here to play with. We take hikes, and study nature, and have campouts, and ride horses. Do you know how to ride?”
He drummed his fingers again, then inched one hand up to touch the clay.
“I bet you do. Your daddy’s a cowboy. He’s probably a good rider, too.”
He punched the clay with one finger.
“I know he cares a lot about you. You probably spent a lot of time together before you came here.”
Suddenly he rolled his hand into a fist and pounded the clay.
Jordan forced herself not to react, but something she’d said had hit a nerve. “Do you have horses where you live?”
He punched the clay again.
“Maybe your mommy used to go riding with you.”
This time he pressed both hands onto the clay and began to beat it harder. Over and over until it was as flat as a pancake. She molded hers into the shape of a face, allowing him to vent his emotions.
Finally he hit the clay one last time, then seemed to sag in the chair with a weary sigh. She reminded herself not to push, that he needed time to heal. Purging his anger through healthy means was a baby step, but every step counted.
Jordan checked her watch. “I think it’s time for us to meet your playgroup.” Jordan swept the clay back into the containers, then gestured for him to follow her.
She didn’t give him time to protest but slipped on her jacket, then took his hand and guided him out the front door. The scent of hay, horses and fresh air suffused her, the sound of horses galloping across the pasture breaking the quiet. Timmy’s gaze veered toward the stables, the tension in him easing slightly.
As they walked toward the younger boys’ bunkhouse, she told him more about the ranch. “We have a lot of campers here,” she said. “Some of the older boys came as campers but are now counselors who help us out with riding lessons, campouts and other activities. Last year we had a rodeo and the boys got to participate. We may do another one sometime soon.”
He didn’t comment, but he continued to watch the horses as if he was drawn to them in some way.
They passed a field where several quarter horses galloped freely, and his eyes widened a tiny fraction. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Jordan said softly.
A little of the haunted look in his eyes lifted.
Jordan tugged her jacket around her tighter as they passed the stream. “Sometimes we fish here. Then the boys cook the dinner over the campfire. Everyone also has chores, too. Working on a ranch is fun but hard work, and the animals need a lot of care.”
Just like little boys, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She had to ease into this relationship. Win Timmy’s trust.
They’d reached the bunkhouse, so she knocked, then pushed the door open. Carlos, a sixteen-year-old who’d come here with a bad attitude and record, had recently joined the ranks of assistant counselors. “Carlos, I want the other guys to meet Timmy.”
“Come on in. We were just talking about our morning hike.” Carlos gestured toward the common room where the boys had spread out the nature items they’d collected, everything from leaves, twigs, berries, scrub brush, to feathers and hay.
“We’re going to make a collage out of them for our wall,” Carlos explained.
Timmy inched closer to her, and she squeezed his hand. Three other boys ranging from age five to eight were gathered in the room, talking and laughing about the hike.
Carlos whistled to get their attention. “Guys, Timmy’s going to join us for our activities.” He gestured toward the bunkroom. “He’ll take the bottom bunk near the door.”
Timmy clawed at Jordan’s hand. “Actually, Timmy’s father is here, and he’s going to sleep in the cabin with him for a few days.” She knelt beside Timmy and curved an arm around him. “When you’re ready to join the boys and sleep in here, you can let us know.”
She glanced at Carlos. “I’m taking him to see the horses now. But maybe he’ll join you guys later for the sing-along tonight.”
She took Timmy’s hand and led him from the cabin, hoping that one day Timmy would feel comfortable enough to talk and laugh with the boys.
But as they walked toward the stables to meet Miles, an uneasy feeling nagged at her, and Miles’s early comment taunted her.
Timmy had witnessed his mother’s murder—and Miles was worried that the killer might track them down and try to hurt his son.
She scanned the horizon, looking for anything suspicious. She’d have to remain on her toes in case Miles was right.
Timmy’s hand tightened in hers again, and her heart tugged painfully.
She’d do anything to protect this little guy.
He wouldn’t end up dead like her brother.
* * *
MILES’S SHOULDERS HAD KNOTTED with anxiety as he’d watched Jordan lead Timmy toward that bunkhouse. Part of him was relieved that Timmy was in someone else’s hands for a few minutes—God knew he’d made no progress in getting through to his son.
Timmy barely even let him comfort him.
Another part of him was filled with fear though—letting Timmy out of his sight meant that he might be in danger. If Dugan had tracked them here and found Timmy unguarded or vulnerable, no telling what might happen.
“Miles,” Brody said as he climbed the porch steps. “I’m so sorry about Marie and Timmy.”
Miles gave a clipped nod, battling the guilt. “Are you sure you don’t mind us staying here?”
“I’m sure.” Brody propped his wide body against the porch railing. “The reason I started this place was to help kids...and families.”
Miles understood that Brody also had his own personal motivation; his brother had gone missing years ago and had never been found.
“I know that and so far, it looks like it’s working,” Miles said. “But I’m worried about Dugan looking for us.”
“I have security covering the property,” Brody said. “Besides, no one knows where you are, do they?”
Miles shook his head. “Just Blackpaw, but he sure as hell won’t talk. He wants Dugan almost as much as I do.”
No one could want him as much.
Except the families of the other victims.
“But Dugan is smart. He may have hired someone to search for me. He knows it’s personal now and that I won’t stop until I catch him.”
“Any leads?”
Miles shook his head. He didn’t intend to reveal that now he was a suspect in Marie’s murder. “He’s disappeared.
