The Cowboy and the Angel

“This is Mr. Dalton. He’s offered to buy supper tonight.” When no one else came out, she said, “I need to make sure everyone is okay. If you don’t come out, you don’t eat.”

“You heard Ms. Sweeney,” Crystal called over her shoulder. “Hurry up. I’m starving.”

One by one, five children crawled from the crude shelter. “José, where’s your jacket?” The oldest in the group at fifteen, the boy jutted his chin defiantly. “It’s hot in there.”

“Well, it’s not out here.” She locked eyes with José, refusing to allow him to gain the upper hand. Thin and gangly, the shaggy-haired teen stood several inches taller than Renée. He had severe acne and she guessed his long bangs were meant to conceal the pimples across his forehead. After a tense few seconds he retrieved his coat.

Evie, Crystal’s seven-year-old sister, shuffled forward. “Can I have milk tonight?” The cherub’s cheeks glowed bright pink. Renée brushed aside a limp hank of blond hair and pressed her fingers to the child’s forehead, relieved her skin felt cool. “Yes, you may have milk.”

José exited the tunnel wearing a jacket with sleeves that ended above his bony wrists. She presumed he’d begun a growth spurt. The possibility frustrated Renée. The children shouldn’t be living in cardboard boxes in an abandoned building with temperatures well below freezing at night. Every child was entitled to a warm bed and three square meals a day. Plus hugs. Kids needed hugs, which reminded her…she held out a hand toward Timmy. He hobbled closer, dragging his left foot behind him. The boy had been born with a clubfoot and had never received medical treatment for the deformity.

“Doing okay?” she asked, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. After the quick hug she directed the flashlight at Timmy’s freckled face, searching for signs of injury, illness. He smiled, exposing a gap between his teeth.

“When did you lose your front tooth?”

“This morning. Ricci pulled it.”

“Maybe Ricci should be a dentist when he grows up.” Renée winked at the eight-year-old.

“No way,” the boy protested. “I’m gonna race cars.” She might have found his answer amusing if not for the fact that the Hispanic boy had been picked up twice by police for participating in illegal street racing. He’d been a passenger in the vehicles, but Renée feared one day Ricci would slide behind the wheel. If Renée didn’t secure him a decent foster home soon, he’d end up in the state juvenile detention center before his twelfth birthday.

“I’m gonna fly airplanes,” boasted Willie. Arms extended like wings, the six-year-old African American boy circled the group, making loud obnoxious engine noises. Willie was a crack baby. His cognitive development was a little slow, but not worrisome. It was his hyperactivity and emotional outbursts that had gotten him kicked out of every home he’d been sent to. Most foster parents weren’t equipped to handle his behavioral issues.

While the kids engaged in good-natured bantering, Renée hugged each child in turn. She made sure they all felt the touch of a loving hand.

“Does that guy—” Crystal motioned to Duke “—have anything to do with the big crane we saw earlier?”

“Yes.” She wouldn’t lie to the children, but she refused to reveal the entire truth for fear the kids would panic and scatter. “Mr. Dalton owns this building.”

The kids huddled close—José and Crystal standing guard in front of the younger ones.

Duke winced at the group’s reaction and Renée wished to reassure him that he’d done nothing wrong. Street kids trusted no one. And even though she considered Duke’s height and build, his square jaw and dark eyes attractive, the children no doubt found him formidable. “Mr. Dalton, I’d like you to meet your temporary tenants.

“This is José.” To her pleasure, Duke extended his hand. To her displeasure José refused the handshake.

Ignoring the rebuff, Duke said, “Nice to meet you, José. Looks as if you’re taking good care of everyone.”

The boy’s slim shoulders straightened, but the mutinous glare remained in his eyes. Renée wanted to hug Duke for complimenting the teen.

“This is Crystal and her sister, Evie.”

Again Duke offered his hand. Crystal followed José’s lead and kept her hands shoved inside her coat pockets. Evie giggled, burying her face in her sister’s jacket.

“And our resident pilot is Willie.” The boy marched over to Duke and shook his hand, pumping Duke’s arm like a circus clown. “What’s up, dude?” He laughed at his own joke.

“Hello, Willie.” Duke didn’t seem bothered by the rambunctious boy.

“Then we have Timmy and Ricci.”

Ricci stayed put, but Timmy wandered closer, his twisted foot scraping against the cement. If Duke noticed the boy’s deformity, he showed no sign.

“Nice to meet you, boys.”

After the introductions, Timmy asked, “What are you gonna do to our building?”

Renée cringed at the word our.

“I intend to—”

“Mr. Dalton hasn’t finalized his plans for the warehouse,” she interrupted.

“We’re not stupid,” Crystal spouted. “You’re gonna knock it down.”

“Not yet,” Renée assured the girl.

“Aw, man. Are we gonna have to find a new home?” Ricci whined.

Renée had been involved in social work too many years to allow her emotions to get the best of her, but the fact that Ricci considered a vacant building a home made her eyes burn with anger—anger that these and many more kids had been left to fend for themselves by the system.

“You don’t have to leave yet,” she assured them.

Duke stirred uneasily and Renée regretted that she’d introduced him to the kids. But darn it, he’d forced her back to the wall. She had to prevent him from demolishing the warehouse while she attempted to line up foster homes for the children—not an easy job when the kids’ files had been flagged as troublemakers.

“Are you and the others safe at night, José?” Duke asked, glancing at Renée.

She balled her hands into fists. Clearly the man believed she’d failed in her job as a social worker to meet the needs of these kids.

Haven’t you, Renée? She blamed bureaucratic red tape for not being able to help all of Detroit’s children in crisis. When a child slipped through the cracks, she asked herself if there was anything more she could have done. Had she missed details that might have made a difference in placing the kids in foster homes? She hated that Duke made her doubt herself. She’d only met him two days ago, but for some stupid reason the cowboy’s opinion of her mattered.

“We’re safe here,” José mumbled. He looked at Renée before adding, “Two drunks sleep in the building next door, but they leave us alone.” The teen indicated the Detroit United Railway Company powerhouse. The shell of a building would make an interesting view from the window of Duke’s executive office.

“Glad to hear you’re watching out for strangers,” Duke said.

Crystal rolled her eyes. “We don’t go out after dark.”

Before the conversation lost its amicableness, Renée inquired, “How are you doing with supplies?” This past Wednesday when she’d discovered the group, she’d collected hand wipes, toilet paper, Kleenex, food and water.

She’d offered to escort the kids to a shelter to shower, but they’d refused, understanding that they’d be required to give their names and then be detained by the Department of Child and Family Services until an investigation into their situation had been conducted. These kids weren’t new to the system.

“We need another blanket.” José spoke up.

“Did one of the covers get ruined?” Renée had given them a car-trunkful of bedding from a local church.

“Not exactly.” José’s gaze skirted her face.

Renée deduced that the teen had traded the blanket for a pack of smokes. He had a habit of stealing from his foster homes and swapping the items for cigarettes. “Are you smoking again?”

“What if I am?” The words would have sounded more threatening if his pubescent voice hadn’t cracked.