He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve Stefanie’s loaded-shotgun defense; he’d expected to be led off in handcuffs, right back to jail. He made a mental note never to cross Stefanie Noble.
Although it felt good—way too good—to have someone on his side. Especially when she offered him a place to stay. As much as he hated to say yes, he knew that Haley and Macey needed someplace warm. One night, he’d told himself. One safe, quiet night. And tomorrow he’d hike back to the ranch, fetch the Impala, pile his sisters inside, and head . . . somewhere.
Macey’s voice razored into his thoughts: “Why did you bring us here anyway?”
His throat burned, his stomach empty and clenching. He hated the fact that he’d broken down last night. In front of Macey.
And Libby.
Gideon couldn’t believe she’d come to the fire. Couldn’t believe she’d stood by him. He should stop thinking about her, about her smile and those pretty eyes, the way she’d touched his arm as he turned to leave.
Stop thinking about her.
He sat up and took a deep breath, listening. He could hear voices downstairs—yes, Macey’s voice. Not Haley’s, of course.
Macey had told him that Haley stopped talking right before his trial, but he’d traced his thoughts back and couldn’t remember her doing anything but babbling. Then again, she’d only been three at the time of the accident. Truthfully, he hadn’t been around much even before that, and by the time Haley had appeared on the scene, things had fallen apart in their family enough to make any toddler clam up, hold the pain inside.
That’s what he wanted to do. Should have done. Instead he’d run—straight into trouble. And look where it had gotten him. In smoky-smelling clothes, with greasy hair and another crime hanging over his head. Even if he didn’t get charged with arson, how about kidnapping? or breaking and entering?
Laughter drifted from the kitchen. Was that Haley?
Gideon stood, grabbed his jeans, and shucked them on. Then he crept toward the door. The aroma of breakfast—eggs and sausage?—roped him in, and he pulled on his shirt as he edged out into the hall.
“I put a pair of Rafe’s old jeans and a shirt in the bathroom. You can take a shower and help yourself, if you want.” The voice came from behind him, and he turned. Stefanie was pulling a towel from the closet. As she handed it to him, he noticed her jaw had begun to purple.
“I’m really sorry about that.” He nodded at the bruise.
“Don’t worry about it. Get cleaned up. Breakfast is almost ready.”
She had pretty eyes—dark, yet they bore kindness. She didn’t look that much older than him—with her long dark hair and her pink T-shirt under a brown corduroy shirt, her low-rider jeans. Yet something about her made her seem . . . wise, maybe.
He took the towel. “Thanks. We’ll be out of your way in a—”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.” Her smile vanished, and for a second, he saw the scene last night and the way she’d dismantled Lincoln Cash with her bare hands.
Gideon stepped back, toward the bathroom and refuge.
“Unless I’m reading the situation wrong, you have little money, an old car, no place to stay, and two sisters to care for. You’re either runaways or homeless, and my guess is that if you leave, you’ll simply drive until you find another vacant house and squat there for a while until some other disaster happens.”
“We’d make do.”
“Oh yeah, eating out of garbage cans. Stealing. Sleeping in the car. How long before something happens to Macey or Haley while you’re out ‘making do’? And what, exactly, will you have to do to ‘make do,’ Gideon? Because you’re not in jail now, but from my vantage point, you might as well start forwarding your mail.”
He already knew she didn’t pull her punches, and he wondered now if he might be bleeding. “Hey, I have a job. And I’m taking care of them.”
She held up her hand. He noticed the calluses. “Hold up. I’m not saying you aren’t trying. But is it the best life for them?”
He clenched his teeth, looked away. What did she know? “Just stay out of it. I never should have come here.”
Stefanie stepped to block his entrance into the bathroom. “You absolutely should have.”
With her tilted head, the way she folded her arms over her chest, she didn’t look easily moved. For a second, relief streaked through him. He’d hate for anyone to know how much he longed to stay.
Which was why his “What do you want from me?” came out less caustic than it could have.
Her eyes gentled. He felt like a piece of cellophane. If he didn’t watch it, he’d start bawling again. He looked away.
“Okay, the truth is, I want to help.” She looked down at her stocking feet, then back up, wearing a smile. “I know this is going to sound strange, but in a way, I think you’re sort of an answer to prayer. I’d like to help you and your sisters, if you’ll let me.”
Why would—oh, of course. Haley. Everyone loved Haley, with her big, innocent eyes. In fact, it had been Social Services’ decision to list Haley for adoption that prompted Macey’s panic and their subsequent escape from the group home.
This woman wanted Haley. She’d probably give Gideon and Macey a full tank of gas and a bag lunch if they’d agree to leave Haley behind.
Sorry, but he hadn’t boosted a car and committed a couple of misdemeanors and probably a felony for this know-it-all woman to swoop in and steal his sister.
“I don’t need your charity,” Gideon snapped and shoved the towel back at her. He thumped down the stairs and through the living room, his chest tight. He stalked through a nice-looking family room—leather chairs, stone fireplace, lots of homey, sweet family pictures on the wall—and into the kitchen.
Haley sat at a wooden table, clutching that grimy stuffed cat with one hand and scooping cereal into her mouth with the other. Macey sat beside her, eating an apple. Although Haley wore a clean shirt over her grubby pants, Macey still wore her black I-hate-the-world uniform, the sleeves of her pullover yanked down over her hands, her thumbs sticking out of holes she’d made in the cuffs. She looked at Gideon but didn’t smile.
Piper, the pregnant woman he’d seen last night, stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. She glanced at him. “Morning.”
He said nothing as he went over to Haley and pulled her to her feet. “We’re leaving, Mace. Now.”
Her jaw tightened, but for once she didn’t argue. She stood and grabbed another apple, sticking it in her pocket.
“Gideon!” Stefanie came barreling into the room.
He didn’t turn, even with Haley’s hand limp in his. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said, not nicely.
“At least eat something.”
For a second, a crazy impulse inside screamed, Stay! Stay here and see what this woman, this family, has to offer. He looked down at Haley, and her eyes had widened, her face pale.
Stay . . . so they could call Social Services, maybe even the cops, and have him hauled away, back to prison. Only this time he’d go to adult lockup. He couldn’t deny the fear that snaked through him.
“C’mon, Haley,” Gideon said, tugging her.
Idiot. The word pulsed in his mind as he opened the door and walked out into the brisk air. The sky seemed to have collected the smoke from the night before, gunmetal gray in tone. It mirrored the misery that Macey and Haley wore on their faces. The wind swirled up dirt, spit it at him as he walked past the corral of horses, the pickups in the yard, down the drive. Off in the distance, he could hear cows mooing.
“Gideon!”
He didn’t turn at the voice, refusing to even let it slow his step.
“Where are we going, Gideon?” Macey said morosely.
He didn’t answer.
Smoke rose like fingers toward the heavens, some embers still glowing from under charred beams. Lincoln stood in the yard of his new ranch in quiet disbelief.
Last night, staring at the antler chandelier in the bedroom of the Buffalo B and
B, acceptance had come easier, what with Mrs. Charles leaving out a piece of blueberry pie and milk and fixing him up in the best room—the one with the attached bathroom. The other bathrooms in the B and B were shared among all the other guests. Lincoln had needed all the privacy he could get trying to wrestle his body out of bed this morning. Thankfully, the Novantrone treatments he took might be starting to work; this morning one leg hadn’t felt two feet longer than the other, and even his hand felt more alive, and the trembling seemed to have stopped.
He just might pull off keeping his condition a secret.
Now, how might he go about building a film dynasty? Especially with a group of teenage vandals running around, burning houses to the ground? That might be something he should leave out of his travel brochure.
He’d certainly made a stellar impression on Stefanie. So much for letting his star status wow her. She’d hardly held herself back from leaping into his arms.
Okay, that fantasy might have been over the top, but it had been years since he’d had to work up more than a smile to attract a woman’s attention.
Not that he wanted hers. Maybe he should amend his dreams of a real relationship with someone who would know him and believe in him despite his dark places. After the bruising Stefanie had done to his ego last night, he’d appreciate a few lies thrown his direction.
He held his cell phone up. He got one blip on analog. The wind scoured up ashes, flinging them onto the trampled, yellow grass around the house.
Perfect. Maybe he could start a grass fire, burn the entire county down.
He stuck his cell back into his pocket.
He’d spent the morning on the phone, first with his insurance agent, who promised to hurry on the claim but didn’t make any guarantees. Lincoln wasn’t sure the payoff would compensate for the time wasted. Then he’d connected with Delia, his assistant back in LA. Between barking at the movers, who were probably breaking his stuff, and listing his phone messages, she sounded like she hadn’t caught the fact that there’d be nowhere for her to live once she arrived. Good thing the B and B wasn’t full. He’d have to buy out the place for the next three months to house his crew. Or find a hotel in Billings.
He’d already told the contractor to bring in his house, which he’d ordered months ago when he’d closed on the property. A log home on a truck. He’d always wanted a log home, but knowing the cost of wood in Montana, he’d opted for a system used to truck in the wood. He’d picked out a spot on the hill above John’s house, and he had planned to use the old house as a visitor/reception center. Maybe he could have barbecues, invite all the local youths instead.
He let his mouth slide up on one side. This wasn’t Dallas. He didn’t have to panic about being overrun by delinquents in Phillips. In fact, once he placed a call to the Social Services office in Billings, he’d probably never see the kid again.
He should assume, then, that he wouldn’t see Stefanie Noble either, based on her overprotective reaction last night. Did she always have such a soft spot for troublemakers?
Oh yeah, he’d forgotten about her brother Rafe. Maybe with him headed on the straight and narrow, she needed a new project.
Pulling out his cell phone again, Lincoln walked up the hill, checking the signal. He allowed himself to rest a couple of times, and by the time he reached the top, he had full reception. But before he called his agent, he stood for just a moment and breathed.
The crisp air in Montana always smelled of freedom. Of wide-open spaces, grasses, and flowers, of animals and the wind off the western mountains, and today a tinge of smoke from last night’s inferno. Healing air seeped into his lungs, filled them, and he let out the slightest breath, then inhaled deep . . . deeper . . . holding it.
Letting it fill his lungs, his hollow places.
From this vantage point, he could make out the hazy purple of the Bighorns in the west, the rolling green hills cut away as if with a giant spoon, leaving ragged ravines and drying streambeds littered with boulders.
As if resenting his moment of quiet, the phone rang in his hand. He looked at the display. Elise.
Yippee.
He opened it, already pursing his lips. “Elise.”
“Oh, Linc, where did you run to? We had the most rockin’ party last night—I totally missed you.”
“Thanks. But I’m involved in a project right now, and I have to focus all my attention on it.”
“Oh, I love projects! Are you writing a screenplay? Let me help. I’ve always wanted to write a film. Please. Besides, I miss you.”
“No . . . no. This is something I have to do by myself.” Not including the demolition team and a cleanup crew and a team of builders, due to arrive later this week with Delia. If Elise showed up, he’d have a three-ring circus—caterers, builders, press . . . and an illness that wouldn’t stay quiet for long.
But making Elise angry wouldn’t do him any favors either. She had a way of landing in the tabloids and dragging everyone else with her. “Listen, I miss you too. But you . . . you need to move on.”
He heard silence at the other end, could see Elise’s pretty face tighten in a scowl.
“I’ll call you . . . when . . . I’m finished with my project.” Now he was the one making a face, but he still had the acting chops to add earnestness to his voice. “I promise.”
Elise gave a deep sigh, one she should have reserved for the set. “Okay. I’ll be waiting.” She hung up.
Yeah, sure. She’d pine away for him while shopping on the Sunset Strip and eating dinner at Spago and hanging out with her A-list cronies. It would be tough.
Lincoln fielded a call from his agent. He’d been through five agents since Dex had cast him for his first two-bit gig. This latest guy had been in the industry for thirty years and promised to help him transition from action flicks to drama, but so far, he’d only racked up an expense sheet of dinners with directors and producers. As usual, his agent had a lineup of action scripts for Lincoln’s consideration.
Lincoln turned him down, then scrolled through his voice mail. His contractor had called, returning Lincoln’s message from last night, and Alyssa’s nurse, Nellie, had left her usual day-end report. Lincoln had long ago stopped asking the doctors to call and simply put one of the day nurses on the lookout for Alyssa, in exchange for a monthly check. It was a win-win. According to Nellie, Alyssa had begun to have night terrors. Lincoln scrubbed his hand down his face. Were the memories finally starting to surface after a decade?
Deleting the messages, he stood there overlooking his land, in his mind seeing the house, the stables, the fresh start.
Seeing everything he’d dreamed about, way back when he’d cut through the junkyard on his way home from school, hiding behind old washing machines and cars from E-bro Quesada, the local gangbanger who had his sights on Lincoln. Lincoln wasn’t sure exactly why E-bro had picked him to torture. Maybe because they were neighbors or because Lincoln—Lewis—had run the first time E-bro knocked him off his bike.
In a way, Lincoln had been running ever since.
Speaking of junk—what was that rusty Impala doing in his drive?
Lincoln hiked down to it and peered in the window. A couple of empty soda bottles, paper, and a bag from McDonald’s lay crushed on the floor. He reached for the handle and slid inside, into a memory so rich he could have been back at the trailer park, sitting in his mother’s beater Volkswagen, hot-wiring it for a Friday night joyride.
In fact . . . yes, wires dangled below the steering wheel as if it had been transported through time. Or across state lines, because he’d noticed the South Dakota plates on the car. The kid should have known to switch them out with a different car’s first chance he got. Lincoln only assumed the car belonged to the punk from last night, but he felt secure in that assumption. Secure enough that nausea crept through him, remembering how Stefanie had taken the lot home with her last night.
So they could cut her throat while she slept. Perfect.
He couldn’t dismi
ss the image of Stefanie Noble taking him out last night, those dark eyes turning him into rubble, that feisty mouth telling him exactly where he could take his pomp and circumstance.
Now, clear of the pain, he had to admit that she intrigued him. And in a way, she’d earned his respect.
The sooner he got this car back to her troublemaking houseguest, the sooner they could leave. And then he didn’t have to be the bad guy and call Social Services.
He grabbed the wires and had the car started in moments, the talent easily returning. He’d have to ask Stefanie for a ride back, but, well . . . He smiled and turned around in the drive, heading for the Silver Buckle.
He could be a hero. She just needed to give him a chance.
“Are you just going to let them go?” Piper stood at the door, one eyebrow raised at Stefanie as Gideon and his little family hiked down the driveway.
What was Stefanie supposed to do? Chase after them, throw a rope around them, hog-tie them, and drag them back to the house? Gideon obviously didn’t want their help . . . but maybe it wasn’t up to him.
She and Nick and Piper had had a little chat this morning. Apparently, despite Nick’s willingness to take in Gideon and his sisters after the fire, he didn’t like the idea of letting a group of strangers in the house permanently. Still, he could read the desperation in their postures and had agreed to move with Piper into the house—a move that Stefanie had been anticipating.
She’d happily take the sofa forever or even move to the hunting cabin if . . . if Gideon just turned around.
Maybe she should call Social Services. Get them into the system, a real home. Only, as she let that thought settle, she hated it. Really hated it.
Or maybe she just hated herself for buying into the insane idea that she could make a difference in their lives. She was idealistic—Rafe and Nick had always called her a dreamer. But how could she fight the broken look on Gideon’s face, like one of the quarter horses she’d rescued, afraid to trust, too much history in his eyes to let her help him? She loved working with hurting animals, seeing their trust, their hope restored . . . and everything inside her longed to reach out to this family and give them a safe place.
Finding Stefanie Page 7