seemed fortuitous to hear John Montoya’s voice. “Hi, Linc. I’m up north, at the ranch you asked me to check out.”
“I’m afraid to ask, John. Is the place a disaster or is it anything like the ad in Sunday’s paper?”
“Basically it meets your requirements—unless you count the fact that it’s twenty miles from anything resembling a town,” Montoya said with a chuckle.
“Good. Perfect. I’ve been reading up on ranching and on teen refugees, plus talking to people. So there’s a livable bunkhouse and main residence, as well as a parcel of raw land?”
“Uh…yeah. Three hundred or so acres. You’ll want to change the name, though. Rascal Ranch doesn’t seem appropriate for what you’ve got in mind. According to the representative from the Oasis Foundation—the current owners—the ranch has been used for various social-development programs over the past five years.”
“For instance?”
“Uh, a summer camp for underprivileged kids. A horse-therapy program for amputees that Oasis funded for a couple of years. Their last project, I think he said, was stopgap housing for kids awaiting adoption.”
“Why is Oasis dumping the ranch now?”
“Ted Gunderson said it’s difficult to get and keep houseparents way out here. I tell you, Linc, the property is smack in the middle of nowhere.”
“In the middle of nowhere suits me fine. A haven for ex-druggie street kids is better if it’s less accessible to temptations. Okay, John, you have my permission to start dickering. Now that I’ve made up my mind, I’m anxious to get going. If Oasis is willing to negotiate, I’ll go as high as the top figure we discussed. Oh, and John, if you close a deal, will you swing past the county courthouse and apply for whatever licenses I’ll need to house a dozen or so kids?”
“I almost forgot—that’s the big plus. Oasis will transfer their group-home license to you.”
“That’s permissible?”
“Must be. Gunderson seems to know. He says they have a year left on their state contract, but you’ll need to undergo a Social Services inspection. Gunderson claims it’s a mere formality. He implied there’s nothing much to qualifying as a bona fide shelter.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” For the first time since the idea had struck him, Linc felt the heaviness around his heart lift just a little. “I’m headed back to my office. If you work a deal, contact me there. Then I’ll put my house in Coldwater Canyon on the market and start notifying clients that I’m turning them over to my partner until I get the shelter operating. Thought I’d allow at least two years. By the way, Dennis has promised he’ll retain your firm for all the legwork I currently have you do.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence. I only hope I can work with Dennis. I realize you like the guy, but frankly, Linc, I hope you know what you’re doing. Rumor has it he’s pulled some shady stuff to get accounts.”
“You’ve been in Tinseltown long enough to know you shouldn’t listen to rumors.”
“I tell you, Dennis Morrison doesn’t have the same standards you do.”
“Name something he’s done besides drop a couple of going-nowhere B stars to make room for a few up-and-comers. I wouldn’t have done it, but our competitors do it constantly. I trust Dennis enough to hand him my personal portfolio. I doubt I’ll have time to follow the market for a while. Running a teen shelter is going to be a new experience for me. Once it’s up and running smoothly, I figure I can step back and just do the fund-raising for it. By then I’ll be ready to get back into the business.”
“Why risk your career at all, man? You’ve got it made where you are.”
“I’m doing it for Felicity.”
“I gotta be honest here. You’re putting your life on hold because you feel guilty about something no one could’ve foreseen. You gave that kid a life anyone in her right mind would grab in a minute. Felicity blew it, Linc. That’s the unvarnished truth.”
“She was sixteen, John, my responsibility any way you cut it. I spend part of every single day in the Hollywood trenches. I knew she didn’t have the talent to be a rock star. Instead of taking the time to try and steer her in a better direction, I shelled out bucks whenever she found some new bloodsucker to give her voice or music lessons. I guess I hoped she’d eventually see for herself. That was a big mistake. My mistake.”
“Yeah,” John muttered. “You think your crystal ball should’ve told you one of her so-called mentors or rocker pals was a drug dealer on the side.”
“According to the cops, not all street kids are losers. I can’t save all of them from Felicity’s fate, but maybe I can redirect one or two. All I know is that I’ll never be able to live with myself if I don’t try. Call me with a final deal, all right?”
There was an uncomfortable silence until Linc added, “This Gunderson guy you’re dealing with—he verified that there are no restrictions on the land against farming, right? I mean, part of my plan is to have the kids invest a little honest sweat plowing, planting and harvesting crops that’ll eventually pay for their upkeep. I’m not offering any other kid a free ride like I gave Felicity. That’s where I really fouled up.”
“You’ll have the land, Farmer Parker. Jeez, I have a hard time envisioning you with blisters on those Midas hands of yours. But if you’re serious, I’ll go dicker.”
“Hear me, John. I am serious. Never more so. I’ll be waiting for your report at my office. So long for now.”
Nashville, Tennessee
PHONY FOG hissed from canisters strategically placed behind a row of footlights. A single spotlight faded by degrees until it left the twenty-six-year-old country singer swallowed in darkness and her signature mist. Her body cringed away from a rolling swell of whistles and stamping feet.
Unsnapping her guitar strap, she passed the instrument to a stagehand who’d materialized from the wings. Her mind was fixed on the solace waiting in her dressing room.
“Awesome performance, Misty!” The stagehand’s shout was drowned out by the thunderous din from the auditorium. “Hey, where ya goin’?” The kid’s lanky frame blocked her passage.
“I’m fixin’ to go change out of this hot costume.” The singer blotted perspiration from her forehead with a satin sleeve. Eyes made electric blue—by contacts her manager insisted she wear to conceal what he called her blah gray eyes—closed tiredly.
“Wes said you hafta give four encores tonight.”
Her eyes flew open and she shook her head.
“Yep. It’s a packed house. Wes says you’re to give ’em a taste of your new songs so every fan here will stampede to the lobby and buy a CD.”
“Four encores?” She sounded dazed, as if he’d asked the impossible. Indeed, he had.
Four fingers were waggled under her nose. The crescendo beyond the stage had escalated to a degree that caused the young man to give up attempting to communicate. He pressed the guitar into her midriff and shoved her back toward center stage.
Miranda
