The patient’s trembling hands covered her face.

Cheyenne stiffened at the sight of silky black hair fanning across the pillow. She stepped to the side of the bed and touched the patient’s shoulder gently. "Hello, I’m Dr.--"

The hands fell away.

Cheyenne caught her breath. "Susan?"

Tears dripped down sharply chiseled, honey-tanned cheeks. Cheyenne’s baby sister reached for her.

"Oh, Chey, I’m so scared. My chest hurts. What’s happening?"

*****

Dane Gideon stepped down from the broad front porch of the ranch house, studying the line of dust that clouded the atmosphere above the quarter-mile drive that led from the highway. The early March sunlight dazzled nearby Table Rock Lake with shafts of jeweled colors that built a prism around the small village of Hideaway along the opposite shore.

The echo of tire-crunched gravel etched against the peaceful silence as the car pulled into the parking area. Dane saw the dark outline of the passenger. The kid had dreadlocks, skin the color of untouched espresso, eyes narrowed with obvious apprehension--the typical mask of disillusionment in a face too young to bear it.

Clint, the social worker who sometimes seemed to haunt this place, parked beneath the bare oak tree and nodded to Dane with a grim smile. He spoke to the passenger. The teenager shook his head and looked away.

Dane read resentment in every movement.

Clint got out of the car, leaving the door open. "We’ve got another reluctant one for you," he said, loudly enough for his voice to carry back to the car. "Can’t seem to convince him this place’ll be like summer camp."

Dane grinned. "Or boot camp."

Clint took Dane’s hand in a firm shake. "Thanks for taking Gavin. Knew you’d be perfect for him. Good kid."

The "good kid" flinched, shot a glare at Clint, crossed his arms over his chest.

"His room’s ready," Dane said. "He’s bunking with Willy." Clint had been the one to escort Willy here four months ago, under similar conditions.

Richard Cook came striding around the side of the large, two-story house. Apron in place, hair combed back in a wispy gray cap, the older man--who answered only to the nickname of Cook--walked across the barely green lawn and nodded to Dane. Willy came rambling up from the barn, obviously curious about his new roommate and--just as obviously--trying not to show it.

Dane grinned at the skinny fourteen-year-old who had taken so well to ranch life. Maybe he would help Gavin settle in.

While the social worker turned to greet the others, Dane stepped to the car, slid behind the steering wheel, closed the door.

Gavin breathed with studiously quiet drags, as if the activity caused him pain.

"I’m Dane Gideon."

Only a short break in breathing rhythm indicated the teenager had heard.

Knowing Clint, the fifteen-year-old had been filled in on all aspects of his new home, from the duties he would have on this thriving ranch, to the size of the house, to the school he would be attending and the other seven "inmates" here at the ranch.

With a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the town, Dane allowed himself a moment of doubt. Was he taking on too much this time?

"You going to tell me your name?" Dane asked.

The kid’s lips parted, his throat muscles worked, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and turned to Dane with a garish smile. "Howdy, partner." The mocking cadence of his surprisingly baritone voice miniaturized the space in the car. "You can call me Blaze, it’s who I am, it’s what I do according to my mama, and mamas never lie, do they?" Bitterness dripped from his words.

"Depends. Did you set the fire?"

The smile sifted from his face like wisps of sand blown from the surface of a rock. "Think I’m stupid? If I say I didn’t, you’ll call me a liar. If I say I did, I’d be lying."