“Don’t you think you should be a little more concerned for the victim here? That is my house burning down.” How would she react if someone set her ranch—her future—on fire? “And what do you mean by mistake?” he growled at the kid. See, he could be nice. He wasn’t yelling, was he?
“I think Gideon was just trying to keep his sisters warm—he built a fire in the fireplace and it got out of hand,” Stefanie answered for him.
“Since when did you become the local public defender?” Lincoln snapped, watching her glance back at a girl, a teenager, who stared at Lincoln with eyes that told him his star powers had taken control of her mind. Behind her, another little girl slunk behind her sister’s leg, apparently terrified by the mean man.
He really felt like a jerk now. All the same, he couldn’t afford to have juvenile delinquents running around Phillips, especially when they left flames and rubble in their wake.
“I’m only defending him because you had to come in swinging. It was an accident—don’t you see how hungry and cold they are?” Stefanie answered, even stepping between Lincoln and Gideon, a little bobcat of attitude.
No. All he saw was trouble—past, present, and future. Where was Dex when he needed the guy to yell, “Cut”? This scene hadn’t played out at all like Lincoln had hoped.
“Where are their parents?” he asked, trying—really trying—to put a soft tone in his voice.
No one said anything.
Swell. “Listen, why am I the bad guy here? I’m just saying, the kid burned down my house. Where I’m from, that’s a crime.”
“I’ll fix it.”
This, mumbled from Gideon, hit Lincoln square in the absurd bone. He couldn’t help letting out a burst of laughter that didn’t in the least resemble humor, expect perhaps a crazed Jack Nicholson–in–The Shining kind of humor. Maybe the drugs the doctor had given Lincoln affected his ability to control his emotions, but with everything inside him, he wanted to leap on this skinny kid and strangle him.
“Right,” he said instead, ignoring how the kid flinched. “Let me get the tool kit from my luggage. We’ll get started on it tonight. Because I forgot my tent and my sleeping bag, thinking that maybe I might have a place to sleep tonight.”
Liar. But Lincoln delivered the line with such rancor that even he believed he had intended to bunk down in John Kincaid’s three-bedroom modular home, maybe build a campfire in the living room and dine on a package of cold ramen noodles.
“Oh, please,” Stefanie sneered, one hand on her hip, apparently using her killer X-ray vision to see right through him. “Like you were really going to stay here. It doesn’t have satin sheets or a mint for your pillow. Oh, and furniture or appliances, for that matter.”
And here, when he’d met her, he thought Stefanie Noble quiet. Even docile. Clearly she was the one who deserved the Oscar. If this reception was any indication, he’d read every happy, pleasant vibe he’d picked up last summer entirely wrong.
Fine. He didn’t expect everyone in the world to love him. Not really. However, even if he had been a little over the top with his response, he didn’t deserve both barrels. His house was on fire. He had feelings too.
Lincoln folded his arms over his chest, thankful that his hand didn’t shake for once. “It’s true; I’d forgotten the warm and friendly Phillips hospitality, but obviously the law has changed. What, is this the let-bygones-be-bygones form of justice? Or maybe just, ‘Hey, let the rich guy pay for it. He’s got the dough.’”
Stefanie also crossed her arms, not rattled in the least by his throwing out the truth. Instead a smile—and he put it solidly in the category of nasty—raised one side of her mouth. “That sounds about right, Mr. Cash.”
Lincoln stared at her, everything inside him hollow. He’d wanted to hide, not be trampled into the soil. So he held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sweetheart. My fault for thinking that a guy might get a fair shake here. Sadly, I’m fresh out of fifties. And a house, it looks like. I guess I’ll just go find a tree to put my bedroll under.”
“Lincoln—,” Nick started.
Stefanie cut him off. “I think there’s a big cottonwood over in Idaho.”
They’d attracted a small crowd. Or, given the population of Phillips, a large one. But enough murmuring and unrest rippled through it to evoke the Old West traditions of lynching and being run out of town on a rail. Lincoln had seen enough Westerns to know that wasn’t his preferred method of deportation.
Besides, he needed this town on his side if he hoped to sweet-talk them into spiffing up the place for his purposes. Maybe fixing—or installing—sidewalks, replacing the green road sign that announced Phillips with a real Western-looking carved sign that gave the place some class. Perhaps even adding another restaurant.
Stymied, he turned and surveyed the wreckage of his house. The fire had died to spitting flames and simmering embers. Thankfully the barn, which had been rebuilt less than five years ago, still stood, as did the rest of the outbuildings. He’d already talked to a contractor about revamping the barn to create a theater. He’d have to track the man down and have him rearrange the schedule to work on the house first. Lincoln hadn’t seriously planned on living in John’s old digs, but he’d slotted the demolition of the house after the building of the theater.
This accident might even have saved him a headache. It probably wouldn’t hurt him to let go of his anger. Except for the fact that Lincoln knew, better than most, how kids like the one who had torched his house only meant trouble. Trouble and hurt and danger and—most of all—tragedy.
He watched as Stefanie rounded up the two girls, motioned to Gideon, then gave Lincoln a stinging glare as she walked past him, toward a truck sitting not far away on the back side of the property.
Lincoln’s gaze fell to the little girl walking hand in hand with her older sister. His gut twisted so tight his eyes began to burn.
The punk belonged in jail. Before he hurt someone else.
Someone like Alyssa.
Stefanie still couldn’t believe the way she’d treated Lincoln Cash.
Her sarcastic tone, the horrible way she’d reacted to his tragedy. She had overreacted in an epic, live-in-her-nightmares kind of way.
Even if he had been calloused toward the need radiating from the kids or the wretched guilt on Gideon’s face, she didn’t have to go into she-bear mode.
It was just . . . well, she expected so much more from him—no, wanted—more from him. She wanted the charming guy she’d met last summer, the one she’d seen on the big screen, the one who occupied her hopes. Maybe it had been his attitude that set her off, arriving in his shiny luxury rental car with his bad-boy looks, his designer jeans and leather jacket, swaggering in like he owned the place.
Which, apparently, he did.
What was he doing back in Phillips, anyway? The last thing her town needed was his entourage clogging traffic. And where was his arm candy, Elise Fontaine? Stefanie hadn’t seen—okay, purchased—a magazine in the last six months that didn’t have a shot of them together somewhere in the pages, if not on the front cover.
Stefanie ran a hair pick through her wet hair. She’d showered right after showing Gideon to Rafe and Nick’s room and getting the two girls settled in her old room. Although she’d purchased a new comforter and pillows, it still felt just as girlie as when her mother had remodeled it the year before she died. Pink roses on the wallpaper, a shelf for knickknacks—mostly Stefanie’s horse collection. And a dollhouse her parents had made for her eighth birthday, complete with miniature furniture, set on a table in the corner. Over the years, she’d taken down the posters and the dusty horse-riding trophies, the basket of stuffed animals. But with the white-painted French provincial dresser and desk and matching double bed her parents got on mail order from Montgomery Ward, the room still looked like it might belong to a twelve-year-old. Stefanie hadn’t had much time since her thirteenth birthday to do anything but tend to ranch chores.
Besides, sometimes,
deep inside, she longed to be twelve again. Longed to be the girl who dreamed of maybe someday raising a herd of horses and using them to help troubled children. She’d even named her dream ranch—Redemption Ranch. She’d rescue horses and children, and just like she and Sunny had, they would heal each other. She hadn’t taken those dreams out to scrutinize for . . . years. Definitely not since her mother passed away.
But suddenly, like an echo of an old prayer, those dreams had formed right before her eyes as she’d watched Gideon tumble out of his car and sprint toward Kincaid’s burning house. Even after he’d hit her, everything inside her had longed to help him. Especially when he collapsed in the dirt, one hand over his face, trying to hide his tears. She’d have to be made of stone not to see how much he cared about his sisters.
Which, apparently, was the substance of Lincoln’s heart. Stone or perhaps granite. So much for his hero image. Heroes didn’t kick down-on-their-luck kids in the teeth.
“Since when did you become the local public defender?” She smiled remembering Lincoln’s words. That’s right. Just call her the Defender of the Oppressed. Besides, someone had to care about these kids.
She snagged her pick in her long hair, and it went flying across the living room. She didn’t bother to look for it, just finger-combed the rest. She caught her reflection in the dark window, then got up to check out her bruise.
She bet Elise Fontaine never got a bruise. Elise Fontaine probably didn’t wear thermal underwear to bed, probably didn’t have makeup from graduation still in her bathroom, half-used, and probably got her hair cut more often than every two years. Stefanie stood at the mirror, smoothing out her thermal jammies, checking out the curves—or lack thereof—sucking in her stomach, straightening her shoulders.
She shook her head. Who was she trying to kid? Lincoln Cash, for all his charm, wouldn’t notice a girl like her. She was just a ranch hand. A horse rescuer.
Defender of the Oppressed.
She wasn’t sure what identity fit her best. Tonight she’d been proud of herself. For the first time in years, for a second, she’d felt exactly, perfectly right, standing between Gideon and the world.
Toe-to-toe with Lincoln Cash. She thought of her cutting words about his name and cringed. She hoped she hadn’t wounded him. Much.
But stars like Lincoln didn’t wound easily, did they? After years in the tabloids, he had to have the skin of an armadillo. All the same, she wanted to hide under a rain barrel. Next time she saw him, she’d give him a second chance to be a nice guy.
Stefanie climbed onto the sofa, preferring not to fold it out, and tucked her mother’s afghan over her.
A splinter of shame dug deeper as she remembered her parting shot about sleeping in Idaho. She hoped he’d found a place at the Buffalo B and B.
She never should have let Lincoln get under her skin, despite his arrogance. She’d acted about thirteen and like a brokenhearted fan.
She most definitely wasn’t a fan anymore.
And she certainly didn’t entertain any fantasies of her and the magnificent Lincoln Cash riding off into the sunset together. In fact, she could probably delete any romantic notions of riding off anywhere with anyone. Except maybe JB. But she’d have to be unconscious before that happened.
Most of all, she’d have to remember that movie stars didn’t fall for plain ranch girls who knew how to rope cattle but didn’t have the first clue how to balance in high heels.
No, she’d be like Dutch. Live forever on the ranch. Single. Alone.
Lord, help me learn to be content. Please fill these empty places. . . .
Upstairs, she heard one of the kids get up, shuffle into the bathroom, close the door.
Is this an answer to prayer, Lord? She closed her eyes. Please. Please let them stay.
“Who is he, Libs?”
Libby took the toast from the toaster, put it on a plate, and skimmed low-fat butter from the tub with her knife. “Who is who, Daddy?”
Her father, Duncan Pike, pastor of Phillips Community Church, pulled out the vinyl-cushioned chair and sat down, reaching for the coffeepot she’d set in the middle of the table. She’d been trying to ease him off fully caffeinated coffee after his mild heart attack a couple years back. Although he had legs that resembled Montana fence posts, the extra helpings of pot roast through the years had settled over his belt, and deep inside, she feared one day coming home to find him dead from a coronary.
Thankfully, she’d tricked him into half-decaf coffee—for all he knew, he drank three cups of fully loaded Colombian roast every morning. It was her little secret.
In fact, the secrets had started to pile up in the last week. Secrets like how she’d begun to care for Gideon. Care in a way she’d never felt before.
“You know who.” Her father picked up the Sheridan paper, reading the headlines.
The dawn poured through the huge picture window that looked out onto the church parking lot from the parsonage, and light puddled on the ancient off-white linoleum floor. The kitchen, built in the fifties, still contained the tiny Formica table and chairs—now a novelty in some catalogs. In fact, the entire two-bedroom house had become accidentally retro, with its green shag carpet and yellow cupboards and counter. Thirty years in one place, with the same furniture, the same flock. No wonder her father seemed stuck in his ways.
There was also the fact that he didn’t have anyone to remind him that his girls had become women. Sometimes Libby still found him sitting in the dark in his faded recliner, his Bible in his lap, his hand over his face, praying, as if he was just as overwhelmed as on the day her mother had died.
How exactly was she supposed to leave him in six months for Bible college, all the way in Chicago? As it was, she’d put it off for a year already. She just wasn’t sure how to leave him.
Her father spoke into his newspaper. “Clarisse Finny called last night, right before you came home. Said you were out at the Kincaid place, watching the fire. Claims you were standing next to that new boy, the one Missy has working at her place.”
“Standing next to a boy is hardly a crime.”
Her father raised his head, a sharp look on his face. “It’s exactly that kind of response that might make me think Clarisse is on to something.”
Libby sucked in a breath. Her father didn’t deserve to be snapped at. He gave her plenty of leash for a man who knew the dangers embedded in a town where the boy-girl population weighed heavily on the male side. Cowboys had emerged from the woodwork right about the time the girls hit adolescence, and her big sister, Missy, had been a sort of magnet for their attention.
Libby had tried to tell her father that she would never, ever share in Missy’s . . . problems, but at eighteen she still had a curfew of ten o’clock and had yet to have a date. Even to the senior prom. Her father had made her go with her cousin Willy from Sheridan. What her father would never know is that Willy had snuck in a bottle of schnapps and ended up pickled and throwing up in the back of his car. She’d driven them both home before the dance ended.
“Sorry, Daddy. I’m late for work. And Clarisse is a gossip and a troublemaker.”
Her father sipped his coffee, then reached for the bran flakes. He wore a look of agreement but, after a moment of sifting through his thoughts, came back with his judgment of Gideon fortified. “No, I think this kid is trouble. According to Clarisse, he set Big John’s place on fire.”
Libby set the buttered toast down in front of him. “He had a good reason.”
Her father glanced at her as he reached for the milk jug.
“That didn’t come out right. He has a couple of kid sisters. I think one of them started the fire.”
“What were they doing at John’s house, anyway?”
“It’s not John’s house anymore—it belongs to Lincoln Cash.”
Her father’s spoon stopped midway to his mouth. “The actor Lincoln Cash?”
She nodded. “He showed up last night just after his place caved in. Wanted to send Gideon
to jail.”
“Maybe that’s where he belongs.”
Libby opened the fridge and reached in for a yogurt. “Stefanie Noble took him and his sisters to her place. Probably, she’ll call Social Services today.” The thought had kept her tossing the night away, a sickness in her gut.
Or maybe a little higher, in her heart. The fact was, Libby did like Gideon. Especially when he’d stood up to Lincoln Cash and told the truth. Something like pride had bloomed in her chest, and she’d had the crazy urge to hug him.
She closed the fridge. “Don’t worry, Daddy. I’m just his friend.” She dabbed a kiss on his weathered cheek.
Her father caught her hand, pulled her closer, and returned the kiss. “You just make sure that bleeding heart of yours doesn’t go too far.” When she met his eyes, she saw more than a sermon there. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
She smiled at him but couldn’t help but wonder if his warnings might already be too late.
CHAPTER 5
GIDEON HAD DIED and gone to paradise. Only, he knew he didn’t deserve paradise, so perhaps this was simply a dream. Or maybe just an old Western movie, because everything about this place screamed cowboys and horses and one of the Lone Ranger episodes he’d seen in juvie hall. From the warm, dry single bed with the wool, red-and-black-checkered blanket, to a bull-riding poster on the wall and a coiled rope hanging on the bedpost of the other single bed, to roping trophies on the opposite dresser. Whoever had lived here had cowboy written all over him.
Gideon lay in bed, rested for the first time in . . . He did the mental math and couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t slept with one eye open, waiting for the nightmares, both real and imagined.
No nightmares last night. Except, of course, the big one—the fact that he’d burned down the house of megarich megastar Lincoln Cash. Yes, that should make the news and send the cops running in his direction. Apparently he still had a knack for knowing how to really blow it—big-time. Gideon’s eyes had nearly fallen from their sockets when he’d seen the movie star walk up. In fact, he would have considered brain-altering smoke inhalation before he believed that Lincoln Cash owned the house he’d commandeered and, by accessory, incinerated. But Stefanie Noble and her big brother Nick, the guy who had probably saved his life, had no problem identifying the actor.
Finding Stefanie Page 6