Sweet Mountain Rancher

by Loree Lough

  “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, Tshirts 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.