me? What’s her name? Did she say why—”
“She won’t give the attendants any information,” Ardis said. “Nobody told her you were here, she just asked for you. I thought you’d want to see her quickly.”
Cheyenne entered the exam room behind the nurse. An ambulance attendant hovered next to the patient with his chart, checking blood pressure as another nurse transferred EKG leads from the ambulance monitor to the hospital’s equipment.
The patient’s trembling hands covered her face. Silky black hair, as dark and glossy as Cheyenne’s, fanned across the pillow.
Cheyenne stepped to the side of the bed and touched the woman’s shoulder gently. “Hello, I’m Dr.—”
The hands fell away.
Cheyenne caught her breath. “Susan?”
Tears dripped down sharply chiseled, honey-tanned cheeks. Cheyenne’s baby sister reached for her.
“Oh, Chey, I’m so scared. My chest hurts. What’s happening?”
Dane Gideon stepped down from the broad front porch of the ranch house, studying the line of dust clouding the atmosphere above the quarter-mile drive that led from the highway. The early March sunlight dazzled nearby Table Rock Lake with shafts of jeweled colors that built a prism around the small village of Hideaway along the opposite shore.
The sound of tires crunching gravel rippled the peaceful silence as the car pulled into the parking area. Dane saw the dark outline of the passenger. The kid had dreadlocks, skin the color of untouched espresso, eyes narrowed with obvious apprehension—the typical mask of disillusionment in a face too young to bear it.
Clint, the social worker who sometimes seemed to haunt this place, parked beneath the bare oak tree and nodded to Dane with a grim smile. He spoke to the passenger. The teenager shook his head and looked away.
Dane read resentment in every movement.
Clint got out of the car, leaving the door open. “We’ve got another reluctant one for you,” he said, loudly enough for his voice to carry back to the car. “Can’t seem to convince him this place’ll be like summer camp.”
Dane grinned. “Or boot camp.”
Clint took Dane’s hand in a firm shake. “Thanks for accepting Gavin. Knew you’d be perfect for him. Good kid.”
The “good kid” flinched, shot a glare at Clint, crossed his arms over his chest.
“His room’s ready,” Dane said. “He’s bunking with Willy.” Clint had escorted Willy here four months ago, under similar conditions.
Richard Cook came striding around the side of the large, two-story house. Apron in place, hair combed back in a wispy gray cap, the older man—who answered only to the surname that also described his job at the ranch—walked across the barely green lawn and nodded to Dane. Willy came rambling up from the barn, obviously curious about his new roommate and—just as obviously—trying not to show it.
Dane grinned at the skinny fourteen-year-old who had taken so well to ranch life. Maybe he would help Gavin settle in.
While the social worker turned to greet Cook and Willy, Dane stepped to the car, slid behind the steering wheel and closed the door.
Gavin breathed with studiously quiet drags, as if the activity caused him pain.
“I’m Dane Gideon.”
Only a short break in breathing rhythm indicated the teenager had heard.
Knowing Clint, Dane surmised that the fifteen-year-old had been filled in on all aspects of his new home, from the duties he would have on this thriving ranch, to the size of the house, to the school he would be attending. No doubt he’d also been given thumbnail sketches of the other “inmates” at the ranch.
With a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the town, Dane allowed himself a moment of doubt. Was he taking on too much this time?
“You going to tell me your name?” he asked the teenager.
The kid’s lips parted, his throat muscles worked, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and turned to Dane with a garish smile. “Howdy, partner,” came the mocking cadence of his surprisingly baritone voice. “You can call me Blaze. It’s who I am, it’s what I do according to my mama—and mamas never lie, do they?” Bitterness dripped from his words.
“Depends. Did you set the fire?”
The smile sifted from his face like wisps of sand blown from the surface of a rock. “Think I’m stupid? If I say I didn’t, you’ll call me a liar. If I say I did, I’d be lying.”
“Then why don’t we talk about that later? Right now, let’s unload your things and show you around. Your roommate left school early so he could meet you as soon as you arrived. Since this is Friday, you’ll have the weekend to settle in and learn your chores before we enroll you in school.”
The kid’s scowl deepened. “Not going to no school.”
“You don’t have a choice, and neither do I, Gavin.”
“Blaze! My name’s Blaze. It’s what my—”
“You were acquitted.”
“You want to tell me what I’m doing here, then?”
“You wouldn’t be at this ranch if you’d been found guilty of a crime.”
“But I’m not home with my mama, am I?”
It was Dane’s turn to be silent. That was one of the most difficult things he had to deal with here—boys who felt unloved, unwanted.
“You got that straight,” Gavin said. “My mama’s judge and jury on this case. Long as I’m here, my name’s Blaze.”
Cheyenne pressed several facial tissues into her sister’s left hand. “I know it’s scary, Susan, but try to relax so we can get a good reading on your heart. You’re going to be fine. I picked up on the murmur right away—I think it’s your mitral valve problem, but I want to make sure.”
Susan nodded, blinking back tears.
When Cheyenne was in eleventh grade and Susan still in elementary school, Cheyenne had discovered her baby sister’s mitral valve prolapse with her new Christmas present from her parents—a stethoscope. From that time on, Cheyenne had taken Susan’s condition on as a personal responsibility. It was what had motivated her through those first horrendous two years of med school.
She still took that responsibility seriously.
Susan’s hand trembled as she mopped her face with the tissues. “It’s never hurt like this before, Chey.”
“Why don’t you tell me what led up to it? Heavy exercise? Did something happen that upset you?”
Susan hesitated, then nodded, glancing at the others in the room. “I
