Trish had explained apologetically as she sashayed past him with little more than a perfunctory kiss on his cheek. “An emergency. We absolutely have to go. We shouldn’t be gone more than a day or two.”
Since the phone hadn’t rung, he had to assume this crisis had occurred before his arrival. Naturally no one had thought for a second to simply call him and tell him to stay home.
“I hate doing this to you,” his sister claimed, though she looked suspiciously cheerful. “The cattle shouldn’t be any problem. Hardy’s got that covered. You don’t mind staying here and keeping an eye on the horses, though, do you? Somebody will be by to see that they’re fed and let out into the corral, but you might want to exercise them.”
Already reeling, at that point Michael had stared at his baby sister as if she’d lost her mind. “Trish, unless it has four wheels, I don’t ride it.”
“Of course you do.”
“I was on a pony once when I was six. I fell off. All advice to the contrary, I did not get back on.”
“Well, you’re a Texan, aren’t you? You’ll get the knack of it while you’re here,” she’d said blithely. “We’ll get back as soon as we can. Whatever you do, don’t leave. I won’t have your vacation ruined because of us. This is a great place to relax. Lots of peace and quiet. Make yourself right at home, okay? Love you.”
And then she was gone. Michael felt as if he’d been caught up in a tornado and dropped down again, dazed and totally lost. He knew he should have protested, told his sister that he’d be on his way first thing in the morning, but she already had one foot out the door when she asked him to stick around. She made this sudden trip sound like a blasted emergency. She made it seem as if his staying here was bailing her out of a terrible jam, so what was he supposed to say?
Not until Trish, Hardy and little Laura had vanished did he recall that Hardy didn’t have any family to speak of, none that he was in touch with anyway. With an able assist from Tyler, the whole lot of them had plotted against him again.
Okay, he thought, Tyler might be gone, Trish and her family had abandoned him, but there was still Dylan. Michael comforted himself with that. This time at least he wouldn’t be out in the middle of nowhere without a familiar face in sight. And they’d left him with a working phone. He picked it up, listened suspiciously just in case they’d had the darn thing disconnected, then breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of the dial tone. He punched in his older brother’s number.
But Dylan—surprise, surprise—was nowhere to be found.
“Off on a case,” his wife said cheerfully. “Stop by while you’re here, though. Bobby and I would love to see you. And if you need any help at the ranch, give me a call. My medical skills may be pretty much limited to kids, but I can rally a few of the Adamses who actually know a thing or two about horses and cattle. They’ll be happy to come over to help out.”
Wasn’t that just gosh-darn neighborly, Michael thought sourly as he sat on the porch in the gathering dusk and stared out at the field of wildflowers that Trish gushed about all the time. Frankly, he didn’t get the fascination. They didn’t do anything. Maybe after a couple of glasses of wine, he’d be more appreciative.
He was on his way inside in search of a decent cabernet and livelier entertainment, when he heard the distant cry. It sounded like someone in pain and it was coming from the barn, which should have been occupied by nothing more than a few of those horses Trish was so blasted worried about. Not that he was an expert, but no horse he’d ever heard sounded quite so human.
Adrenaline pumping, Michael eased around the house and slid through the shadows toward the small, neat barn. He could hear what sounded like muffled crying and a frantic exchange of whispers.
Thankful for his brother-in-law’s skill in constructing the barn, he slid the door open in one smooth, silent glide and hit the lights, exposing two small, towheaded boys huddled in a corner, one of them holding a gashed hand to his chest, his face streaked with tears. Michael stared at them with astonishment and the unsettling sense that the day’s bad luck was just about to take a spin for the worse.
“We ain’t done anything, mister,” the older boy said, facing him defiantly. Wearing a ragged T-shirt, frayed jeans and filthy sneakers, he stood protectively in front of the smaller, injured boy. The littler one gave Michael a hesitant smile, which faded when confronted by Michael’s unrelenting scowl.
Michael’s gaze narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“We just wanted someplace to sleep for the night,” the little one said, moving up to stand side by side with his companion whose belligerent expression now matched Michael’s. His fierce loyalty reminded Michael of the four Delacourt brothers, whose one-for-all-and-all-for-one attitudes had gotten them into and out of a lot of sticky situations when they’d been about the same ages as these two.
“Come over here closer to the light and let me see your hand,” he said to the smaller child, preferring to deal with the immediacy of an injury to the rest of the situation.
“It ain’t nothing,” the bigger boy said, holding him back.
“If it’s bleeding, it’s something,” Michael replied. “Do you want it getting infected so bad, the doctors will have to cut off his arm?”
He figured the image of such an exaggeratedly gory fate would cut straight through their reluctance, but he’d figured wrong.
“We can fix it ourselves,” the boy insisted stubbornly. “We found the first aid kit. I’ve already dumped lots and lots of peroxide over it.”
“It hurt real bad, too,” the little one said.
The comment earned him a frown, rather than praise for his bravery. “If he’d just hold still, I’d have it bandaged by now,” the older boy grumbled.
“You two used to taking care of yourselves?” Michael asked, getting the uneasy sense that they’d frequently been through this routine of standing solidly together in defiance of adult authority.
The smaller boy nodded, even as the older one said a very firm, “No.”
Michael bit back a smile at the contradictory responses. “Which is it?”
“Look, mister, if you don’t want us here, we’ll go,” the taller boy said, edging toward the door while keeping a safe distance between himself and Michael.
“What’s your name?”
“I ain’t supposed to tell that to strangers.”
“Well, seeing how you’re on my property,” he began, stretching the truth ever-so-slightly in the interest of saving time on unnecessary explanations about his own presence here. “I think I have a right to know who you are.”
The boys exchanged a look before the older one finally gave a subtle nod.
“I’m Josh,” the little one said. “He’s Jamie.”
“You two brothers?” Michael asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you have a last name, Josh and Jamie?”
“Of course,
