.

she needed to offer the kids. But not Montana. Not close to Garth. “We’d need to have dormitories—and classrooms—it’s not just the land, it’s the facilities.”

      “I’ve got two bunkhouses I never use and a couple of grain sheds that could be cleared out and heated,” Garth persisted. He tried not to press too hard. He didn’t want to make Sylvia bolt and run. He knew from riding untamed horses that it was best not to press the unwary too hard. “And it would only be temporary, of course, until you can locate another place that you like.”

      “We’ll take it,” Mrs. Buckwalter announced eagerly.

      “But we have staff to consider.” Sylvia stood her ground. “We’ve got Melissa and Pat, but we’ll need another one, maybe two counselors. I can’t just move them to Montana at the drop of a hat.”

      Mrs. Buckwalter waved her hand, dismissing the objection. “There are people in Montana. We’ll hire them.” She pointed at Garth. “We could hire him. He could teach these boys what they need to know to be men.”

      Garth swallowed. He couldn’t claim to be a role model for anyone. His relationship with his son wasn’t one he’d brag about. And he wasn’t proud of some of the things he’d done in his life. Now that Dry Creek had a pastor, he’d thought about going back to church, but he was a long way from role-model material. Still, he heard himself say it anyway. “I’ll do it.”

      Sylvia looked at him skeptically. “But we can’t just hire anyone. They need to be a licensed counselor. Besides, I’m sure it would be too much trouble for Mr. Elkton. He can’t possibly want twenty or thirty teenagers around.”

      Garth didn’t bother to think about that one. He might not want thirty teenagers around, but he wanted Sylvia around, and if he had to take thirty teenagers as part of the deal, he’d welcome them. After all, he’d had killer bulls in his corrals and free-range stallions in his fields. How much trouble could a few kids be?

      “Besides, there’s the matter of the rustling—” Sylvia remembered the fact gratefully. This was her trump card. No one would suggest putting down in the middle of a crime circle a camp to get kids out of crime.

      “They’ve been quiet for a bit.” Garth squeezed the truth a little. He knew for a fact the rustlers were still there. He’d even been asked to help tip the Feds off on their whereabouts. He’d told the Feds he knew nothing. He didn’t. But he knew instinctively the rustlers were still there. He suspected they were just regrouping their distribution efforts before swinging back into operation.

      “These kids aren’t interested in stealing cows,” Mrs. Buckwalter interrupted impatiently. “Mr. Elkton’s ranch is the place for them. Besides, if you wait to find the ideal camp, you’ll be waiting three, maybe four years.”

      And in three years who knows who will run the Buckwalter Foundation, Sylvia thought to herself in resignation. It surely wouldn’t be Mrs. Buckwalter. Sylvia doubted the older woman would be allowed very many of these eccentric fundings.

      Sylvia steeled herself. She needed to put her own nervousness aside and at least consider the options. If the kids were going to have a camp anytime soon, they would have to do it Mrs. Buckwalter’s way. And there were some pluses—the facilities were ready. She could take the kids away now. Especially John.

      She knew the codes that the gangs lived by and, even though the Seattle gangs weren’t as territorial as some, she knew that gangs lived and died by their reputations. Whoever was after John would want him even more now that they’d been stopped.

      And it might not just be John. The kids in the center stood up for each other. They might all be in extra danger.

      “Okay, I’ll think about it.” Sylvia said.

      She didn’t realize how intently the teenagers were listening until she heard a collective groan. “They ain’t even got TV there,” one of the older boys yelled out as though that automatically vetoed any decision. “Not in the middle of Montana.”

      Garth grinned. “Sure we do. Satellite. You can see educational programs from around the world.” Garth grinned again. “Even get some old Lawrence Welk reruns.”

      An expression of alarm cross the boy’s face.

      “I’m not interested in educational TV or no Welk stuff. I want to know if you get Baywatch.”

      “You’ll be too busy to watch TV,” Sylvia interjected. She wasn’t as optimistic as she sounded. Thirty teenagers and educational television. She wasn’t ready for this. “We could have lessons in the various plants and animals around the area.”

      Another collective groan erupted.

      “And maybe we can learn to—” Sylvia hesitated. What would they do in Montana in the winter? She couldn’t see the kids taking up quilting. Or playing checkers.

      “Skiing,” Mrs. Buckwalter announced grandly. “In all that snow there should be good skiing.”

      The protest this time was halfhearted and the kids all looked at their shoes.

      “That stuff’s for rich kids,” one of the girls finally muttered. “Skiing’s expensive.”

      Sylvia hated it when she could see how some of her kids had been treated. The center served a mixture of races. Some Asian, some African-Americans and a handful of whites. All of the kids felt poor, like all of the good opportunities in life had gone to someone else. The fact that the kids were right made Sylvia determined to change things.

      “We’ll have enough to rent some skis,” Sylvia promised, resolving to make the budget stretch that far.

      “Rent?” Mrs. Buckwalter snorted. “I’ll personally buy a pair of skis for anyone who learns how to ski.” She gestured grandly. “Of course, that only comes after they learn how to dance.” The older woman’s face softened with memories only she saw. “They’ll need to learn to waltz for the formal dinner/dance.”

      Garth looked at Sylvia. He could tell from the resigned look on her face that she wasn’t surprised.

      “Mrs. Buckwalter wants the camp to teach them manners,” Sylvia explained quietly to Garth.

      “And you, of course, can help.” Mrs. Buckwalter smiled at Garth. “A gentleman of your obvious refinement would be a good teacher for the boys. Opening doors, butter knives—that sort of thing.”

      “Me?” Garth choked out before he stopped himself. He already knew he’d do anything—even stand on his head in a snowdrift—if that’s what it took to have Sylvia around long enough to know her. But gentleman! Butter knives! He was becoming as alarmed as the teenagers facing him.

      “And, of course, you’ll help with the dance lessons,” Mrs. Buckwalter continued blithely.

      “I don’t—I—” Garth looked around for some escape. Butter knives were one thing. But dancing! He couldn’t dance. He didn’t know how. Still—He steeled himself. He’d flown fighter planes. He’d tiptoed around minefields. “I’d be delighted.”

      “Good,” Mrs. Buckwalter said. The older woman’s face was placid, but Garth caught a slight movement of the chin. The woman was laughing inside, he was sure of it.

      Oh, well, he didn’t care how she amused herself. Rich society people probably had a strange sense of humor. He didn’t care. He’d gotten what he wanted. Sylvia was coming to his ranch.

      Maybe. He cautioned himself. He’d been watching the kids. He knew the battle wasn’t over. As they’d listened to the older woman, their initial alarm had increased until they were speechless.

      “Manners—” the smallest boy in the group finally croaked out the words. “We’ll get beat up for sure when they find out we’ve been sent off to learn manners.”

      “We’ll show them manners,” John declared, standing defiantly. “We’ll get them for what they’ve done.”

      “There’ll