uh, we didn’t check. Eric said we shouldn’t rummage in the kitchen without you. That way you can’t claim something ought to be there that isn’t.” At Linc’s vacant expression, she added a qualifier. “You know, in case you try to tell the cops we stole from you.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Lincoln loosely bracketed his hips with his hands. He studied the room’s occupants. One older boy wore a long, ratty velvet coat over holey jeans. The baggy pants of the other two dragged on the ground. One wore leather wrist bands. All had numerous earrings in both ears, and the girl with the lighter brown hair— Jenny—had her lip, eyebrow and, Lord knew what else, pierced. Distrustful expressions, identical to Wolfie’s, were mirrored five times over.
He slowly released a pent-up breath. “It’s safe to say the ranch doesn’t meet any of our expectations. I counted on having time to spruce it up and lay in supplies. And you thought you’d walk into an operating shelter.” Linc’s gaze shifted to Wolfie, his sister, and Cassie in her pint-sized wheelchair. “On top of that, I never planned on hosting…small children. But they’re here and will be until I reach the new director of Social Services.”
“None of us formed any preconceived notions,” Miranda muttered. “Why don’t we start over? Introduce ourselves, and then food can be our next priority.”
“Right.” Linc rubbed the back of his neck, beginning to feel overwhelmed by everything facing him. It embarrassed him that the girl, Randi, was the first to voice a mature approach. He was, after all, the adult in charge. Although it struck him that, as John Montoya had said, he’d jumped into this venture without a shred of actual experience.
“I’m Lincoln Parker,” he said. “Linc, if you like. Until a few weeks ago I lived and worked in Hollywood. My aim in starting this retreat is to provide a safe, substance-free home for up to a dozen teens who’ve lived hand-to-mouth on city streets.”
“Parker?” Jenny gasped. “You’re not Felicity’s brother, are you? I mean, you couldn’t be that Lincoln Parker.” She shot Eric a funny look and they both uttered uneasy choking sounds.
“As a matter of fact, I am that Parker.” Linc’s eyes clouded. He was getting a bad feeling about these kids again. “No. It’s too unbelievable to think you’d be… Not even the cops were able to find the kids who dumped my sister at an inner-city L.A. emergency room and then ran off.”
“We didn’t dump her,” Jenny sputtered. “Two cops at the ER told us to get lost.”
Eric scrambled to his feet. “Yeah, I went back the next day and nobody would tell me a thing. We heard later she’d OD’d. Felicity was our friend, you know.”
“I spent weeks combing backstreets, asking information of anyone who might have seen where you were.”
“Gosh, didn’t Felicity ever talk about us? When you were out of town, she let us crash at your place,” Jenny said edgily, beginning to chew her nails, which was something Miranda noticed the girl did in tense situations.
“You brought drugs into my home?”
“No!” Jenny seemed horrified.
“Don’t lie. I have an autopsy report that shows alcohol, marijuana and embalming fluid in my sister’s blood, for God’s sake. Oh, what’s the use of talking to you? The police were adamant that even if I found you, you wouldn’t rat out a dealer.” Linc’s dark eyes glittered as his anger centered on Jenny. “I won’t tolerate drugs here. Maybe you’d better move on.” His voice shook with anger.
Eric stepped protectively in front of Jenny. “You’ve got no right to yell at us, man. Me and Jenny tried to help Felicity.”
Jenny’s white face bobbed out in the open as she grabbed Eric’s arm. “It was wet, Eric. That’s what made Felicity act so crazy.”
Linc’s scowl returned to the girl. “What are you yammering about? The night you took Felicity to emergency, the city hadn’t seen rain in months.”
“Not rain, stupid,” Eric spat. “Wet’s a street name for weed—marijuana—laced with PCP, soaked in embalming fluid and dried. Felicity knew—we all know that’s evil shi—er, stuff,” he finished lamely, watering down his language when Miranda jabbed him in the ribs and rolled her eyes at the children still huddled in a corner. Wanting to defuse the situation, she hauled Jenny toward the kitchen.
“Today has turned out to be a shocker for everyone, Mr. Parker,” she said. “My dad used to say trouble’s better met and dealt with on a full stomach. Why don’t Jenny and I see what we can find to make for supper? Y’all can talk afterward.”
Linc leveled a frown at the girl with the too-dark hair, pale skin and smoke-gray eyes. “If you have a dad worthy of quoting, why are you hanging out with this riffraff?”
Miranda’s chin shot up. “My dad died. And we’re not riffraff. If that’s your attitude, and if you want kids with pedigrees, why advertise this place as a haven for homeless teens?”
Her barb struck Linc in an unprotected spot and triggered a load of guilt. Why had Felicity, who had access to a nice home and best of everything money could buy, chosen friends among druggies and derelicts? He obviously wouldn’t find out by attacking the very kids he hoped one day to wrest answers from.
Still gruff, he waved the two girls away. Wheeling abruptly in the direction of his youngest guests, Wolfgang in particular, Linc rattled off their names by way of introduction. “Wolfie, you go help Randi and Jenny. You know better than I do where cooking supplies are kept. Eric and company can help me inventory the rest of the house. Between now and suppertime, we’ll sort out equitable sleeping spots for the night.”
Wolfie, mulled over Linc’s words. “What’s equit…that word you said. What’s it mean?”
“It means fair. Elbow room for everyone, like we discussed earlier. I don’t want anyone encroaching on his or her neighbor’s sleeping space.”
“I guess that’s okay,” the boy muttered. “You sure use big words, mister. Me, Cassie and Hana ain’t no walking dictionaries, you know?”
The kid sounded so serious, Linc laughed. “Okay, I’ll watch the four-bit words.”
Even the older teens broke out in approving grins. For the moment, the strain that had permeated the room evaporated.
Greatly relieved, Miranda picked up Scraps and nudged Jenny into the kitchen.
“Remember to wash your hands before you touch any food,” Parker yelled after them. He didn’t really expect an answer and wasn’t surprised when none came. But he realized that John Montoya had been more right than wrong. He might be in over his head here.
CHAPTER THREE
JUST BEFORE RANDI found the light switch and spilled light into the dark kitchen, Jenny grabbed her. “I’m no cook, are you? What if Lincoln Parker hates what we fix?”
Miranda didn’t answer. “Eew…ew!” Pinching her nose closed, she surveyed a mountain of dirty pots, pans and dishes stacked haphazardly on every surface of an equally dirty stove, sink and counter. “Not only were those houseparents despicable,” she said in a nasal voice, “they were pigs.”
“Yeah,
