He can say no to everything but her...

Nate Marshall used to be a yes-man...until being so agreeable cost him dearly. But Eden Quinn has a way of getting him to reconsider his “just say no” policy. Which is how a bunch of troubled teens end up at his ranch for the weekend. The boys in Eden’s care are a handful, and Nate can’t help but be attracted to the feisty, independent woman who keeps them in line. This cowboy knows Eden’s no damsel in distress, yet it’s clear hers isn’t a one-woman job. If she’s determined to do everything on her own, how can he help her...let alone get her to fall for him?

Nate slid the envelope over to Eden.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He lifted her chin. “Say okay. And that you’ll find a safe place to keep it until you need it for a contractor, new appliances and whatnot.”

“A safe place?” Eden sighed. “Is there such a thing these days?”

“Would you feel more comfortable if I held on to the money? Say the word and name the amount you need, and I’ll be right over to deliver it.” He grinned. “Probably at mealtime.”

“Thank you doesn’t begin to cover what I feel.” Eden focused on something beyond his left shoulder. Nate couldn’t pinpoint the change in her expression. Anger? Fear? Disgust?

“No thanks necessary. I like those kids.” And I like you. “I’m glad I can help out a little.”

“A little?” Eden laughed. “I took a writing class a few years ago,” she said, “and the instructor stressed two things over and over.”

“Oh?”

“One—don’t undervalue your contributions.”

She leaned in close, real close.

“And what’s number two?”

“Show,” she whispered, “don’t tell.”

Eden pressed her lips to his, a lingering, heart-pounding kiss that left him breathless, wanting more.

When it ended, he looked into those striking storm-gray eyes and found a word to describe the subtle shift in her mood, and it hurt like a roundhouse punch to the gut: obligated.

Dear Reader,

At one time or another, we’ve all recited the adage, “You can’t judge a book by its cover” and the ol’ Will Rogers quote, “You’ll never get a second chance to make a first impression.” Put the two together and we’d sound a little like my secondary character Shamus Magee: “You’ll never get a second chance to judge a book by its cover.” Not even Eden Quinn, who relies on his grandfatherly insights, knows if Shamus’s mixed metaphors are deliberate or just a facet of his quirky personality. She has a surrogate mom of sorts, too: Cora Michaels, who teaches Eden that sometimes even the best mothers raise not-so-good kids. It’s a particularly tough lesson for Eden, whose life and career are dedicated to helping troubled teen boys...

Surrounded by a loving, tight-knit family, Nate Marshall doesn’t need surrogate relatives. His raised-as-brothers cousins, Sam and Zach, know when things aren’t right and have no trouble doling out much-needed advice—whether Nate thinks he needs it or not!

As an avid reader, you’ve no doubt figured out that secondary characters are integral to a story’s design...and the main characters’ development. Secondaries serve as sounding boards, advisors, even comic relief, and their interactions with the main characters allow readers to see deep into the minds and hearts of a book’s stars, too.

After you’ve finished reading Sweet Mountain Rancher, I’d love to hear which secondaries were your favorites!

Meanwhile, here’s hoping your life is filled with caring, helpful “secondaries”!

Wishing you only the best,

Sweet Mountain Rancher
Loree Lough

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LOREE LOUGH once sang for her supper. Traveling by way of bus and train, she entertained folks in pubs and lounges across the USA and Canada. Her favorite memories of “days on the road” are the hours spent singing to soldiers recovering from battle wounds in VA hospitals. Now and then she polishes up her Yamaha guitar to croon a tune or two, but mostly she writes. Her past Mills & Boon Heartwarming novel, Saving Alyssa, brought the total number of Loree’s books-in-print to one hundred (fifteen bearing the Mills & Boon logo). Loree’s work has earned numerous industry accolades, movie options and four- and five-star reviews, but what she treasures most are her Readers’ Choice awards.

Loree and her real-life hero split their time between Baltimore’s suburbs and a cabin in the Allegheny Mountains, where she continues to perfect her “identify the critter tracks” skills. A writer who believes in giving back, Loree donates a generous portion of her annual income to charity (see the Giving Back page of her website, loreelough.com, for details). She loves hearing from her readers and answers every letter personally. You can connect with her on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.

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This story is dedicated to all the good-hearted people who see to the needs of helpless kids when their loved ones can’t...or won’t. There’s a special place in heaven for all of you!

Acknowledgments

A huge and heartfelt thank-you to those of you who took time from your busy schedules to answer my lengthy list of questions involving the foster care system, halfway houses and shelters that provide for kids in need. I admire the dedication that pushes you far, far above and beyond the bounds of your assigned duties—even when facing seemingly insurmountable odds. Though I respect and understand that in order to protect the kids in your care you must remain anonymous, I will remember your names and your deeds with fondness and gratitude!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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 SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

NATE RESTED GLOVED hands on the gatepost and watched the long green van pull up to the barn. Over the past few days, he’d spoken several times with Eden Quinn, who’d called to ask if she could bring the teen boys in her care to the Double M for a weekend of communing with nature.

Right off the bat, he translated “boys in her care” to mean juvenile delinquents, and issued a matter-of-fact no. If they weren’t trouble, they’d be home with their parents or guardians instead of some county-run facility. Nate had to hand it to her, though, because after she repeated her spiel three different ways, he gave in. It was Memorial Day weekend, after all, and the ranch hands had scattered to the four winds, leaving him and Carl to hold down the fort. Once he’d taken the boys’ measure, he’d decide whether or not he could trust them alone in the bunkhouse. But no need to worry about that just yet, since it wasn’t likely they’d last until dark. In his experience, city folk shied away from work—the good old-fashioned hard work that involved powerful animals and manure.

As the van came to a stop, Nate thumbed his tan Stetson to the back of his head. The boys, staring out the windows, did their best to look older and tougher than their years. To date, his only experience with young’uns of any kind involved his cousins’ kids, all happy, well-adjusted and under the age of ten. Nabbing sweets without permission was the worst crime any of them had committed. Something told him this hard-edged bunch was long past lifting cookies before dinner, and he hoped he hadn’t made a gigantic mistake inviting them to the family’s ranch.

The noonday sun, gleaming from the windshield, blocked his view of the driver. After seeing the boys’ sour expressions, he half expected someone who resembled Nurse Ratched to exit the vehicle. Instead, a petite woman in a plaid shirt and snug jeans hopped down from the driver’s seat and slid the side door open with a strength that belied her size.

“Okay, guys, everybody out!”

Nate recognized the husky-yet-feminine voice from their phone calls. He’d been way off base, thinking she’d look like a burly prison guard. He guessed her age at twenty-four, tops. But she had to be older than that if she’d passed muster with the state officials who’d hired her.

One by one, the teens exited the van and stared gap-jawed at the Rockies’ Front Range. As Eden walked toward him, he noticed her high-topped sneakers that would probably fit his eight-year-old niece. Nate grinned to himself, wondering how feet that small kept her upright...and how long the shoes would stay white.

“Hi,” she said, extending a hand, “I’m Eden Quinn.”

The strength of her handshake, like everything else about her, surprised him. She pumped his arm up and down as if she expected water to trickle from his fingertips.

“Nate Marshall said I should meet him here at noon. If you’ll just tell me where to find him—”

“I’m Nate,” he said, releasing her hand. “Good to meet you.” He’d uttered the phrase, but couldn’t remember ever meaning it more.

Eden tucked her fingertips into the back pockets of her jeans. “I expected you’d be, well, older.”

“Ditto,” he said, grinning.

Eden rested a hand on the nearest teen’s shoulder. “This is my right-hand man, Kirk Simons, and these are our boys.”

Nate followed Eden and Kirk down the line, shaking each boy’s hand as she introduced them.

“Is that a Stetson?” one asked.

Nate smiled. “Yep.”

“Cool.”

At the other end of the line, Eden clasped her hands together and faced Nate. “So where do we start?”

He searched each boy’s face to single out the troublemakers. One or two gave him pause, but none showed any signs of blatant mutiny. He hoped the same would be true when the green van drove back down the driveway.

“Leave your gear in the van for now,” he said. “Let’s head on into the barn. Once we’re saddled up, I’ll give you the nickel tour of the Double M.”

“Saddle up? None of us ever rode a horse before.”

The kid looked sixteen, maybe seventeen, and spoke with an authority that seemed out of place, given the fact that he lived in a place like Latimer House.

“Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine,” Nate assured him.

“Can we pick any horse we want?”

Eden had told him the boys were fifteen to seventeen. This one, Nate decided, must have a growth hormone problem.

“Why don’t we let Mr. Marshall choose this time,” Kirk said. “He’ll know better how to match you up with a horse that isn’t a runner, or worse, one that isn’t of a mind to move at all.”

The suggestion satisfied them, and like mustangs, the boys charged ahead, laughing like four-year-olds as they raced toward the barn.

“Hey, fellas,” he called after them, “hold it down, or you’ll spook ’em.”

Instantly, they quieted and slowed their pace. This might not be such a bad weekend after all. If they survived the ride—and what he had in mind for them next.

As the assistant joined the boys, Eden fell into step beside him. “This is really nice of you, Nate. Not many people are willing to give kids like these a chance. I hope you’ll consider inviting them back. At your convenience, of course. Because being out here in the fresh air, learning about horses and cattle...” She exhaled a happy sigh. “I just know they’re going to love this!”

Since losing Miranda, Nate had made a habit of saying no. But there stood Eden, blinking up at him with long-lashed gray eyes. He couldn’t say, “Let’s see how the rest of the weekend goes,” because yet again, his brain had seized on the “kids like these” part of her comment. What had they done to earn the title?

“I wasn’t the best-behaved young’un myself.” He hoped the admission would invite an explanation.

“That’s true of most of us, don’t you think?”

Nate noticed that Eden had to half-run to keep up with his long-legged stride. Slowing his pace, he said, “So how did you hear about the Double M?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you when we spoke on the phone?”

She had, but he wanted to see her face as she repeated it.

“We have a mutual friend. Shamus Magee. He suggested this might be a good change of pace for these city-born-and-raised boys of mine.”

His grandfather often referred to Shamus as “good people,” and that was good enough for Nate.

“And I asked for you, specifically,” she continued, “instead of your dad or one of your uncles.”

“Why?”

“I read all about you in Sports Illustrated. You know, the issue where they featured major leaguers who...”

She trailed off, telling Nate she didn’t know how to broach the subject of the accident that ended his pitching career—and killed his fiancée—two years ago.

“Does the shoulder still bother you much?”

“I can predict the weather now,” he said, grinning, “but that’s about it.” It wasn’t, despite months of grueling physical therapy. And the head shrinker that’d helped him come to terms with his Miranda issues. But he had no intention of dredging up bad memories with someone he’d just met—and would likely never see again.

“They’d never admit it,” she said, using her chin as a pointer, “but they were more excited about meeting a baseball star than spending the weekend at a ranch.” She paused for a step or two, then added, “Think you’ll ever go back? To baseball, I mean?”

“No. Too much damage.” He reflexively rotated the shoulder and winced at the slight twinge. “But it doesn’t keep me from doing things around here, so...”

He’d never seen eyes the color of a storm sky before. Funny that instead of cold or danger, they hinted at warmth and sweetness. He hadn’t felt anything—anything—for a woman since the accident, and didn’t know how to react to his interest in her. Nate tugged his hat lower on his forehead. Unfortunately, it did nothing to block his peripheral vision.

“And anyway, that was then, and this is now.”

She leaned forward slightly, looked up into his face. “Ah, so you’re one of those guys who isn’t comfortable with compliments?”

Nate only shrugged.

“The boys were fascinated when I told them about your baseball history.” She glanced toward the barn. “Something tells me when they get to know you better, they’ll have an even bigger case of hero worship.”

Hero worship. The words made him cringe. Before every game, fans from four to ninety-four lined the fence beside the outfield, waving programs, caps, even paper napkins in the hope of acquiring a signature. He’d taken a lot of heat from teammates when a kid in the autograph line slapped the label on him. “We’re not heroes,” he’d blurted, thinking of his cousin Zach, who’d served multiple tours of duty in Afghanistan, and his cousin Sam, a firefighter in Nashville. “Fans oughta look to soldiers, firefighters and cops as their heroes, not a bunch of overpaid athletes like us.” The beating he took from the media had taught him to let his teammates do the talking from that point on, but it hadn’t changed his mind on the subject.

“I hope they know what a bunch of garbage that is...and how to recognize a bona fide hero when they see one.”

Confusion drew her eyebrows together, and he pretended not to notice by focusing on the boys, who stood just inside the barn. A few still looked bored, but most seemed excited about saddling up. And then there was the smallest one, with that deadpan expression. He’d have to keep an eye on that one.

Using Patches as his example, Nate showed the teens how to approach a horse and where to stand, and after saddling each horse, he explained how their attitudes would put the animals at ease—or rile them. Before long, the group was ambling single file on the bridle path that ringed the Double M pond before meandering into the woods beyond the corral, doing their best to stay upright and in control of their mounts. “I’m just so proud I could cry!” Eden said, bringing her horse alongside his. “They’ll remember this for the rest of their lives. I can’t thank you enough, Nate. You don’t know how much good you’ve already done them.”

He was too busy wondering what her hair looked like under that Baltimore Orioles baseball cap to answer. Was it long and thick? Or did it just seem that way because of the curly bangs poking out from under the bill?

She quirked an eyebrow, proof that she’d caught him staring.

“What’s with the hat? You’re not a Colorado Rockies fan?” With any luck, she’d believe it had been the Orioles logo that had captured his attention, not her pretty face.

“I was born in Baltimore, and my dad held season tickets. He took me and my brother to nearly every home game.” On the heels of a wistful sigh, she added, “I sure do miss him...”

“How long ago did you lose him?”

She waved, as if the question was an annoying mosquito. “My folks were killed nearly fifteen years ago.”

Her tone told him something more sinister than an accident had been responsible for their deaths. But how her parents had died was none of his business. Maybe he’d ask Shamus.

“Afterward, we came to live with my dad’s parents, here in Denver. After graduation, my brother went back east for a while. Joined the Baltimore County police force. But a year or so ago, Stuart signed on with the Boulder PD.” Smirking, she drew quote marks in the air. “To keep an eye on me, he said.”

A good idea, considering what she did for a living. “How old were you guys when you moved here?”

“I was twelve, Stuart was nine.”

Nate could only shake his head. At that age, he’d spent half his time shirking chores and the other half thinking up excuses when his parents caught him at it. The tension continued through his teen years, but these days, he considered them close friends. Nate glanced ahead at the boys, who had lost or been taken from their parents and now looked to Eden as their surrogate mother.

She leaned forward to whisper something in her horse’s ear. This may have been the boys’ first time in the saddle, but it definitely wasn’t Eden’s. “So your dad was a native Coloradan?”

“Yes, but he joined the army right out of college and they stationed him at Fort Meade, where Mom was a clerk in the records office.” She looked over at him. “What about you? Did you move to Maryland when the team signed you?”

“No, I was already out there, attending the University of Maryland.”

“Oh, that’s right. I remember reading about that in the article. You were majoring in animal husbandry and playing for the school’s baseball team when a scout saw you.”

Nate snickered quietly. “You remember more about that fluff piece than I do.”

“I’d hardly call it fluff. But it says a lot about you, that you don’t buy into your own publicity.” Eden winked. “Gotta admire a guy who’s comfortable in his own skin.”

Miranda had majored in communications and minored in psychology, so he’d heard enough psychobabble to choke Patches. Her insistence on analyzing his every word, action and reaction had been the main bone of contention between them. If she hadn’t taken her eyes off the road to rant at him about his indecisiveness...

“Long, long way between then and now,” he ground out. And to smother any platitudes she might spout, Nate said, “Did you and your brother spend summers back east?”

Eden was silent for several moments. “No. My mom’s parents visited once, about five years after...” She shrugged. “We raced around doing so many touristy things, there wasn’t time to reconnect. We saw them a time or two after that, and then their health declined.”

She fell quiet again. “Stuart looks a lot like my mom, and I inherited her mannerisms. It’s nobody’s fault that we reminded our grandparents of their only child, but it explains why it was tough for them to be around us.” Another shrug. “Listen to me, droning on and on about the past. What a bore!”

He laughed with her, although he found her anything but boring. Nate nodded toward her charges. “Takes a courageous woman to take on a challenge like that.”

She glanced ahead on the trail, where the boys joked and talked as if they didn’t have a care in the world. And for the moment at least, they didn’t.

“Oh, believe me, I haven’t reached all of them,” she said softly. “Yet.”

He might have asked what she meant, if he hadn’t noticed one of the boys leaning too far right in the saddle.

Eden saw it, too. “Uh-oh. Thomas won’t take it well if he falls.”

Man, what he wouldn’t give to know what that meant!

“Don’t worry. Nobody will fall. Not on my watch.”

Nate rode up the line, knowing Thomas’s mount would automatically match his own horse’s pace. “Thirsty?” he asked, holding out a bottle of water.

“No way. If I let go of this handle, I’ll end up in the pond.”

He didn’t bother correcting the boy. “Use your knees, everyone,” he said loudly enough for the others to hear. “That’ll let your horse know you’re the boss and help you keep your balance.”

Something about Thomas unnerved him. That almost-smirk on his face, for starters...like he was up to no good. The feeling stayed with him for the rest of the afternoon, as he showed the boys how to remove and stow saddles, blankets, bits and harnesses, taught them how to brush the horses’ coats, and lectured them on the dangers of overfeeding or overwatering the horses following a long ride.

He put them to work mucking the back stalls, and when they finished that, he pointed to the pitchforks and shovels hanging on the wall. “Wheelbarrows are out back. Fill ’em up and roll ’em out there,” he instructed, pointing at the steaming mound near the tree line.

Last, Nate asked for help moving sacks of feed from the grain shed to the barn. And the whole time, he made it his business to know where Thomas was.

Eden pitched in and pulled more than her fair share of the load. They were all red-faced and sweating by the time they were finished.

“Good job, y’all,” Nate told them. “Go ahead and grab your gear, and meet me at the bunkhouse so I can explain how we do things around here.”

Kirk led them toward the driveway as, too tired to complain or ask what he meant, the boys muttered about achy muscles and blisters on their palms. He’d expected to lose them after the first wheelbarrow tipped. Surprisingly, they stuck it out. Even Thomas.

Eden started to join them in their slog toward the van, too, but he stopped her. “They’re liable to be sore in places they didn’t even know they had,” he said, smiling down at her. “Any aspirin in your pack?”

“Yes,” she said, laughing as she headed toward the van. “But if they feel anything like I do right now, they’ll need some strong liniment, too.”

Later, as the boys played rock-paper-scissors for their turn at the showers, he led her to a small room at the back of the cabin. Hardly bigger than a closet, the room held a narrow cot, a coat rack, a small desk and chair, and a shelf that held quilts and pillows.

“Foreman’s quarters,” he explained. “The walls are thin, so it doesn’t offer much in the way of privacy, but it’s clean.” He nodded toward the foot of the bed. “Everyone’s got fresh linens, but the nights can get cold this time of year, so if anyone needs extra blankets, help yourselves.”

She pressed her fingertips into one of the pillows. “Fat and fluffy,” she said with a wink. “Just the way I like ’em.”

“Think the guys will be okay with these rugged accommodations?”

She glanced at the boys, who were snickering and exchanging good-natured shoves as they flapped sheets and shook pillows into their pillowcases.

“This place is like Buckingham Palace compared to where some of them lived before Latimer House. And you worked them hard. I have a feeling they’ll be dead to the world long before dark.” Eden started for the door. “Walk with me?”

Outside, she removed the baseball cap, freeing a mass of curls that spilled down her back like a cinnamony waterfall.

“Two of them were homeless. Living in alleys and under bridges before the cops picked them up.” She harrumphed. “And trust me, they were better off there than under their parents’ roofs. Every time I think about the things they must have seen and survived...”

He remembered Thomas’s dark, darting eyes. What had the boy experienced to inspire that look of fear and apprehension...and simmering anger?

“I’m guessing you’re not allowed to get specific about their pasts.”

“You’re right. But you’d be less than normal if you didn’t wonder how they all ended up with me.” She crossed both arms over her chest. “Let me put it this way: Kids who end up in places like Latimer House usually have fairly long records. Nothing overtly violent, mind you, but repeated offenses, like arson, breaking and entering, shoplifting, assault, even loitering and curfew violations. With no parental supervision, they were well on their way to a prison cell. Latimer House is the end of the line. One more goof-up, and it’s off to juvie.”

“What about foster care?”

A sad smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “There’s nowhere else in the system for boys with their histories. Besides, the number of kids waiting for placement in foster homes far outweighs the number of families willing to take them in.”

“Why would the state put that many troubled teens in the care of one itty-bitty counselor?”

Eyes narrowed slightly, she arched her left brow. “I’m sure you aren’t insinuating that I’m unqualified or incapable of doing my job. Because that would be insulting.”

Experience had taught him that when he didn’t know what to say, silence trumped words, every time.

She took a step closer. “Just so you know, I’m a psychologist, not a counselor. Basically, I can identify a disorder and provide treatment—I have a PhD—while a counselor’s goal is to help patients make their own decisions regarding treatment. Clearly, these kids are in no position to do that.”

Eden propped a fist on her hip. “Every hour of every day is a challenge, but I’m fully qualified to handle it. I appreciate your concern, but trust me, it’s unwarranted.”

He’d obviously hit a nerve, and right now those big gray eyes looked anything but warm and sweet.

“Hey, Eden?”

“Be right there, DeShawn. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she told Nate.

Hopefully not to pick up where she’d left off. She jogged across the yard to talk with a boy who towered over her and outweighed her by at least fifty pounds.

Something peculiar caught Nate’s attention as Eden and DeShawn chatted beside the bunkhouse: Thomas, alone in the doorway, aiming a baleful glare at no one in particular. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t invited the group to the Double M. Any one of those kids could come back, now that they’d made the trip.

Had his inability to say no put his parents, his sister, Hank, aunts and uncles, cousins and their children in unknown danger?

CHAPTER TWO

DURING THE FIRST half of the hour-long drive back to Denver, the boys talked nonstop about the weekend.

“I thought mucking stalls was bad,” DeShawn said, “until Nate made us shovel up the mess and move it to that stinking mountain over by the woods.”

“Wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t tipped the wheelbarrow over...on your shoes,” Kirk teased.

“Seriously, dude,” Wade said. “You’re lucky Nate found a pair of running shoes that fit you.”

“Yeah, but now I owe some ranch hand I never even met for a new pair. And I ain’t got that kinda money.”

“Don’t have,” Eden corrected. “But didn’t I hear Nate say you shouldn’t worry about that?”

“Man’s not gonna keep his word about us comin’ back over the Fourth if he keeps having to shell out for stuff we messed up.”

“It was just one pair of old shoes. And even Nate said the man rarely wore them,” Eden said.

“Yeah, maybe,” DeShawn said, “but just wait till he finds—”

In the rearview, Eden saw Thomas smack DeShawn on the shoulder and aim an angry glare in his direction.

Once they arrived home, Eden would take the smaller boy aside and find out what DeShawn was talking about. Knowing Thomas, it could be anything from a broken lamp to something stolen from one of the ranch hands bureaus...or worse.

Thomas had never been particularly easy to control, but since his father called, demanding his parental rights, things had gone from bad to worse. Thomas didn’t have access to the man who’d first neglected, then deserted him. Before moving to Latimer House, Thomas had vented his anger by starting fires; these days, for the most part, he took out his frustrations on the other boys.

“Did anyone think to write down Nate’s chili recipe?” she asked, hoping to distract them.

“Nate said he’d email it to me since I did most of the work,” Travis said.

“Did not,” Cody grumbled.

“Whatever.”

When Denver cops found Travis shivering and nearly unconscious in his hut of corrugated metal and cardboard, he had fleas and lice, multiple bruises and cigarette burns on his back, chest and forearms. And even after two operations to repair shattered bones in his left hand, he still had trouble manipulating the thumb. State psychologists who evaluated him in the hospital predicted he’d run away. Often. That he’d have a hard time adjusting to life in a house populated by ten other boys his age. That Eden should prepare for tirades, acts of aggression, destructive behavior. On his second night at Latimer House, he proved them right by flying off the handle because she’d served cheese pizza instead of his favorite, pepperoni. Eden sent the other boys upstairs out of earshot, and in a calm, quiet voice let it be known that she’d earned a black belt in karate. “Please don’t test me,” she’d told him. Travis took her at her word and ate the pizza without further complaint. And from that day to this, he’d been her best ally, quickly calming disputes between his housemates and helping Eden every chance he got.

It was no surprise that he’d imitated Nate’s walk, his cowboy drawl, even the way he stood, feet shoulder-width apart and arms crossed over his chest. Halfway through the weekend, Thomas noticed all this and called him a copycat. The old Travis might have thrown a punch, or at the very least, bellowed at the smaller boy. But eighteen months at Latimer House had changed him, and he took his cue from Nate, who shrugged and smiled as if to say, “So what?”

There was a lot to like about the man, including his rugged good looks. No wonder he’d made Baltimore Magazine’s “Bachelor of the Year” list twice, and appeared in dozens of other news stories partnered with beautiful models and popular entertainers. Clearly, he preferred tall, blonde, buxom women. That leaves you out, she thought, smirking. But even on the off-chance he occasionally made an exception and dated short, skinny, dark-haired women, Eden didn’t have time for a relationship. Especially not with a guy who might withdraw once he learned more about the boys’ problems, most of which could be traced back to abandonment issues. After just one weekend, it was clear they were fascinated by Nate’s no-nonsense approach to discipline and teaching. And who could blame them? His warm, inviting demeanor had almost tempted her to spill the beans about her weird and depressing past.

Eden could blame the near confession on his soft-spoken drawl. The understanding glow in his bright blue eyes. More than likely, though, her inexperience with men, which consisted of half a dozen onetime movie dates in high school and college. Until she met Jake...

Young and foolish, she’d been so swept off her feet by his hardy good looks that it was easy to confuse his constant doting for love. All too soon, Jake’s involvement in every facet of her life began to seem less like caring and more like control. It wasn’t until Stuart recounted the events of a domestic violence case that she remembered something her psych professor had said: “Some people try to be tall by cutting off the heads of others.” The breakup had been messy, but Eden was determined to keep her head, literally and figuratively.

Somewhere out there, she told herself, was a special someone who’d share her dreams, achievements, even regrets. A man of character, like her dad and grandfather, from whom she could draw strength when life struck a hard blow, yet comfortable enough in his own skin to lean on her when the need arose. A man like Nate Marshall?

Eden sighed. No, not Nate Marshall. Even if he’d shown interest in her as anything other than the manager of Latimer House—and he had not—she couldn’t afford a single misstep. Since taking over when the last administrator quit, she’d been under intense scrutiny from state and city agencies. If she messed up, she could find another job. But if the boys got off track, they may never find their way back. Protecting them, providing for them, was the sole reason she put in eighteen hours a day.

Instead of hiring someone to teach history and literature to boys who’d been expelled—multiple times—from public school, Eden saved money by teaching the classes herself. She could have hired outside help for household chores and yard maintenance, but doing the work made it possible to afford extras—internet access and satellite TV—without bowing to some bottom-line-obsessed bureaucrat who didn’t give a hoot about providing the boys with something akin to normal family life. Field trips, such as the one to the Double M, were but another step toward that goal.

Arranging private tours of galleries, museums, dozens of vocational and technical facilities they might attend hadn’t been easy, mostly because Eden believed the administrators had the right to know that her kids’ hardscrabble lives might mean they wouldn’t always behave like Little Lord Fauntleroys. Most seemed sincere when they said things like “Boys will be boys” and “How bad could they be?” But even the most well-intentioned had trouble disguising shock, impatience, even full-blown disgust when the boys tested them with crude language or outrageous manners.

Nate Marshall was not one of those people. The boys could distinguish between phony acceptance and genuine interest, so when he issued clear-cut rules about everything from pushing and shoving to foul language, they listened. And when he told them that respect had to be earned, not doled out like candy, she could see by their solemn expressions that he’d earned theirs.

He wasn’t a man who took shortcuts, either. That first night, he brought the boys into the kitchen of his two-story log cabin, showed them where to find pots and pans, his corn bread recipe and the ingredients, and instructed them to work together, because supper was in their hands. He didn’t complain about the noise or the mess they’d made preparing his famous five-alarm chili. Instead, he laughed and joked during the meal, and let it be known it was their responsibility to clean up after themselves.

He’d taken the same approach in the bunkhouse, where it had at first looked as though their duffel bags exploded, raining jeans, T-shirts and socks everywhere. Without warnings or threats, he simply stated that until the place was shipshape, no one would saddle up again.

As they’d piled into the van, everyone but Thomas had thanked Nate—with no prompting from Eden—and asked how soon they might come back. Much to her delight and theirs, he’d invited them to the Marshalls’ annual July Fourth festivities.

“I’m starved,” Travis said once they arrived home. “Okay if I make a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“Biology test tomorrow,” Kirk reminded him.

“I know, I know.” He addressed the group. “Anybody else want one?”

Only Thomas—the one who could use a little more meat on his bones—remained quiet.

“All right,” Kirk said, “but that means lights out the minute you get upstairs.”

Eden wondered which of the teens would volunteer to clean up, to put off bedtime a few minutes more.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Thomas said.

“But you ain’t even eatin’,” Wade pointed out.

“Aren’t,” Eden said. “Let’s use paper plates. And I’ll clean up the griddle.”

Several of the boys distributed napkins, plates, and paper cups of milk. The others formed an assembly line, one buttering bread, another slapping on sliced cheese, while Travis tended the stove.

Eden thought back a few months, to when a similar event would have incited arguments and shoving matches that led to threats and balled-up fists. Time—and Kirk’s steady presence—helped her deescalate the brawls, and slowly they began to put into practice the lessons she’d taught about negotiations and compromises that allowed them to live in harmony.

They devoured two dozen sandwiches, all while discussing what Nate had taught them...and wondering aloud what more they might learn on their next trip to the Double M. It was so good to see them looking forward to something that Eden found herself fighting tears.

“Hey,” Wade said, “what you cryin’ about, Eden?”

“My eyes are as tired as the rest of me,” she said. “And speaking of tired, it’s time for you guys to head upstairs.”

“Biology exam,” Kirk repeated.

Groaning, the boys disposed of their plates. They each said good-night before heading for their rooms.

Half an hour later, when Eden closed the door to her own room, she expected to lie awake, worrying about where she’d find the money to fix the roof, the leaky washing machine and on-its-last-legs dryer. Instead, memories of Nate’s interactions with the boys lulled her to sleep.

She woke feeling rested and upbeat, until the boys gathered at the table, devouring oatmeal or crunchy cereal as they picked up where they’d left off last night. Listening as they recounted the trip to the Double M...and their perceptions of Nate.

“I like him,” Travis said, “’cause he ain’t all full of himself.” He glanced at Eden and quickly added, “Isn’t.”

“Yeah, but all grown-ups seem real at first,” DeShawn observed. “Takes a while before the phony wears off and the real hangs out.”

Eden started to disagree, but what if he’d been correct? Jake had seemed too good to be true at first, too; what if Nate’s friendly behavior had been nothing more than a polite facade? Every one of the teens had experienced some level of abandonment...

Once their plates and bowls were stacked in the sink, they grumbled all the way to the science lab, well aware that after the exam, Kirk intended to walk them through their last assignment of the year: frog dissection.

Dishes done, Eden joined them, standing at the back of the classroom as her able assistant handled their protests with his usual aplomb. The young counselor had completed several degrees, and could surely earn far money more teaching or counseling elsewhere. Instead, he’d chosen to dedicate himself to the boys of Latimer House, teaching math, science and history, as well as fixing broken doorknobs and leaky faucets. Eden was the first to admit that without him, the place might have fallen down around them—literally and figuratively—months ago.

The doorbell pealed and Eden hurried to respond to the impatient, unscheduled visitor. Brett Michaels stood on the porch. Eden’s nerves prickled with dread as the landlord swaggered into the foyer.

She forced a smile. “Brett. Hi. What brings you here so early on a weekday morning?”

As usual, he didn’t answer her question. “You look lovely, as always.” He nodded toward the classrooms. “Amazing, considering what you do for a living.”

Eden ignored the snide remark. “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen...”

“Sounds great,” he said, following her.

Something about his attitude heightened her tension. Back in November, the purpose of a similar early-morning visit had been to raise the rent a hundred dollars a month. She’d managed, barely, by trading her new car for the big clunking van, and by directing a portion of her county-paid salary toward other Latimer bills. Adding those saved dollars to minuscule funds raised by local churches and a handful of regular donors, she’d made every payment. Eden didn’t know what other corners she could cut if he wanted more.

“Almost fresh from the oven,” she said, peeling the plastic wrap from a chipped ceramic plate of chocolate chip cookies.

“My favorite. But you knew that, didn’t you.” He sat at the Formica and chrome table donated by Kirk’s parents. Winking, Brett added, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sweet on me.”

Not a chance. Eden grabbed a mug from the drainboard and filled it. “Now, now, we both know I’m not your type.”

For the first time since they’d met, Brett looked genuinely surprised. “And what, exactly, do you think my type is?”

The same kind of woman Nate is attracted to, she thought, frowning slightly. Eden searched her mind for a polite way to say “stuck up,” and noticed a crack in the ceiling. Brett followed her line of vision, from the light fixture above the table to the corner beside the back door. He sipped his coffee, pretending not to see it.

“She’d need a degree from Barnard,” Eden said finally. “Or Brown, and memberships at Valverde Yacht Club and Castle Pines Golf Club.” Laughing quietly, she added, “For starters.”

“Is that how you see me? As some guy who’s only interested in social networking?”

To be honest, Eden thought, yes.

“But, I’ve always thought you and I would make a great team.”

Just what she needed—another control freak. The only thing she and Brett had in common was Latimer House. And a fondness for chocolate chip cookies.

“We haven’t seen you around here in months.” She shoved the plate closer to his elbow. “What have you been up to these days?”

He helped himself to another treat. “Funny you should ask.”

Something told her she wouldn’t find anything funny in what he was about to say.

“I got an interesting offer last week,” he said around a bite. “One that could prove profitable.”

She sensed a big if coming and put her hands in her lap so he couldn’t see them shaking. Maybe she could buy a moment or two to prepare herself for the bad news. “Haven’t heard from your mom lately, either. Guess that means she’s still on her world cruise?”

“Never better,” Brett said. “Talked to her yesterday, as a matter of fact. She sends her love.”

“Wait, you talked about me during a ship-to-shore phone call?”

“Sort of.”

His tendency to sidestep straight answers reminded her yet again of Jake, and Eden didn’t like it one bit. “She asked what my plans were for today, and I mentioned that I needed to pay you a visit. She said that as soon as she’s unpacked, she wants to tell you all about her trip over lunch.” He grunted. “For your sake, somewhere other than Tables.”

Cora Michaels loved it there, and often commented on the quaint Kearney Street location, the restaurant’s white picket fence and eclectic collection of mismatched tables and chairs. Eden would happily have met Cora at the interstate rest stop if she’d suggested it; Brett’s mother was a lovely woman...and one of Latimer’s most generous donors. At their last meeting, Cora confided that if it hadn’t been for Duke’s firm hand—and his willingness to adopt her sullen, unruly only child—Brett would have ended up in a place like Latimer House.

But why had Brett told Cora that he needed to visit today?

“How soon will she get home?”

“Who knows? She was supposed to get back last week. Now it’s next week.” He shook his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s taken up with another old geezer.”

Eden laughed. “How old are you that geezer is the first word that popped into your mind?”

He took another sip of coffee and met her eyes over the mug’s rim. “Maybe someday you’ll share your secret coffee recipe.”

“It’s no big secret. I don’t follow instructions.”

He raised his eyebrows as he put down the mug. “Beg pardon?”

“On the coffee can. The instructions say to use a rounded scoop. For every cup. Too strong. Way too strong, and in my opinion, I think it’s because they want you to use up the grounds faster.” Nervousness was to blame for her stubby fingernails, and fear tended to make her talk too fast. Waiting for Brett to deliver his bad news was making her feel both. Eden took a deep breath and willed herself to calm down because if history repeated itself, she’d start stuttering next.

“So I use half as much, er, many. Coffee grounds per pot, that is.”

“Makes sense,” he said, dusting crumbs from his fingers.

He sounded bored. Uninterested. Distracted, no doubt, by the awful message he’d come to deliver.

“So about this proposal I was telling you about...”

She squeezed her hands together so tightly, her knuckles ached.

“I thought it only fair to run it by you, give you a chance to make a counteroffer before I sign anything.”

“A counteroffer?” Could he hear her pounding heart from his side of the table?

“Yes. Someone wants to buy Latimer House.”

“You’re joking.”

Brett bypassed her comment. “Not as a rehab center for young criminals, of course. The buyer wants to rehab the house and live here.”

Yet again, she ignored his unkind reference to her boys. “And you think I can present you with a better offer?”

“Well, that’s the general idea. But—”

“Oh, now I know you’re joking,” she said. “My savings account balance doesn’t even have a comma in it anymore!” Thanks to you, she finished silently.

Brett chuckled. “Always the kidder.” His expression went stony and professional as he leaned back in the chair. “But you didn’t let me finish.”

In truth, her bank statement did show a comma—and a few digits preceding it—thanks to the small estate she’d inherited from her grandparents. Their house on the other side of town wasn’t as big as this one, but it would do...if Brett forced her hand. Denver officials would no doubt demand an inspection before issuing a permit to house the boys at Pinewood, and sadly, the tenants hadn’t left it in very good condition. Eden had no idea what it might cost to bring it up to code.

Brett knocked on the table. “Earth to Eden...”

“Sorry. You were saying?”

“Are you okay? You look a little green around the gills.”

Green. As in money. “How much did your buyer offer for Latimer House?”

When Brett named his price, her heart rate doubled.

“Oh my,” she whispered. “How soon do you need an answer?”

He shrugged. “How much time do you need?”

Why this constant game of cat and mouse! Couldn’t the man answer just one question straight-out?

“How much time do I have?”

Brett’s face softened slightly. “For anyone else, I’d say sixty days. But because I like you, I’ll stretch it to ninety.”

Her gaze darted to the calendar on the wall behind him. He might as well have said ninety minutes. Plus, his timing couldn’t have been worse. Most of the boys were making steady progress, changing from angry, mistrustful teens into productive, hopeful young men. This place, along with the steadfast work of Kirk and the handful of volunteers—psychology students, mostly—who helped run it, had given the kids stability and taught them that some adults, at least, could be trusted to act in their best interests. If Brett sold the place right out from under them? She shuddered.

Brett got to his feet. “Give the offer some thought and get back to me, one way or the other. Just don’t wait too long, okay?”

Eden stood, too, wrapped half a dozen cookies in a paper napkin and handed them to him.

“Gee, thanks,” he said, tucking them into his jacket pocket before making his way to the foyer.

As soon as he drove away, Eden went back to the kitchen and slid her to-do list from under the napkin holder. “Go to Pinewood,” she wrote across the top. Maybe Shamus had exaggerated when he’d described the mess her tenants had left behind. The visit would have to wait until tomorrow, though, because after teaching two classes and preparing tonight’s supper, there wouldn’t be time to drive to the other side of town. She pictured the clothesline she’d rigged in the basement to aid the limping dryer, and every clean-but-wrinkly shirt and pair of jeans that awaited her steam iron.

On her way to the classrooms at the back of the house, Eden peeked into the hall mirror. The boys were shrewd, and one look at her troubled expression would make them worry, too. She smiled and fluffed her hair, and felt a strange connection to Scarlett O’Hara.

Because for the first time, Eden truly understood the quote, “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE MINUTE EDEN pulled up to Pinewood, her heart sank.

She parked the van near the deep wraparound porch and hoped the interior of her grandparents’ three-story farmhouse was in better shape than the exterior.

It was not.

A slow tour of the house where she and Stuart had spent so many happy years proved that weathered clapboards and lopsided shutters were the least of her worries.

Last time she’d been here—to deliver the lease to a nice young family—the chandelier had painted a thousand minuscule rainbows on the tin ceiling. Now, years of cooking grease and cobwebs clung to each crystal teardrop. A fresh coat of paint would hide the scrapes and fingerprints that discolored the walls, but repairing the gouged, dull oak floors would require hours of backbreaking labor. Things were worse in the kitchen, where cabinet doors hung askew and floor tiles showed hairline cracks. There were glaring, empty spaces where the stove and fridge once stood. And in both bathrooms, missing faucets and broken medicine cabinets, dumped unceremoniously into the claw-foot tubs, made her tremble with anger.

Eden sat on the bottom step of the wide staircase and held her head in her hands.

“Hey, half-pint.”

She looked up. “Hi, Shamus. It’s good to see you.”

The elderly neighbor drew her into a grandfatherly hug, then held her at arm’s length. “I suppose you’ve taken the grand tour.”

She nodded.

“Bet you thought ol’ MaGee was exaggerating, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly. But I did hope you had overstated things a bit.”

Scowling, he shook his head. “Don’t know how they sleep at night, leaving Pinewood in such sorry shape, ’specially after all you did for ’em.” He studied her face.”

How did she feel? Worried. Sad. Embarrassed, because Gramps had been right: “You think with your heart instead of your head,” he’d said, time and again. “Someday, that good-natured personality of yours is going to hurt you.”

The way Eden saw it, poor judgment, not temperament, had hurt her. She was almost as much to blame for this mess as the Hansons. All the signs were there: Unkempt children. Unmowed lawn. Undone household chores. Late payments—and for the past six months, no payments at all. She’d bought into every one of their excuses. Harold lost his job. Lois’s car was rear-ended, putting her out of work, too. The oldest boy cracked a tooth eating walnuts. The youngest girl broke her toe trying to stop the playground merry-go-round. “Just give us a month,” they’d said, “and we’ll get back on track.” She’d suspected all along that they saw her as a pushover, but she couldn’t evict them midwinter, or midsummer, for that matter.

“Desperate people do desperate things, I guess,” she said at last.

He eyed her warily. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. The Hansons are deadbeats, plain and simple.” His tone softened. “You can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can’t pull the wool over this old man’s eyes.”

Since childhood, she’d wondered whether Shamus’s mixed metaphors were inadvertent, or a quirky attempt at humor.

“In your shoes, I woulda booted ’em to the curb after they missed the second payment.”

“Please,” she said. “You aren’t hard-hearted enough to put asthmatic, anemic kids into the street.” Eden hadn’t wanted to do it, either, even after they’d fallen so behind.

“Quit lookin’ so guilty. You did what you had to do. You couldn’t keep paying the taxes, insurance, county fees—without sinking yourself.” He snorted. “You should have let me handle them, instead of Joe Templeton.”

She’d let the owner of the property management firm get away with a lot, too. “Well, what’s done is done, I guess.”

“You’re well within your rights to take the lot of ’em to court. My grandson just got his law degree. Right now, he’s playing gopher to some big shot at a downtown legal firm, and he’s itchin’ to sink his teeth into a case of his own. Bet he’d give you a real good price, just for the privilege of flexing his law muscles against those deadbeats and that lousy excuse for a property manager.”

The way things were going, she probably couldn’t even afford Shamus’s inexperienced grandson.

“Want me to talk to Ricky for you?”

“Ricky...not that little blond kid who used to picked Gran’s roses as presents for Maggie?” Eden pictured his sweet-tempered wife.

Shamus beamed. “One and the same.”

“Wow. Hard to believe he’s old enough to have completed law school.”

“Now, now,” he said, “you can’t change the subject on a fella with tunnel vision. I’ll email his contact info to you, and tell him to expect your call.”

“I appreciate the offer, but...” Even if she could scrape up a few extra dollars to pay Ricky’s fees, Eden didn’t relish the idea of getting entangled in what would likely be a lengthy, unpleasant lawsuit. “Let me do some research first. Get some estimates. Find out what it will cost to bring Pinewood up to code. Double-check my contract with the property managers. Because I’d hate to waste Ricky’s time.” Or my quickly vanishing savings.

Shamus had been a fixture at Pinewood for as long as she could remember. After her grandfather’s fatal heart attack, the elderly widower stepped in to help her grandmother with minor repairs and acted as a sounding board when she needed to purchase not-so-minor things such as replacement windows, the new roof, a car. And since Eden’s grandmother passed, Shamus had become the self-appointed guardian of the house and grounds. It was comforting to have a substitute grandparent of sorts, but Eden didn’t want to take advantage of his good nature. That’s why she’d hired Joe Templeton.

Shamus frowned. “Bring it up to code? Does that mean you’re thinking of moving another tenant in here?”

“Not exactly...” Eden explained the tight spot Brett’s proposal had put her in.

“Aha, I get it now. If this old place can pass all the inspectors’ tests, you want to move the Latimer House boys in here.”

“Only as a last resort. Their lives have already been too chaotic. I hate to uproot them just when they’re settling in and doing so well.”

“Let me give you a little something to think about, half-pint. When soldiers get the order to pack up and move from one base to another, or some corporate type accepts a transfer to a new city, their families go with them. Whole kit and caboodle. The kids might not like it, at least not at first, but they adjust. Same as you and Stewie did when you came here from Baltimore.”

Eden had to admit, he made a lot of sense. Still...

“You homeschool those boys, so it isn’t like they’ll need to transfer into a new district. Something else to think about. I can help out if you’re shorthanded. Teach the boys to use power tools, maybe even put ’em to work on a big vegetable patch out back.”

Shamus would love that. With his only son and every grandchild but Ricky out in California, he spent a lot of time alone. It might be a great arrangement for everyone concerned—if moving became necessary. If she could convince city authorities to allow her to relocate the boys. If she managed to come up with the money to make the house safe and comfortable for them.

If...the biggest little word in the English language.

Shamus leaned against the newel post. “Can I ask you a question, half-pint?”

“Sure, as long as it isn’t ‘how do you expect to find a man, settle down and have kids of your own while you’re in charge of those ruffians?’”

He laughed quietly. “I imagine you’ve heard that one a time or two.”

“Or three.”

He saluted her. “On my honor,” he said, smiling, “I will never ask you that question.” His expression grew serious. “So whatever happened with that police report I made the day those deadbeats moved out and took half of your stuff with ’em?”

This was the first she’d heard of any police report, and she said so.

“Would’ve sworn I told you when I called to say they were leaving.” Shamus shook his head. “By the time a squad car rolled up, the crooks were long gone, along with your light fixtures, cabinets, appliances...” He shook a bony arthritic finger. “You better believe I told those officers everything I saw. Showed ’em the pictures I took with my cell phone, too. One cop wrote down your phone number, promised to call you to see if you wanted to press charges. When I didn’t hear from you, I figured you’d gone soft on ’em, again, and were too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Probably just as well that no one from the department called.”

“Let me guess...because they’d throw those criminals in the slammer, and their kids would end up in foster care?”

“In separate houses, no doubt.”

“Yeah, that’d be a shame. Isn’t their fault they were born to a couple of losers. Still...” Shamus started for the door. “Soon as I get home, I’ll email Ricky. Anything particular you want me to tell him?”

“Would you mind holding off on that, actually? I have a lot of research to do and a lot to think about, remember.” She squeezed his forearm. “Okay?”

“If nothing else, you’re proof that giraffes don’t change their stripes.” Chuckling, he shook his head again. “Remember what your grandpa said? Your heart has always been bigger than your head—a good thing, so long as it doesn’t hurt you.” He stepped outside, pausing on the porch. “Don’t wait too long to get the wheels of justice rolling, though. Call me when you change your mind.”

“I will. And thanks, Shamus. Why don’t you stop by next time you’re on our side of town, have supper with us. I know the boys would love seeing you.”

“Might just do that.” He shuffled down the walk. “Probably the only way I’ll find out what’s going on with this place,” he mumbled, jerking a thumb over one shoulder. Then, in a louder voice, “You have every right to be reimbursed for the time, trouble and money it’ll cost to replace everything they took, you know. And you don’t need to feel guilty about it, either!”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” she said, but he was already out of earshot.

Eden returned to her seat on the bottom step and dialed Joe Templeton. After the obligatory greetings, she asked when he’d last visited the property.

“Not since I delivered the eviction notice. Why? Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem,” she said through clenched teeth. “Lots of problems. If I made a list, I’d get writer’s cramp. Or carpal tunnel. Or both.”

“Gee, Eden, I’m sorry to hear that, but—”

“I’m coming back over here in the morning, and I’m bringing my camera. I’d like you to be here when I document this...” She looked around and ground her molars together. “This mess.”

“I, ah...”

His phone hit the desk with a thunk and Eden heard him riffling papers. “What time did you have in mind?”

“Seven.” At that hour, he couldn’t use the old “other meeting” excuse. “That’ll give us time to evaluate things without taking too big a bite out of the rest of your day.” And speaking of eating, Joe didn’t know it yet, but he was going to explain how he’d allowed this to happen—and why he hadn’t notified her about it earlier—over coffee and eggs at Breakfast King.

“Oh, and, Joe? Bring your camera, too.”

“Okay, but why?”

“We’re compiling photographic evidence for a possible lawsuit, that’s why, and two cameras are better than one.”

She listened patiently as Joe explained how unlikely it was that they could find the Hansons, let alone get them to stay in one place long enough to file suit.

“Besides,” he said, “you know the old adage, ‘can’t squeeze blood from a—’”

“I thought you might say something like that.”

“Anyone who’d all but destroy the place they called home can’t be expected to do the right thing and reimburse me for the damage done,” Eden said.

With the wisdom of Gramps and Shamus ringing in her ears, Eden said, “See you tomorrow, seven sharp. And don’t forget the camera. I’ve had too many pictures go missing to trust my cell phone.”

“See you in the morning, then,” he said, hanging up.

She’d paid Joe a handsome monthly fee to oversee Pinewoods, and he’d let her down, big-time. Admittedly, that was partly her fault. If she hadn’t been so concerned that spur-of-the-moment inspections might hurt his feelings, she might have nipped things in the bud before they became problems. Starting tomorrow, she’d lead with her head instead of her heart.

“Better watch it, Quinn,” she said, locking the front door behind her, “because this exercising-your-rights stuff feels good enough to be habit-forming!”

CHAPTER FOUR

JOE SLOUCHED AGAINST the tufted red Naugahyde booth at Breakfast King, scrolling through the pictures Eden had taken at Pinewood. “I’ll bet this happened when they dragged the stove out the door,” he said, pointing at an image that showed a deep gouge in the kitchen’s door frame. His dark brows furrowed as he studied photos of curtain rods hanging from single screws and cabinet shelves that slanted at awkward angles. He turned off the camera and slid it to her side of the caramel Formica tabletop.

“Saying I’m sorry doesn’t begin to cut it,” he said. “I feel awful that the Hansons stuck you with that mess.”

Eden folded her napkin back and forth, back and forth, and fanned herself with the resulting paper accordion. “I’m sure you’ve faced situations like this before. Any idea what we’re looking at in repair costs?”

Joe shook his head as the waitress delivered their coffee.

“Thousands,” he said when the woman walked away. “Easily.”

Eden waited for him to empty two milks and three sugar packets into his mug before continuing. “So how does this work? Will you hire a contractor?”

He nearly dropped his spoon. “Me? Whoa. You expect me to foot the whole bill?”

Eden smoothed out her paper accordion. “In retrospect, I should have paid more attention to the Hansons. It’s my property, after all.” She met his eyes. “But as we discussed when I hired you, the nature of my job makes it difficult, at best, to get away. You told me not to give that another thought, because absentee landlords make up the bulk of your client list, and that it was your job to do periodic spot checks, to make sure tenants are living up to the conditions outlined by the lease. And that if they didn’t, we’d come to an agreement about repairs, in order to avoid arbitration.” She paused long enough for her words to sink in. “Remember?”

“Of course I remember.” Nodding, Joe stared into his mug. “I spent most of the night on the computer, trying to hunt down the Hansons.” He looked up. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have a bit of luck.”

She drew an invisible figure eight on the tabletop. “In other words, since you can’t find them, we can’t file a lawsuit.”

He winced slightly at the word. “Oh, if I kept looking, I could find them. Eventually. I used to be FBI, remember. But what’s the point?”

If he quoted the old “can’t squeeze blood from a turnip” cliché again, Eden didn’t know what she’d do. She pointed at her purse beside her on the seat. “I brought our contract, just in case we needed to refer to it.”

Smiling slightly, he nodded again. “Why am I not surprised.” Joe picked up his mug, put it right back down again. “Okay. I admit it. Somehow, we completely overlooked your property. I could make excuses, like it’s on the opposite side of town, or my regular guy quit and there wasn’t anyone in the office capable of doing the job. I’m embarrassed to admit that we screwed up big-time, but—”

His phone rang, and one glance at the screen was enough to cut his sentence short.

“Sorry, it’s my kid’s school. I have to take this.” He stood. “When the waitress gets here with our food, ask her to bring me some tomato juice, will ya?”

Eden went back to pleating the napkin. Her landlord wanted an answer. More accurately, he wanted to sell Latimer House, the sooner the better. A lot depended on whether or not Joe would do the right thing. She felt like a passenger in a leaky dinghy, sinking slowly, while a big storm loomed on the horizon.

“You’re up and at ’em early...”

Eden jumped, and then looked up into Nate’s smiling blue eyes. “I could say the same thing.”

“Had some early-morning appointments. Thought I’d grab a cup of coffee before heading back to the Double M.” He pointed over her left shoulder. “I’ve been sitting right over there.”

She glanced at the red counter stools behind her. He’d been near enough to hear everything she and Joe had discussed.

He slid into Joe’s seat. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear me back there, shuffling the pages of yesterday’s Denver Post. Bet I read the same article four times, trying to tune out what you guys were saying.”

“Oh, good grief. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?” Nate harrumphed. “That guy should be embarrassed, not you.”

The waitress delivered breakfast. “Coffee, sir?”

“Sure. Why not.”

When she left, Nate pointed at Joe’s food. “I saw your pal leave. Seems a shame to let perfectly good flapjacks go to waste.”

“See, that’s why I hate sitting with my back to the door.”

The waitress brought over his coffee and topped off Eden’s mug. “Thanks, hon,” he said.

“Hon? I haven’t heard that since I left Baltimore.”

“Yeah, it’s one of the few things I picked up out there that I can’t seem to put down.”

Eden smiled. “I always loved the way everybody used the term. Made the city seem so much friendlier.”

“Speaking of friendly, think your pal is off wheeling and dealing to spare himself a lawsuit?”

The idea made her laugh. “I bet he’s halfway to his office by now.”

“Well, good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say.”

“And I haven’t heard that one since grade school.”

Nate shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just as true today.”

“I don’t know if it’s fair to lump him in with the trash just yet.”

Nate returned her halfhearted smile. “So what’s your next move?”

Move. What a peculiar choice of word, considering what she and the boys might be doing in the very near future. She sighed. “It’d be easy to blame Joe for everything the tenants did to Pinewood, but there’s no escaping the fact that the house was—and is—my responsibility. I should have checked on things myself.”

“Still, he had contractual obligations. What if you lived in Chicago or San Francisco? Or Baltimore?” He grinned. “I really like that name, by the way. Pinewood has a homey ring to it.”

“That’s what my grandfather thought.” Eden had no sooner finished the sentence when her cell phone pinged. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said, opening the text.

Sorry to stick you w/tab. Son fell @ school, broke a tooth. Here’s my offer: Templeton Prop. Mgmt. will replace missing appliances, light fixtures, faucets, vanities. You make cosmetic repairs. If agreeable, call & I’ll recommend contractors.

She repeated the message to Nate, trying her best to sound lighthearted.

She could almost read Nate’s mind: Joe had all but ignored Pinewood; what made her think she could trust him now? If the answer affected her alone, it wouldn’t matter nearly as much. But the boys had put their trust in her. Why hadn’t she seen this coming, and done something to prevent it?

“Hard to believe a few measly words could solve so many problems, isn’t it?” she said, sliding the phone into her purse.

“Uh-huh.”

She took a sip of her coffee.

“Do you believe the guy this time?” Nate asked.

This time? Even a near stranger understood that Joe’s word was less than stellar.

“Aw, don’t pay any attention to me,” he added. “Ask anybody. I tend to rain on parades.”

“No, you made a valid point. To be honest, I don’t have a clue if he was sincere or not, or if something like a text message would stand up in court if he wasn’t.”

“I know a couple good contractors. How about I make a few calls for you? We can meet them at your grandparents’ house—your house—and see which one can give you the most for your money. And if that snake slithers out of his promise to share the costs, I’ll front you the money for repairs.”

“What? I can’t ask you to do that!”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” He grinned and, using Joe’s fork, speared a bite of sausage. “I like your boys, so we’ll consider it a donation to Latimer House.”

She could tell that he meant every word, but she couldn’t take his money. Eden never had a problem accepting checks from Cora Michaels and other regular donors. What made Nate’s contribution feel so...different?

“I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I just can’t—”

“Fine. I get it.” He held up a hand, preempting her rejection. “Who knows? Maybe ol’ Joe will do the right thing.”

There was an awful lot riding on that maybe.

That leaky dinghy seemed deeper in the water now, and despite the sunshine on the other side of the windows, she sensed that storm was closing in fast.

* * *

NATE POSITIONED THE Phillips head drill bit into the crosshairs of a loose screw, wincing when it slipped and gouged his left thumb. “Nearly bored a hole clean through it,” he mumbled. “My own fault for letting my mind wander.”

On the other side of the stall gate, Patches bobbed his dark-maned head, as if in agreement.

“Okay, smart guy. I’d like to see how well you’d concentrate with a pretty filly running around in your head.”

The Paint only snorted and went back to munching contentedly from his eye-level hayrack.

“Nobody likes a smart aleck, y’know,” Nate said, moving the tool to the next loose screw in the hinge.

Fellow ranchers had accused him of spoiling his horses. “You treat them nags better’n I treat my wife!” Phil Nicks often joked. But Nate wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d personally drawn up the blueprints for the new barn that housed ten stalls, each with wrought iron gates, rails and yoke openings, swivel grain and water doors, and windows set high enough that the horses could stick their heads out to watch the goings-on outside. An insulating wall-to-wall rubber mattress system covered the floors, and oscillating fans helped circulate the air. Since the flicker of fluorescent bulbs made some of the horses jumpy, he used nothing but incandescents, purchased by the truckload when the government banned them in favor of swirled compact fluorescent, LED and halogen bulbs. Finally, at one end of the barn, he’d installed a wash bay, and across from that, a tack storage cubicle outfitted with saddle and bridle holders and swing-arm blanket racks.

“If ever you take a wife,” Phil had said at the last hoedown, “you’d better keep her out of this place, or she’ll expect the same kind of pamperin’!”

“Take a wife?” Nate’s dad countered. “How’s that supposed to happen when this son of mine hasn’t said yes to a woman in years?”

“Hasn’t said yes to much of anything in years!” his mom added.

They’d been right, and Nate still hadn’t figured out if his Just Say No policy was a good thing or a bad thing.

Instantly, Eden’s pretty face came to mind. Eden, who earned the respect of boys big enough to snap her like a twig, though none seemed to have a mind to. Nate admired her, too, for all she’d accomplished with her charges and for what she’d sacrificed to guarantee them a stable home and a secure future. He hoped the boys were mature enough to realize how fortunate they were to have her in their corner.

When he’d overheard her tell Joe what the state paid to keep Latimer House functioning, he’d nearly choked on his coffee. With such a paltry amount, how did they expect her to do more than pay the rent and keep the lights on? It didn’t take a genius to figure out that using her own money was the only way to afford gas for the van, food and clothing for growing boys, and something other than the TV to keep them entertained and occupied.

A good thing or a bad thing? he wondered again.

She’d looked sad, scared and humiliated when he’d offered to front the cash for repairs at her grandparents’ place. For the past two years, he’d lived by two simple rules: “do unto others,” and his own “just say no.” How weird, he thought, that by following one, he’d violated the other. Least he could do was give her a call and apologize for putting her on the spot.

He was about to dial her number when his foreman’s name appeared on the screen.

“Hey, Carl,” he said, picking up. “What’s up?”

“Found another one of your dad’s horses out in the south pasture. I sent Ivan and Seth out there to pick up the carcass. No sense encouraging more of the same.”

“Good thinking.” Nate ran a hand through his hair, wondering which horse it had been and how to break the news to his father. “What do you reckon, bear or cougar?”

“Cougar, most likely. Bear would have left a far bigger mess.”

Carl was right. Bears were greedy, sloppy assassins that often began feeding before their quarry was dead. Cats, even when near-starved, preferred to kill with a bite to the back of the neck. And because the opportunistic felines didn’t like feeding out in the open, they tended to drag uneaten carcasses as far as possible from the kill site and cover them with grass, pine needles or dirt, preserving the meat for a future meal and reducing the chance that another predator might sniff it out and steal it.

“My guess is this cat was forced into new territory by a bigger, better fighter,” Carl said.

“Either that,” Nate said, “or those so-called animal experts captured and tried to relocate it, and now it’s scoping out new hunting ground.”

“Well, we got plenty of pictures, in case Colorado Parks and Wildlife demands proof if we have to take drastic measures.”

“Good, good,” Nate said. “You boys keep your wits about you and rifles and sidearms at the ready, you hear?”

“Don’t worry, boss. We’re like that credit card company—‘Never leave the bunkhouse without ’em.’”

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