seen. The counselor he’d consulted seemed baffled, and the only advice she’d had for him was to give it time. His own parents had told him to be patient, that all kids went through a rebellious stage, but he didn’t think this was normal rebellion.
Besides, he’d passed the expiration date on his patience; he was now operating on raw nerve.
Jacob headed for his home office. Like the living room, the office provided broad windows, overlooking a panorama of Lake Union. During the day he could sit and watch the seaplanes arrive and depart and the sailboats skim across the water, while at night the surrounding hills glistened with city lights. The stunning view usually pleased him, a reminder that he had succeeded and could afford to give Kittie the best of everything.
Yeah, the best.
At this rate he was going to need the best lawyers to defend her.
Jacob considered pouring himself a drink. Instead, he sat down in front of the computer and typed in the website address his friend Gene had given him. He stared long and hard at the travel-agency home page before clicking the U-2 Ranch link. When Gene and his wife were having trouble with their son, they’d taken him for a ranch vacation in Montana. Since then they’d raved about the U-2, claiming the experience had done wonders for Wes...sort of a boot camp for kids with problems. They’d even taken it in stride that Wes had broken his arm on the trip.
Jacob pressed his thumbs to his aching temples. Was he desperate enough to try something that could put Kittie in harm’s way? They’d always lived in the city, and the description of the ranch didn’t thrill him—five miles from the nearest town, gravel road into the ranch, guests slept in tents, everyone worked, food served communally, no designer coffee...
He grimaced He was addicted to good coffee, but if it helped Kittie, he’d live without the stuff forever.
Then he read the next part.
No smoking.
No exceptions.
Before he could change his mind, he took out his credit card and started typing.
CHAPTER ONE
“WE’RE ALMOST THERE,” Jacob said, glancing at Kittie, garbed entirely in black, including her nail polish and lipstick. He’d decided to deal with her abysmal wardrobe later; getting her out of Seattle had been a big enough struggle.
She blew a bubble with her gum and stared ahead silently.
“You’ll be able to ride horses there. You used to enjoy riding. Remember?”
“Whatever.”
He gave up and checked the GPS for how much farther they had to go. They’d flown to Billings, Montana, in an O’Donnell International company jet. Upon arrival Jacob had rented a car for the rest of the trip.
Along with losing her MP3 player, Kittie’s punishment for smoking and accidentally setting fire to the girls’ locker room was having to pay for the damages out of her allowance and composing a written apology to the school. An acceptable written apology, since Kittie could easily make an apology sound more like an insult.
Oh, yeah, and she was grounded for life, plus ten years. Jacob had told her if she shaped up during their trip, he might shave a few years from that part of the punishment.
Kittie hadn’t even blinked.
Tough love sounded clichéd, but he was desperate. He’d try anything.
Guided by the GPS, Jacob turned onto the U-2 Ranch road and after a mile came over a hill. Laid out in a shallow valley were the ranch buildings and, on the opposite slope, an array of white canvas tents. He winced—he hadn’t slept outdoors since he was a boy. A ranch vacation was a far cry from the Caribbean resort where he’d taken Kittie for Easter a year ago.
Jacob pulled to a stop in the parking area. There was plenty of space, likely because the school year hadn’t ended for kids who were still attending classes instead of being expelled.
“Hello, there,” called a voice as Jacob opened the trunk of their rental. The speaker was a white-haired man who looked older than the hills. But the weathered cowboy had steel in his face; he might be a worthy match for a surly teenager. “I’m Burt Parsons. Welcome to the U-2 Ranch. You must be the O’Donnells.”
“Duh,” Kittie said sarcastically.
Burt didn’t seem surprised. “And you have to be Kittie.”
Without a word, she spit her gum to the grass.
Before Jacob could say something about it, Burt gave her a stern look. “We don’t allow littering here,” he informed her. “Put it in the trash.”
Kittie didn’t move.
“Pick it up, young lady, unless you’d rather shovel horse manure from the barn.”
“Dad.”
“Better get the shovel, Burt,” Jacob suggested, taking their new sleeping bags from the trunk. It was hard letting someone else discipline Kittie. He had a hunch that tough love might be rougher on him than on his daughter.
Glaring at them both, she picked up the wad of gum and threw it in a barrel marked for trash.
“You folks are later arriving than we expected,” Burt said, stepping forward to help with the luggage. He read the baggage tag on Kittie’s neon-pink duffel, pushed it into her arms and went ahead of them with an easy stride, carrying the sleeping bags. Jacob followed with his own suitcase.
Kittie trudged next to him with an aggrieved mutter, but as they passed the largest barn, a young man came out and she stopped dead in her tracks. “Uh, hi,” she said, without even a touch of sarcasm or disdain—like his old Kittie.
Jacob stiffened. At first sight the guy appeared to be in his early twenties, but on closer inspection he was clearly younger. Great. That was all his daughter needed—a crush on another messed-up teenager.
The boy checked Kittie up and down. “You’re that city kid we’ve been expecting.”
“I’m not a kid, but I am from Seattle. My name is Kittie O’Donnell...uh, that is, I prefer Caitlin. Who are you?” She smiled shyly.
“Reid Weston. You’ll scare the horses in that getup,” he said.
He walked away and Jacob realized Reid Weston wasn’t a troubled teen—he was a cocky, underage cowboy. Kittie’s devastated expression showed he’d flattened her ego with a single comment. And what was that bit about Kittie wanting to be called Caitlin? It was the first he’d heard of it.
“Reid and his family own the ranch,” Burt explained, as if nothing had happened. “You’ll be seeing a lot of them.” He motioned them toward the hillside studded with tents.
The tents were utilitarian at best, with mattresses laid out on each side of a canvas partition, along with lanterns, a small bedside table and sturdy army-green footlockers.
“We don’t recommend keeping food in here.” Burt tossed a sleeping bag onto the mattresses. “We have the usual critters who’ll
