rel="nofollow" href="#u923fdd0b-2ed1-5956-a78a-1fe88c8f6cb3">CHAPTER FOUR
NATE RESTED GLOVED hands on the gatepost and watched the long green van pull up to the barn. Over the past few days, he’d spoken several times with Eden Quinn, who’d called to ask if she could bring the teen boys in her care to the Double M for a weekend of communing with nature.
Right off the bat, he translated “boys in her care” to mean juvenile delinquents, and issued a matter-of-fact no. If they weren’t trouble, they’d be home with their parents or guardians instead of some county-run facility. Nate had to hand it to her, though, because after she repeated her spiel three different ways, he gave in. It was Memorial Day weekend, after all, and the ranch hands had scattered to the four winds, leaving him and Carl to hold down the fort. Once he’d taken the boys’ measure, he’d decide whether or not he could trust them alone in the bunkhouse. But no need to worry about that just yet, since it wasn’t likely they’d last until dark. In his experience, city folk shied away from work—the good old-fashioned hard work that involved powerful animals and manure.
As the van came to a stop, Nate thumbed his tan Stetson to the back of his head. The boys, staring out the windows, did their best to look older and tougher than their years. To date, his only experience with young’uns of any kind involved his cousins’ kids, all happy, well-adjusted and under the age of ten. Nabbing sweets without permission was the worst crime any of them had committed. Something told him this hard-edged bunch was long past lifting cookies before dinner, and he hoped he hadn’t made a gigantic mistake inviting them to the family’s ranch.
The noonday sun, gleaming from the windshield, blocked his view of the driver. After seeing the boys’ sour expressions, he half expected someone who resembled Nurse Ratched to exit the vehicle. Instead, a petite woman in a plaid shirt and snug jeans hopped down from the driver’s seat and slid the side door open with a strength that belied her size.
“Okay, guys, everybody out!”
Nate recognized the husky-yet-feminine voice from their phone calls. He’d been way off base, thinking she’d look like a burly prison guard. He guessed her age at twenty-four, tops. But she had to be older than that if she’d passed muster with the state officials who’d hired her.
One by one, the teens exited the van and stared gap-jawed at the Rockies’ Front Range. As Eden walked toward him, he noticed her high-topped sneakers that would probably fit his eight-year-old niece. Nate grinned to himself, wondering how feet that small kept her upright...and how long the shoes would stay white.
“Hi,” she said, extending a hand, “I’m Eden Quinn.”
The strength of her handshake, like everything else about her, surprised him. She pumped his arm up and down as if she expected water to trickle from his fingertips.
“Nate Marshall said I should meet him here at noon. If you’ll just tell me where to find him—”
“I’m Nate,” he said, releasing her hand. “Good to meet you.” He’d uttered the phrase, but couldn’t remember ever meaning it more.
Eden tucked her fingertips into the back pockets of her jeans. “I expected you’d be, well, older.”
“Ditto,” he said, grinning.
Eden rested a hand on the nearest teen’s shoulder. “This is my right-hand man, Kirk Simons, and these are our boys.”
Nate followed Eden and Kirk down the line, shaking each boy’s hand as she introduced them.
“Is that a Stetson?” one asked.
Nate smiled. “Yep.”
“Cool.”
At the other end of the line, Eden clasped her hands together and faced Nate. “So where do we start?”
He searched each boy’s face to single out the troublemakers. One or two gave him pause, but none showed any signs of blatant mutiny. He hoped the same would be true when the green van drove back down the driveway.
“Leave your gear in the van for now,” he said. “Let’s head on into the barn. Once we’re saddled up, I’ll give you the nickel tour of the Double M.”
“Saddle up? None of us ever rode a horse before.”
The kid looked sixteen, maybe seventeen, and spoke with an authority that seemed out of place, given the fact that he lived in a place like Latimer House.
“Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine,” Nate assured him.
“Can we pick any horse we want?”
Eden had told him the boys were fifteen to seventeen. This one, Nate decided, must have a growth hormone problem.
“Why don’t we let Mr. Marshall choose this time,” Kirk said. “He’ll know better how to match you up with a horse that isn’t a runner, or worse, one that isn’t of a mind to move at all.”
The suggestion satisfied them, and like mustangs, the boys charged ahead, laughing like four-year-olds as they raced toward the barn.
“Hey, fellas,” he called after them, “hold it down, or you’ll spook ’em.”
Instantly, they quieted and slowed their pace. This might not be such a bad weekend after all. If they survived