look like a raccoon.”
“Since animals are my forte, I suppose that’s in character,” Megan replied. “I haven’t sneezed so much since I brought home a stray kitten and hid it in my bedroom when I was about Roxy’s age.”
“You’re allergic to cats? Hey, me, too.”
“And lots of other things, considering all the sneezing you did today. How can you work up here? I’d think all the tree pollen and weeds would finish you off.”
“I’m usually pretty careful,” James explained. “And a few headaches are a small price to pay for the privilege of helping these kids.”
Megan had been studying his expression, had picked up on the poignancy of his tone. “You can’t save them all, you know,” she said quietly. “All you can do—all any of us can do—is take one day at a time and give it our best. Then we have to let it go.”
“That’s a lot easier said than done.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve been praying for the wisdom to stop feeling accountable for everybody else’s failings for years. I’m still having trouble.”
“Praying?” James gave her a contentious look.
“Why not? I need all the help I can get.” Megan paused, wondering if she should go on. “Don’t you believe in God?”
“Sure. I just can’t see where He’d be interested in hearing from me. I learned to handle my own problems a long time ago. I don’t need any outside source telling me what to do. I make up my own mind.”
“My father feels the same way,” Megan said. “I never was able to convince him to trust the Lord.”
“So?”
“So, I failed.”
James reached over and sympathetically patted the back of her hand. “Hey, like you said, let it go. People do things that disappoint us all the time. It’s not your fault. You can’t be responsible for their choices.”
Yes, I can, she told herself. Logic had nothing to do with her feelings about her parents. Not a day went by that she didn’t wonder what she could have done—should have done—to somehow keep her fractured family together. Such thoughts might not be sensible, but that didn’t keep them from haunting her.
Chapter Three
While Megan took a shower in the girls’ dorm and got herself spruced up for supper, Roxy helped Inez in the kitchen and James supervised his resident campers’ evening chores. Tonight, he’d assigned them to tidy up the area in front of the dining hall.
Several of the boys weren’t thrilled to be outside at all, let alone doing yard work, but when James led by example they all pitched in. It was hard to keep any kid interested in a task for long, and he was glad to have genuine outdoor projects for them to do. Learning to work together and respect authority was crucial for their rehabilitation. So was receiving praise when it was due.
“Super job, Mark,” he called. “Now give the rake to Bobby Joe and let him finish up all the way to the big tree. Kyle, those dead branches go in the wheelbarrow. That’s right. Great.”
James let his thoughts drift to Megan as he worked, and he found himself picturing her in surprising detail. Her hair and eyes were dark, like his, but that was where the similarity ended. He already sported a summer tan. She had skin so fair, it would surely burn after only a few hours under the clear Ozark sky. And she was so small that any kid older than nine or ten was probably going to laugh at her if she made any attempt at discipline. The woman was a hard worker, true, but she didn’t look as if she could handle a good-sized dog, let alone a horse.
He gritted his teeth. It had been ages since he’d thought about how much he hated horses. The first time he’d seen one up close had been when his parents had sent him to military academy at the age of thirteen. His initial experience in horsemanship had been so traumatic it had left him with a broken arm and a deep-seated loathing of the stupid beasts.
Even before his arm had healed, he’d been assigned to help clean the stalls in the horse barn, which was apparently his instructor’s way of pushing him to face his childish fear. Instead, that impossible task had been the equivalent of aversion therapy. If he never touched another horse for the rest of his life it would be fine with him. Two weeks of having one in camp was going to feel like two years.
One of the boys squealed, pointing at the door to the women’s dorm. “Here she comes!”
The youngest pair, John and Robbie, began jumping up and down hollering, “Yeah!”
James smiled. Megan was wearing the official Camp Refuge T-shirt and shorts. She’d apparently picked the largest of the shirts he’d laid out for her and it was way too big. That, combined with her wet, slicked-back hair, made her look about Roxy’s age. Or younger. If didn’t know better, he’d doubt she was even old enough to be out of high school, let alone a grad student.
“Okay,” James shouted, gesturing to the boys with a sweep of his arm. “Everybody line up over here with me and I’ll introduce you. You, too, Bobby Joe. That’s good enough for now. You can finish raking later.”
When the youngster hesitated instead of obeying, a wiry, older boy grabbed the rake handle. A tugging, screaming match ensued.
“Zac! Bobby Joe! Knock it off.”
James pushed the two apart. They immediately dove at each other. He grabbed them both by the back of the waistband of their jeans to keep them separated.
Zac, whose reach was longer, took immediate advantage. Before James could stop him, he swung his whole body, fist first, and hit Bobby Joe in the face. The little blond urchin let out an earsplitting wail that sounded powerful enough to shake leaves off the trees.
Letting Zac go, James lifted Bobby Joe higher to protect him from further injury. Blood was already dripping from the child’s freckled nose and trickling down his face. The minute the boy saw blood on his hands and realized he’d been injured, he began to sob.
Megan hurried to join the group, greeting everyone with a cheery “Hi, guys!” in spite of the racket. Her eyes widened when she saw Bobby Joe. “Ooh. What happened?”
“It’s a long story,” James said. “Aaron’s busy in the office. Watch the other boys for me while I take care of this, will you?”
“Sure.”
As James walked away, she smiled at the remaining youngsters. They didn’t look so bad. A little withdrawn, maybe, but certainly not malicious. Wanting to initiate a conversation and also demonstrate how open-minded she was, Megan asked lightly, “So, who threw the first punch?”
No one answered. Moreover, all but one of the boys looked away.
“What’s your name?” Megan asked him.
The slightly built teen leered at her, then raised his eyebrows and gave her a blatant once-over. “Zac,” he drawled. “What’s yours, sweet thing?”
Megan managed to stifle her surprise enough to answer, “You may all call me Miss Megan or Miss White,” then switched her concentration to
