Roz Fox - A Cowboy at Heart

Earlier, when he’d convinced Wolfie to leave the bunkhouse, Linc had considered that his first small victory. But now, as Eric knocked into him with his guitar case, determined to sit in the very back of the big SUV, Linc tasted the bile of defeat. He foresaw his tussle with Eric as the first of many. After learning these kids were bent on becoming rock stars, the way his sister had, he could no longer stand the thought of listening to their music. John Montoya had intimated Linc was deluding himself to think he had a prayer of guiding kids like these away from the fickle field of music or acting into other less risky pursuits. Once again, Linc was afraid he’d been right.

After they were all seated in the SUV, Greg demanded a rundown of Linc’s rules. Eric dissented loudly at Linc’s order that they needed to buckle their seat belts or the Excursion wasn’t going anywhere.

“Wearing seat belts isn’t my rule.” Linc raised his voice over their grumbling. “It’s California state law. And while I’m in charge, we will obey the laws of the land.” He segued right into his vision for the group. “Being law-abiding citizens is in sync with my idea of rules to live by. I assume you’re all too young to drink alcohol and buy cigarettes. Weed and other drugs are against the law. Those head my list. It goes without saying that I expect everyone to pitch in with the chores. I’m not going to harp at you or mete out punishment. Shirkers will, however, get privileges taken away. That’s about the extent of my rules for the moment, especially since we already touched on respecting the personal privacy of your neighbors.”

Jenny let silence settle inside the vehicle before she spoke. “What kind of chores, Mr. Parker? I already told Randi I can’t cook.”

“Asking you girls to cook tonight was because of our unusual circumstances. I plan to hire a cook-housekeeper. In fact, I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

“What chores, then?” Shawn persisted.

Linc glanced into his rearview mirror. “I’ve ordered a tractor and all the attachments needed to plow enough acres to grow a vegetable garden, plus olives and walnuts, which I hope will help defray some of the operational costs. I plan to keep a few head of beef, mostly to teach responsibility. And chickens, for eggs. Don’t you agree a little honest labor ought to rid us all of our city pallor?” He shot them a smile via the mirror.

“We’re only staying here through the winter,” Shawn said, breaking off suddenly when someone—Eric, Linc saw—cut the heftier boy off with a solid jab to his solar plexus.

“I’m figuring kids will come and kids will go,” Linc said with a shrug, looking forward to the day this particular group would pull up stakes and leave. “I’ve arranged to have cattle feed delivered for the winter. The guy who sold me the farm implements was very helpful. He said there should be enough nice days before the snow hits to till the soil and plant the olives and walnuts.”

“How many acres?” Eric asked as if he’d taken an interest.

“Three hundred including where the buildings sit. I have a guide in my briefcase that shows how many acres need to go in sweet grass, how many in grain, walnuts and olives. The folks I consulted said ten acres of garden ought to feed the dozen or so mouths I’m licensed to take in.”

“You’re licensed?” Randi threw out casually.

“Certainly. Oasis transferred its permit to my name. The rep said the same state regulations apply to housing teenagers as little children.”

“Yeah, well if you’re relying on the folks who were in charge… It’s a wonder they weren’t shut down ages ago.”

Linc hadn’t noticed Randi’s Southern drawl so much before. Just now it was quite pronounced. “What brings you out West, Randi?” Linc cast a glance over his shoulder. “I have…er, had a client from North Carolina who sounds exactly like you. Is that where you’re from?”

Miranda cursed silently for drawing attention to herself. Because now the others appeared interested, too. “Don’t all Southern accents sound alike?”

“No,” Linc said. “I recognize when someone’s from Mississippi or Alabama as opposed to Texas or the Carolinas.”

“The day we met, Randi said she’d moved around a lot,” Jenny put in.

“I like how she sounds when she talks.” Cassie spoke up for the first time. “And I think she’s real pretty. Don’t you, Hana?”

The smallest child sucked her thumb and battled against falling asleep, tucked tight against her brother’s skinny side.

Miranda noted that tough as the kid, Wolfie, tried to act, he frequently combed comforting fingers through his little sister’s curls. Washed, Miranda thought Hana’s hair would probably be strawberry blond. The girl and her brother were both freckled redheads. She flashed the kids a warm smile.

Hana took her thumb out of her mouth and whispered to Cassie, “Yes, she’s pretty. She looks ’xactly like the Barbie doll Mrs. Tucker taked away from Cassie and frowed in the trash.”

Then, because the older boys chortled and poked fun at Miranda—calling her Barbie—Hana shrank against Wolfie, as if fearing the noisy teens might attack her.

“Stop,” Miranda ordered. “You guys are scaring Hana.”

“Yeah, dickheads, tone it down.” Jenny batted at the boys nearest her, defending her newest friend.

“Who’re you calling a dickhead, Jen?” Eric pouted. “The little kids had better toughen up. If name-calling is all they encounter in three outta five foster homes in this state, they’ll be lucky.”

Linc couldn’t resist commenting. “You’re not being fair in your assessment of our foster-care system, Eric,” he said.

The teen snorted. “That’s because there’s nothing fair about the system. Why do you think so many kids opt to go it alone on the streets?”

“I honestly have no idea. Care to enlighten me?”

“Man,” Shawn broke in, “it’s because most foster homes suck. Those people are in it strictly for the cash.”

“It’s words like most I take exception to,” Linc responded. “Instead of rushing to hang out in street packs, maybe kids ought to complain to someone in a position to make their homes better and safer.”

“Like, who would that be?” Jenny blazed, leaning forward.

“In the case of foster homes, it’d be the social worker in charge.”

The interior of the SUV filled with hoots. “Get real, dude. And don’t lecture us. You and Shawn’s dad are so like…twins,” Eric said. “You’re both so blind, you think tossing money at a kid or handing him over to somebody with a slew of letters after their name is an automatic cure. Felicity told us how you sent her to shrink after shrink. They’re about as far from the truth as this planet is from Mars.”

“Our grandmother sent Felicity to counselors, not me.”

Jenny sat forward in her seat. “She said you shelled out the bucks for everything, including her music lessons.”

“I was the only one in the household who was employed. Not that I owe you any explanations. Felicity should have listened to what the counselors said. If she had, maybe she’d still be alive.”

“Or maybe she would be if you’d listened to her, man,” Eric murmured just loud enough for everyone in the vehicle to hear.

A red haze interfered with Linc’s ability to see for a fraction of a second. Then, remembering he was dealing with kids who had a skewed perspective on life, he kept his mouth shut and promised himself he wouldn’t be drawn into pointless discussions like this in the future.

“Hey,” Greg called after they’d bounced and jounced in silence for a time, “can you turn on the radio or something?”

Linc pushed the start button on the CD unit and shoved in the disc he’d been listening to on the last phase of his journey to the ranch. Soon the dramatic sounds of an orchestra filled the vehicle’s interior.