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“Hey, Parker, wait up!”
Miranda called to the man who barreled on ahead like a steam engine. “I’m going to give the dog this bit of steak I saved from dinner.”
Stopping midstride, Lincoln Parker turned and noticed the mist from Randi’s breath curling around her head. “Okay, but make it snappy. If we stay out too long we’ll freeze.”
Smiling, she peered up from where she’d knelt to feed the shivering dog. “I love cold, crisp autumns. Reminds me of home.”
“Really? Where’s home?” Linc pounced on her statement.
Miranda felt the color drain from her face. She felt exposed. Trapped. “I can’t tell you that, Parker—Linc. Please don’t send me away. I’m…ah—”
“What? On the lam from the cops?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” Stronger now, she didn’t fumble so much for words. “There’s some…one I’m running from.”
Linc drew back and studied her pale features. “A man?”
Looking stricken, Miranda nodded. She waited for the logical next question and then for the ax to fall.
“You’re running from a husband, then?” he asked harshly.
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
Dear Reader,
The heroine of this story, Miranda Kimbrough, has lived inside my head for several years. She came to me one day when I overheard a well-known singer telling a companion that life at the top of the music charts isn’t always rosy.
Since then, I’ve listened to interviews with singing sensations from a variety of musical fields. Many hinted at what the first woman had said. Life at the top means hard work, sleepless nights, endless days on the road, constant pressure from managers, promoters and fans to keep producing hits. As the pressure builds, one singer said, “You lose pieces of your life and almost all of your heart.”
The love stories we write are about healing and redemption. It’s taken me all this time to find my exhausted country singer a fitting mate. But because love itself isn’t easy, and because I wanted to make Miranda’s love everlasting, I needed Lincoln Parker to have fought his own battles. So that when he commits himself to Miranda, it’s with all his heart.
I hope readers will come to appreciate, as I have, the long road to love embarked on by “Misty” Kimbrough, country legend, and Linc Parker, emotionally scarred former Hollywood financial wizard. And I hope you’ll take to heart the ragtag mix of homeless kids who help show them the way.
I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, AZ 85731 or e-mail me at [email protected].
Best,
Roz Denny Fox
A Cowboy at Heart
Roz Denny Fox
To my daughters, Kelly and Korynna. I’m so proud of you
for your patience in dealing with children, and for the
loving moms you’ve both become. This book’s for you.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
Los Angeles, California
HIGH ON A HILLSIDE above a posh Hollywood community where he served as financial adviser to a wide array of successful movie and rock stars, thirty-two-year-old Lincoln Parker stared absently down at the six-month-old grave of his kid sister, Felicity. Sinking to his knees, Parker anchored a small bouquet of yellow roses to the stone. He paid scant heed to the gusty Santa Ana winds tugging at his suit coat. Pretty as the roses were, Linc considered them a sad commemoration on what should have been his sister’s seventeenth birthday.
“Felicity, I, uh…I’m trying to make good on my promise. The one I…made far too late to help you.” Pausing, Linc scrubbed at tears that spilled over his cheeks. “Just…maybe I can save other kids from suffering your fate. God, honey, I hope you know how sorry I am that I didn’t s-see you were serious.”
Heaving himself up, Linc thrust shaking hands deep into the pockets of his pin-striped pants. Gazing across endless rows of flat, gray headstones, he swallowed the huge lump in his throat and clamped his teeth tight against further apologies his sister would never hear.
Damn, he’d tried to provide for her after their mom died. His sister had been a change-of-life baby for their movie-star mother and a much older director. Olivia Parker hadn’t wanted a second kid, and Felicity’s father reportedly still had a wife. Linc’s own dad was also in the film business, but he’d long before succumbed to alcohol and had never been part of Linc’s existence. At the time their mom ended her messed-up life, Linc had just finished high school. Because he’d been awarded a full scholarship to U.C. Berkeley, the family-court judge had asked his maternal grandmother to take charge of the Parker household.
Looking back, Linc saw that Grandmother Welch had been far too permissive a caretaker for an impressionable growing girl. At the time, though, he’d gone blithely off to university, glad to be liberated from the daunting task. After all, what had he, at eighteen, known about raising kids? “Not a damn thing!” Linc shook his head.
After a last grim perusal of his sister’s grave, he turned and strode briskly toward his silver Jaguar.
In the years between Grandmother Welch’s death, thanks largely to her hedonistic lifestyle, when he was twenty-five, and Felicity’s—of a street drug overdose, the cops said—Linc had committed sins of his own. Overindulgence of his sister was clearly uppermost among them. He accepted the blame. Hell, he’d burst onto the Hollywood scene with a shiny new MBA, and he’d obviously worn blinders when it came to anyone’s excesses. Including his sister’s… Still, he believed that his belated decision to atone for past transgressions was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
As if his musings triggered a response, his cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He retrieved it and flipped open the case as he slid beneath the car’s wood-grained steering wheel.
It seemed fortuitous to hear John Montoya’s voice. “Hi, Linc. I’m up north, at the ranch you asked me to check out.”
“I’m afraid to ask, John. Is the place a disaster or is it anything like the ad in Sunday’s paper?”
“Basically it meets your requirements—unless you count the fact that it’s twenty miles from anything resembling a town,” Montoya said with a chuckle.
“Good. Perfect. I’ve been reading up on ranching and on teen refugees, plus talking to people. So there’s a livable bunkhouse and main residence, as well as a parcel of raw land?”
“Uh…yeah. Three hundred or so acres. You’ll want to change the name, though. Rascal Ranch doesn’t seem appropriate for what you’ve got in mind. According to the representative from the Oasis Foundation—the current owners—the