Finding Stefanie (8 page)

She snagged her pick in her long hair, and it went flying across the living room. She didn’t bother to look for it, just finger-combed the rest. She caught her reflection in the dark window, then got up to check out her bruise.

She bet Elise Fontaine never got a bruise. Elise Fontaine probably didn’t wear thermal underwear to bed, probably didn’t have makeup from graduation still in her bathroom, half-used, and probably got her hair cut more often than every two years. Stefanie stood at the mirror, smoothing out her thermal jammies, checking out the curves—or lack thereof—sucking in her stomach, straightening her shoulders.

She shook her head. Who was she trying to kid? Lincoln Cash, for all his charm, wouldn’t notice a girl like her. She was just a ranch hand. A horse rescuer.

Defender of the Oppressed.

She wasn’t sure what identity fit her best. Tonight she’d been proud of herself. For the first time in years, for a second, she’d felt exactly, perfectly right, standing between Gideon and the world.

Toe-to-toe with Lincoln Cash. She thought of her cutting words about his name and cringed. She hoped she hadn’t wounded him. Much.

But stars like Lincoln didn’t wound easily, did they? After years in the tabloids, he had to have the skin of an armadillo. All the same, she wanted to hide under a rain barrel. Next time she saw him, she’d give him a second chance to be a nice guy.

Stefanie climbed onto the sofa, preferring not to fold it out, and tucked her mother’s afghan over her.

A splinter of shame dug deeper as she remembered her parting shot about sleeping in Idaho. She hoped he’d found a place at the Buffalo B and B.

She never should have let Lincoln get under her skin, despite his arrogance. She’d acted about thirteen and like a brokenhearted fan.

She most definitely wasn’t a fan anymore.

And she certainly didn’t entertain any fantasies of her and the magnificent Lincoln Cash riding off into the sunset together. In fact, she could probably delete any romantic notions of riding off anywhere with anyone. Except maybe JB. But she’d have to be unconscious before that happened.

Most of all, she’d have to remember that movie stars didn’t fall
for plain ranch girls who knew how to rope cattle but didn’t have the first clue how to balance in high heels.

No, she’d be like Dutch. Live forever on the ranch. Single. Alone.

Lord, help me learn to be content. Please fill these empty places.
. . .

Upstairs, she heard one of the kids get up, shuffle into the bathroom, close the door.

Is this an answer to prayer, Lord
?
She closed her eyes.
Please. Please let them stay.

“Who is he, Libs?”

Libby took the toast from the toaster, put it on a plate, and skimmed low-fat butter from the tub with her knife. “Who is who, Daddy?”

Her father, Duncan Pike, pastor of Phillips Community Church, pulled out the vinyl-cushioned chair and sat down, reaching for the coffeepot she’d set in the middle of the table. She’d been trying to ease him off fully caffeinated coffee after his mild heart attack a couple years back. Although he had legs that resembled Montana fence posts, the extra helpings of pot roast through the years had settled over his belt, and deep inside, she feared one day coming home to find him dead from a coronary.

Thankfully, she’d tricked him into half-decaf coffee—for all he knew, he drank three cups of fully loaded Colombian roast every morning. It was her little secret.

In fact, the secrets had started to pile up in the last week. Secrets like how she’d begun to care for Gideon. Care in a way she’d never felt before.

“You know who.” Her father picked up the Sheridan paper, reading the headlines.

The dawn poured through the huge picture window that looked out onto the church parking lot from the parsonage, and light puddled on the ancient off-white linoleum floor. The kitchen, built in the fifties, still contained the tiny Formica table and chairs—now a novelty in some catalogs. In fact, the entire two-bedroom house had become accidentally retro, with its green shag carpet and yellow cupboards and counter. Thirty years in one place, with the same furniture, the same flock. No wonder her father seemed stuck in his ways.

There was also the fact that he didn’t have anyone to remind him that his girls had become women. Sometimes Libby still found him sitting in the dark in his faded recliner, his Bible in his lap, his hand over his face, praying, as if he was just as overwhelmed as on the day her mother had died.

How exactly was she supposed to leave him in six months for Bible college, all the way in Chicago? As it was, she’d put it off for a year already. She just wasn’t sure how to leave him.

Her father spoke into his newspaper. “Clarisse Finny called last night, right before you came home. Said you were out at the Kincaid place, watching the fire. Claims you were standing next to that new boy, the one Missy has working at her place.”

“Standing next to a boy is hardly a crime.”

Her father raised his head, a sharp look on his face. “It’s exactly that kind of response that might make me think Clarisse is on to something.”

Libby sucked in a breath. Her father didn’t deserve to be snapped at. He gave her plenty of leash for a man who knew the dangers
embedded in a town where the boy-girl population weighed heavily on the male side. Cowboys had emerged from the woodwork right about the time the girls hit adolescence, and her big sister, Missy, had been a sort of magnet for their attention.

Libby had tried to tell her father that she would never, ever share in Missy’s . . . problems, but at eighteen she still had a curfew of ten o’clock and had yet to have a date. Even to the senior prom. Her father had made her go with her cousin Willy from Sheridan. What her father would never know is that Willy had snuck in a bottle of schnapps and ended up pickled and throwing up in the back of his car. She’d driven them both home before the dance ended.

“Sorry, Daddy. I’m late for work. And Clarisse is a gossip and a troublemaker.”

Her father sipped his coffee, then reached for the bran flakes. He wore a look of agreement but, after a moment of sifting through his thoughts, came back with his judgment of Gideon fortified. “No, I think this kid is trouble. According to Clarisse, he set Big John’s place on fire.”

Libby set the buttered toast down in front of him. “He had a good reason.”

Her father glanced at her as he reached for the milk jug.

“That didn’t come out right. He has a couple of kid sisters. I think one of them started the fire.”

“What were they doing at John’s house, anyway?”

“It’s not John’s house anymore—it belongs to Lincoln Cash.”

Her father’s spoon stopped midway to his mouth. “The
actor
Lincoln Cash?”

She nodded. “He showed up last night just after his place caved in. Wanted to send Gideon to jail.”

“Maybe that’s where he belongs.”

Libby opened the fridge and reached in for a yogurt. “Stefanie Noble took him and his sisters to her place. Probably, she’ll call Social Services today.” The thought had kept her tossing the night away, a sickness in her gut.

Or maybe a little higher, in her heart. The fact was, Libby did like Gideon. Especially when he’d stood up to Lincoln Cash and told the truth. Something like pride had bloomed in her chest, and she’d had the crazy urge to hug him.

She closed the fridge. “Don’t worry, Daddy. I’m just his friend.” She dabbed a kiss on his weathered cheek.

Her father caught her hand, pulled her closer, and returned the kiss. “You just make sure that bleeding heart of yours doesn’t go too far.” When she met his eyes, she saw more than a sermon there. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

She smiled at him but couldn’t help but wonder if his warnings might already be too late.

CHAPTER 5

G
IDEON HAD DIED
and gone to paradise. Only, he knew he didn’t deserve paradise, so perhaps this was simply a dream. Or maybe just an old Western movie, because everything about this place screamed cowboys and horses and one of the
Lone Ranger
episodes he’d seen in juvie hall. From the warm, dry single bed with the wool, red-and-black-checkered blanket, to a bull-riding poster on the wall and a coiled rope hanging on the bedpost of the other single bed, to roping trophies on the opposite dresser. Whoever had lived here had
cowboy
written all over him.

Gideon lay in bed, rested for the first time in . . . He did the mental math and couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t slept with one eye open, waiting for the nightmares, both real and imagined.

No nightmares last night. Except, of course, the big one—the fact that he’d burned down the house of megarich megastar Lincoln Cash. Yes, that should make the news and send the cops running in his direction. Apparently he still had a knack for knowing how to really blow it—big-time. Gideon’s eyes had nearly fallen from their
sockets when he’d seen the movie star walk up. In fact, he would have considered brain-altering smoke inhalation before he believed that Lincoln Cash owned the house he’d commandeered and, by accessory, incinerated. But Stefanie Noble and her big brother Nick, the guy who had probably saved his life, had no problem identifying the actor.

He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve Stefanie’s loaded-shotgun defense; he’d expected to be led off in handcuffs, right back to jail. He made a mental note never to cross Stefanie Noble.

Although it felt good—way too good—to have someone on his side. Especially when she offered him a place to stay. As much as he hated to say yes, he knew that Haley and Macey needed someplace warm. One night, he’d told himself. One safe, quiet night. And tomorrow he’d hike back to the ranch, fetch the Impala, pile his sisters inside, and head . . . somewhere.

Macey’s voice razored into his thoughts:
“Why did you bring us here anyway?”

His throat burned, his stomach empty and clenching. He hated the fact that he’d broken down last night. In front of Macey.

And Libby.

Gideon couldn’t believe she’d come to the fire. Couldn’t believe she’d stood by him. He should stop thinking about her, about her smile and those pretty eyes, the way she’d touched his arm as he turned to leave.

Stop thinking about her.

He sat up and took a deep breath, listening. He could hear voices downstairs—yes, Macey’s voice. Not Haley’s, of course.

Macey had told him that Haley stopped talking right before his trial, but he’d traced his thoughts back and couldn’t remember her
doing anything but babbling. Then again, she’d only been three at the time of the accident. Truthfully, he hadn’t been around much even before that, and by the time Haley had appeared on the scene, things had fallen apart in their family enough to make any toddler clam up, hold the pain inside.

That’s what he wanted to do. Should have done. Instead he’d run—straight into trouble. And look where it had gotten him. In smoky-smelling clothes, with greasy hair and another crime hanging over his head. Even if he didn’t get charged with arson, how about kidnapping? or breaking and entering?

Laughter drifted from the kitchen. Was that Haley?

Gideon stood, grabbed his jeans, and shucked them on. Then he crept toward the door. The aroma of breakfast—eggs and sausage?—roped him in, and he pulled on his shirt as he edged out into the hall.

“I put a pair of Rafe’s old jeans and a shirt in the bathroom. You can take a shower and help yourself, if you want.” The voice came from behind him, and he turned. Stefanie was pulling a towel from the closet. As she handed it to him, he noticed her jaw had begun to purple.

“I’m really sorry about that.” He nodded at the bruise.

“Don’t worry about it. Get cleaned up. Breakfast is almost ready.”

She had pretty eyes—dark, yet they bore kindness. She didn’t look that much older than him—with her long dark hair and her pink T-shirt under a brown corduroy shirt, her low-rider jeans. Yet something about her made her seem . . . wise, maybe.

He took the towel. “Thanks. We’ll be out of your way in a—”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so.” Her smile vanished, and for a second,
he saw the scene last night and the way she’d dismantled Lincoln Cash with her bare hands.

Gideon stepped back, toward the bathroom and refuge.

“Unless I’m reading the situation wrong, you have little money, an old car, no place to stay, and two sisters to care for. You’re either runaways or homeless, and my guess is that if you leave, you’ll simply drive until you find another vacant house and squat there for a while until some other disaster happens.”

“We’d make do.”

“Oh yeah, eating out of garbage cans. Stealing. Sleeping in the car. How long before something happens to Macey or Haley while you’re out ‘making do’? And what, exactly, will you have to do to ‘make do,’ Gideon? Because you’re not in jail now, but from my vantage point, you might as well start forwarding your mail.”

He already knew she didn’t pull her punches, and he wondered now if he might be bleeding. “Hey, I have a job. And I’m taking care of them.”

She held up her hand. He noticed the calluses. “Hold up. I’m not saying you aren’t trying. But is it the best life for them?”

He clenched his teeth, looked away. What did she know? “Just stay out of it. I never should have come here.”

Stefanie stepped to block his entrance into the bathroom. “You absolutely should have.”

With her tilted head, the way she folded her arms over her chest, she didn’t look easily moved. For a second, relief streaked through him. He’d hate for anyone to know how much he longed to stay.

Which was why his “What do you want from me?” came out less caustic than it could have.

Her eyes gentled. He felt like a piece of cellophane. If he didn’t watch it, he’d start bawling again. He looked away.

“Okay, the truth is, I want to help.” She looked down at her stocking feet, then back up, wearing a smile. “I know this is going to sound strange, but in a way, I think you’re sort of an answer to prayer. I’d like to help you and your sisters, if you’ll let me.”

Why would—oh, of course. Haley. Everyone loved Haley, with her big, innocent eyes. In fact, it had been Social Services’ decision to list Haley for adoption that prompted Macey’s panic and their subsequent escape from the group home.

This woman wanted Haley. She’d probably give Gideon and Macey a full tank of gas and a bag lunch if they’d agree to leave Haley behind.

Sorry, but he hadn’t boosted a car and committed a couple of misdemeanors and probably a felony for this know-it-all woman to swoop in and steal his sister.

“I don’t need your charity,” Gideon snapped and shoved the towel back at her. He thumped down the stairs and through the living room, his chest tight. He stalked through a nice-looking family room—leather chairs, stone fireplace, lots of homey, sweet family pictures on the wall—and into the kitchen.

Haley sat at a wooden table, clutching that grimy stuffed cat with one hand and scooping cereal into her mouth with the other. Macey sat beside her, eating an apple. Although Haley wore a clean shirt over her grubby pants, Macey still wore her black I-hate-the-world uniform, the sleeves of her pullover yanked down over her hands, her thumbs sticking out of holes she’d made in the cuffs. She looked at Gideon but didn’t smile.

Piper, the pregnant woman he’d seen last night, stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. She glanced at him. “Morning.”

He said nothing as he went over to Haley and pulled her to her feet. “We’re leaving, Mace. Now.”

Her jaw tightened, but for once she didn’t argue. She stood and grabbed another apple, sticking it in her pocket.

“Gideon!” Stefanie came barreling into the room.

He didn’t turn, even with Haley’s hand limp in his. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said, not nicely.

“At least eat something.”

For a second, a crazy impulse inside screamed,
Stay! Stay here and see what this woman, this family, has to offer.
He looked down at Haley, and her eyes had widened, her face pale.

Stay . . . so they could call Social Services, maybe even the cops, and have him hauled away, back to prison. Only this time he’d go to adult lockup. He couldn’t deny the fear that snaked through him.

“C’mon, Haley,” Gideon said, tugging her.

Idiot.
The word pulsed in his mind as he opened the door and walked out into the brisk air. The sky seemed to have collected the smoke from the night before, gunmetal gray in tone. It mirrored the misery that Macey and Haley wore on their faces. The wind swirled up dirt, spit it at him as he walked past the corral of horses, the pickups in the yard, down the drive. Off in the distance, he could hear cows mooing.

“Gideon!”

He didn’t turn at the voice, refusing to even let it slow his step.

“Where are we going, Gideon?” Macey said morosely.

He didn’t answer.

Smoke rose like fingers toward the heavens, some embers still glowing from under charred beams. Lincoln stood in the yard of his new ranch in quiet disbelief.

Last night, staring at the antler chandelier in the bedroom of the Buffalo B and B, acceptance had come easier, what with Mrs. Charles leaving out a piece of blueberry pie and milk and fixing him up in the best room—the one with the attached bathroom. The other bathrooms in the B and B were shared among all the other guests. Lincoln had needed all the privacy he could get trying to wrestle his body out of bed this morning. Thankfully, the Novantrone treatments he took might be starting to work; this morning one leg hadn’t felt two feet longer than the other, and even his hand felt more alive, and the trembling seemed to have stopped.

He just might pull off keeping his condition a secret.

Now, how might he go about building a film dynasty? Especially with a group of teenage vandals running around, burning houses to the ground? That might be something he should leave out of his travel brochure.

He’d certainly made a stellar impression on Stefanie. So much for letting his star status wow her. She’d hardly held herself back from leaping into his arms.

Okay, that fantasy might have been over the top, but it had been years since he’d had to work up more than a smile to attract a woman’s attention.

Not that he wanted hers. Maybe he should amend his dreams
of a real relationship with someone who would know him and believe in him despite his dark places. After the bruising Stefanie had done to his ego last night, he’d appreciate a few lies thrown his direction.

He held his cell phone up. He got one blip on analog. The wind scoured up ashes, flinging them onto the trampled, yellow grass around the house.

Perfect. Maybe he could start a grass fire, burn the entire county down.

He stuck his cell back into his pocket.

He’d spent the morning on the phone, first with his insurance agent, who promised to hurry on the claim but didn’t make any guarantees. Lincoln wasn’t sure the payoff would compensate for the time wasted. Then he’d connected with Delia, his assistant back in LA. Between barking at the movers, who were probably breaking his stuff, and listing his phone messages, she sounded like she hadn’t caught the fact that there’d be nowhere for her to live once she arrived. Good thing the B and B wasn’t full. He’d have to buy out the place for the next three months to house his crew. Or find a hotel in Billings.

He’d already told the contractor to bring in his house, which he’d ordered months ago when he’d closed on the property. A log home on a truck. He’d always wanted a log home, but knowing the cost of wood in Montana, he’d opted for a system used to truck in the wood. He’d picked out a spot on the hill above John’s house, and he had planned to use the old house as a visitor/reception center. Maybe he could have barbecues, invite all the local youths instead.

He let his mouth slide up on one side. This wasn’t Dallas. He didn’t have to panic about being overrun by delinquents in Phillips.
In fact, once he placed a call to the Social Services office in Billings, he’d probably never see the kid again.