The Cowboy and the Angel. Marin Thomas
Читать онлайн книгу.
to form a tunnel. A towel concealed the opening at one end.
“It’s me. Everyone okay in there?” Renée spoke in a hushed whisper.
Seconds ticked by and no sound. Finally a small hand pushed the towel aside and a face popped into view. A kid’s face. Although the temperature in the building hovered below freezing, Duke’s forehead broke out in a sweat. Images of a wrecking ball slamming into the side of the brick wall and children falling to their deaths flashed before his eyes.
One face turned into two. Three…four…holy, hell. A gang of kids had set up camp in his warehouse.
Renée ignored Duke’s sharp indrawn breath, focusing on the children in front of her. “Hey, everyone. I brought a friend.” Duke Dalton wasn’t a friend by a long shot, but she didn’t wish to frighten the children. Renée had discovered the clan a few days ago thanks to a tip from a transient woman in one of the city shelters. The elderly lady had overheard teenagers whispering about a group of kids hiding in a building along the Riverfront and had reported the news to shelter personnel.
The kids, save one, were familiar to Renée—most had been in and out of the foster-care system for years. Timmy, a shy, petite boy, slipped from the tunnel first. “Did you bring food?”
Oh, shoot. Guilt pricked her that she’d lounged in Duke’s hotel room enjoying pizza while the kids had waited for supper—which she’d forgotten.
“Ms. Sweeney wanted to ask what everybody’s hungry for.” Duke’s masculine voice sent Timmy scampering inside the tunnel.
Renée shot Duke a startled glance, surprised he’d come to her rescue. Flustered, she said, “Mr. Dalton won’t hurt you.”
Crystal, the Goth thirteen-year-old, emerged. Dressed from head-to-toe in black, she wore bell-bottom cargo pants with silver chains attached to the waistband, a T-shirt and clunky combat-style boots. Eyes rimmed with dark shadow and mascara, the teen had dyed her eyebrows and hair to match the ebony polish on her nails. Her menacing gaze fixated on Duke and she snarled, “Who’s that?”
“This is Mr. Dalton. He’s offered to buy supper tonight.” When no one else came out, she said, “I need to make sure everyone is okay. If you don’t come out, you don’t eat.”
“You heard Ms. Sweeney,” Crystal called over her shoulder. “Hurry up. I’m starving.”
One by one, five children crawled from the crude shelter. “José, where’s your jacket?” The oldest in the group at fifteen, the boy jutted his chin defiantly. “It’s hot in there.”
“Well, it’s not out here.” She locked eyes with José, refusing to allow him to gain the upper hand. Thin and gangly, the shaggy-haired teen stood several inches taller than Renée. He had severe acne and she guessed his long bangs were meant to conceal the pimples across his forehead. After a tense few seconds he retrieved his coat.
Evie, Crystal’s seven-year-old sister, shuffled forward. “Can I have milk tonight?” The cherub’s cheeks glowed bright pink. Renée brushed aside a limp hank of blond hair and pressed her fingers to the child’s forehead, relieved her skin felt cool. “Yes, you may have milk.”
José exited the tunnel wearing a jacket with sleeves that ended above his bony wrists. She presumed he’d begun a growth spurt. The possibility frustrated Renée. The children shouldn’t be living in cardboard boxes in an abandoned building with temperatures well below freezing at night. Every child was entitled to a warm bed and three square meals a day. Plus hugs. Kids needed hugs, which reminded her…she held out a hand toward Timmy. He hobbled closer, dragging his left foot behind him. The boy had been born with a clubfoot and had never received medical treatment for the deformity.
“Doing okay?” she asked, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. After the quick hug she directed the flashlight at Timmy’s freckled face, searching for signs of injury, illness. He smiled, exposing a gap between his teeth.
“When did you lose your front tooth?”
“This morning. Ricci pulled it.”
“Maybe Ricci should be a dentist when he grows up.” Renée winked at the eight-year-old.
“No way,” the boy protested. “I’m gonna race cars.” She might have found his answer amusing if not for the fact that the Hispanic boy had been picked up twice by police for participating in illegal street racing. He’d been a passenger in the vehicles, but Renée feared one day Ricci would slide behind the wheel. If Renée didn’t secure him a decent foster home soon, he’d end up in the state juvenile detention center before his twelfth birthday.
“I’m gonna fly airplanes,” boasted Willie. Arms extended like wings, the six-year-old African American boy circled the group, making loud obnoxious engine noises. Willie was a crack baby. His cognitive development was a little slow, but not worrisome. It was his hyperactivity and emotional outbursts that had gotten him kicked out of every home he’d been sent to. Most foster parents weren’t equipped to handle his behavioral issues.
While the kids engaged in good-natured bantering, Renée hugged each child in turn. She made sure they all felt the touch of a loving hand.
“Does that guy—” Crystal motioned to Duke “—have anything to do with the big crane we saw earlier?”
“Yes.” She wouldn’t lie to the children, but she refused to reveal the entire truth for fear the kids would panic and scatter. “Mr. Dalton owns this building.”
The kids huddled close—José and Crystal standing guard in front of the younger ones.
Duke winced at the group’s reaction and Renée wished to reassure him that he’d done nothing wrong. Street kids trusted no one. And even though she considered Duke’s height and build, his square jaw and dark eyes attractive, the children no doubt found him formidable. “Mr. Dalton, I’d like you to meet your temporary tenants.
“This is José.” To her pleasure, Duke extended his hand. To her displeasure José refused the handshake.
Ignoring the rebuff, Duke said, “Nice to meet you, José. Looks as if you’re taking good care of everyone.”
The boy’s slim shoulders straightened, but the mutinous glare remained in his eyes. Renée wanted to hug Duke for complimenting the teen.
“This is Crystal and her sister, Evie.”
Again Duke offered his hand. Crystal followed José’s lead and kept her hands shoved inside her coat pockets. Evie giggled, burying her face in her sister’s jacket.
“And our resident pilot is Willie.” The boy marched over to Duke and shook his hand, pumping Duke’s arm like a circus clown. “What’s up, dude?” He laughed at his own joke.
“Hello, Willie.” Duke didn’t seem bothered by the rambunctious boy.
“Then we have Timmy and Ricci.”
Ricci stayed put, but Timmy wandered closer, his twisted foot scraping against the cement. If Duke noticed the boy’s deformity, he showed no sign.
“Nice to meet you, boys.”
After the introductions, Timmy asked, “What are you gonna do to our building?”
Renée cringed at the word our.
“I intend to—”
“Mr. Dalton hasn’t finalized his plans for the warehouse,” she interrupted.
“We’re not stupid,” Crystal spouted. “You’re gonna knock it down.”
“Not yet,” Renée assured the girl.
“Aw, man. Are we gonna have to find a new home?” Ricci whined.
Renée had been involved in social work too many years to allow her emotions to get the best of her, but the fact that Ricci considered a vacant building a home made her eyes burn with anger—anger that these and many