Whatever. I don’t need a man.
Okay, maybe tonight I do. Or at least, I need someone steady and trustworthy to help me help this kiddo.
Where are the boy’s parents? What is Sons of Eden? The poor boy was so hungry he ate an entire bag of raw oats, several pounds of bulk carrots, and every single one of the apples, leaving only the seeds and stems. Who does that? He also left a mess, but I’m not about to hold that against him, plus I think he was in the process of cleaning it up when I scared him into hiding.
When I return from my kitchen with two sandwiches and a silo of the peanut butter cookies I made yesterday, Rowdy and the boy are still up in the loft. My horse Shasta pokes her nose over her stall door, ears perked, reminding me that I’m going to need to hit up the feed store tomorrow for more oats and grain mix.
“I’ve got some sandwiches and homemade cookies,” I call up toward the loft.
After some low murmurs, Rowdy climbs down the ladder. Annoyance at him—at myself for being annoyed—flares inside my chest, but I force it all back with a firm exhale.
“He doesn’t have any other family,” Rowdy says to me, his tone low enough so the boy can’t hear. “Zach’s on the way.”
I’m apprehensive about moving too fast for the boy’s comfort, but Rowdy’s connected to the community in ways I’m not yet, so I’m going to trust him. And though I’ve raised two children of my own as well as been a surrogate mom to many of their friends, nothing like this has ever happened to me.
When the boy climbs down in faded camo pants that are at least a size too small and a long-sleeved thermal shirt that’s dingy and torn at the shoulder, I have to fight the urge to sweep him into my arms and hug him. It’s obvious he’s been on his own for a while. Weeks, at least.
“I’ll get you some water.” I set the plate on a hay bale and fill one of my big plastic cups at the utility sink, then carry it back to where the boy is already halfway finished with one of the sandwiches.
His eyes turn wary when I approach, so I set the cup down where he can reach it then step back.
His fleeting look of gratitude gives me a peek at the innocent child hiding behind the mask of bravery. When he gulps down half the water, the harsh overhead lighting reveals a long scar underneath his forearm.
The mama bear in me has her claws out. Who has been hurting this boy?
Rowdy lowers to one of the hay bales. “Zach came to Finn River in a similar way as you. He was on the run from some people who wanted to hurt him. A local rancher here named Henry took him in, and together, they figured out a way for him to stop running.”
The boy doesn’t reply, but his gaze shifts my way for a second. He picks up the second sandwich.
“Would you consider something like that?” I ask. It sounds weak but I don’t know how else to try to win his trust.
“Zach can help us work out a plan to keep you safe,” Rowdy adds. “Connect you with some tools and resources so you can stop running.”
The boy gulps more water then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why would you help me?”
Rowdy leans forward, hands on his knees. “Because you have the right to a decent life. One free of harm. You’ve already taken the hardest step by leaving. But it’s only the first step. The ones ahead of you will be darn near impossible to tackle alone. I also want to help because I have some experience with this thanks to supporting Zach when he needed it.”
The boy’s gaze lifts to a point beyond me, and his mouth hardens. “Zach’s a cop?”
Footfalls on the gravel draw my attention to the man in a forest green sheriff’s deputy uniform approaching my barn, his pace easy.
“An honest one,” Rowdy says before turning back to the boy.
“Why should I believe you?”
Zach steps into the light, a look of compassion in his indigo eyes. “Because I know how hard it is feeling like you don’t belong.”
The boy’s eyes shine with sudden emotion and his cheeks flush.
“You’re in charge,” Rowdy assures him. “Nobody’s going to force you to do anything you don’t want to. But we can help. Will you let us try?”
The boy swipes at his cheeks while his gaze skips between the three of us. “Okay,” he finally says, his voice rough.
Zach and Rowdy exchange a quick glance that speaks to the familiarity between them. There’s also no mistaking the pride in Rowdy’s eyes.
“What’s your name, son?” Zach asks.
The boy seems to stand up a little straighter. “You can call me Colton.”