by Camille Eide
No, Mom, ten-year-old Sue had finally gotten up the nerve to say. How should I know how he is or how any of them are? Most of the time, I don’t even know their names …
“Well, if he was warned,” Bertie said, shutting down Sue’s ancient memory, “then he had it coming.”
If anyone had earned the right to question Sue, Roberta “Bertie” Hayes had. “He knew the rules and signed the ranch’s conduct agreement like everyone else.”
“You’re right. Absolutely.” Bertie’s forehead pleated into a frown.
It wasn’t like Bertie to hold back. “What?”
Bertie tossed the paper onto the desk with a long sigh. “It’s just—what are we going to do? We got a mile-long list of repairs, and being short on care staff, we were already pulling doubles, and now—”
“Now we get creative and figure something out, just like we always do.” Sue rubbed her temples. “I won’t compromise safety just because we need a body. I’d work myself to the grave before I’d keep a guy like that on staff.”
Bertie locked Sue in a hard stare. “Trouble is you’re working the rest of us into the ground right along with you.”
The pasty gray patches beneath Bertie’s eyes matched the ones Sue had noticed on her own face. The work had been harder lately, no doubt. She and the remaining core staff had to shoulder the load with the constant turnover of college interns, and worse, the loss of Emily, her best dorm counselor. Had it already been a year since Emily left?
“Listen, Sue, I’m not trying to add to our troubles. But in case you haven’t noticed, Elena and I are nearly shot from running short-handed. And now we’re down another staffer.”
Our troubles? Sue studied Bertie. The care staff at Juniper Ranch shared Sue’s heart for outcast kids but did they have the same vested interest that she had in making this home work?
“Now Elena and I will have to split the boys’ dorm shifts,” Bertie said. “And I’m not even going to bring up adult-to-child ratios.” Arms crossed against her faded tie-dyed shirt, she pinned Sue with a steady look. “We need help.”
Sue nodded. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’ll get us some help. Right away.”
* * *
On her way out to the work shop, Sue mulled over the day’s events. She did not regret her decision to fire Bowman—the kids’ safety came first. And the ranch would bounce back. It would take more than a staff shortage to topple the system she’d spent two years building. Discipline and routine not only kept Juniper Ranch running smoothly, it gave the kids a sense of stability, of normalcy. And these kids needed to feel normal and stable even more than they needed food and shelter.
But Bertie was right. Losing Bowman was a blow.
Sue straightened the cardboard over a busted-out shop window, then made the call to Layne Stevenson. Getting through to a DHS district manager was a lot harder now than it was when Sue and Layne worked family cases for the county.
Layne answered with a cheerful “hello,” then listened as Sue asked about college interns.
“We didn’t get many interns this term, but I’ll see if I can figure out something.”
Sue slipped inside the shop and flicked on the fluorescents. “Thanks, Layne. I owe you.”
“Speaking of help, I was going to call you.”
“Really? You’re finally coming to work for me?”
“Tempting, but no.” Layne chuckled. “I’m a newlywed, remember? I like going home every night to a warm body. You oughta try it.”
Sue shook her head. Layne’s “warm body” was a former NFL linebacker who made King Kong look like a Happy Meal toy. She shivered. “I’m plenty warm, thanks.” She picked her way around the mess.
Her Suburban sat in the center of the shop under a film of high desert dust. Her old Harley stood behind the Suburban, streaks of sunset glinting off the chrome, and her Honda dual sport was parked next to it. In one corner, the riding mower lay in pieces. In another, discarded car parts were piled in a heap like a dismantled carcass, and most of her tools littered the shop as if three-year-olds had been playing tune-up.
“Sue, I hate to mention it, but your last licensing inspection—”
“I know.” Sue heaved a sigh. “I’m on it.”
Layne’s end went silent for several seconds. “Really? You’ll have all the repairs done in time for the follow-up?”
Sue leaned against the Suburban. The latest list of repairs the state required to keep her license was the toughest she’d ever received. With Bowman gone, Sue had no idea how she was going to get the repairs finished in time. She groaned.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Layne said. “Listen, I’ve got the perfect solution for you. My brother’s boss from Alaska is in the area, and he’s looking for temporary work until the first of the year. Dan said he’s absolutely the best guy—”
“Boss of what?”
“Um, well … an offshore oil rig. But he’s—”
“An oil rigger?” Sue hacked out a laugh. “A roughneck? Great. Who are you going to send next, a lumberjack and a couple of bikers? Maybe they can pull night watch in the girls’ hall.” Sue yanked open the driver’s door of her Suburban, climbed in, and cranked the key.
A few feeble chugs, then nothing. Big surprise.
“I’m serious, Sue. Joe is an all-around handyman and knows how to manage a crew.”
“I’m sure he’s charming, Layne. On an oil rig. But I need someone with experience handling kids with special needs. You know that.”
“Yes, in the long run, in optimal circumstances, absolutely. But you’re going to give old Bertie a stroke if you don’t get some help. You have to hire someone.”
Sue rested her aching head on the steering wheel. Pain and fatigue rolled over her in a cold fog. Why couldn’t Emily have stuck around instead of running off to Scotland?
“Sue?”
She slipped out of the Suburban. “Sorry, Layne, but Juniper Ranch isn’t hiring oil drillers. If you want to help, find me some experienced temps or at least a couple of interns. Just make sure the interns know they’ll be living in the desert a hundred miles from the nearest club. Thanks.” She let herself out of the shop and trudged the path back to the porch.
From somewhere inside the house, a metallic crash rang out, followed by shouts.
Chapter Two
Joe Paterson wiped the men’s room mirror with the towel, then grabbed his razor and leaned closer for a better look. He smoothed a hand over his head, already fuzzy with a day’s worth of dark growth. He’d kept up the shaved-head routine even after Dave’s funeral, but there was no point shaving it any more.
By now, his best friend probably had a full head of hair and was discovering that everything Joe had told him about heaven was true. No more pain, no more chemo.
Father, thanks for letting me be there when Dave gave his life to You. Glad I got to be a part of that. Clearing the sudden knot in his throat, Joe stowed the memory, returned to the mirror, and gave his dark jaw a shave. Then he stuffed the towel in the stained laundry bag marked “Gordy’s,” grabbed his duffel, and left the men’s room.
In spite of the bustle in the crowded truck stop diner, the waitress at the register beamed a dimpled smile as Joe passed her.
“Thanks for the shower.” He made a mental note to remember this truck stop in case he ever made another road trip through Oregon.
Blushing, the waitress glanced around. “Actually, only truckers are supposed to use it, so it’ll just be our little secret.”
The older lady who’d served him breakfast strolled up and cocked her bleach-blonde head. “Well, big guy, did you finally get enough to eat?”
“I did, thanks.” He checked the time. Going on noon. He could still get to Bend and search the public records before the courthouse closed for the weekend. The three-hour drive would give him plenty of time to rehearse what he wanted to say to his ex-adoptive dad.
Not that he needed practice. In the fourteen years since Joe had aged out of the syst
em, not a day passed that he hadn’t thought about finding John Jacobs and making him hear the truth about his family.
“Sure we can’t bring you out a few more Gordy’s Grinders?” Blondie nodded toward the kitchen. “That is, if we got anything left back there.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She winked at him. “Aw, hon, I’m just kidding. Strapping guy like you—” She tapped his bicep with her order pad. “Bet it takes a lot of protein to maintain all that muscle, huh?”
Joe answered with a smile. If he were still seated, he’d have to add a couple more bucks to her tip. He stepped outside and climbed into his pickup truck.
Next order of business was getting directions to the Bend courthouse. He reached under the seat for his laptop, but his fingers groped at empty air. He looked around the cab and under the seat again.
His laptop, coat, and extra duffel of clothes—gone.
He jumped out and checked the truck bed.
His tent, sleeping bag, and fishing poles were gone too.
Adrenaline surging, he scoured the lot, feet pounding the blacktop, searching for signs of his stuff.
A man pumping gas said he’d seen someone near the truck but couldn’t remember any details.
Blasting out a breath that didn’t unload his frustration, Joe returned to the diner.
Blondie met him inside the door.
“I need the number for the local police,” he said. “Someone stole all my stuff from my truck while I was in here.”
“I’m so sorry, hon.” She scrawled the number and handed it over. “Might as well have a seat while you wait for the deputy. Lemme get you some more coffee.”
Temples pounding, he strode to a window seat at the far end of the diner, made the call, and sat back to wait. Idiot. In Alaska, he’d always left his rig unlocked. He’d forgotten how different things were in the Lower Forty-Eight.
Joe closed his eyes. Father, I need to get that laptop back. That information will be hard to replace. I don’t care about the rest of the stuff. I can get new camping gear. And clothes. And my— “Oh man.” Joe dragged a hand down hard over his face.
“What, hon?” Blondie was back, pouring steaming coffee into a clean mug.
Joe groaned. “My guitar.”
“Well, that sure stinks. What kind of person has the nerve to steal a man’s stuff in broad daylight?” Blondie shook her head as she walked away.
Joe watched the highway, still kicking himself for leaving his stuff free for the taking. Minutes stretched into half an hour. Not only was his stuff gone, now he was losing time. He checked his watch. His chances of making it to Bend in time to do any searching today were dwindling. If he got that ranch job Dan had told him about, no telling how long he’d have to wait before being able to search again.
After a long stretch of cars, a Multnomah County sheriff’s cruiser finally entered the lot.
Joe drained his cup and stood.
Within a minute, Blondie’s voice rang out above the dining clatter. “Oh, you can’t miss him, hon. He’s that big bruiser right back there.”
The officer approached.
Joe didn’t miss how the deputy sized him up. Pretty much everyone did. Cops were less obvious about it, but they still took note of his six-four frame and two-forty build.
The deputy took down Joe’s basic information, then asked about witnesses and his belongings, taking careful notes.
Joe listed everything he was missing. Fishing gear, clothes, laptop, sleeping bag, tent, some pictures, a few personal things, his Bible. And the smoothest sounding Martin D-28 he’d ever heard.
The officer scrutinized Joe’s license. “What brings you to Oregon?”
“The rig I worked on in Alaska was dismantled. I start a new job down in the Gulf of Mexico in a couple of months.”
The officer nodded. “You visiting Troutdale or just passing through?” He handed back the driver’s license.
“Passing through. I’m hoping to stay in the Bend area until the Gulf job starts.”
“Got family there?”
If you could call it that. “Uh, sort of. I’m trying to find some relatives that I … lost touch with.” Joe wiped moist palms on his jeans. No names, please. I don’t want them to know I’m looking.
The officer wrote more notes. “We can put you in touch with the county’s victim assistance to get you some clothes, maybe some gear.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Should have a job lined up soon.”
The deputy gave him a business card and said he’d contact him with any news.
When he’d gone, Blondie returned and set a coffee carafe down. “You staying around here?”
“I’m headed for Bend, or thereabouts.” With any luck, he could get on at the ranch in Juniper Valley. A farm wouldn’t pay anywhere near what an oil rig paid, but he didn’t really need the money. He needed a place to blend in just long enough to settle his business.
“Well, leave your number and we’ll let you know if we hear anything.”
Joe rose, pulled out his wallet, and offered her a ten. “Sure appreciate that, ma’am.”
“Aw, hon, you’re a doll!” Blondie winked and tucked the bill inside her blouse. “You be sure to come back and see us again.”
Not likely. Once he found a place to stay, he’d be laying low for a while.
* * *
Sue broke into a run. The sound of kids yelling swelled as she dashed up the steps, into the house, and rounded the corner to the dining hall.
Thirteen-year-old Edgar lay facedown in a landing strip of spaghetti sauce, still clutching an empty serving pan.
“Edgar?” Pulse racing, she dropped to his side and touched his shoulder. “Where are you hurt?”
The boy mumbled, “I’m okay.” But he continued to lie in the pasta, torso heaving.
Sue shot a glance at Elena.
The older woman shook her head. “There is maybe a little more sauce, Miss Susan, but that was pretty much all of tonight’s dinner.”
She nodded. Fabulous.
Bertie shuffled in and surveyed the damage. Some of the kids gathered around the pasta, others around Edgar. Plastered to the far wall, Jasmine scanned the scene, dark eyes wide.
One teenage voice rose above the rest. “Look at my new shoes! You idiot—they’re totally ruined!”
“Brandi!” Sue spun and stared the older girl down—as best she could. With seven inches and forty pounds on Sue, Brandi often tried to turn their conflicts into a physical challenge.
Ignoring Sue, Brandi leaned close to the prone boy and hissed, “Thanks, Twinkie. It’s all yours now. Eat up. You probably like eating off the floor anyway, fatty.”
“Hey!” Anger sent pain rippling through Sue’s already thumping head. She willed the girl to make eye contact. “That is not—”
“Sue …” Bertie shook her head and held up three fingers.
“Third strike today?” Sue turned back to the girl. “Okay, Brandi, looks like you’re doing a whole lot of dishes tonight.”
“No.” Brandi shook her head. “I’ll take the push-ups.”
Battling with the troubled sixteen-year-old required a level of energy that Sue could usually summon, but double shifts and little sleep had left her running on a thin ribbon of fumes. “Make it forty. And when you’re done, you’ll help clean this up.”
Brandi opened her mouth.
Sue cut her off with a flat palm. “We can make it ninety.”
The girl jutted her chin at Sue, then backed off and dropped to the floor.
Sue took Edgar’s saucy arm and helped him up.
Chin quivering, he kept a straight face despite the tomato chunks and basil bits clinging to his chubby cheeks. Tears had already cut white stripes through the red sauce.
Poor kid. Sue grabbed some napkins and handed them over quickly before he broke down in front of the others. “Sure you’re not hurt?”
He nodded and swept a glance around the room, as though looking for his
accusers. No one said a word. “Sorry, dudes,” he whispered.
Sue wiped a blob from Edgar’s chin. “It’s okay, buddy. Stuff spills.”
“But …” Brandi puffed between push-ups. “Not usually … everyone’s entire … dinner.”
“That’s twenty more, Brandi.” Sue turned to Bertie. “Elena is probably in there hunting for something else to serve, so I’ll take some of the kids in to help with that. You and the others can work on getting this cleaned up.” On her way to the kitchen, Sue nodded at Jasmine. “And please keep an eye on her.”
“Sure, boss. No problem.”
Something in Bertie’s tone broke through the haze of Sue’s now full-scale headache. “You sure?”
Bertie was already shuffling toward the cleaning closet. “Yep. Piece a cake.”
* * *
The kitchen crew scrounged up an odd assortment of leftover pastas and cooked up the motley batch. Elena concocted a grayish-white sauce that vaguely resembled Alfredo and almost didn’t taste like powdered milk. It took some work, but the staff and all twelve kids finally ate.
Sue left the kitchen in the hands of the cleanup crew and scanned the dining hall for Jasmine. In the scuffle of kids tidying the room, it took a minute to spot the girl.
She stood at the dining hall window with her back to everyone.
Sue weaved her way toward the girl, dodging a speeding mop bucket and kids with tubs of dirty dishes.
The kitchen door opened and slammed against the wall.
Jasmine jumped and spun like a startled jackrabbit. She cast a hopeful look toward the front foyer, but when she saw Sue approaching, she scowled and turned back to the window.
“Hey.” Sue came alongside the girl. “Pretty cool view, huh?”
The only thing visible in the growing dusk was the dark, flat-topped silhouette of Table Rock to the east, rising just beyond Juniper Ridge Canyon.
The kid’s steady vigil probably had nothing to do with the view. Sue leaned against the windowsill. “That’s Table Rock.”
Jasmine offered a sideways frown. “Table?”
“Yep. There’s an old Indian legend about it.”
