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 guess you could say that,” she murmured.
Cheyenne respected her sister’s unspoken plea for privacy. She glanced at Ardis, who stood in her usual spot, checking the monitor while the tech from Respiratory handled the EKG machine.
The tech handed the printout to Cheyenne, then disconnected the leads from Susan’s chest. “Want me to leave the machine in here, Dr. Allison?”
“Yes, we’ll do another test after the heart rate slows down and we get rid of the muscle-tremor artifact.” Cheyenne gave her sister a reassuring grin. “It looks good, but we need to find out what’s causing this.”
“I’ve never felt like this before, Chey. I’m sorry to be such a big baby, but it scared me.”
“You’re no baby. Are you sure the pain doesn’t radiate to your jaw or your arm? Nothing in your back?”
“My hands feel tingly.”
“Both of them?”
Susan flexed her fingers. “Yes.”
“That could be from hyperventilation.”
“Is this what they call a panic attack?”
“It could be.” Panic attack would have been Cheyenne’s diagnosis if this were anyone else. But Susan was not one to panic. So what had sent her heart into overdrive?
Susan inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, but they flicked open again when the outgoing EKG tech greeted the incoming radiology tech, who pushed a portable X-ray machine in front of him.
“Susan, we’re going to get a picture of your chest,” Cheyenne explained. “Just relax. You know I’ll take care of you.” She leaned over the bed and held her sister’s gaze.
Susan took another deep breath and lay back, the midnight strands of her shaggy-cut hair splaying across the pillow. She looked up at Cheyenne, dark eyes filled with trust.
Cheyenne squeezed her arm. “You want me to have the secretary call Kirk?”
“No!” Susan’s head raised from the pillow once more. “Please, I don’t want him to know about this.”
“It’s all right,” Cheyenne said. “I won’t call.” She stepped out of the room long enough for the tech to get the X ray of Susan’s heart—just in case. “It’s going to be okay,” she called reassuringly from the doorway.
What was the problem between Susan and her husband?
Chapter Two
Dane stood beside Clint at the far edge of the yard and watched Willy and Gavin walk toward the barn—Willy’s typically talking hands graced the air to emphasize whatever verbal point he was trying to make with Gavin.
What a contrast—the scrawny fourteen-year-old with closely cropped brown hair and glasses was nearly a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter than Gavin. Where Gavin had muscles, Willy had skin. Where Gavin had dreadlocks, Willy had—practically—skin.
“The dreadlocks will take some adjustment,” Dane said.
Clint chuckled. “For Blaze or for you?”
“For Hideaway. And I refuse to call him Blaze. It’s derogatory.”
“You’ve been living out here in the sticks too long, Dane. You need to get to the city more often.”
“No, thanks.”
“Still hiding out?”
“I’m not hiding from anything.” Dane used his “back off” voice as he nodded toward Gavin. “He’s already got two problems fitting in.”
“Do I want to hear this?”
“He’s a ‘ranch kid,’ and he’s got dark skin.”
“Hold it.” Clint made a show of covering his ears. “It isn’t politically correct for me to hear this.”
“You don’t like the term ranch kid?”
“You know what—”
“Deal with it. That’s the way it is here. When I came to Hideaway, I moved back twenty years in time—in some ways, more like fifty. Many of the natives have been