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Authors: Susan May Warren
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planned on living in John’s old digs, but he’d slotted the demolition of the house after the building of the theater.
This accident might even have saved him a headache. It probably wouldn’t hurt him to let go of his anger. Except for the fact that Lincoln knew, better than most, how kids like the one who had torched his house only meant trouble. Trouble and hurt and danger and—most of all—tragedy.
He watched as Stefanie rounded up the two girls, motioned to Gideon, then gave Lincoln a stinging glare as she walked past him, toward a truck sitting not far away on the back side of the property.
Lincoln’s gaze fell to the little girl walking hand in hand with her older sister. His gut twisted so tight his eyes began to burn.
The punk belonged in jail. Before he hurt someone else.
Someone like Alyssa.
Stefanie still couldn’t believe the way she’d treated Lincoln Cash.
Her sarcastic tone, the horrible way she’d reacted to his tragedy. She had overreacted in an epic, live-in-her-nightmares kind of way.
Even if he had been calloused toward the need radiating from the kids or the wretched guilt on Gideon’s face, she didn’t have to go into she-bear mode.
It was just . . . well, she expected so much more from him—no, wanted— more from him. She wanted the charming guy she’d metlast summer, the one she’d seen on the big screen, the one who occupied her hopes. Maybe it had been his attitude that set her off, arriving in his shiny luxury rental car with his bad-boy looks, his designer jeans and leather jacket, swaggering in like he owned the place.
Which, apparently, he did.
What was he doing back in Phillips, anyway? The last thing her town needed was his entourage clogging traffic. And where was his arm candy, Elise Fontaine? Stefanie hadn’t seen—okay, purchased —a magazine in the last six months that didn’t have a shot of them together somewhere in the pages, if not on the front cover.
Stefanie ran a hair pick through her wet hair. She’d showered right after showing Gideon to Rafe and Nick’s room and getting the two girls settled in her old room. Although she’d purchased a new comforter and pillows, it still felt just as girlie as when her mother had remodeled it the year before she died. Pink roses on the wallpaper, a shelf for knickknacks—mostly Stefanie’s horse collection. And a dollhouse her parents had made for her eighth birthday, complete with miniature furniture, set on a table in the corner. Over the years, she’d taken down the posters and the dusty horse-riding trophies, the basket of stuffed animals. But with the white-painted French provincial dresser and desk and matching double bed her parents got on mail order from Montgomery Ward, the room still looked like it might belong to a twelve-year-old. Stefanie hadn’t had much time since her thirteenth birthday to do anything but tend to ranch chores.
Besides, sometimes, deep inside, she longed to be twelve again. Longed to be the girl who dreamed of maybe someday raising a herd of horses and using them to help troubled children. She’d evennamed her dream ranch—Redemption Ranch. She’d rescue horses and children, and just like she and Sunny had, they would heal each other. She hadn’t taken those dreams out to scrutinize for . . . years. Definitely not since her mother passed away.
But suddenly, like an echo of an old prayer, those dreams had formed right before her eyes as she’d watched Gideon tumble out of his car and sprint toward Kincaid’s burning house. Even after he’d hit her, everything inside her had longed to help him. Especially when he collapsed in the dirt, one hand over his face, trying to hide his tears. She’d have to be made of stone not to see how much he cared about his sisters.
Which, apparently, was the substance of Lincoln’s heart. Stone or perhaps granite. So much for his hero image. Heroes didn’t kick down-on-their-luck kids in the teeth.
“Since when did you become
This accident might even have saved him a headache. It probably wouldn’t hurt him to let go of his anger. Except for the fact that Lincoln knew, better than most, how kids like the one who had torched his house only meant trouble. Trouble and hurt and danger and—most of all—tragedy.
He watched as Stefanie rounded up the two girls, motioned to Gideon, then gave Lincoln a stinging glare as she walked past him, toward a truck sitting not far away on the back side of the property.
Lincoln’s gaze fell to the little girl walking hand in hand with her older sister. His gut twisted so tight his eyes began to burn.
The punk belonged in jail. Before he hurt someone else.
Someone like Alyssa.
Stefanie still couldn’t believe the way she’d treated Lincoln Cash.
Her sarcastic tone, the horrible way she’d reacted to his tragedy. She had overreacted in an epic, live-in-her-nightmares kind of way.
Even if he had been calloused toward the need radiating from the kids or the wretched guilt on Gideon’s face, she didn’t have to go into she-bear mode.
It was just . . . well, she expected so much more from him—no, wanted— more from him. She wanted the charming guy she’d metlast summer, the one she’d seen on the big screen, the one who occupied her hopes. Maybe it had been his attitude that set her off, arriving in his shiny luxury rental car with his bad-boy looks, his designer jeans and leather jacket, swaggering in like he owned the place.
Which, apparently, he did.
What was he doing back in Phillips, anyway? The last thing her town needed was his entourage clogging traffic. And where was his arm candy, Elise Fontaine? Stefanie hadn’t seen—okay, purchased —a magazine in the last six months that didn’t have a shot of them together somewhere in the pages, if not on the front cover.
Stefanie ran a hair pick through her wet hair. She’d showered right after showing Gideon to Rafe and Nick’s room and getting the two girls settled in her old room. Although she’d purchased a new comforter and pillows, it still felt just as girlie as when her mother had remodeled it the year before she died. Pink roses on the wallpaper, a shelf for knickknacks—mostly Stefanie’s horse collection. And a dollhouse her parents had made for her eighth birthday, complete with miniature furniture, set on a table in the corner. Over the years, she’d taken down the posters and the dusty horse-riding trophies, the basket of stuffed animals. But with the white-painted French provincial dresser and desk and matching double bed her parents got on mail order from Montgomery Ward, the room still looked like it might belong to a twelve-year-old. Stefanie hadn’t had much time since her thirteenth birthday to do anything but tend to ranch chores.
Besides, sometimes, deep inside, she longed to be twelve again. Longed to be the girl who dreamed of maybe someday raising a herd of horses and using them to help troubled children. She’d evennamed her dream ranch—Redemption Ranch. She’d rescue horses and children, and just like she and Sunny had, they would heal each other. She hadn’t taken those dreams out to scrutinize for . . . years. Definitely not since her mother passed away.
But suddenly, like an echo of an old prayer, those dreams had formed right before her eyes as she’d watched Gideon tumble out of his car and sprint toward Kincaid’s burning house. Even after he’d hit her, everything inside her had longed to help him. Especially when he collapsed in the dirt, one hand over his face, trying to hide his tears. She’d have to be made of stone not to see how much he cared about his sisters.
Which, apparently, was the substance of Lincoln’s heart. Stone or perhaps granite. So much for his hero image. Heroes didn’t kick down-on-their-luck kids in the teeth.
“Since when did you become
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