the dozen or so mouths I’m licensed to take in.”
“You’re licensed?” Randi threw out casually.
“Certainly. Oasis transferred its permit to my name. The rep said the same state regulations apply to housing teenagers as little children.”
“Yeah, well if you’re relying on the folks who were in charge… It’s a wonder they weren’t shut down ages ago.”
Linc hadn’t noticed Randi’s Southern drawl so much before. Just now it was quite pronounced. “What brings you out West, Randi?” Linc cast a glance over his shoulder. “I have…er, had a client from North Carolina who sounds exactly like you. Is that where you’re from?”
Miranda cursed silently for drawing attention to herself. Because now the others appeared interested, too. “Don’t all Southern accents sound alike?”
“No,” Linc said. “I recognize when someone’s from Mississippi or Alabama as opposed to Texas or the Carolinas.”
“The day we met, Randi said she’d moved around a lot,” Jenny put in.
“I like how she sounds when she talks.” Cassie spoke up for the first time. “And I think she’s real pretty. Don’t you, Hana?”
The smallest child sucked her thumb and battled against falling asleep, tucked tight against her brother’s skinny side.
Miranda noted that tough as the kid, Wolfie, tried to act, he frequently combed comforting fingers through his little sister’s curls. Washed, Miranda thought Hana’s hair would probably be strawberry blond. The girl and her brother were both freckled redheads. She flashed the kids a warm smile.
Hana took her thumb out of her mouth and whispered to Cassie, “Yes, she’s pretty. She looks ’xactly like the Barbie doll Mrs. Tucker taked away from Cassie and frowed in the trash.”
Then, because the older boys chortled and poked fun at Miranda—calling her Barbie—Hana shrank against Wolfie, as if fearing the noisy teens might attack her.
“Stop,” Miranda ordered. “You guys are scaring Hana.”
“Yeah, dickheads, tone it down.” Jenny batted at the boys nearest her, defending her newest friend.
“Who’re you calling a dickhead, Jen?” Eric pouted. “The little kids had better toughen up. If name-calling is all they encounter in three outta five foster homes in this state, they’ll be lucky.”
Linc couldn’t resist commenting. “You’re not being fair in your assessment of our foster-care system, Eric,” he said.
The teen snorted. “That’s because there’s nothing fair about the system. Why do you think so many kids opt to go it alone on the streets?”
“I honestly have no idea. Care to enlighten me?”
“Man,” Shawn broke in, “it’s because most foster homes suck. Those people are in it strictly for the cash.”
“It’s words like most I take exception to,” Linc responded. “Instead of rushing to hang out in street packs, maybe kids ought to complain to someone in a position to make their homes better and safer.”
“Like, who would that be?” Jenny blazed, leaning forward.
“In the case of foster homes, it’d be the social worker in charge.”
The interior of the SUV filled with hoots. “Get real, dude. And don’t lecture us. You and Shawn’s dad are so like…twins,” Eric said. “You’re both so blind, you think tossing money at a kid or handing him over to somebody with a slew of letters after their name is an automatic cure. Felicity told us how you sent her to shrink after shrink. They’re about as far from the truth as this planet is from Mars.”
“Our grandmother sent Felicity to counselors, not me.”
Jenny sat forward in her seat. “She said you shelled out the bucks for everything, including her music lessons.”
“I was the only one in the household who was employed. Not that I owe you any explanations. Felicity should have listened to what the counselors said. If she had, maybe she’d still be alive.”
“Or maybe she would be if you’d listened to her, man,” Eric murmured just loud enough for everyone in the vehicle to hear.
A red haze interfered with Linc’s ability to see for a fraction of a second. Then, remembering he was dealing with kids who had a skewed perspective on life, he kept his mouth shut and promised himself he wouldn’t be drawn into pointless discussions like this in the future.
“Hey,” Greg called after they’d bounced and jounced in silence for a time, “can you turn on the radio or something?”
Linc pushed the start button on the CD unit and shoved in the disc he’d been listening to on the last phase of his journey to the ranch. Soon the dramatic sounds of an orchestra filled the vehicle’s interior.
Eric leaned as far forward as his seat belt would allow and shouted over the music, “What the hell kind of tune is that you’re playing, Parker?”
“That, young man, is Wagner.” He pronounced it with the German V. “It’s the overture to Tristan und Isolde.”
“Never heard of those dudes,” Eric muttered. “Are they on the charts?”
Miranda waited a heartbeat for Linc to explain. When he said nothing, she rattled off a brief description of the opera. “The opera depicts a beautiful but tragic love story set in medieval Ireland. Isolde nurses Knight Tristan back to health, only to discover he killed her fiancé in battle. To make matters worse, Tristan is sworn to deliver Isolde as a bride for his uncle. She mixes a potion to kill him, and he offers her his sword, instead. That’s when they discover they really love each other. So they kiss…. A lot happens in the next scenes. The king brands them traitors. A battle takes place where Tristan is badly wounded. Isolde believes if she can get to him, her magical powers will heal him. When they’re reunited, Tristan declares that, as a knight, he cannot bear to live as an outcast. He falls dead at her feet. She drinks her potion just as a courier arrives from the king ready to pardon her and Tristan. The last scene of the opera is her collapsing across his body. It’s difficult to describe quickly, but if you listen to the entire score, you can feel the scenes unfold. ‘Liebestod’ is probably my favorite piece.”
The other teens gaped at Miranda, as did Linc.
“Wow,” Jenny said, continuing to bite her nails. “That sounds so cool, Randi. I wouldn’t have believed it, but you can feel grief in the music. Except…I thought you told me you didn’t know much about music.”
Linc found himself straining to hear Randi’s reply. Something about her was out of step with her companions. And he doubted that opera was normal fare for street kids.
Miranda couldn’t deny the knowledge that had obviously caused the others to regard her suspiciously. She shrugged. “Funny how things can slip your mind. I totally forgot about picking up that community-college class. The prof who taught basic music appreciation was an opera buff. He took us to see Puccini’s La Boheme and Verdi’s Rigoletto and Aida. Oh, and Bizet’s Carmen.”
“You
