Читать книгу The Chosen Child - Brenda Mott - Страница 11

CODY WATCHED NIKKI ride away, his heart heavy. He wanted to go after her, sit her down and make things right between them. But he didn’t exactly know how to go about doing that.

He shook off the thought. Nikki needed a little time to let it sink in. Lord knew, it hadn’t yet sunk in for him—that they would actually be living apart. Sure, he was still on the ranch, but the acreage separating him from Nikki felt like the Grand Canyon. Still, he needed to focus on work and his search for Anna’s killer.

Not expecting Nikki to be home until tomorrow, he’d made arrangements for Dustin’s foster parents to bring him to the ranch this morning. Cody had a long row of fencing that needed to be repaired and replaced, and he figured it would keep Dustin out of trouble. It was also a good way to get to know him better. The more time he’d spent around the kid, the more curious he was about Dustin Holbrook.

In spite of his penchant for mischief, the only previous trouble Sylvia could recall was Dustin’s shoplifting a candy bar when he was eight. According to her and Frank, Dustin did things to get attention, even if that attention was negative. Like joining a gang and spray-painting a squad car. But his attitude made it difficult to find him a permanent home.

Cody rode back to the barn, but not until he’d given Nikki ample time to put her mare up and return to the house. He unsaddled Raven and rubbed him down before turning the gelding back out with the other horses. Forcing himself not to so much as glance at the ranch house, Cody made his way to his pickup truck, Max at his heels, and checked to make sure he had the tools and supplies he and Dustin would need for the fence.

Minutes later, the sound of a vehicle drew his attention, and Max barked a warning as the Thompsons’ minivan pulled into the drive. Sylvia parked beside Cody’s Chevy and leaned through the open window, her long, gray-streaked ponytail hanging over one shoulder. She gave him the same warm smile she always wore whenever he went through her checkout line at Wal-Mart. “Hi, Cody. How’s it going?”

“Not bad, Sylvia.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. He nodded toward Sylvia’s husband. “Good to see you again, Frank.” He didn’t know Frank well, but he seemed like a pretty good guy. Walked with a limp as the result of some shrapnel he’d taken in his hip in Nam.

“Likewise.” Frank nodded. “I sure appreciate you finding some more chores for Dustin.” The older man shot the kid a look.

“No problem.” Cody craned his neck to peer into the van where Dustin sat in the middle seat beside one of his foster siblings, brooding as usual. He hadn’t taken kindly to the community service he’d been assigned, much less to the extra work Frank and Sylvia had sentenced him to. “Ready to string some fence, Dustin?”

“I guess.”

Progress. Not much, but some.

“I wanna help, too.” Five-year-old Michael spoke from the back seat. Beside him, the two-year-old, Jessica, began to fuss in her car seat.

“So do I.” Michelle, seven, smiled widely at Cody.

He smiled back. “You keep eating your vegetables, kids, so you’ll grow big and strong, and then we’ll talk.”

“I am big and strong,” Michelle insisted.

“I think I’m going to puke.” Dustin rolled his eyes and climbed from the van, his body language letting everyone know there were a thousand places he’d rather be than here.

“Dustin,” Frank warned, “mind your manners.”

But Dustin only scowled, ignoring Frank. With both hands he ruffled Max’s fur, avoiding further conversation. Cody had been surprised by the way the big German shepherd had taken to the boy—and vice versa—the first time the two had met.

Max’s normal attitude ran the gamut from aloof to forbearance. He’d been Cody’s dog for two years now, after a gunshot wound had put him out of commission as a K-9 officer with the neighboring Ferguson Police Department. Though he tolerated and respected Cody, Max had never shown much interest in bonding or being overly friendly toward anyone after losing contact with his partner. Until Dustin came along. Even now, despite his normal pickiness, he took the bone-shaped treat the boy withdrew from his pocket and chomped it down with enthusiasm.

Turning his attention from dog to boy, Cody noticed Dustin’s previously long and shaggy, chestnut-brown hair trimmed to a reasonable length. Yet he still wore baggy jeans and running shoes with his ball cap at a cocked angle to match his attitude. Instead of his usual oversized T-shirt, he’d put on a long-sleeved shirt, untucked. Stringing fence, even if it was barbless wire, wasn’t something a person wanted to do without the protection of sleeves and leather gloves.

“Let’s get to it.” Cody gave the van’s door a friendly tap. “’Bye, kids.” He waved at Jessica, who paused in the throes of fussing to stare at Cody, wide-eyed. Cody tried not to think about how the little girl’s big, blue eyes reminded him of the child he’d lost. “Frank, Sylvia, see you later.”

“Keep him busy,” Frank said. “Dustin, you remember what I said about minding your manners.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dustin sulked away from the minivan, hands shoved into deep front pockets.

A long chain hung from the wallet in his back pocket down to his knees, then disappeared back up beneath his shirttail, attached to his belt, the end of which also dangled down the leg of his pants. He postured a gangsta walk as he made his way to the Chevy and climbed inside. Cody shook his head and followed as the sound of the Thompsons’ van faded down the driveway. He opened the driver’s door of the pickup and let Max jump up onto the seat before sliding in after him.

Dustin remained silent as Cody started the truck and headed out a ranch road that led to the back half of the property.

“Did you bring gloves?” Cody eyed Dustin’s baggy jeans. A person could hide a small child and two dogs in the pockets of those things.

“Don’t need ’em.”

Cody bit back a sigh. “Yeah, you do need ’em.” He leaned forward and retrieved the kid-sized pair of leather gloves he’d picked up at the feed store yesterday, and tossed them in Dustin’s lap. Dustin glared at him, but Cody ignored him.

“I’m not a hick.” Dustin spoke the word in such a way that let Cody know exactly what he thought of him.

“I believe the politically correct term is cowboy,” Cody shot back. Then he softened. He was supposed to be setting a good example, not arguing with the kid. “Look, the gloves are for your safety, like I told you before. I’m not trying to make you be a hick.”

“Don’t you mean ‘cowboy’?” Dustin looked out the passenger side window as though bored out of his mind. “How can you stand living out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Cody resisted his initial impulse to throttle the kid. The ranch meant almost as much to him as his marriage. It might be the only one of the two he had left at the moment.

Hell, if he lost Nikki, nothing else would matter.

“This ranch has been in my family for almost seventy years.”

“That’s probably because nobody else would want it.”

This time, Cody was unable to hold his emotions in check. “Look, Dustin, you put yourself in this situation,” he snapped. “You might as well make the best of it.”

Dustin faced him, his dark brown eyes narrowed and his freckled cheeks red. “I didn’t ask to do stupid cowboy chores on some stupid ranch.”

“No, but you chose to spray-paint my squad car. Negative actions have consequences.”

“Oh, excuse me. I’ll remember to write that down in my journal.”

“You do that.”

Dustin rolled his eyes, then postured his shoulders, hands, and arms gangsta-like. “So me and my homies decided to spray-paint a few buckets. Big deal.”

“I’d hardly call a Crown Vic with a souped-up 460 a bucket. And while you’re busy taking notes, remember that your homies decided extracurricular art wasn’t such a good idea after all.” Cody steered the pickup around a pothole in the dirt road. “They obviously learned something from what happened to you.”

“Yeah, right.” Dustin slumped against the seat and stared out the window at the rolling grassland and the groves of trees beyond.

Frustrated, Cody was nonetheless determined. He’d overseen juvenile community service on more than one occasion and had managed to see those kids through their assigned hours with a fair amount of success. He’d find a way to work things out with Dustin, too.

Minutes later, Cody veered off the dirt road. He drove across the pasture to the corner of a section of fence that sagged between posts, some of it broken, where the horses had leaned on the wire to reach grass that was always greener on the other side. With the Chevy parked, he got out and closed the door behind him, Max tagging at his heels.

Dustin did likewise and stood staring at the five strands of barbless wire that stretched out of sight from both points of the corner post. “We have to fix all of that?”

“Most of it.” Cody moved to the back of the truck and dropped the tailgate. He reached for the heavy roll of wire and dropped it onto the ground, rolling it along with his booted foot. Leaving it by the corner fence post, he returned to the truck for the tools they would need. He handed the fence stretcher to Dustin.

“What’s this thing?” The boy looked at the metal, saw-toothed and jointed contraption as though it might bite.

Cody grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you.”

Two hours later, Dustin had the operation of the fence stretcher down pretty well, and Cody thought the boy even seemed to be enjoying the pleasure of working with tools. “Let’s take a break.” He lifted his cowboy hat and ran his sleeve across his damp forehead. The July sun burned down on them without mercy. Max had long ago retreated to the shade beneath the pickup truck, where he lay on his side, snoring loudly.

“Canteen’s empty,” Dustin said, tipping it upside down and giving it a shake.

“So, go fill it.” Cody put his hat back on. This wasn’t the best time of day to be out here stringing fence in the heat. Had he purposely picked late morning to early afternoon to make things harder on Dustin—or was he punishing himself? He’d done a lot of that, ever since Anna’s death.

“Where?” Dustin crinkled his features in a mask of adolescent sarcasm. “I don’t exactly see a convenience store anywhere nearby.”

“Try the water pump.” Cody gestured to the west. “It’s over that knoll, by the stock tank. You can’t miss it.”

“You want me to drink horse water?”

Cody gave him a look of exasperation. “The pump is fed by an underground spring. It’s better than any bottled water you’ll ever taste. Just lift up on the handle, but watch out. It’ll come out hard and fast.”

“O-kay.” Dustin spun on his heel and ambled off.

DUSTIN TOPPED the knoll and eyed the neighboring ranch house that sat a short distance from the fence bordering the Somers’ pasture. Great. He knew who lived there. Mr. Super Jock himself—Eric Vanderhurst.

Running back on the seventh grade football team last year, as well as a wrestling champ and basketball center, Eric thought he was all that. He had blond hair and blue eyes, and practically every girl at school hanging on his every word. He made Dustin want to puke. But worse, Eric was a bully who enjoyed picking on boys younger and smaller than him. He’d long ago singled out Dustin as one of his targets.

It was no secret that a lot of kids resented Dustin for having been bumped up a year. He was the youngest kid in Deer Creek Middle School’s seventh grade class. In the first grade, he’d been skipped to second because of his ability to learn quickly and easily. With a photographic memory, it took him little effort to retain whatever the teachers threw his way, and acing tests was so simple, Dustin found them boring.

But then, that had been before his mom had given herself completely to the drugs and alcohol. Before the foster care system had swallowed him up and spit him out again and again.

Frank and Sylvia were okay. He’d lived with them for about a year now. But he didn’t give a rat’s ass about school anymore, and he’d recently let his grades slip to the point where he’d barely passed seventh grade. Everyone was on his case—Frank, Sylvia, his teachers and school counselor. But Eric Vanderhurst made his life all the more miserable.

Dustin had been relieved when summer vacation finally arrived so he could hang with his friends. But Eric wouldn’t leave him alone, even now that school was out. He made it his mission in life to make Dustin’s life hell, which was part of the reason Dustin and his homies had decided to form Tech-9. As a gang, they would show jocks like Eric that they weren’t to be messed with, and spray-painting their initials on cop cars had seemed a good way to start. It was something Dustin was sure Eric would be too chickenshit to do.

But now all that had been blown to hell, thanks to Officer Do-Good, and even Frank and Sylvia had turned on him, making him do these lame chores on this stupid ranch. Like he’d told Cody, he wasn’t a hick. And the last thing he wanted was for Eric Vanderhurst to see him filling up some Roy Rogers canteen at a horse trough.

Seeing no one in the Vanderhursts’ yard, Dustin heaved a sigh of relief and headed down the other side of the knoll, toward the stock tank and the shiny red pump. And came to an abrupt stop when he saw Eric standing beside the tank. It was as though his fears had conjured up the worst-case scenario.

What was he doing on this side of the fence, on the Somers’ land? Too late to run, and with nowhere to hide, Dustin swaggered toward the big, round stock tank. “I didn’t expect to see your ugly face today, Vanderhurst.” The words of false bravado nearly choked him, but he refused to let Eric know he was afraid. He willed his heart to stop pounding. Glancing back, he saw that the knoll effectively blocked Cody from seeing them. The Vanderhursts didn’t have a clear view from their house, either. No witnesses. No one to see if Eric acted on the threats he so often dished out in the hallways at school, and at the mall.

But to his surprise, it was Eric who fidgeted and looked as though he’d been cornered. “What the hell are you doing here?” A good three inches taller than Dustin, Eric scowled down at him as Dustin halted near the tank.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Belatedly, he noticed Eric had something hidden behind his back. His pulse gave another jump. What if it was a gun? Or a knife? But as Eric shifted, he saw it was merely a pillowcase. “What are you doing with that?” He nodded toward it.

“None of your damned business.”

Dustin raised his eyebrows in another show of bravado. “Ew-w. Testy, aren’t we? What are you hiding, Vanderhurst?”

Eric looked as though he wanted to bolt. As though he were seriously thinking about doing just that. Dustin’s fear gave way to puzzlement. And then he saw movement in the pillowcase. Saw that it had been knotted shut, and from inside he heard a soft mewling.

Adrenaline surged through him. He dropped the canteen. “I said what is it?” he demanded. “Let me see.” He darted a glance from the pillowcase to the water tank and back again, suddenly putting two and two together. No longer thinking about Eric’s size or the fact that they were out here alone, Dustin moved forward and, lightning quick, snatched the sack from Eric’s grasp.

“Give it back,” Eric demanded. His arm shot out in a hard shove that sent Dustin stumbling, nearly tripping over his own feet. He managed to dodge Eric’s next maneuver, knowing the boy was capable of taking him down. But anger fueled his reflexes, lending him agility. He loosened the knot in the pillowcase and spread it open to peer inside.

Kittens. Four tiny, helpless kittens, their eyes barely open, mewed and clambered inside the blue sack.

Dustin felt sick and fought the urge to gag.

“You bastard!” Without hesitation, Dustin lowered the sack to the ground and dived at Eric.

The look of surprise on Eric’s face barely registered.

Rage filled Dustin. With everything he had, he plowed his fist into the older boy’s gut, and took deep satisfaction in his pain-filled grunt.

Drawing back his arm, he hit him again.