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  “Hey, Parker, wait up!”

  Miranda called to the man who barreled on ahead like a steam engine. “I’m going to give the dog this bit of steak I saved from dinner.”

  Stopping midstride, Lincoln Parker turned and noticed the mist from Randi’s breath curling around her head. “Okay, but make it snappy. If we stay out too long we’ll freeze.”

  Smiling, she peered up from where she’d knelt to feed the shivering dog. “I love cold, crisp autumns. Reminds me of home.”

  “Really? Where’s home?” Linc pounced on her statement.

  Miranda felt the color drain from her face. She felt exposed. Trapped. “I can’t tell you that, Parker—Linc. Please don’t send me away. I’m…ah—”

  “What? On the lam from the cops?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” Stronger now, she didn’t fumble so much for words. “There’s some…one I’m running from.”

  Linc drew back and studied her pale features. “A man?”

  Looking stricken, Miranda nodded. She waited for the logical next question and then for the ax to fall.

  “You’re running from a husband, then?” he asked harshly.

  She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  Dear Reader,

  The heroine of this story, Miranda Kimbrough, has lived inside my head for several years. She came to me one day when I overheard a well-known singer telling a companion that life at the top of the music charts isn’t always rosy.

  Since then, I’ve listened to interviews with singing sensations from a variety of musical fields. Many hinted at what the first woman had said. Life at the top means hard work, sleepless nights, endless days on the road, constant pressure from managers, promoters and fans to keep producing hits. As the pressure builds, one singer said, “You lose pieces of your life and almost all of your heart.”

  The love stories we write are about healing and redemption. It’s taken me all this time to find my exhausted country singer a fitting mate. But because love itself isn’t easy, and because I wanted to make Miranda’s love everlasting, I needed Lincoln Parker to have fought his own battles. So that when he commits himself to Miranda, it’s with all his heart.

  I hope readers will come to appreciate, as I have, the long road to love embarked on by “Misty” Kimbrough, country legend, and Linc Parker, emotionally scarred former Hollywood financial wizard. And I hope you’ll take to heart the ragtag mix of homeless kids who help show them the way.

  I love hearing from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, AZ 85731 or e-mail me at [email protected].

  Best,

  Roz Denny Fox

  A Cowboy at Heart

  Roz Denny Fox

  To my daughters, Kelly and Korynna. I’m so proud of you

  for your patience in dealing with children, and for the

  loving moms you’ve both become. This book’s for you.

  Books by Roz Denny Fox

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  649—MAJOR ATTRACTION

  672—CHRISTMAS STAR

  686—THE WATER BABY

  716—TROUBLE AT LONE SPUR

  746—SWEET TIBBY MACK

  776—ANYTHING YOU CAN DO

  800—HAVING IT ALL

  821—MAD ABOUT THE MAJOR

  847—THE LYON LEGACY

  “Silver Anniversary”

  859—FAMILY FORTUNE

  885—WELCOME TO MY FAMILY

  902—BABY, BABY

  926—MOM’S THE WORD

  984—WHO IS EMERALD MONDAY?

  999—THE BABY COP

  1013—LOST BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

  1046—WIDE OPEN SPACES

  1069—THE SEVEN YEAR SECRET

  1108—SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME

  1128—THE SECRET DAUGHTER

  1148—MARRIED IN HASTE

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Los Angeles, California

  HIGH ON A HILLSIDE above a posh Hollywood community where he served as financial adviser to a wide array of successful movie and rock stars, thirty-two-year-old Lincoln Parker stared absently down at the six-month-old grave of his kid sister, Felicity. Sinking to his knees, Parker anchored a small bouquet of yellow roses to the stone. He paid scant heed to the gusty Santa Ana winds tugging at his suit coat. Pretty as the roses were, Linc considered them a sad commemoration on what should have been his sister’s seventeenth birthday.

  “Felicity, I, uh…I’m trying to make good on my promise. The one I…made far too late to help you.” Pausing, Linc scrubbed at tears that spilled over his cheeks. “Just…maybe I can save other kids from suffering your fate. God, honey, I hope you know how sorry I am that I didn’t s-see you were serious.”

  Heaving himself up, Linc thrust shaking hands deep into the pockets of his pin-striped pants. Gazing across endless rows of flat, gray headstones, he swallowed the huge lump in his throat and clamped his teeth tight against further apologies his sister would never hear.

  Damn, he’d tried to provide for her after their mom died. His sister had been a change-of-life baby for their movie-star mother and a much older director. Olivia Parker hadn’t wanted a second kid, and Felicity’s father reportedly still had a wife. Linc’s own dad was also in the film business, but he’d long before succumbed to alcohol and had never been part of Linc’s existence. At the time their mom ended her messed-up life, Linc had just finished high school. Because he’d been awarded a full scholarship to U.C. Berkeley, the family-court judge had asked his maternal grandmother to take charge of the Parker household.

  Looking back, Linc saw that Grandmother Welch had been far too permissive a caretaker for an impressionable growing girl. At the time, though, he’d gone blithely off to university, glad to be liberated from the daunting task. After all, what had he, at eighteen, known about raising kids? “Not a damn thing!” Linc shook his head.

  After a last grim perusal of his sister’s grave, he turned and strode briskly toward his silver Jaguar.

  In the years between Grandmother Welch’s death, thanks largely to her hedonistic lifestyle, when he was twenty-five, and Felicity’s—of a street drug overdose, the cops said—Linc had committed sins of his own. Overindulgence of his sister was clearly uppermost among them. He accepted the blame. Hell, he’d burst onto the Hollywood scene with a shiny new MBA, and he’d obviously worn blinders when it came to anyone’s excesses. Including his sister’s… Still, he believed that his belated decision to atone for past transgressions was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

  As if his musings triggered a response, his cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He retrieved it and flipped open the case as he slid beneath the car’s wood-grained steering wheel.

  It seemed fortuitous to hear John Montoya’s voice. “Hi, Linc. I’m up north, at the ranch you asked me to check out.”

  “I’m afraid to ask, John. Is the place a disaster or is it anything like the ad in Sunday’s paper?”

  “Basically it meets your requirements—unless you count the fact that it’s twenty miles from anything resembling a town,” Montoya said with a chuckle.

  “Good. Perfect. I’ve been reading up on ranching and on teen refugees, plus talking to people. So there’s a livable bunkhouse and main residence, as well as a parcel of raw land?”


  “Uh…yeah. Three hundred or so acres. You’ll want to change the name, though. Rascal Ranch doesn’t seem appropriate for what you’ve got in mind. According to the representative from the Oasis Foundation—the current owners—the ranch has been used for various social-development programs over the past five years.”

  “For instance?”

  “Uh, a summer camp for underprivileged kids. A horse-therapy program for amputees that Oasis funded for a couple of years. Their last project, I think he said, was stopgap housing for kids awaiting adoption.”

  “Why is Oasis dumping the ranch now?”

  “Ted Gunderson said it’s difficult to get and keep houseparents way out here. I tell you, Linc, the property is smack in the middle of nowhere.”

  “In the middle of nowhere suits me fine. A haven for ex-druggie street kids is better if it’s less accessible to temptations. Okay, John, you have my permission to start dickering. Now that I’ve made up my mind, I’m anxious to get going. If Oasis is willing to negotiate, I’ll go as high as the top figure we discussed. Oh, and John, if you close a deal, will you swing past the county courthouse and apply for whatever licenses I’ll need to house a dozen or so kids?”

  “I almost forgot—that’s the big plus. Oasis will transfer their group-home license to you.”

  “That’s permissible?”

  “Must be. Gunderson seems to know. He says they have a year left on their state contract, but you’ll need to undergo a Social Services inspection. Gunderson claims it’s a mere formality. He implied there’s nothing much to qualifying as a bona fide shelter.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” For the first time since the idea had struck him, Linc felt the heaviness around his heart lift just a little. “I’m headed back to my office. If you work a deal, contact me there. Then I’ll put my house in Coldwater Canyon on the market and start notifying clients that I’m turning them over to my partner until I get the shelter operating. Thought I’d allow at least two years. By the way, Dennis has promised he’ll retain your firm for all the legwork I currently have you do.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence. I only hope I can work with Dennis. I realize you like the guy, but frankly, Linc, I hope you know what you’re doing. Rumor has it he’s pulled some shady stuff to get accounts.”

  “You’ve been in Tinseltown long enough to know you shouldn’t listen to rumors.”

  “I tell you, Dennis Morrison doesn’t have the same standards you do.”

  “Name something he’s done besides drop a couple of going-nowhere B stars to make room for a few up-and-comers. I wouldn’t have done it, but our competitors do it constantly. I trust Dennis enough to hand him my personal portfolio. I doubt I’ll have time to follow the market for a while. Running a teen shelter is going to be a new experience for me. Once it’s up and running smoothly, I figure I can step back and just do the fund-raising for it. By then I’ll be ready to get back into the business.”

  “Why risk your career at all, man? You’ve got it made where you are.”

  “I’m doing it for Felicity.”

  “I gotta be honest here. You’re putting your life on hold because you feel guilty about something no one could’ve foreseen. You gave that kid a life anyone in her right mind would grab in a minute. Felicity blew it, Linc. That’s the unvarnished truth.”

  “She was sixteen, John, my responsibility any way you cut it. I spend part of every single day in the Hollywood trenches. I knew she didn’t have the talent to be a rock star. Instead of taking the time to try and steer her in a better direction, I shelled out bucks whenever she found some new bloodsucker to give her voice or music lessons. I guess I hoped she’d eventually see for herself. That was a big mistake. My mistake.”

  “Yeah,” John muttered. “You think your crystal ball should’ve told you one of her so-called mentors or rocker pals was a drug dealer on the side.”

  “According to the cops, not all street kids are losers. I can’t save all of them from Felicity’s fate, but maybe I can redirect one or two. All I know is that I’ll never be able to live with myself if I don’t try. Call me with a final deal, all right?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence until Linc added, “This Gunderson guy you’re dealing with—he verified that there are no restrictions on the land against farming, right? I mean, part of my plan is to have the kids invest a little honest sweat plowing, planting and harvesting crops that’ll eventually pay for their upkeep. I’m not offering any other kid a free ride like I gave Felicity. That’s where I really fouled up.”

  “You’ll have the land, Farmer Parker. Jeez, I have a hard time envisioning you with blisters on those Midas hands of yours. But if you’re serious, I’ll go dicker.”

  “Hear me, John. I am serious. Never more so. I’ll be waiting for your report at my office. So long for now.”

  Nashville, Tennessee

  PHONY FOG hissed from canisters strategically placed behind a row of footlights. A single spotlight faded by degrees until it left the twenty-six-year-old country singer swallowed in darkness and her signature mist. Her body cringed away from a rolling swell of whistles and stamping feet.

  Unsnapping her guitar strap, she passed the instrument to a stagehand who’d materialized from the wings. Her mind was fixed on the solace waiting in her dressing room.

  “Awesome performance, Misty!” The stagehand’s shout was drowned out by the thunderous din from the auditorium. “Hey, where ya goin’?” The kid’s lanky frame blocked her passage.

  “I’m fixin’ to go change out of this hot costume.” The singer blotted perspiration from her forehead with a satin sleeve. Eyes made electric blue—by contacts her manager insisted she wear to conceal what he called her blah gray eyes—closed tiredly.

  “Wes said you hafta give four encores tonight.”

  Her eyes flew open and she shook her head.

  “Yep. It’s a packed house. Wes says you’re to give ’em a taste of your new songs so every fan here will stampede to the lobby and buy a CD.”

  “Four encores?” She sounded dazed, as if he’d asked the impossible. Indeed, he had.

  Four fingers were waggled under her nose. The crescendo beyond the stage had escalated to a degree that caused the young man to give up attempting to communicate. He pressed the guitar into her midriff and shoved her back toward center stage.

  Miranda Kimbrough, known to country-music fans simply as Misty, dragged in a deep breath. Plastering on a smile as she’d done so many times, she edged into the bright spotlight. She was a corporation. A multimillion-dollar star to whom a host of folks had hitched their wagons. So many people now depended on her that she was afraid of cracking under the burden. Besides back-to-back concerts at home and abroad, there were charity events scheduled and a growing number of photo shoots. Recently, subsidiary companies using her image had marketed T-shirts, look-alike dolls, posters and glossy notebook covers. She needed a break. She felt weighted down. Yet no one heard her plea.

  When the theater again fell silent, Miranda adjusted the microphone with a trembling hand. It took a Herculean effort, but finally the music transported her to a place where singing songs had been a joy.

  Her newest piece, one she’d entitled “A Cowboy at Heart,” flowed easily from her husky voice. As well it should. She’d written it for her dad. And then she sang “A Last Goodbye,” which paid tribute to both her parents. Frankly, Miranda doubted anyone in this faceless audience knew or cared that eleven years ago on this very night, her father and his band had perished in the wicked storm raging across his beloved Tennessee hills. The new songs poured out her heartache for a dad she’d lost five days after her fifteenth birthday, and for a mom who’d died of pneumonia when Miranda was four.

  Even the most cynical among her production crew considered these ballads her very best. Who’d have guessed they’d be her last? Certainly not Wes Carlisle, her manager, a soulless man who’d hustled her into a one-sided contract during the confusing days following h
er dad’s death.

  Wes would be livid when his caged bird flew the coop, and that made her smile.

  Her band? A different story. She regretted not confiding in them. Her piano man and steel guitarist were dedicated. And Colby Donovan, her arranger, was the only one left of her dad’s friends. It was a good thing he was home recovering from surgery. When she’d attempted to tell Colby how she felt, he’d dispensed his usual bear hug and said Doug would have been so very proud of her. She’d achieved the pinnacle of success that her dad’s band had almost but never quite reached.

  Despite regrets, she’d planned her flight. It would be complete. And it would be tonight—while Carlisle and his henchmen licked their chops, counting the proceeds they raked in from her sold-out concert. Wesley pushed and pushed and pushed her to write more and better chart breakers. No more, no more, Miranda thought with astonishing relief as the audience went still. Perhaps the fans had seen her tears. She couldn’t stop them from running down her face.

  One last bow. One last wave. She had nothing left to give.

  Look at them. They all envied her fame and fortune. None would understand she’d never wanted to be a star. She loved singing, but…

  This time when Misty passed her guitar to the kid holding Wes’s clipboard full of must-dos, he obviously sensed steel in her backbone. Still, he cautioned, “Wes won’t like that you only gave two encores.” Jogging to keep up with Miranda’s long strides, he panted. “Wes has you timed to the second. Now you’ll hafta sit in your dressing room until he frees up a bodyguard to escort you to your bus. So I better stay with you.”

  Miranda’s steps faltered as she neared her dressing room. “Remind Wes I said at rehearsal that this sequence would drain me. I need to have some time to myself. He’ll recall the conversation, uh…Dave, isn’t it?”