie.”
“What about foster care?”
A sad smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “There’s nowhere else in the system for boys with their histories. Besides, the number of kids waiting for placement in foster homes far outweighs the number of families willing to take them in.”
“Why would the state put that many troubled teens in the care of one itty-bitty counselor?”
Eyes narrowed slightly, she arched her left brow. “I’m sure you aren’t insinuating that I’m unqualified or incapable of doing my job. Because that would be insulting.”
Experience had taught him that when he didn’t know what to say, silence trumped words, every time.
She took a step closer. “Just so you know, I’m a psychologist, not a counselor. Basically, I can identify a disorder and provide treatment—I have a PhD—while a counselor’s goal is to help patients make their own decisions regarding treatment. Clearly, these kids are in no position to do that.”
Eden propped a fist on her hip. “Every hour of every day is a challenge, but I’m fully qualified to handle it. I appreciate your concern, but trust me, it’s unwarranted.”
He’d obviously hit a nerve, and right now those big gray eyes looked anything but warm and sweet.
“Hey, Eden?”
“Be right there, DeShawn. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she told Nate.
Hopefully not to pick up where she’d left off. She jogged across the yard to talk with a boy who towered over her and outweighed her by at least fifty pounds.
Something peculiar caught Nate’s attention as Eden and DeShawn chatted beside the bunkhouse: Thomas, alone in the doorway, aiming a baleful glare at no one in particular. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t invited the group to the Double M. Any one of those kids could come back, now that they’d made the trip.
Had his inability to say no put his parents, his sister, Hank, aunts and uncles, cousins and their children in unknown danger?
CHAPTER TWO
DURING THE FIRST half of the hour-long drive back to Denver, the boys talked nonstop about the weekend.
“I thought mucking stalls was bad,” DeShawn said, “until Nate made us shovel up the mess and move it to that stinking mountain over by the woods.”
“Wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t tipped the wheelbarrow over...on your shoes,” Kirk teased.
“Seriously, dude,” Wade said. “You’re lucky Nate found a pair of running shoes that fit you.”
“Yeah, but now I owe some ranch hand I never even met for a new pair. And I ain’t got that kinda money.”
“Don’t have,” Eden corrected. “But didn’t I hear Nate say you shouldn’t worry about that?”
“Man’s not gonna keep his word about us comin’ back over the Fourth if he keeps having to shell out for stuff we messed up.”
“It was just one pair of old shoes. And even Nate said the man rarely wore them,” Eden said.
“Yeah, maybe,” DeShawn said, “but just wait till he finds—”
In the rearview, Eden saw Thomas smack DeShawn on the shoulder and aim an angry glare in his direction.
Once they arrived home, Eden would take the smaller boy aside and find out what DeShawn was talking about. Knowing Thomas, it could be anything from a broken lamp to something stolen from one of the ranch hands bureaus...or worse.
Thomas had never been particularly easy to control, but since his father called, demanding his parental rights, things had gone from bad to worse. Thomas didn’t have access to the man who’d first neglected, then deserted him. Before moving to Latimer House, Thomas had vented his anger by starting fires; these days, for the most part, he took out his frustrations on the other boys.
“Did anyone think to write down Nate’s chili recipe?” she asked, hoping to distract them.
“Nate said he’d email it to me since I did most of the work,” Travis said.
“Did not,” Cody grumbled.
“Whatever.”
When Denver cops found Travis shivering and nearly unconscious in his hut of corrugated metal and cardboard, he had fleas and lice, multiple bruises and cigarette burns on his back, chest and forearms. And even after two operations to repair shattered bones in his left hand, he still had trouble manipulating the thumb. State psychologists who evaluated him in the hospital predicted he’d run away. Often. That he’d have a hard time adjusting to life in a house populated by ten other boys his age. That Eden should prepare for tirades, acts of aggression, destructive behavior. On his second night at Latimer House, he proved them right by flying off the handle because she’d served cheese pizza instead of his favorite, pepperoni. Eden sent the other boys upstairs out of earshot, and in a calm, quiet voice let it be known that she’d earned a black belt in karate. “Please don’t test me,” she’d told him. Travis took her at her word and ate the pizza without further complaint. And from that day to this, he’d been her best ally, quickly calming disputes between his housemates and helping Eden every chance he got.
It was no surprise that he’d imitated Nate’s walk, his cowboy drawl, even the way he stood, feet shoulder-width apart and arms crossed over his chest. Halfway through the weekend, Thomas noticed all this and called him a copycat. The old Travis might have thrown a punch, or at the very least, bellowed at the smaller boy. But eighteen months at Latimer House had changed him, and he took his cue from Nate, who shrugged and smiled as if to say, “So what?”
There was a lot to like about the man, including his rugged good looks. No wonder he’d made Baltimore Magazine’s “Bachelor of the Year” list twice, and appeared in dozens of other news stories partnered with beautiful models and popular entertainers. Clearly, he preferred tall, blonde, buxom women. That leaves you out, she thought, smirking. But even on the off-chance he occasionally made an exception and dated short, skinny, dark-haired women, Eden didn’t have time for a relationship. Especially not with a guy who might withdraw once he learned more about the boys’ problems, most of which could be traced back to abandonment issues. After just one weekend, it was clear they were fascinated by Nate’s no-nonsense approach to discipline and teaching. And who could blame them? His warm, inviting demeanor had almost tempted her to spill the beans about her weird and depressing past.
Eden could blame the near confession on his soft-spoken drawl. The understanding glow in his bright blue eyes. More than likely, though, her inexperience with men, which consisted of half a dozen onetime movie dates in high school and college. Until she met Jake...
Young and foolish, she’d been so swept off her feet by his hardy good looks that it was easy to confuse his constant doting for love. All too soon, Jake’s involvement in every facet of her life began to seem less like caring and more like control. It wasn’t until Stuart recounted the events of a domestic violence case that she remembered something her psych professor had said: “Some people try to be tall by cutting off the heads of others.” The breakup had been messy, but Eden was determined to keep her head, literally and figuratively.
Somewhere out there, she told herself, was a special someone who’d share her dreams, achievements, even regrets. A man of character, like her dad and grandfather, from whom she could draw strength when life struck a hard blow, yet comfortable enough in his own skin to lean on her when the need arose. A man like Nate Marshall?
Eden sighed. No, not Nate Marshall. Even if he’d shown interest in her as anything other than the manager of Latimer House—and he had not—she couldn’t afford a single misstep. Since taking over when the last administrator quit, she’d been under intense scrutiny from state and city agencies. If she messed up, she could find another job. But if the boys got off track, they may never find their way back. Protecting them, providing for them, was the sole reason she put in eighteen hours a day.
Instead of hiring someone to teach history and literature to boys who’d been expelled—multiple times—from public school, Eden saved money by teaching the classes herself. She could have hired outside help for household chores and yard maintenance, but doing the work made it possible to afford extras—internet access and satellite TV—without bowing to some bottom-line-obsessed bureaucrat who didn’t give a hoot about providing the boys with something akin to normal family life. Field trips, such as the one to the Double M, were but another step toward that goal.
Arranging private tours of galleries, museums, dozens of vocational and technical facilities they might attend hadn’t been easy, mostly because Eden believed the administrators had the right to know that her kids’ hardscrabble lives might mean they wouldn’t always behave like Little Lord Fauntleroys. Most seemed sincere when they said things like “Boys will be boys” and “How bad could they be?” But even the most well-intentioned had trouble disguising shock, impatience, even full-blown disgust when the boys tested them with crude language or outrageous manners.
Nate Marshall was not one of those people. The boys could distinguish between phony acceptance and genuine interest, so when he issued clear-cut rules about everything from pushing and shoving to foul language, they listened. And when he told them that respect had to be earned, not doled out like candy, she could see by their solemn expressions that he’d earned theirs.
He wasn’t a man who took shortcuts, either. That first night, he brought the boys into the kitchen of his two-story log cabin, showed them where to find pots and pans, his corn bread recipe and the ingredients, and instructed them to work together, because supper was in their hands. He didn’t complain about the noise or the mess they’d made preparing his famous five-alarm chili. Instead, he laughed and joked during the meal, and let it be known it was their responsibility to clean up after themselves.
He’d taken the same approach in the bunkhouse, where it had at first looked as though their duffel bags exploded, raining jeans, T-shirts and socks everywhere. Without warnings or threats, he simply stated that until the place was shipshape, no one would saddle up again.
As they’d piled into the van, everyone but Thomas had thanked Nate—with no prompting from Eden—and asked how soon they might come back. Much to her delight and theirs, he’d invited them to the Marshalls’ annual July Fourth festivities.
“I’m starved,” Travis said once they arrived home. “Okay if I make a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“Biology test tomorrow,” Kirk reminded him.
“I know, I know.” He addressed the group. “Anybody else want one?”
Only Thomas—the one who could use a little more meat on his bones—remained quiet.
“All right,” Kirk said, “but that means lights out the minute you get upstairs.”
Eden wondered which of the teens would volunteer to clean up, to put off bedtime a few minutes more.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Thomas said.
“But you ain’t even eatin’,” Wade pointed out.
“Aren’t,” Eden said. “Let’s use paper plates. And I’ll clean up the griddle.”
Several of the boys distributed napkins, plates, and paper cups of milk. The others formed an assembly line, one buttering bread, another slapping on sliced cheese, while Travis tended the stove.
Eden thought back a few months, to when a similar event would have incited arguments and shoving matches that led to threats and balled-up fists. Time—and Kirk’s steady presence—helped her deescalate the brawls, and slowly they began to put into practice the lessons she’d taught about negotiations and compromises that allowed them to live in harmony.
They devoured two dozen sandwiches, all while discussing what Nate had taught them...and wondering aloud what more they might learn on their next trip to the Double M. It was so good to see them looking forward to something that Eden found herself fighting tears.
“Hey,” Wade said, “what you cryin’ about, Eden?”
“My eyes are as tired as the rest of me,” she said. “And speaking of tired, it’s time for you guys to head upstairs.”
“Biology exam,” Kirk repeated.
Groaning, the boys disposed of their plates. They each said good-night before heading for their rooms.
Half an hour later, when Eden closed the door to her own room, she expected to lie awake, worrying about where she’d find the money to fix the roof, the leaky washing machine and on-its-last-legs dryer. Instead, memories of Nate’s interactions with the boys lulled her to sleep.
She woke feeling rested and upbeat, until the boys gathered at the table, devouring oatmeal or crunchy cereal as they picked up where they’d left off last night. Listening as they recounted the trip to the Double M...and their perceptions of Nate.
“I like him,” Travis said, “’cause he ain’t all full of himself.” He glanced at Eden and quickly added, “Isn’t.”
“Yeah, but all grown-ups seem real at first,” DeShawn observed. “Takes a while before the phony wears off and the real hangs out.”
Eden started to disagree, but what if he’d been correct? Jake had seemed too good to be true at first, too; what if Nate’s friendly behavior had been nothing more than a polite facade? Every one of the teens had experienced some level of abandonment...
Once their plates and bowls were stacked in the sink, they grumbled all the way to the science lab, well aware that after the exam, Kirk intended to walk them through their last assignment of the year: frog dissection.
Dishes done, Eden joined them, standing at the back of the classroom as her able assistant handled their protests with his usual aplomb. The young counselor had completed several degrees, and could surely earn far money more teaching or counseling elsewhere. Instead, he’d chosen to dedicate himself to the boys of Latimer House, teaching math, science and history, as well as fixing broken doorknobs and leaky faucets. Eden was the first to admit that without him, the place might have fallen down around them—literally and figuratively—months ago.
The doorbell pealed and Eden hurried to respond to the impatient, unscheduled visitor. Brett Michaels stood on the porch. Eden’s nerves prickled with dread as the landlord swaggered into the foyer.
She forced a smile. “Brett. Hi. What brings you here so early on a weekday morning?”
As usual, he didn’t answer her question. “You look lovely, as always.” He nodded toward the classrooms. “Amazing, considering what you do for a living.”
Eden ignored the snide remark. “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen...”
“Sounds great,” he said, following her.
Something about his attitude heightened her tension. Back in November, the purpose of a similar early-morning visit had been to raise the rent a hundred dollars a month. She’d managed, barely, by trading her new car for the big clunking van, and by directing a portion of her county-paid salary toward other Latimer bills. Adding those saved dollars to minuscule funds raised by local churches and a handful of regular donors, she’d made every payment. Eden didn’t know what other corners she could cut if he wanted more.
“Almost fresh from the oven,” she said, peeling the plastic wrap from a chipped ceramic plate of chocolate chip cookies.
“My favorite. But you knew that, didn’t you.” He sat at the Formica and chrome table donated by Kirk’s parents. Winking, Brett added, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sweet on me.”
Not a chance. Eden grabbed a mug from the drainboard and filled it. “Now, now, we both know I’m not your type.”
For the first time since they’d met, Brett looked genuinely surprised. “And what, exactly, do you think my type is?”
The same kind of woman Nate is attracted to, she thought, frowning slightly. Eden searched her mind for a polite way to say “stuck up,” and noticed a crack in the ceiling. Brett followed her line of vision, from the light fixture above the table to the corner beside the back door. He sipped his coffee, pretending not to see it.
“She’d need a degree from Barnard,” Eden said finally. “Or Brown, and memberships at Valverde Yacht Club and Castle Pines Golf Club.” Laughing quietly, she added, “For starters.”
“Is that how you see me? As some guy who’s only interested in social networking?”
To be honest, Eden thought, yes.
“But, I’ve always thought you and I would make a great team.”
Just what she needed—another control freak. The only thing she and Brett had in common was Latimer House. And a fondness for chocolate chip cookies.
“We haven’t seen you around here in months.” She shoved the plate closer to his elbow. “What have you been up to these days?”
He helped himself to another treat. “Funny you should ask.”
Something told her she wouldn’t find anything funny in what he was about to say.
“I got an interesting offer last week,” he said around a bite. “One that could prove profitable.”
She sensed a big if coming and put her hands in her lap so he couldn’t see them shaking. Maybe she could buy a moment or two to prepare herself for the bad news. “Haven’t heard from your mom lately, either. Guess that means she’s still on her world cruise?”
“Never better,” Brett said. “Talked to her yesterday, as a matter of fact. She sends her love.”
“Wait, you talked about me during a ship-to-shore phone call?”
“Sort of.”
His tendency to sidestep straight answers reminded her yet again of Jake, and Eden didn’t like it one bit. “She asked what my plans were for today, and I mentioned that I needed to pay you a visit. She said that as soon as she’s unpacked, she wants to tell you all about her trip over lunch.” He grunted. “For your sake, somewhere other than Tables.”
Cora Michaels loved it there, and often commented on the quaint Kearney Street location, the restaurant’s white picket fence and eclectic collection of mismatched tables and chairs. Eden would happily have met Cora at the interstate rest stop if she’d suggested it; Brett’s mother was a lovely woman...and one of Latimer’s most generous donors. At their last meeting, Cora confided that if it hadn’t been for Duke’s firm hand—and his willingness to adopt her sullen, unruly only child—Brett would have ended up in a place like Latimer House.
But why had Brett told Cora that he needed to visit today?
“How soon will she get home?”
“Who knows? She was supposed to get back last week. Now it’s next week.” He shook his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s taken up with another old geezer.”
Eden laughed. “How old are you that geezer is the first word that popped into your mind?”
He took another sip of coffee and met her eyes over the mug’s rim. “Maybe someday you’ll share your secret coffee recipe.”
“It’s no big secret. I don’t follow instructions.”
He raised his eyebrows as he put down the mug. “Beg pardon?”
“On the coffee can. The instructions say to use a rounded scoop. For every cup. Too strong. Way too strong, and in my opinion, I think it’s because they want you to use up the grounds faster.” Nervousness was to blame for her stubby fingernails, and fear tended to make her talk too fast. Waiting for Brett to deliver his bad news was making her feel both. Eden took a deep breath and willed herself to calm down because if history repeated itself, she’d start stuttering next.
“So I use half as much, er, many. Coffee grounds per pot, that is.”
“Makes sense,” he said, dusting crumbs from his fingers.
He sounded bored. Uninterested. Distracted, no doubt, by the awful message he’d come to deliver.
“So about this proposal I was telling you about...”
She squeezed her hands together so tightly, her knuckles ached.
“I thought it only fair to run it by you, give you a chance to make a counteroffer before I sign anything.”
“A counteroffer?” Could he hear her pounding heart from his side of the table?
“Yes. Someone wants to buy Latimer House.”
“You’re joking.”
Brett bypassed her comment. “Not as a rehab center for young criminals, of course. The buyer wants to rehab the house and live here.”
Yet again, she ignored his unkind reference to her boys. “And you think I can present you with a better offer?”
“Well, that’s the general idea. But—”
“Oh, now I know you’re joking,” she said. “My savings account balance doesn’t even have a comma in it anymore!” Thanks to you, she finished silently.
Brett chuckled. “Always the kidder.” His expression went stony and professional as he leaned back in the chair. “But you didn’t let me finish.”
In truth, her bank statement did show a comma—and a few digits preceding it—thanks to the small estate she’d inherited from her grandparents. Their house on the other side of town wasn’t as big as this one, but it would do...if Brett forced her hand. Denver officials would no doubt demand an inspection before issuing a permit to house the boys at Pinewood, and sadly, the tenants hadn’t left it in very good condition. Eden had no idea what it might cost to bring it up to code.
Brett knocked on the table. “Earth to Eden...”
“Sorry. You were saying?”
“Are you okay? You look a little green around the gills.”
Green. As in money. “How much did your buyer offer for Latimer House?”
When Brett named his price, her heart rate doubled.
“Oh my,” she whispered. “How soon do you need an answer?”
He shrugged. “How much time do you need?”
Why this constant game of cat and mouse! Couldn’t the man answer just one question straight-out?
“How much time do I have?”
Brett’s face softened slightly. “For anyone else, I’d say sixty days. But because I like you, I’ll stretch it to ninety.”
Her gaze darted to the calendar on the wall behind him. He might as well have said ninety minutes. Plus, his timing couldn’t have been worse. Most of the boys were making steady progress, changing from angry, mistrustful teens into productive, hopeful young men. This place, along with the steadfast work of Kirk and the handful of volunteers—psychology students, mostly—who helped run it, had given the kids stability and taught them that some adults, at least, could be trusted to act in their best interests. If Brett sold the place right out from under them? She shuddered.