A Cowboy at Heart. Roz Fox Denny
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drew a map to the closest steak house.”
“Steak?” The older boys chattered excitedly among themselves as they dropped stuff in their rooms and Miranda prepared to leave the dog.
Linc had never gone hungry in his life. And this one night, steak was the least he could offer pathetic kids whose stories had shaken him more than he cared to admit.
CHAPTER FOUR
LINC RESENTED the surreptitious looks they got from other patrons as they ambled in. They were seated at a large oval table near the back of the restaurant, shown to their seats by a hostess wearing a red-checkered dress that matched the décor. He dismissed her look of pity as he took the stack of menus she thrust into his hands.
Miranda waited for Parker to request booster seats for Cassie and Hana. Not that Cassie wasn’t old enough to sit in a regular chair. But these were wooden ones, built low, probably for big men—the sportsmen Linc had mentioned earlier.
In gentlemanly fashion, Linc pulled out Jenny’s chair, then Randi’s. “We got enough chairs?” He glanced around the table and counted.
“Don’t you think we need boosters for the little girls?”
“High chairs, you mean?” He frowned, letting his mind drift back to when his kid sister had needed a chair that had its own tray.
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Boosters are molded plastic seats that go on regular chairs.”
She didn’t tack stupid onto the end of her sentence, but she might as well have, Linc thought. “Does this restaurant have such an item?” He squinted to see into the dimly lit corners.
“We do have boosters, sir,” the hostess assured him with a broad smile. “How many do you need for your family?”
“Oh, they’re not mine,” he said, refocusing on the woman who looked as if she belonged at a square dance.
“Two, please,” Miranda rushed to say. Turning, she followed the hostess to where the multicolored seats were stacked. Miranda selected a blue one and a red one. The red had a cushion made of fabric like the woman’s dress. It turned out to be oilcloth, more like the tablecloths. Regardless, she judged the cushion better for Cassie and had barely started back to the table when the seats were whisked from her hands. Glancing up in surprise, she discovered Parker had relieved her of them.
“Give Cassie the red one,” she said quickly. “It was the only one with a cushion. I think it’ll be softer on her poor back.”
“I’m not dense, Ms—what in hell is your last name?” Linc demanded, suddenly perplexed.
“Ah…uh…according to Jenny, street people never give their surnames to anyone. It’s for protection,” she said when Linc stopped to stare at her.
“So does that mean you weren’t a street person before you hit California?”
“No. I mean, I was…for a while. In Kansas City,” she blurted, trying to stick as close to the truth as possible.
“Kansas City.” Narrowing his eyes, Linc turned that tidbit of information over in his mind. “You didn’t get that thick drawl there. Where did you live before K.C.? And why did you leave?”
Miranda drew herself up to her full height, yet she was still woefully shorter than the man studying her like a specimen under a microscope. “My past is my own business. And your silly interrogation is holding up the waitress who wants to take our drink orders.”
Feeling smartly put in his place, Linc set the booster seats into the chairs. He gently lifted the little girls into them. The only two empty chairs at the table were quite far from each other.
Damn, he’d wanted to probe deeper into the mystery that came packaged as a woman calling herself Randi with no last name. If Randi was even her name… Why he cared about her history, Linc didn’t know. After all, he’d been warned not to expect the truth out of street kids. Yet Randi managed to irritate him while simultaneously giving him pause. Linc vowed he’d unravel her story or know the reason why.
“Are you kids ready to order?” Linc asked as the waitress stood patiently by his chair.
“We don’t know how much you are letting us spend,” Greg said, his English showing traces of his Asian background. “Have you looked at the cost?”
Linc opened the menu, expecting to see something outrageous. In actuality, the steaks were cheap. “Order whatever suits your fancy. Let me worry about the bill.”
There wasn’t one person at the table who didn’t show shock at that news. Miranda alone noticed how Parker had softened his tone so that his statement, which might have sounded as if he lorded it over them, held no patronizing inflection.
She imagined her former manager in a situation like this. Wes Carlisle would have found a way to put everyone at the table in his debt. Which was how Wes had operated from the minute he’d stepped into a job previously handled by her father. Throughout the years that Doug Kimbrough had made decisions for her, she’d remained blissfully ignorant about the working end of her singing career. The rude awakening came the moment Carlisle stepped in. It hadn’t taken Miranda long to figure out that she’d made a horrible mistake in signing an open-ended contract with Carlisle’s agency.
As they awaited their food, Miranda recalled something Jenny said the day they met. She’d said her good friend Felicity’s brother was some guru who worked with movie and singing stars. Miranda couldn’t help wondering if Parker managed his stars in a manner similar to Carlisle’s handling of country singers. Try as she might, she couldn’t picture Wes giving up his rich lifestyle to go to some remote locale and set up a safe house for street kids. The two types of personalities—manager to the stars and socially conscious benefactor—weren’t mutually compatible. So maybe Jenny was wrong about Parker’s occupation.
After everyone had their drinks, Miranda lent a hand to Hana so the girl didn’t spill her milk all over the place. Catching Parker’s eye, she asked casually, “What did you do before you bought the ranch? I know you worked in Hollywood. Did it involve teens? You’re not the type to have been a cop.” Miranda pretended she knew nothing about his background.
Jenny frowned. “I thought I told you about Felicity’s brother.”
“Unlike some people,” Linc said, aiming a pointed stare at Miranda, “I’m not secretive about my past. I graduated from a California college with a master’s in finance. I became a CPA and then set up a partnership with a guy I met in grad school. We invest our clients’ excess capital and do their quarterly taxes.”
“Felicity said his clients are top movie and rock stars,” Jenny said in a tone filled with awe.
“No kidding?” Greg’s face was a mask of envy. “I guess I joined the group after Felicity mentioned that,” he whispered to Jenny. “Anyway, I didn’t know her as well as you guys did. But the house…wow! Megabucks.”
Linc sliced an impatient hand through the air. “A firm doesn’t start off working for big names. It takes time to earn respect in any field.”
“There’s that word again,” Eric pointed out. “Respect’s a big word in your vocabulary, isn’t it, Mr. P.?”
“No more than honesty, reliability and diligence.”
Wolfie, who now had a white mustache after draining his glass of milk, asked in a small voice what diligence meant.
“Sorry,” Linc said. “I know you aren’t a walking dictionary. Diligence is a high-priced word for hard work.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say hard work?” Wolfie sighed, then launched another question. “I guess you gotta go to school to learn big words, huh?”
Linc flashed him a grin. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Learning anything takes time. You’re only in what—fourth grade?”
“No