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The Rancher's Secret Son

By Betsy Ann St Amant

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Despite its name, Camp Hope didn't manage to lift Emma Shaver's spirits. If anything, she just felt heavier.

She leaned over the steering wheel of her SUV as they rolled nearer the camp, ignoring the steady thump of her thirteen-year-old son Cody's fingers pounding a rhythm on the dashboard beside her. The camp's main structure, a two-story, log cabin-style house, held court in the middle of autumn-weary acreage, still dry from the unforgiving heat of a Louisiana summer, faded golden fields stretching as far as the eye could see. The outbuildings, a rustic, get-it-done crimson barn and an open-sided lean-to, nestled behind two rows of temporary buildings that, according to the camp's website, served as the dorms for the teenagers.

Cody could probably weasel his way out of one of those with a toothpick.

Rat tattat.

She inhaled a tight breath. Pick her battles, was her motto. Cody was here, ready—if not willing—to get the help he needed or else. That was a battle she had to fight. Annoying drumbeats were not.

Rat tat tattat.

Camp Hope looked tired. Or maybe she was just tired.

Rat tattat.

"That's really getting old, Cody." So was the headache pounding at her temples that hadn't stopped since their appearance in court. The day she got the news that would forever change her world.

Again.

Cody shrugged and flopped against the seat, the seat belt stretching across his thin chest and tangling in the cords of his iPod. At least he'd changed shirts. That was yet another battle she'd had to fight this morning before driving to Broken Bend, Louisiana. She wasn't sure where he'd gotten that holey, rumpled excuse for a T-shirt, but she knew enough about gangs to know it was going straight into the trash.

Too bad all her psych books didn't tell what to do when the client was your own kid. The rules blurred then, the text grew fuzzy. Nothing was black-and-white anymore like it used to be in college when she'd been working toward her degree. She might have earned her master's and opened a successful clinic in Dallas, Texas, against all odds, but at home—she was an epic failure.

But she wouldn't cry. Not in front of her son.

She steeled her nerves. "We're here." Not exactly the way she imagined her Monday going, but hey, life was full of surprises. She could write the book on that one.

Cody yanked the iPod buds from his ears, grumbling. "I still don't see why I had to come."

That was precisely the problem. She counted to ten before answering, even as she steered the car toward the dusty, gravel parking lot. "You heard what the judge said. It's either Camp Hope or juvenile detention." She pulled into a spot between a beat-up pickup and a shiny hybrid. Guess it took all types to have troubled teens. Yet the reminder didn't make her feel better. This wasn't anyone's kid—it was her kid.

She angled a glance at her muttering son as she shifted into park. "You think me making you change shirts was bad? At least it wasn't an orange jumpsuit."

Cody snorted, but she could tell her point got across. He grudgingly released his seat belt and peered out the window at the house before him. Was he as nervous as she was? It was hard to trust a system she knew from her job didn't always bring positive results. But the judge had been adamant, and here they were. It beat juvenile detention by far. Apparently the facility had become quite popular with local officials for its moral-based program and positive outcomes.

She'd have been more prone to hope except the camp was back in her hometown—the town she hadn't visited once since her father's funeral five years ago. She'd arranged to take some time off and stay with her mom in Broken Bend while Cody went through the program, maybe work on some of her own issues. She couldn't avoid her hometown forever, and Cody would benefit from seeing his grandmother again. Besides, despite her own painful past, she had to do what was best for her son. Being nearby if he had a breakthrough was crucial. He'd been miles away for far too long already.

But what if the camp didn't help and Cody ended up in juvie later anyway?

Her stomach flipped, and bile rose in her throat. Here she was a professional counselor, and her son had been caught breaking and entering into his school and vandalizing the gym with a crowd of older teens—after shoplifting the month before and getting into a fistfight in the cafeteria three months before that.

Could one month of hard work, counseling and time spent with animals really turn him around?

Not that she had a lot of choices at the moment. She had to trust that the leaders of the program—whoever they were, as the website info had been vague at best—knew what they were doing.

Had to trust that God wouldn't give up on her son.

She opened her car door and squinted against the afternoon sunlight. Sliding her sunglasses into place, she motioned for Cody to get out of the car and grab his duffel. Packing for a month at a working ranch had been trickier than she'd thought, especially when Cody's wardrobe mostly consisted of dark pants, black T-shirts and tennis shoes. She'd bought boots after she'd browsed Camp Hope's requirements list online but couldn't for the life of her picture Cody wearing them.

Maybe that was a good thing—a sign that he would undergo a complete transformation.

She just wanted her son back. The one who used to crawl on her lap during thunderstorms, make hideouts from superhero sheets and a few chairs, and open her car door for her while boasting about being a gentleman. What had gone so wrong, so quickly?

Tears pressed behind her lids and she blinked rapidly to clear them away. Last time she'd let her guard down and cried in front of Cody, he'd snuck out of the house for three hours with no word of where he was going. Besides, it wasn't healthy for a child to see his mother cry—especially if he was the cause of the tears.

Cody shut his car door a little harder than necessary and shouldered his duffel. The defensive scowl on his face as he slipped his iPod buds back in reminded her of his dad. She'd managed to stuff away thoughts of Max Ringgold for years, until recently, when Cody's attitude mirrored his absent father's more than she wanted to admit. Cody's hair was blond like hers, but he had a similar cowlick to his dad's, a testament to their shared stubbornness. He also had that same charming, do-no-wrong smile Max had always worn as easily as his trademark leather jacket.

But Max had done wrong. A lot of wrong.

Images flashed through her mind. Weapons stashed under truck seats. Rolled up baggies of white powder stuffed in the glove box. Beefy fists banging on the window of her car, muted threats assaulting her ears as they made out down by the lake.

Yeah, once upon a time, Max Ringgold had been trouble with a capital T. All the more reason Cody needed help, now—before the darkness in his genes had a chance to fully take over.

Before she lost her son the way she'd lost his father.

A familiar finger of regret nudged her, sending an icy shiver down her back. Choosing not to tell Max she was pregnant had been the best choice at the time—make that her only choice. After she went to college and two pink lines on a stick had determined her fate, she returned to Broken Bend, panicked and unsure how he'd react. He'd made promises about his behavior before she'd left, so many promises. But a baby didn't fit into Max Ringgold's bad boy style any more than the promiscuous role she'd temporarily adopted fit into hers. Would he even accept her—them?

After catching Max unaware in the middle of another drug deal, with one of the county's slipperiest and most dangerous gang leaders no less, the decision was made for her. Max wouldn't get a chance to reject them.

She never looked back.

Approximately thirteen years later, Cody didn't know the difference. She'd made a home for them, a loving home, despite the sacrifices and hard work required of a single mom putting herself through college, avoiding her hometown and keeping the details a secret from her parents. She didn't want the shotgun wedding her father threatened. Not with Max Ringgold. She might deserve to pay for her mistakes, but her kid deserved better.

Yet despite all those logged miles on the treadmill, Emma had never quite been able to outrun the guilt.

She shut her car door and steered Cody toward the front porch of the main house, where she assumed registration would take place. "Let's go." Time to shake off the past—that's why they were there, after all. To get a fresh start, a second chance. Maybe for both of them. Secrets long buried were best left buried, and just because she was back in Broken Bend didn't mean they'd all be resurrected.

The front screen door squeaked open on its hinges, and boots thudded onto the wooden porch. She glanced up at the approaching cowboy with a smile, relieved that someone was finally there to take charge. She could relax, take a much-needed break. Cody would be in good hands.

The cowboy lifted the brim of his black hat, and her smile slipped away as shock gripped her in a cold, unrelenting vice.

He'd be in Max Ringgold's hands.

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