A Man of Honor Read online

  Mitch leaned forward, too. “In the middle of the lawn?”

  “What’s she praying for,” Montel said, “rain for her roses?”

  The boys chuckled, but only until the van drew close enough to see her face.

  “Hey. She’s crying,” Billy said.

  “Never saw her do that before. You s’ppose she hurt herself or something?”

  Dusty didn’t think so, but he didn’t want to worry the kids. Or worse yet, scare them. He steered the van as close to the back porch as possible and turned off the ignition. “You guys help Mitch off-load the groceries and get them put away. I’m sure everything’s fine, but give me a few minutes to see what’s up with Grace, okay?”

  Nodding, they filed out of the van and into the house, carrying bags and cartons and flats of bottled water.

  When he reached Grace, Dusty knelt in front of her, and, lifting her chin with the tip of his forefinger, said, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  She hid behind her hands.

  “Not ready to talk about it yet, huh?”

  Grace shook her head.

  He sat cross-legged in the grass. “Well, then, I’ll just wait right here until you are.”

  She handed him the envelope, and when he started to ask what it was, she choked out, “I haven’t read it yet, but I know it’s bad news.”

  He opened the flap. “Where’d it come from?”

  She sat back on her heels and took a shaky breath. “My uncle and cousin stopped by today. Haven’t seen them in . . . in years.”

  Unfolding the document, he read the first lines: Michael Angel and Joseph Angel were suing her for their share of the family farm. He deduced that since Michael’s name was listed first, he was the uncle, meaning Joseph was her cousin.

  Grace pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “Sorry. Never did figure out how to do that without sounding like a Canada goose.” Then she said. “Look at me. I’m a wreck. Grimy and sweaty and—”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think you’re kinda cute, all dirty and puffy-eyed.”

  His comment inspired a tiny smile, followed by a quiet giggle. But she sobered up when the breeze rustled the pages in his hands. “So does it look official? Or is it as phony as everything else about them?”

  It looked pretty darned legit to him, but Dusty didn’t see any point in adding to her worries. Especially considering her “loving” kinfolk had only given her two weeks to respond. “I know a guy whose son just graduated law school. Bet the kid would love a chance to sink his teeth into something like this.” He stuffed the document back into the envelope. “I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Dusty. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  He got up, pulled her up, too. “Let’s hope you never have to find out.”

  “Think I’ll wash up in the barn. I’d hate for the boys to see me this way.”

  Too late, he thought, falling into step beside her, because he could tell from the looks on their faces that they’d been nearly as worried about her as he was.

  “Mitch sprung for a roasted chicken. We can open a couple cans of vegetables, throw some biscuits in the oven, and voilà. Supper.”

  “He’s great. The boys are great. You’re great.”

  “You’re not gonna go all weepy on me again, are you?” he teased, drawing her near. “ ’Cause if memory serves, that tissue has seen better days. And if you think I’m gonna let you borrow my sleeve. . . . Well, let’s just say I’m crazy about you, but not that crazy.”

  “I’m okay. At least, I think I can control myself. Until later. When I’m alone in my room.”

  “Is that your tough girl way of saying you plan to cry yourself to sleep?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to sit up with you. All night if I have to.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Can’t have my best girl weeping into her pillow, now can I?”

  She looked up, a crooked smile on her face, and sighed. “Your best girl, huh?”

  He kissed her cheek this time. “Yup, and I know how to get your mind off that legal mumbo-jumbo.”

  “I hate to sound like a sissy, but I’m too pooped for a walk.”

  “For what I have in mind, you won’t have to move a muscle.” He lifted her chin on a bent forefinger. “Well, maybe one.” He grazed her lips with his. “Two, if you count each lip separately.”

  She melted against him like honey on a hot-from-the-oven biscuit. If this was the end result of distracting her from bad news, well, it surely would take the sting out of the everyday cares and woes that were part of life.

  24

  He’d been looking forward to keeping her company until she fell asleep, but the phone call that interrupted supper put an end to that in a hurry.

  “I always knew you were selfish. Now I have proof.”

  “And now I have proof that you’re a spoiled brat,” Gavin said. “All this whining because you didn’t get to finish your chocolate pudding? Please.”

  “It was homemade. With whipped cream.”

  “Waa-waa-waa.”

  Dusty might have laughed, if he didn’t know Gavin so well. The hard edge in his cousin’s voice told Dusty that something was up. Something unpleasant that somehow, involved him. “So spit it out, why don’t you, and maybe I can get back into the kitchen before one of the guys has stolen my pudding.”

  “Remember Frank Benedict?”

  Retired Marine turned cop turned youth counselor. “Yeah, I remember him. How could I forget? The big lummox has been dogging my heels since boot camp.”

  “He called, not ten minutes ago. Seems he got a call from Social Services. Cops picked up a boy. Runaway. Fourteen, fifteen . . . no way to know for sure, because naturally, the kid ain’t talkin’. He’s been beaten. Badly. Fractured ribs, broken jaw, chipped teeth. . . .”

  “Who did it?” Dusty made himself unclench his fists.

  “Like I said, the kid ain’t talkin’. Whoever it was, was bigger and stronger than the boy.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to hunt down the creep, give him a dose of his own medicine?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s right up there at the top of my bucket list. Right above ‘remove cast.’ ”

  Chuckling, Dusty said, “So what’s this got to do with me?” As if he didn’t know.

  “It’ll take days, weeks, even, to find a suitable foster home. So Frank and me, we were hoping you’d have room for one more over there at Angel Acres.”

  “Maybe. I’ll have to run it by Grace.”

  “Well, if that’s the only holdup, the kid’s as good as there. That girl has a heart as big as her head. When she hears what this kid has been through? She’ll probably give him her room.”

  “So where is this kid?”

  “Jesse. His name’s Jesse Vaughn. Or so he claims. And he’s in police custody right now.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Stole a bunch of Tasty Kakes from the 7-11 on Route 40.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Frank already got the paperwork started. Says they’ll release him into your custody. But you really oughta get over there tonight.”

  Because if he didn’t, the cops would have no choice but to throw him into general lockup, with men twice his age, who’d committed . . . who knew what types of crimes.

  “Let me get the ball rolling over here. Unless you hear from me in the next, say, fifteen minutes or so, you can tell Frank I’ll pick Jesse up by nine. Where are they holding him?”

  “Eighth Precinct.”

  Good. That wasn’t far. Meaning if he could talk Mitch and Grace—and the boys—into helping the kid out, Jesse could fall asleep in a clean bed tonight instead of a jail cell, and safe from the animal who’d beaten him bloody.

  The minute he hung up, he waved Grace and Mitch into the bathroom and locked the door behind them.

  “What’s up?” Mitch asked.

  Dusty repeated, almost verbatim, what Gavin had told him, then gav
e them a moment to mull it over.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Grace said. “Go get him!”

  “Need to talk to the guys, first. See how they feel about absorbing another kid at the last minute like this.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  Then she turned to Mitch, as if she already knew what the kids would say. “There’s a roll-away cot in the basement. Would you mind bringing it upstairs? There’s space for it in Dom and Nestor’s room . . . if we slide Jack and Billy’s beds closer to the window. . . .”

  “Don’t ya just love her?” Mitch said, giving her a sideways hug. “Always thinkin’.”

  Matter of fact, Dusty thought, I do love her.

  Laughing, they shared a three-way hug, then split up . . . Dusty to bring the boys up to speed, Mitch and Grace to get things ready for Jesse.

  The drive downtown took less time than normal, thanks to the late hour; and when Dusty arrived at the precinct, the cops greeted him by name. No surprise there, considering that he’d done this dozens of times with the kids who lived with him now and others who’d already passed through the system. While they went to fetch Jesse, Dusty scanned the boy’s file. Nothing in it surprised him, so he put it down and rehearsed the routine: Take the kid to the diner for some one-on-one over a burger and fries, so he’d know what to expect when they got back to Angel Acres, then stop at the twenty-four-hour Walmart to buy him socks and underwear, a couple of T-shirts and some jeans. Because experience had taught him that while these kids always clung to a sack full of clothes, the stuff rarely fit. Either that, or it was way beyond raggedy.

  When the cops rounded the corner, one on either side of Jesse, Dusty didn’t know what to think. He’d expected a black eye. Two, even. Cuts and scrapes. Maybe even a swollen lip. But this? The kid looked like he’d gone three rounds with Mike Tyson, with both hands tied behind his back.

  He’d shake the boy’s hand . . . if the fingers weren’t puffed up the size of bratwurst. He’d pat him on the back, but hadn’t Gavin said something about broken ribs? More than ever, he wanted to find the beast who’d done that to him, and mete out a little vigilante justice.

  Fine way for a preacher to be thinking, he thought. Where was all the peace and love and godly forgiveness he’d learned about in seminary? He gave himself a little leeway, because even Jesus had lost his cool in the temple. . . .

  Dusty needed to get word to Mitch, so he could warn Grace and the boys. No way to do it, though, without Jesse overhearing him. So he slid a business card across the counter to the cop behind the glass partition, waved him closer and whispered. “Do me a favor, and call ahead, so nobody faints when they get an eyeful of that.”

  Nodding, the cop picked up the handset. “Will do,” he said, and started dialing.

  Sweet Jesus, Dusty prayed, walking up to the boy, tell me what this kid needs to hear. . . .

  “You can wipe that look off your face, preacher, ’cause I don’t need or want your pity.” His eyes and lips narrowed at the same time as he added, “I’ll take your charity for a night or two, because these bozos don’t leave me much choice. You can take this to the bank: soon as I can run, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

  Dusty relieved him of the frayed backpack and held open the door. “Van’s out front,” he said. “It’s open.”

  Jesse bobbed his head. “If I wanted to get in, no lock woulda stopped me. . . .”

  Something told him a one-on-one at the diner would be a waste of time and money, so he aimed the van toward Baltimore County, and prayed the whole way there that he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his career, bringing Jesse to Angel Acres, because if anything happened to Mitch or the boys, he’d walk away from pastoring and counseling, permanently.

  And if his decision to help the vengeful, self-professed tough guy brought harm to his precious Grace, Dusty might as well saddle up his Harley and ride it into the ground . . . because he’d never be able to live with himself.

  25

  When Dusty arrived with Jesse, Mitch was watching Jeopardy in the living room with the boys, and Kylie was in the kitchen, baking cookies with Grace. He had a fifty-fifty shot at saying the wrong thing with this kid, so he didn’t waste time searching his mind for the right words.

  “Hey, you two,” he began, hanging Jesse’s backpack on the back of a kitchen chair, “meet Jesse Vaughn. The young one,” he said, pointing, “is Kylie Houghton. And the other one is Grace Sinclair . . . and you’re standing in her kitchen.”

  “Oh great,” the boy muttered, “another bleeding heart.”

  Kylie had just popped a ball of cookie dough into her mouth, and his comment stopped her, mid-chew. “Who, me?” she said around it. “A bleeding heart?” She laughed. “He’s funny, Dusty. Where did you find him?”

  “At the police station,” Jesse answered, crossing both arms over his chest, “where the cops were holding me for robbing a convenience store.”

  Kylie exhaled a bored sigh. “Oh, great,” she said, “another tough guy.”

  On his way to the table, Dusty noticed Jesse’s eyebrows slide together. “What’re you girls making?” He made a move to scoop a fingerful of the dough when Grace smacked the back of his hand.

  “Soap and water first, mister,” she scolded.

  “What a fussbudget,” he said, winking at Kylie. “You’d think I just came from a dirty Baltimore City jail or something.”

  The girl grabbed a spoon from the drain board and filled it with dough. “We’re making chocolate chip cookies,” she told Dusty. But she held the spoon out to Jesse.

  He lifted his chin. “Like I care.”

  Now she grabbed his hand, and put the spoon into it. “I don’t know any kid who doesn’t love the stuff. Just eat it and quit pretending you’re all big and bad.”

  He looked at the spoon, at Dusty and Grace, then ate the dough. “Why do you think I’m pretending?” he asked Kylie.

  “Because you have nice eyes,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Jesse shrugged and licked the back of the spoon. “Whatever.”

  “What part of the South are you from?”

  He gave her a quick once-over. “How do you know I’m from the South?”

  “Because I’m from Tennessee, and you sound like—”

  She stopped talking and blushed, and Dusty sensed it was because she’d never revealed that particular piece of information about herself before. Grace knew the girl way better than he did; one look at her face confirmed it: it was news to her, too.

  Kylie continued as if there hadn’t been a momentary gap in her conversation. “You might as well deal with it, Jesse Vaughn: there are some things that I just know.”

  “Whatever,” he repeated. But his hard expression softened slightly when he said it. “How long you been in Maryland?”

  “Long enough that nobody knows I’m from Tennessee.”

  When Jesse mirrored her smile, Dusty could have hugged her. Instead, he said, “Let’s get the rest of the introductions over with, so Grace can show you around.”

  “Whatever,” he said. But he followed without complaint.

  “He has a very limited vocabulary, doesn’t he,” Kylie said . . . loud enough for Jesse to hear.

  No one was more surprised than Dusty when the boy chuckled quietly. “She’s a piece of work, that Kylie.”

  Jesse’s mouth started to form the W of whatever. But he grinned and said, “I like her.”

  Axel noticed them first, and he got up to offer Jesse his seat. “Hey you bunch of stupid-heads,” he said, “the new kid is here.”

  In one moment, Jesse was surrounded by grinning, teasing boys of every size and age and ethnicity. In the next, he’d joined the rest of them, slouched on the sofa, feet propped on the coffee table.

  “Yo. Fool. Get them shoes offa there,” came Montel’s whispered warning.

  Cody agreed. “Yeah, dude. That table belonged to Grace’s grandma.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” Jesse said as both feet
dropped to the floor.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jack said, snickering. “Took us all a while to learn all her rules.”

  Jesse grabbed a handful of popcorn. “How many are there?” he said around a kernel.

  “Well,” Nick started, “there’s the no-shoes-on-the-furniture rule.”

  “And don’t forget the shoes-ain’t-allowed-on-tables rule,” Tony added.

  “The rule I hate most,” Billy put in, “is furniture-is-no-place-for-shoes.”

  Laughing, Jesse toed off his sneakers. “What. You think I’m retarded or something? I get it, dudes. I get it.”

  “Good thing, too,” Nestor said, “ ’cause I don’t think we coulda come up with another rule.”

  It seemed safe to leave them, so Dusty headed back for the kitchen. He felt a little guilty, expecting the worst without having given Jesse a chance. First thing tomorrow, he’d figure out a way to move him into the room with Trevor and Cody. Tonight, maybe it was a good thing that he had a room all to himself.

  “How’s he doing in there?” Grace asked, sliding a tray of cookies from the oven.

  She’d pulled her hair into a high ponytail; if Kylie hadn’t been there, pressed up against her side, Dusty would have kissed the back of her neck.

  “He had me worried for a minute there, but he’s doing great.”

  Kylie harrumphed. “I told you he had nice eyes.”

  “Speaking of eyes, yours look mighty sleepy,” Grace said. “Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

  “Two or three hours.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Grace said.

  And Dusty chimed in with, Girls your age need way more sleep than that.”

  Kylie frowned. “Why? So we can grow up big and strong to take care of our husbands and children?”

  Grace sighed. “No. ’Course not. I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m just pullin’ your chain,” Kylie said, grinning. “Here. Have a cookie. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Dusty did more than accept it. He took a big bite. “You know what? I do feel better,” he said, grinning.

  “I appreciate the fatherly concern, but I can make up the lost hours after I finish my essay.”