before Latimer House. And you worked them hard. I have a feeling they’ll be dead to the world long before dark.” Eden started for the door. “Walk with me?”
Outside, she removed the baseball cap, freeing a mass of curls that spilled down her back like a cinnamony waterfall.
“Two of them were homeless. Living in alleys and under bridges before the cops picked them up.” She harrumphed. “And trust me, they were better off there than under their parents’ roofs. Every time I think about the things they must have seen and survived...”
He remembered Thomas’s dark, darting eyes. What had the boy experienced to inspire that look of fear and apprehension...and simmering anger?
“I’m guessing you’re not allowed to get specific about their pasts.”
“You’re right. But you’d be less than normal if you didn’t wonder how they all ended up with me.” She crossed both arms over her chest. “Let me put it this way: Kids who end up in places like Latimer House usually have fairly long records. Nothing overtly violent, mind you, but repeated offenses, like arson, breaking and entering, shoplifting, assault, even loitering and curfew violations. With no parental supervision, they were well on their way to a prison cell. Latimer House is the end of the line. One more goof-up, and it’s off to juvie.”
“What about foster care?”
A sad smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “There’s nowhere else in the system for boys with their histories. Besides, the number of kids waiting for placement in foster homes far outweighs the number of families willing to take them in.”
“Why would the state put that many troubled teens in the care of one itty-bitty counselor?”
Eyes narrowed slightly, she arched her left brow. “I’m sure you aren’t insinuating that I’m unqualified or incapable of doing my job. Because that would be insulting.”
Experience had taught him that when he didn’t know what to say, silence trumped words, every time.
She took a step closer. “Just so you know, I’m a psychologist, not a counselor. Basically, I can identify a disorder and provide treatment—I have a PhD—while a counselor’s goal is to help patients make their own decisions regarding treatment. Clearly, these kids are in no position to do that.”
Eden propped a fist on her hip. “Every hour of every day is a challenge, but I’m fully qualified to handle it. I appreciate your concern, but trust me, it’s unwarranted.”
He’d obviously hit a nerve, and right now those big gray eyes looked anything but warm and sweet.
“Hey, Eden?”
“Be right there, DeShawn. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she told Nate.
Hopefully not to pick up where she’d left off. She jogged across the yard to talk with a boy who towered over her and outweighed her by at least fifty pounds.
Something peculiar caught Nate’s attention as Eden and DeShawn chatted beside the bunkhouse: Thomas, alone in the doorway, aiming a baleful glare at no one in particular. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t invited the group to the Double M. Any one of those kids could come back, now that they’d made the trip.
Had his inability to say no put his parents, his sister, Hank, aunts and uncles, cousins and their children in unknown danger?
DURING THE FIRST half of the hour-long drive back to Denver, the boys talked nonstop about the weekend.
“I thought mucking stalls was bad,” DeShawn said, “until Nate made us shovel up the mess and move it to that stinking mountain over by the woods.”
“Wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t tipped the wheelbarrow over...on your shoes,” Kirk teased.
“Seriously, dude,” Wade said. “You’re lucky Nate found a pair of running shoes that fit you.”
“Yeah, but now I owe some ranch hand I never even met for a new pair. And I ain’t got that kinda money.”
“Don’t have,” Eden corrected. “But didn’t I hear Nate say you shouldn’t worry about that?”
“Man’s not gonna keep his word about us comin’ back over the Fourth if he keeps having to shell out for stuff we messed up.”
“It was just one pair of old shoes. And even Nate said the man rarely wore them,” Eden said.
“Yeah, maybe,” DeShawn said, “but just wait till he finds—”
In the rearview, Eden saw Thomas smack DeShawn on the shoulder and aim an angry glare in his direction.
Once they arrived home, Eden would take the smaller boy aside and find out what DeShawn was talking about. Knowing Thomas, it could be anything from a broken lamp to something stolen from one of the ranch hands bureaus...or worse.
Thomas had never been particularly easy to control, but since his father called, demanding his parental rights, things had gone from bad to worse. Thomas didn’t have access to the man who’d first neglected, then deserted him. Before moving to Latimer House, Thomas had vented his anger by starting fires; these days, for the most part, he took out his frustrations on the other boys.
“Did anyone think to write down Nate’s chili recipe?” she asked, hoping to distract them.
“Nate said he’d email it to me since I did most of the work,” Travis said.
“Did not,” Cody grumbled.
“Whatever.”
When Denver cops found Travis shivering and nearly unconscious in his hut of corrugated metal and cardboard, he had fleas and lice, multiple bruises and cigarette burns on his back, chest and forearms. And even after two operations to repair shattered bones in his left hand, he still had trouble manipulating the thumb. State psychologists who evaluated him in the hospital predicted he’d run away. Often. That he’d have a hard time adjusting to life in a house populated by ten other boys his age. That Eden should prepare for tirades, acts of aggression, destructive behavior. On his second night at Latimer House, he proved them right by flying off the handle because she’d served cheese pizza instead of his favorite, pepperoni. Eden sent the other boys upstairs out of earshot, and in a calm, quiet voice let it be known that she’d earned a black belt in karate. “Please don’t test me,” she’d told him. Travis took her at her word and ate the pizza without further complaint. And from that day to this, he’d been her best ally, quickly calming disputes between his housemates and helping Eden every chance he got.
It was no surprise that he’d imitated Nate’s walk, his cowboy drawl, even the way he stood, feet shoulder-width apart and arms crossed over his chest. Halfway through the weekend, Thomas noticed all this and called him a copycat. The old Travis might have thrown a punch, or at the very least, bellowed at the smaller boy. But eighteen months at Latimer House had changed him, and he took his cue from Nate, who shrugged and smiled as if to say, “So what?”
There was a lot to like about the man, including his rugged good looks. No wonder
