forced her back to the wall. She had to prevent him from demolishing the warehouse while she attempted to line up foster homes for the children—not an easy job when the kids’ files had been flagged as troublemakers.
“Are you and the others safe at night, José?” Duke asked, glancing at Renée.
She balled her hands into fists. Clearly the man believed she’d failed in her job as a social worker to meet the needs of these kids.
Haven’t you, Renée? She blamed bureaucratic red tape for not being able to help all of Detroit’s children in crisis. When a child slipped through the cracks, she asked herself if there was anything more she could have done. Had she missed details that might have made a difference in placing the kids in foster homes? She hated that Duke made her doubt herself. She’d only met him two days ago, but for some stupid reason the cowboy’s opinion of her mattered.
“We’re safe here,” José mumbled. He looked at Renée before adding, “Two drunks sleep in the building next door, but they leave us alone.” The teen indicated the Detroit United Railway Company powerhouse. The shell of a building would make an interesting view from the window of Duke’s executive office.
“Glad to hear you’re watching out for strangers,” Duke said.
Crystal rolled her eyes. “We don’t go out after dark.”
Before the conversation lost its amicableness, Renée inquired, “How are you doing with supplies?” This past Wednesday when she’d discovered the group, she’d collected hand wipes, toilet paper, Kleenex, food and water.
She’d offered to escort the kids to a shelter to shower, but they’d refused, understanding that they’d be required to give their names and then be detained by the Department of Child and Family Services until an investigation into their situation had been conducted. These kids weren’t new to the system.
“We need another blanket.” José spoke up.
“Did one of the covers get ruined?” Renée had given them a car-trunkful of bedding from a local church.
“Not exactly.” José’s gaze skirted her face.
Renée deduced that the teen had traded the blanket for a pack of smokes. He had a habit of stealing from his foster homes and swapping the items for cigarettes. “Are you smoking again?”
“What if I am?” The words would have sounded more threatening if his pubescent voice hadn’t cracked.
Renée narrowed her eyes, held out her hand and dared the teen to defy her. After a tense standoff, the teen withdrew an almost empty pack of cigarettes from his pants’ pocket and handed it over. “Thank you.” Then she spoke to the group. “What about breakfast foods and snacks?”
“We’re good,” Crystal answered.
The parishioners of Most Holy Trinity Church had donated granola bars, crackers, cookies and a bottle of chewable vitamins for the children. She hadn’t dared leave the vitamins with the kids or they’d gobble them up like candy and become ill. She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a bag filled with the animal-shaped supplements. “Hands out,” she instructed, placing a tablet on each palm.
“Okay, then. Any last requests before Mr. Dalton and I fetch supper?”
Timmy raised his hand. “I finished my math problems.”
“Bring me the workbook so I remember what level to get next time.” A retired teacher in Renée’s neighborhood had dropped off boxes of outdated math and reading materials to area shelters and Renée had confiscated a few for Timmy. “Anyone else need a workbook?”
A mini revolt erupted, and she laughed. “All right, all right.” The last thing on these kids’ minds was learning.
When Timmy handed over his work packet, Renée said, “This is fourth-grade level. I’m impressed.” Out of all the kids, Timmy loved to learn. “I’ll find you a fifth-grade level.” She hugged each child again. Except José—he stepped aside, being too tough for affection.
“Stay safe and warm and—”
“Watch out for each other,” Evie finished for her.
Renée waited until the kids crawled inside the cardboard tunnel. This was the most difficult part—leaving them behind. Then she felt Duke’s hand on her elbow. Drat the man for his solicitous support—he was the enemy. In silence they navigated the stairwell to the first floor.
As soon as they exited the building he growled in her ear, “Why the hell are those kids living in my warehouse? And why the hell are you allowing them to?”
DUKE ESCORTED RENÉE to the station wagon, glancing over his shoulder, worrying that the drunks in the nearby building might follow them. Cold wind whipped his face, but red-hot anger melted the icy sting.
Gut clenched as if he’d been punched by the world’s biggest bully, he forced his fingers to relax against Renée’s arm lest he give in to the temptation to squeeze until he cut off her blood supply. He was on the verge of losing control—both terrifying and humiliating. He teetered on the rim of an emotional cliff unsure how to combat the surge of feelings assaulting him physically and mentally.
Fear. That the kids on the fifth floor might be dead right now if Renée hadn’t arrived at the warehouse in time to prevent the wrecking ball from pummeling the brick walls. Anger. That Renée hadn’t come clean with him Friday night at the diner. Fury. That the children had been deserted and left to fend for themselves like a pack of wild dogs. And lastly, guilt of all things. Tonight he’d sleep in a warm, clean bed while the kids on the fifth floor huddled together in a cardboard tunnel.
When they reached the car, he yanked open the driver’s-side door for Renée, then crawled into the passenger seat. With new clarity, he appreciated the saying ignorance is bliss. Through the years, he’d read newspaper articles and viewed newscasts about the country’s homeless. He accepted that these people inhabited the world. But until tonight they’d never been a part of his world.
“Duke?” The soft, shaky question snuck past his fury.
“I’m thinking,” he snapped. Was he nuts? An idiot to believe he’d relocate his company to Detroit and the process would unfold without a hitch? He envisioned a new glass-and-steel structure replacing the old warehouse—an architectural showpiece standing tall and proud in the middle of blocks of rubble. Had he been so determined to escape his stepfather’s shadow that he’d convinced himself buying that block of rubble was a wise decision?
“Are you okay?” Worry carved a line across Renée’s forehead.
“No, I’m not okay.” He clenched his hands into fists. “And you’d better not be okay with the kids living in those conditions.” She jerked as if he’d slapped her.
Add remorse to the list of feelings gutting him.
“It’s a long story.” Her sigh reached inside his chest and yanked hard. “Sure you want to hear?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
She started the car and left the lot. As she navigated what little traffic there was on a Sunday night, he muttered, “I can’t get their faces out of my mind.” There was something terribly unconscionable about discarded children.
Duke had felt alone when his father had passed away, but he’d had his mother. She might not have spared much time for him, but at least she hadn’t left him to fend for himself the way these children had been.
“I’ve seen more bad than good in my line of work,” Renée said. “Believe me, there are worse dwellings for those kids.”
“They shouldn’t be allowed to stay there,” he argued.
“They aren’t being allowed.” At his fierce scowl, she added, “There’s a reason they’re getting away with hiding out in a derelict