Cowboy for Keeps

by Cathy McDavid

  “Candy. Candace, really, but everyone just calls me Candy.” The woman settled one hand on a cocked hip. “Candy Storm. And this little guy,” she said, tapping a bloodred fingernail on the boy’s head, “is James Tyrone Parker. Jimmy. He’s five. His mom was my best friend.”

  The implication sent Sarah’s stomach into free fall. She swept another look at the child who studied the stained carpet at his feet. “His mom is…?”

  “Yeah.” Candy blinked several times before patting the skin beneath lashes so long they had to be fake.

  “I think you and I should talk privately.” Sarah motioned toward a nearby cubicle. “Jimmy, I need you to watch TV or play with some toys while Miss Candy and I chat for a few minutes.”

  Without waiting for a response, Sarah took the child’s tiny hand in hers. His thin shoulders and bony frame raised troubling questions. When was the last time this kid ate? How long ago had his mother passed? Who had been taking care of him since then? And where?

  Her tone softened. “I think we have some cookies in the break room. Would you like some?” When Jimmy didn’t answer, she called to Candy. “Does he have any allergies?”

  The woman’s gum snapped and popped before she shrugged a vague “Nope?”

  As the child scrambled onto the couch near the bare Christmas tree, Sarah overlooked his soiled shirt and grimy fingernails, knowing that if she accused the parents of every unwashed youngster of neglect, the foster system would collapse under the load. Bruises or injuries were another matter, and she scanned the child for visible signs. Her breath eased at the sight of pale, but unblemished, skin. Relieved that the boy wasn’t in immediate physical danger—and thus, not really her problem—she clamped a heavy lid over the urge to take him under her wing.

  She couldn’t get involved. Not now. Not when doing so would ruin her plans for the holidays and dash her hope to rest and recharge. And, after five years with the DCF in Melbourne and two more in Fort Pierce, it was either that or quit. No, she shook her head, this little boy was Candy’s problem and he had to stay that way. At least until next week when her coworkers would be back in the office. Steeling her heart, she settled him in front of a cartoon video with a small plate of cookies and a juice box she took from the office refrigerator.

  “Okay, what’s this all about?”

  With Candy lagging behind, Sarah led the way to a cubicle where a line of red X’s across the bottom of the calendar marked the vacation days she had to use or lose according to DCF’s policy manual. She waved her guest into the only other chair in the cramped space and swung to her computer. She stilled. Until the IT department completed their work, no one could access the DCF database. Or learn whether Jimmy Parker already had a caseworker to look after him.

  With a sigh, Sarah pulled a yellow legal pad and a pen from a drawer and hoped Candy would quickly get to the point. Across the desk, the woman gave her a petulant look, her jaw jutting forward.

  “Millie, Jimmy’s mom, made me swear if anything ever happened to her, I’d bring the kid to Florida,” she said, with an accent from considerably north of the Sunshine State. “She said his dad owns a ranch somewhere near Lake Okeechobee. Jimmy’s named after him.”

  James Tyrone Parker.

  Sarah pursed her lips at the memory of a tall, broad-shouldered rancher with sun-bleached hair. She brushed a speck of dust from the desktop, chasing the image away. Surely there were thousands of Parkers in the hundreds of square miles bordering the largest lake in Florida. There were probably a dozen Jims and Tys among them. The odds against this little boy’s father being the same Ty Parker she’d run out of DCF’s offices last spring were practically astronomical. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to move the rancher’s name to the top of the list.

  “And where’s home, Candy?”

  “New York, of course.” The brunette slid one slim leg across the other. “Me and Millie met at a casting call for an ad agency when Jimmy was just a baby. We was both trying to break into movies.” She leaned forward, nodding the way people did when they had a secret to share. “It’s tougher than anybody thinks. Anyways…” Candy thrust her shoulders back until the fabric of her T-shirt tightened. “I got the gig and Millie didn’t, but we hit it off, you know? Millie, she didn’t have much acting experience. And the kid only made it harder. I’d babysit when I could, but eventually Millie gave up and took a job waitressing. That’s what got her killed. Some guy knifed her f’ tip money.”

  Candy studied the floor. “After Millie died, it wasn’t easy. I did my best by him, but it’s been three months, and the kid still asks f’ her. I took a job in Tampa over the holidays just so’s I could bring him to you. I guess you’ll take it from here.” She shrugged and uncrossed her legs. “I got a life, too. You know?”

  “Look.” Sarah placed her hands flat on the desk. “The system doesn’t work that way.”

  She scanned the notes she’d taken while Candy had rambled on. Like acting, there was more to transferring a child into DCF’s custody than one might think. And nothing, absolutely nothing, could be done before the first of the year when the computer system was up again.

  “I’d need proof Jimmy is who you say he is. His birth certificate. Millie’s death certificate. And that’s just the beginning. We’ll also need a home study to make sure you’re able to provide a suitable environment for a little boy until his father can be located.”

  “Whoa, now.” Candy’s hands rose defensively. “I’m not keepin’ him. I’ve done my part. As for those papers, I think I got everything you need right here.” She reached into a voluminous bag and pulled out a raft of wrinkled forms.

  Thumbing through them, Sarah had to admit they substantiated Candy’s story. She smoothed the curled edges of a birth certificate listing Millicent Gage and Tyrone Parker as Jimmy’s parents. An odd feeling stirred in the pit of her stomach as she traced the names with her finger, but she refused to jump to conclusions. Just because she knew one Ty Parker, that didn’t make him this little boy’s father. She’d worked for six months on his fraternity’s ill-fated plan to sponsor foster kids on a cattle drive. He’d never once mentioned a wife…or a child.

  She stared at the calendar that hung over Candy’s head. She didn’t need a computer to know the added pressure of the holidays had fractured some of the county’s most at-risk families. As a result, every single bed in the foster care system had already been filled.

  “You still can’t leave him.” Sarah slid the papers across the desk. “Until we locate his father, the only place I have available is a group home with a bunch of older boys.” A bed in The Glades was definitely not the ideal situation for a young child. “It’d be better if Jimmy spent Christmas with you. And maybe New Year’s. If you absolutely have to, you can bring him back then.”

  “Impossible.” Candy rose, her arms crossed. “I’ve lined up a gig at The Pole Club in Tampa. Tips are very good this time of year, and it’s not a place where I can take a kid, if you know what I mean.”

  A bitter taste rose in Sarah’s throat. “What about Jimmy’s father?” she asked. “What else can you tell me about him?”

  A crafty sneer told her Candy recognized a stall when she heard one. The woman thrust a thumb toward the duffel bag still sitting on the floor outside the cubicle. “The kid’s clothes are in there. And a picture of his mom. His dad? You’ll have to track him down yourself. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

  Not really, thought Sarah. More of her work involved taking abus
ed or neglected children from their parents than reuniting them. That part of her job was turning her into someone she didn’t like very much. It was the reason her vacation was so important. Not just to take a break and recharge, but to make up her mind about where she went from here. Lately, she’d thought a lot about quitting. If it hadn’t meant admitting defeat, she might have done it long ago. Her parents had never understood her career, and no wonder. Compared to her brother’s groundbreaking work in physics or her sister’s latest appearance at Carnegie Hall, her job at the DCF wasn’t going to set the world on fire. But a decision about her future would have to wait until she found this latest abandoned kid a new home.

  She tapped her pen against the desktop. A vague description of “somewhere near Lake Okeechobee” wasn’t going to help her locate Jimmy’s father. Tracking him down meant legwork, hauling out the white pages and making thousands of calls. Unless…unless she hit the jackpot with her first spin of the wheel and the only Ty Parker she’d ever met was Jimmy’s dad.

  She gave the child’s birth certificate another glance, but there was no time to dwell on Jimmy’s parentage. Candy was on the move and, this time, there was no stopping her. Before Sarah could object, the woman blotted her lips on the boy’s cheek and flounced out of the office.

  Listening to the door swing shut, Sarah weighed her alternatives. There really was no choice. Not if she intended to spend a quiet Christmas packing for her Hawaiian vacation. A phone call to the housemother at The Glades was next on the agenda, and she turned toward her office, determined to make the call.

  A tug at the hem of her shirt stopped her. She looked down into Jimmy’s upturned face. The little boy was trying his best not to cry, but his eyes welled.

  “What is it?” She steeled herself against an urge to kneel beside him and sweep him into her arms. The foster care system wasn’t for the faint of heart, and even five-year-olds learned early to toughen up their act. The sooner Jimmy started, the better.

  “Lady,” he said, “did I miss Christmas?” He pointed to the box of ornaments and tangled tree lights Sarah had been packing. “Is it over?” His bottom lip trembled as he said the last word and tears spilled from his eyes.

  It was too much. Sarah knelt and drew the child close.

  “No, Jimmy, you didn’t miss Christmas.” His little-boy scent filled her senses. “Did you ask Santa for something special?”

  Shopping for a present was the least she could do for a new orphan who’d spend the holiday with strangers. If they moved quickly, she could swing by one of the toy stores that stayed open for last-minute holiday shoppers and still have time to drop him off at The Glades.

  “I…I…” Tear tracks ran down Jimmy’s grimy cheeks. His mouth shook, but he stiffened, drawing courage from who knew where. “I need to see Santa. I hav’ta give him my Christmas list.”

  Sarah’s thoughts raced. The odds of finding a shopping-mall Santa at this late hour weren’t good. “I’m afraid he’s busy loading his sleigh right now.” She forced a bright smile. “If you tell me what’s on your list, I’ll make sure he knows.”

  “Can…can he…” Jimmy’s shoulders slumped. He peered up at her, tears shimmering in his wide brown eyes. “Can Santa bring back my mom? I don’t want any toys. I promise. I just want my mom.”

  “Oh! Poor baby.” Only the worst sort of Scrooge could abandon this sad little boy on Christmas Eve. What did that make her?

  Sarah hugged the child tighter. All too often, the system failed kids like Jimmy. The same way it was failing her. Not that she’d always wanted to become a social worker. Knowing the long hours and the tremendous workload, who would? But in her sophomore year at the University of Florida, a chance encounter with a friend from grade school had given new direction to her life. Meagan had experienced the worst of foster care. After learning her story, Sarah had switched her major from Education to Sociology so she could make a difference. So what had happened to Meagan wouldn’t happen to any other kids.

  But her idealistic plans to revamp the system had been buried under two years of working for a boss who valued computer upgrades over additional staff, of shifting children from one foster home to another, of seeing them falter and not being able to do anything to stop their downward spiral. It had practically wrung her dry. And lately, she’d started asking whether anyone was interested in fixing a system that didn’t meet the needs of the children in its care.

  But, if she could make a difference in one child’s life—just one—didn’t she have to do it?

  She had to. That’s all there was to it.

  Lightly, she kissed the top of Jimmy’s head while her dreams of a Hawaiian vacation faded.

  * * *

  TY PARKER SLID FROM Ranger’s saddle, lifted his Stetson and ran his arm over his forehead. The long-sleeved shirt he’d put on fresh this morning clung like a second skin, now that he’d spent ten hours on horseback. He slapped his hat against his leg to dislodge the day’s accumulation of dust. The move earned a derisive snort from the quarter horse.

  “I hear ya, big guy,” Ty said, grabbing the reins. “Let’s get a drink and get outta this heat for a while.” He aimed a glance at the sinking sun and wished someone would tell the weatherman not even Florida was supposed to be this hot the last week in December.

  But hot it was. Hot and humid.

  No matter. According to the almanac, they were due for another cold front. With any luck, it’d arrive about the same time as the wannabe cowboys who’d signed up for the Circle P’s winter cattle drive.

  In the barn, Ty grabbed a bottled water out of the fridge in the tack room. While Ranger drank his fill from a trough of clear-running springwater, Ty stopped to run his hand through hair that was two weeks overdue for a cut. Like every day on the thousand acres of palmetto and scrub that made up his South Florida ranch, there was more to do than twenty-four hours could hold. He shook his head, second-guessing his decision to hold a roundup so early in the season.

  Not that it was any use. Done was done. Eight paying guests would arrive the day after tomorrow. Though he’d hoped for a bigger turnout, their fees more than covered the costs of an event that would serve as a warm-up for a larger, longer drive in the summer.

  “And after last year, we could use the practice,” Ty confided to Ranger as he went about feeding the black horse and settling him into his stall. That time, unforeseen complications had nearly proven disastrous. Thinking of the steps he’d taken to correct the situation, Ty grabbed the currycomb from its hook and set to work. He’d barely made a dent in brushing Ranger’s dark coat when boots sounded on the barn floor.

  “Hey, boss.” Fifty-five years on the Circle P had etched furrows so deep around Seth’s blue eyes that the man bore a permanent squint. He leaned against the lower half of the stall door. “Good ride?”

  “It was pleasant enough.” Ty ran the comb through sweat-matted hair on the horse’s withers. “Spotted a couple of big rattlers down by Little Lake. We’ll want to watch out for more of them next week, especially if it cools down a bit.” The cold-blooded creatures frequently sought sunshine when the weather turned.

  “I’ll spread the word,” Seth said, nodding. Rattlesnakes kept the rodent population in check, but a bite could be serious, if not deadly. “Cattle still hanging out near there?”

  It was Ty’s turn to nod. “Mostly around the salt lick on the north side. Should make roundin’ ’em up easy enough.”

  “How many, you think?”

>   “The buyer wants fifty head,” Ty answered as he worked his way down Ranger’s side. The Andalusians he raised were known for their strong bloodlines and resistance to disease. “With the added help, it’ll take two, maybe three days to get ’em in the pens.” He smiled, knowing his ranch hands could do the job in an afternoon. Their paying guests might slow things down a bit, but the trade-off—money in the bank—was worth it.

  “That ought to put us on the trail to Kissimmee by Monday.”

  Seth stole a piece of hay from Ranger’s crib. “Sounds about right.”

  Though he practically had the schedule branded on his arm, Ty asked, “You still headin’ to Fort Pierce tomorrow for supplies?” At the older man’s affirmative grunt, he suggested adding sunblock to the list. “Cold weather or hot, a sunburn stings.”

  Seth leaned against the stall door and chewed as if he had all day and no place to go.

  Ty shot him a look. In his thirty-two years he’d never known Seth to laze around. “You need somethin’ else?”

  “Well,” Seth drawled, “that woman from DCF called again.”

  Ty’s mouth slanted to the side. “Sarah Magarity? What’s that make—four, five times?” She’d called on Christmas Eve and every day since. “She say what she wanted this time?”

  “No. Just that she needs to talk to you on a—” Seth grinned, his voice hitting a high falsetto “—personal matter.” He shifted his straw into the left side of his cheek. “I think she wants t’ ask you out.”

  Laughter bubbled up from Ty’s chest. The day the feisty caseworker thought of him that way, he’d share a pail of oats with Ranger. “Not much chance of that happening.” He patted the horse’s flank. “Not after the set-to we had the last time we saw each other.”

  “Oh?” Seth’s sparse eyebrows knotted. “Hadn’t heard about that. Guess she wasn’t happy to hear those kids she sent us started a grass fire. What’d she say when you told her?”