Kitabı oxu: «A Cowboy at Heart»

“Hey, Parker, wait up!”

Miranda called to the man who barreled on ahead like a steam engine. “I’m going to give the dog this bit of steak I saved from dinner.”

Stopping midstride, Lincoln Parker turned and noticed the mist from Randi’s breath curling around her head. “Okay, but make it snappy. If we stay out too long we’ll freeze.”

Smiling, she peered up from where she’d knelt to feed the shivering dog. “I love cold, crisp autumns. Reminds me of home.”

“Really? Where’s home?” Linc pounced on her statement.

Miranda felt the color drain from her face. She felt exposed. Trapped. “I can’t tell you that, Parker—Linc. Please don’t send me away. I’m…ah—”

“What? On the lam from the cops?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Stronger now, she didn’t fumble so much for words. “There’s some…one I’m running from.”

Linc drew back and studied her pale features. “A man?”

Looking stricken, Miranda nodded. She waited for the logical next question and then for the ax to fall.

“You’re running from a husband, then?” he asked harshly.

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Dear Reader,

The heroine of this story, Miranda Kimbrough, has lived inside my head for several years. She came to me one day when I overheard a well-known singer telling a companion that life at the top of the music charts isn’t always rosy.

Since then, I’ve listened to interviews with singing sensations from a variety of musical fields. Many hinted at what the first woman had said. Life at the top means hard work, sleepless nights, endless days on the road, constant pressure from managers, promoters and fans to keep producing hits. As the pressure builds, one singer said, “You lose pieces of your life and almost all of your heart.”

The love stories we write are about healing and redemption. It’s taken me all this time to find my exhausted country singer a fitting mate. But because love itself isn’t easy, and because I wanted to make Miranda’s love everlasting, I needed Lincoln Parker to have fought his own battles. So that when he commits himself to Miranda, it’s with all his heart.

I hope readers will come to appreciate, as I have, the long road to love embarked on by “Misty” Kimbrough, country legend, and Linc Parker, emotionally scarred former Hollywood financial wizard. And I hope you’ll take to heart the ragtag mix of homeless kids who help show them the way.

I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, AZ 85731 or e-mail me at rdfox@worldnet.att.net.

Best,

Roz Denny Fox

A Cowboy at Heart
Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my daughters, Kelly and Korynna. I’m so proud of you

for your patience in dealing with children, and for the

loving moms you’ve both become. This book’s for you.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

Los Angeles, California

HIGH ON A HILLSIDE above a posh Hollywood community where he served as financial adviser to a wide array of successful movie and rock stars, thirty-two-year-old Lincoln Parker stared absently down at the six-month-old grave of his kid sister, Felicity. Sinking to his knees, Parker anchored a small bouquet of yellow roses to the stone. He paid scant heed to the gusty Santa Ana winds tugging at his suit coat. Pretty as the roses were, Linc considered them a sad commemoration on what should have been his sister’s seventeenth birthday.

“Felicity, I, uh…I’m trying to make good on my promise. The one I…made far too late to help you.” Pausing, Linc scrubbed at tears that spilled over his cheeks. “Just…maybe I can save other kids from suffering your fate. God, honey, I hope you know how sorry I am that I didn’t s-see you were serious.”

Heaving himself up, Linc thrust shaking hands deep into the pockets of his pin-striped pants. Gazing across endless rows of flat, gray headstones, he swallowed the huge lump in his throat and clamped his teeth tight against further apologies his sister would never hear.

Damn, he’d tried to provide for her after their mom died. His sister had been a change-of-life baby for their movie-star mother and a much older director. Olivia Parker hadn’t wanted a second kid, and Felicity’s father reportedly still had a wife. Linc’s own dad was also in the film business, but he’d long before succumbed to alcohol and had never been part of Linc’s existence. At the time their mom ended her messed-up life, Linc had just finished high school. Because he’d been awarded a full scholarship to U.C. Berkeley, the family-court judge had asked his maternal grandmother to take charge of the Parker household.

Looking back, Linc saw that Grandmother Welch had been far too permissive a caretaker for an impressionable growing girl. At the time, though, he’d gone blithely off to university, glad to be liberated from the daunting task. After all, what had he, at eighteen, known about raising kids? “Not a damn thing!” Linc shook his head.

After a last grim perusal of his sister’s grave, he turned and strode briskly toward his silver Jaguar.

In the years between Grandmother Welch’s death, thanks largely to her hedonistic lifestyle, when he was twenty-five, and Felicity’s—of a street drug overdose, the cops said—Linc had committed sins of his own. Overindulgence of his sister was clearly uppermost among them. He accepted the blame. Hell, he’d burst onto the Hollywood scene with a shiny new MBA, and he’d obviously worn blinders when it came to anyone’s excesses. Including his sister’s… Still, he believed that his belated decision to atone for past transgressions was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

As if his musings triggered a response, his cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He retrieved it and flipped open the case as he slid beneath the car’s wood-grained steering wheel.

It seemed fortuitous to hear John Montoya’s voice. “Hi, Linc. I’m up north, at the ranch you asked me to check out.”

“I’m afraid to ask, John. Is the place a disaster or is it anything like the ad in Sunday’s paper?”

“Basically it meets your requirements—unless you count the fact that it’s twenty miles from anything resembling a town,” Montoya said with a chuckle.

“Good. Perfect. I’ve been reading up on ranching and on teen refugees, plus talking to people. So there’s a livable bunkhouse and main residence, as well as a parcel of raw land?”

“Uh…yeah. Three hundred or so acres. You’ll want to change the name, though. Rascal Ranch doesn’t seem appropriate for what you’ve got in mind. According to the representative from the Oasis Foundation—the current owners—the ranch has been used for various social-development programs over the past five years.”

“For instance?”

“Uh, a summer camp for underprivileged kids. A horse-therapy program for amputees that Oasis funded for a couple of years. Their last project, I think he said, was stopgap housing for kids awaiting adoption.”

“Why is Oasis dumping the ranch now?”

“Ted Gunderson said it’s difficult to get and keep houseparents way out here. I tell you, Linc, the property is smack in the middle of nowhere.”

“In the middle of nowhere suits me fine. A haven for ex-druggie street kids is better if it’s less accessible to temptations. Okay, John, you have my permission to start dickering. Now that I’ve made up my mind, I’m anxious to get going. If Oasis is willing to negotiate, I’ll go as high as the top figure we discussed. Oh, and John, if you close a deal, will you swing past the county courthouse and apply for whatever licenses I’ll need to house a dozen or so kids?”

“I almost forgot—that’s the big plus. Oasis will transfer their group-home license to you.”

“That’s permissible?”

“Must be. Gunderson seems to know. He says they have a year left on their state contract, but you’ll need to undergo a Social Services inspection. Gunderson claims it’s a mere formality. He implied there’s nothing much to qualifying as a bona fide shelter.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” For the first time since the idea had struck him, Linc felt the heaviness around his heart lift just a little. “I’m headed back to my office. If you work a deal, contact me there. Then I’ll put my house in Coldwater Canyon on the market and start notifying clients that I’m turning them over to my partner until I get the shelter operating. Thought I’d allow at least two years. By the way, Dennis has promised he’ll retain your firm for all the legwork I currently have you do.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence. I only hope I can work with Dennis. I realize you like the guy, but frankly, Linc, I hope you know what you’re doing. Rumor has it he’s pulled some shady stuff to get accounts.”

“You’ve been in Tinseltown long enough to know you shouldn’t listen to rumors.”

“I tell you, Dennis Morrison doesn’t have the same standards you do.”

“Name something he’s done besides drop a couple of going-nowhere B stars to make room for a few up-and-comers. I wouldn’t have done it, but our competitors do it constantly. I trust Dennis enough to hand him my personal portfolio. I doubt I’ll have time to follow the market for a while. Running a teen shelter is going to be a new experience for me. Once it’s up and running smoothly, I figure I can step back and just do the fund-raising for it. By then I’ll be ready to get back into the business.”

“Why risk your career at all, man? You’ve got it made where you are.”

“I’m doing it for Felicity.”

“I gotta be honest here. You’re putting your life on hold because you feel guilty about something no one could’ve foreseen. You gave that kid a life anyone in her right mind would grab in a minute. Felicity blew it, Linc. That’s the unvarnished truth.”

“She was sixteen, John, my responsibility any way you cut it. I spend part of every single day in the Hollywood trenches. I knew she didn’t have the talent to be a rock star. Instead of taking the time to try and steer her in a better direction, I shelled out bucks whenever she found some new bloodsucker to give her voice or music lessons. I guess I hoped she’d eventually see for herself. That was a big mistake. My mistake.”

“Yeah,” John muttered. “You think your crystal ball should’ve told you one of her so-called mentors or rocker pals was a drug dealer on the side.”

“According to the cops, not all street kids are losers. I can’t save all of them from Felicity’s fate, but maybe I can redirect one or two. All I know is that I’ll never be able to live with myself if I don’t try. Call me with a final deal, all right?”

There was an uncomfortable silence until Linc added, “This Gunderson guy you’re dealing with—he verified that there are no restrictions on the land against farming, right? I mean, part of my plan is to have the kids invest a little honest sweat plowing, planting and harvesting crops that’ll eventually pay for their upkeep. I’m not offering any other kid a free ride like I gave Felicity. That’s where I really fouled up.”

“You’ll have the land, Farmer Parker. Jeez, I have a hard time envisioning you with blisters on those Midas hands of yours. But if you’re serious, I’ll go dicker.”

“Hear me, John. I am serious. Never more so. I’ll be waiting for your report at my office. So long for now.”

Nashville, Tennessee

PHONY FOG hissed from canisters strategically placed behind a row of footlights. A single spotlight faded by degrees until it left the twenty-six-year-old country singer swallowed in darkness and her signature mist. Her body cringed away from a rolling swell of whistles and stamping feet.

Unsnapping her guitar strap, she passed the instrument to a stagehand who’d materialized from the wings. Her mind was fixed on the solace waiting in her dressing room.

“Awesome performance, Misty!” The stagehand’s shout was drowned out by the thunderous din from the auditorium. “Hey, where ya goin’?” The kid’s lanky frame blocked her passage.

“I’m fixin’ to go change out of this hot costume.” The singer blotted perspiration from her forehead with a satin sleeve. Eyes made electric blue—by contacts her manager insisted she wear to conceal what he called her blah gray eyes—closed tiredly.

“Wes said you hafta give four encores tonight.”

Her eyes flew open and she shook her head.

“Yep. It’s a packed house. Wes says you’re to give ’em a taste of your new songs so every fan here will stampede to the lobby and buy a CD.”

“Four encores?” She sounded dazed, as if he’d asked the impossible. Indeed, he had.

Four fingers were waggled under her nose. The crescendo beyond the stage had escalated to a degree that caused the young man to give up attempting to communicate. He pressed the guitar into her midriff and shoved her back toward center stage.

Miranda Kimbrough, known to country-music fans simply as Misty, dragged in a deep breath. Plastering on a smile as she’d done so many times, she edged into the bright spotlight. She was a corporation. A multimillion-dollar star to whom a host of folks had hitched their wagons. So many people now depended on her that she was afraid of cracking under the burden. Besides back-to-back concerts at home and abroad, there were charity events scheduled and a growing number of photo shoots. Recently, subsidiary companies using her image had marketed T-shirts, look-alike dolls, posters and glossy notebook covers. She needed a break. She felt weighted down. Yet no one heard her plea.

When the theater again fell silent, Miranda adjusted the microphone with a trembling hand. It took a Herculean effort, but finally the music transported her to a place where singing songs had been a joy.

Her newest piece, one she’d entitled “A Cowboy at Heart,” flowed easily from her husky voice. As well it should. She’d written it for her dad. And then she sang “A Last Goodbye,” which paid tribute to both her parents. Frankly, Miranda doubted anyone in this faceless audience knew or cared that eleven years ago on this very night, her father and his band had perished in the wicked storm raging across his beloved Tennessee hills. The new songs poured out her heartache for a dad she’d lost five days after her fifteenth birthday, and for a mom who’d died of pneumonia when Miranda was four.

Even the most cynical among her production crew considered these ballads her very best. Who’d have guessed they’d be her last? Certainly not Wes Carlisle, her manager, a soulless man who’d hustled her into a one-sided contract during the confusing days following her dad’s death.

Wes would be livid when his caged bird flew the coop, and that made her smile.

Her band? A different story. She regretted not confiding in them. Her piano man and steel guitarist were dedicated. And Colby Donovan, her arranger, was the only one left of her dad’s friends. It was a good thing he was home recovering from surgery. When she’d attempted to tell Colby how she felt, he’d dispensed his usual bear hug and said Doug would have been so very proud of her. She’d achieved the pinnacle of success that her dad’s band had almost but never quite reached.

Despite regrets, she’d planned her flight. It would be complete. And it would be tonight—while Carlisle and his henchmen licked their chops, counting the proceeds they raked in from her sold-out concert. Wesley pushed and pushed and pushed her to write more and better chart breakers. No more, no more, Miranda thought with astonishing relief as the audience went still. Perhaps the fans had seen her tears. She couldn’t stop them from running down her face.

One last bow. One last wave. She had nothing left to give.

Look at them. They all envied her fame and fortune. None would understand she’d never wanted to be a star. She loved singing, but…

This time when Misty passed her guitar to the kid holding Wes’s clipboard full of must-dos, he obviously sensed steel in her backbone. Still, he cautioned, “Wes won’t like that you only gave two encores.” Jogging to keep up with Miranda’s long strides, he panted. “Wes has you timed to the second. Now you’ll hafta sit in your dressing room until he frees up a bodyguard to escort you to your bus. So I better stay with you.”

Miranda’s steps faltered as she neared her dressing room. “Remind Wes I said at rehearsal that this sequence would drain me. I need to have some time to myself. He’ll recall the conversation, uh…Dave, isn’t it?”

“Hey, you know my name. Cool! Wes hired me for this tour, ’cause your new CD’s gonna be a smash. He gave me strict instructions, but hey, you’re the star, Ms…. Mis…Misty,” the smitten kid stammered.

Miranda hated that Wes would fire this boy for losing her. But it couldn’t be helped. Dave’s very inexperience played into her hands.

AS IT HAPPENED, her escape turned out to be ridiculously easy. Inside her star quarters, Misty meticulously transformed herself back into the nondescript persona of Miranda Kimbrough. First, she hacked her long blond hair into a short spiky mop—carefully storing the cuttings in a plastic bag to be tossed later. Then she dyed her hair black. Without her blue contacts she barely recognized the woman staring out from the full-length mirror. Add ragged jeans, a faded blouse and a denim jacket straight off a boys’ rack, plus run-down combat boots and an old army backpack she’d scrounged from a thrift shop, and her getaway ensemble was complete. Inside the pack, she’d squirreled away cash withdrawn from one of her accounts. Considering she had millions, it was a pittance.

She worried that the meager funds wouldn’t last. But because Wes scrutinized her bank statements, she’d been afraid to take more. Miranda hoped what she had would keep her fed and on the road until her disappearance became yesterday’s news. For good measure, she’d sewn a pair of diamond earrings into the lining of her jacket. She didn’t need diamonds. Only freedom. A chance to be herself.

While Dave guarded the front entry of her dressing room, Miranda slipped out a rarely used back door. Head down, she sped down a hall and merged with a teeming horde purchasing CDs from Wesley’s hawkers. Rick Holden, Wes’s right-hand man, even tried to sell her a compact disc.

Shaking her still-damp curls, Miranda popped a stick of sugarless gum in her mouth and blended with a group of boisterous teens leaving the arena. Once free of the building, she ran for six blocks. Only then did she haul in a lungful of crisp October air. But she didn’t relax until a Greyhound bus bound for Detroit left the glittering lights of Nashville behind.

Starting in Detroit, her plan was to hop a string of buses that would eventually deposit her in far-off L.A. She reasoned that if one small woman couldn’t lose herself on the streets of Los Angeles, she couldn’t find anonymity anywhere.

IT TOOK THREE WEEKS after she pulled her disappearing act for Miranda Kimbrough to reach her destination. She hadn’t reckoned on Wes suggesting to police that she’d been kidnapped, possibly for ransom. The band, all the staffers and roadies, everyone had heard her beg him for time off. But when her bus hit Kansas City, it was a shock to see headlines screaming KIDNAPPED! above her most recent promo photo now plastered on the front pages of major newspapers and magazines.

Panicked, Miranda had taken refuge on the streets with the homeless. Luckily she’d met some kind folks. And vowed that if she ever managed to access her bank funds again, she’d help the homeless in some manner.

When temperatures dropped into the twenties, Miranda began to feel guilty for taking up space at the cramped shelter. And guiltier still accepting a handout of food, knowing all the while that she could, with one phone call, return to a life of privilege.

Could. But she didn’t make that call.

Wes virtually owned her. He pointed out often enough that she’d signed an ironclad contract. He’d find a way to turn her disappearance into a windfall. Going back would change nothing—except that she could expect to be watched twenty-four hours a day.

In the aftermath of her dad’s death, Miranda learned that few people in the industry performed for the sheer pleasure of it. Her dad had been a rarity. Doug Kimbrough had placed family at the top of his priorities. He’d loved her mother and Miranda and successfully juggled work and his home life.

Since Wes had signed her, she hadn’t spent more than two nights in a row in her own bed at home. And she’d like to make just one friend who didn’t eat, sleep and breathe music at warp speed. Someday she’d like to meet a man who could see beyond her voice. Someone who really cared about her likes, dislikes, needs and fantasies.

Her murky thoughts turned inward as Miranda hitched her backpack higher and trudged out of the busy L.A. bus terminal, and headed for an inner-city park she’d scoped out on a seat companion’s map. Another helpful tip she’d picked up in K.C. was that the homeless congregated in parks. By mingling with them, a newcomer could glean information vital to survival. This particular park was maybe a ten-block hike away, but Miranda didn’t care. L.A. was much warmer than Kansas.

Pausing a moment, she slipped out of her lined denim jacket.

“Hi. Is that your dog?” A breathy voice spoke directly behind Miranda, causing her to whirl and duck sharply. A savvy homeless woman in K.C. had repeatedly warned Miranda about not letting anyone come up too close behind her.

“Uh…no. I don’t have a dog. I just got off a bus.”

“Oh.”

“Do you live around here? If so, maybe you can help me get my bearings.” Miranda extracted a pack of gum from her pocket and offered a stick to the unkempt brunette—a young woman probably not even out of her teens.

With her face free of makeup, Miranda thought she probably didn’t look much more than a teenager herself.

“Thanks for the gum. I’m Jenny, by the way.” Shrugging, she said, “I guess you could say I live here. I caught some z’s last night at the bus depot. Sometimes the cops run us out. Last night I got lucky.” She stripped the paper off the gum. Both women cast sidelong glances at the scruffy black-and-white terrier now sitting placidly at Miranda’s feet.

“If he’s not yours or mine, then whose is he?” Kneeling, Miranda ran a hand around his neck in search of a collar. She and Jenny were alone on either side of the street for at least a block. “He’s not tagged.”

“Big surprise. He’s been dumped. This area’s well-known as a dumping ground for homeless people and strays.”

“So are you, uh, homeless?” Miranda asked hesitantly.

The girl’s grin softened otherwise hard features. “Depending on who you ask, I’m both homeless and a stray. You by chance got any smokes?”

“Sorry, it’s not a habit I ever picked up.”

“Lucky you.” Jenny continued to stare. “You have a smoker’s voice. Unless it’s your accent. Are you from down South?”

“Used to be.” Miranda rolled one shoulder. Preferring to change the subject, she straightened and said, “I may not have cigarettes, but I have two sandwiches. A guy on the bus took pity on me at the last stop. I wasn’t hungry then, but I’m fixin’ to be now. He said one’s roast beef on wheat. The other’s tuna on rye. I’ll give you first pick.”

“Cool. How about we split fifty-fifty? I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Eric, he’s my buddy, lucked out and got a gig playing at a wedding reception last night. He promised me he’d nab leftovers. Anyway, he’ll come away with a chunk of change. It won’t be that much, though. And Eric needs new strings for his guitar.”

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.”