Lani threw her suitcase into the trunk of her car, closed the lid, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Packing for this little adventure had been harder than she’d expected it to be. What does a person wear on a ranch, anyway? She wanted to look professional, but could she really wear heels, even low ones, in grass? At least, she assumed there would be grass. That’s what it looked like on the ranch’s website. And there would be lots of animals, and that meant lots of all the stuff animals leave behind.
She finally grabbed a few pairs of jeans from her closet, a few blouses, one dress—just in case something came up—and sneakers. Oh, and a pair of sandals to go with that one dress. Now, sitting in the driver’s seat, she ran over everything in her mind to make sure she wasn’t leaving anything crucial behind. Laptop and charging cord—check. Those were the most crucial things. Anything else, she could replace if she forgot it.
Clothes, toothbrush, hairbrush, box of Band-Aids—that was pretty crucial too because she never knew when she was going to need one. She’d given herself a cardboard paper cut on her box of cereal that morning. Makeup—she didn’t usually wear a ton, but if she’d need a dress for some reason, she’d probably want to wear makeup with it. Sheesh. Now she sounded like that mouse and cookie book. Why not just pack everything she owned just in case?
Finally reassured that she had what she needed, she pulled out and headed down the road. Her GPS had been programmed with the coordinates and it looked like it would be a fairly easy drive, but she had two maps with her just in case, and the GPS on her phone. Her family always teased her about her tendency to get lost, so she was always extra prepared. Yeah. Maps and Band-Aids. Could she get any more hopeless?
Her klutziness and her tendency to get lost didn’t matter when it came to journalism, however, and she knew she had what it took to do well at her chosen profession. If she could just get enough credentials under her belt, she could get a job at any of the magazines in the area.
That thought brought her up short. Didn’t she want to stay with Texas Times? Wasn’t that why she was doing this article—to impress Mr. Denning? As she headed down the freeway, she realized that no, she was doing this so she could move on. Texas Times was a means to an end, not the ultimate goal. Ultimately, she wanted to freelance, which would give her so much more flexibility. She could see herself traveling the world and writing about the indigenous peoples and their cultures, then selling those articles to National Geographic or some other super-cool thing like that.
She pulled out a piece of jerky and munched on it as she drove, then a candy bar, then a bottle of water, then another piece of jerky. She planned her snacks out poorly, though, because when she turned onto the McClain property, she had jerky breath, and she wasn’t sure she had gum. She fished in her purse for a breath mint, thinking she had a box of Tic Tacs in there somewhere, but she was driving with one hand and fishing with the other, and the next thing she knew, she’d rolled forward and thunked the bumper of her car into a concrete planter that marked the path up to the main house.
Oh, no.
She got out and tiptoed around to the front of the car, thinking that if she sneaked up on it, maybe the damage wouldn’t be so bad. That didn’t work, though—there was definite crumbling going on, with pieces of concrete falling onto the ground.
She heard footsteps behind her and whirled around. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “I really am so sorry. I should have been watching where I was going, and I will definitely pay for this planter.” She’d do that out of her own pocket rather than asking the magazine to cover it. She didn’t want this getting out. It was even worse than the chair incident.
Then she stopped babbling and paused to look at the man standing in front of her, an amused smile on his face.
Holy Hannah.
Well, okay. She didn’t know just how holy Hannah really was, but if this guy was any indication, she was very, very holy. Ready for sainthood holy. He was . . . well, he was a cowboy, for one. And he was everything a cowboy should be. And she wanted to know why the ranch website hadn’t warned her about this.
“It’s all right,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “I don’t think any of us really liked that planter anyway.”
“The petunias,” she began, but she couldn’t really finish because she was conscious of his hand around hers, and it was nice and warm, and she felt nice and warm too. “I’ll replace the petunias,” she said in almost a whisper.
“Only if you really want to.” He grinned. Oh, he shouldn’t have done that. She took a stumbling step forward and almost lost her balance, but he was still holding her hand, and he kept her from biffing it entirely. Then she wondered why he was still holding her hand, and she realized that she had never let it go.
“I’m sorry,” she said, slowly releasing her grip. “I’m not making a very good impression, am I? My name is Lani Markland, and I’m a reporter with Texas Times Magazine. I’m here to meet with Tiffani McClain about the work she’s doing on the annual fundraiser here at the ranch.” Well, now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
She met the man’s eyes and felt another wave of warmth crash over her. It was like standing in front of an oven and opening the door, only it didn’t make her glasses fog up. Wait—it was dishwashers that did that, and she wasn’t wearing glasses. At any rate, it was nice, and it sort of made her want a nap.
He blinked a couple of times, and the warmth pulled back a little bit. “I’m Frank McClain,” he replied. “Welcome to the ranch. I’ll text Tiffani and let her know you’re here.”
“I’m a few minutes early, so I’m sure she’s not expecting me yet,” Lani said, turning back to look at the planter. It was just as bad as she thought. And wouldn’t it just be par for the course—her car wasn’t damaged at all. She caused destruction everywhere she went, yet came out unscathed herself.
Frank punched a few buttons on his phone, then returned it to his pocket. “So, Texas Times. That’s out of . . . where? San Antonio?”
“Houston,” she replied, turning her back on the planter and resolving not to look at it again. “It’s not the largest magazine ever, but it’s not small, either—we have a readership of around half a million.”
Frank blinked a few times. “That’s impressive.”
It wasn’t anything compared to the National Geographic at six and a half million, but he didn’t need to know that. And there was no point in depressing herself with that fact, either. She’d reach her goals someday—just not today. Today, she had an article to write about a ranch.
“So, you’re a member of the McClain family,” she said, going into reporter mode. Might as well get started while she waited for Tiffani to arrive. “Frank, you said? That makes you the sixth son.”
“That’s right.”
“I did quite a bit of reading up on your family and the ranch to get ready for this visit. I get the Hollywood reference in your names and wondered how you feel about it. I mean, it can’t have been easy, growing up with alphabetical names from a movie.”
He grinned. “Well, we actually know a few other families with alphabetical names, but none quite like ours. I think we all went through a phase of hating it, but as we’ve gotten older, we’ve come to appreciate it for what it is. Our mother is a unique woman, and it made her happy, and we’d all do just about anything if it makes her happy.”
“You realize that’s an odd position for seven grown men to take,” Lani pointed out. “Most adult sons are out on their own, building up their careers and having their own families. They aren’t as involved in their families of origin as you seem to be.”
He nodded. “That’s true. However, our family is different from most, and I think you’ll have a chance to see that during your time here. How long are you planning to stay?”
They both turned at the sound of footsteps on gravel. A young woman dressed in dark jeans and a blue blouse walked toward them, obviously nervous. “Hi there,” she said as she neared them. “I’m Tiffani McClain. You must be Lani Markland.”
“I am.” Lani held out her hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I apologize for being early.”
“That’s all right. I see that you’ve met Frank.”
“Yes, I did.” Lani glanced over at him, even though she shouldn’t have because that made her heart beat faster. “I was just asking him some preliminary questions about the family.”
“Why don’t you come up into the house, and we can sit down and have some lemonade?” Tiffani invited.
“Sure.” Lemonade. On a ranch. How . . . downhome stereotypical. Lani followed Tiffani up to the house, Frank trailing behind. Was he like a bodyguard or a puppy dog or something? Maybe he was damage control, there to shoot down any questions about compounds or cults or anything like that. Maybe Tiffani wasn’t allowed to speak without the permission of the men in the family. Lani’s imagination conjured up all kinds of things until she had at least three working theories by the time they were seated around the kitchen table.
“I thought we’d talk for a little while, and then you could show me around the ranch,” Lani said, pulling out her notebook and tape recorder.
“That’s not a problem at all.” Tiffani poured them each a glass of lemonade, the cubes of ice clinking merrily. Lani hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until she heard the rattle of the ice. It must have been the salt in the jerky. Oh, no—she never had found that breath mint. She’d been talking to Frank with jerky breath. But that was neither here nor there. It was time to ask questions, not flirt.
“So,” she began. “You came on board at the ranch last fall when they advertised for a fundraising coordinator.”
“That’s right. I’ve done this sort of thing most of my adult life and I love it, so the job posting seemed like the perfect fit. Then when I got here, I fell in love with Adam, the oldest son, and we got married.”
“Rather shortly after you arrived, if I read my research correctly,” Lani said. “You don’t mind, do you, that I’ve Googled you all extensively?”
“Of course not,” Tiffani said. “That’s what a good reporter would do. Yes, we got married rather quickly. When you’re in love, why waste time?”
Lani nodded like she understood, although she didn’t. She’d never been in love like that. She’d thought she was a time or two, but nope. Nada. Zilch. “And this fundraiser has been going on for quite some time, from what I understand.”
“Yes. It’s a tradition here. It gives the community the opportunity to learn more about what we do here. And of course, it raises money for our programs.” Tiffani glanced over at Frank, and he smiled at her. What? Had he just approved of what she’d said? What was up with that little exchange? Whatever it was, Tiffani pulled in a deep breath and seemed calmer, and Lani had to wonder about that. Frank was Tiffani’s brother-in-law—why did a smile from him in particular make such a difference?
Of course, she knew what a smile from Frank had done to her, but that was totally different.
“I understand that you have thirty boys here at the moment. Are they all juvenile delinquents? What are their backgrounds?”
Frank cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to address that question. We don’t refer to the boys as juvenile delinquents. Many of them come from troubled pasts and they have had brushes with the law, but we don’t give them such judgmental labels. This ranch is about healing—every boy here came because someone let them down. Their parents, usually, and society most definitely. This is their chance to hit the restart button and create a new life for themselves. We don’t hold their pasts over their heads.”
Lani nodded. He’d spoken softly, but she could feel the power and passion behind his words. She’d include that in the article. “You said some had troubled pasts. What about the others?”
Tiffani took this one. “A few of the boys are here because they lost their parents in some way and had no one else to take them in. We’re awarded custody of each boy on the ranch until their eighteenth birthday, and then they can decide whether to stay or leave.”
“And do your programs vary depending on the boys’ backgrounds? Is there a tougher program for the troubled ones, for instance?”
“No,” Tiffani replied. “Every boy here is treated exactly the same way. They have regular meetings with my husband, who is the ranch psychiatrist, for counseling, whether it’s about grief or addiction or acting out. They all have chores to do each day, for which they are paid, and they all contribute to running their home. They cook meals, wash laundry, clean toilets—everything they’ll need to know as functioning, independent adults. They also get to go horseback riding and they go to the movies and they do things that other teenagers do all the time.”
Lani nodded again. This sounded too good to be true, really. “And do they like it here?”
“Every boy who comes has to work through their emotions when they first arrive,” Tiffani said. “I’d say that each one struggles at first, whether it’s to overcome homesickness after the loss of a parent or to work through the abuse or addiction that brought them here. Eventually, they do acclimate, and they grow to love it.”
“Would it be appropriate for me to interview the boys?” Lani asked. She didn’t know if they’d let her speak with any of their underage residents, but she thought it couldn’t hurt to try.
Tiffany glanced at Frank again. Honestly, what was up with that? “I’m sure you could,” she said after a moment. “They get home from school in a few hours, and you can speak to them then.”
“So they attend school in town?”
“That’s right.”
“I wondered if they were taught out here on the ranch.”
“We did talk about that a while back, but we decided that given their circumstances, it was best for them to have as many normalizing experiences as possible,” Frank interjected. “They should feel a part of society, not tucked away from it.”
That made sense. Lani pursed her lips as she made a note. Now a choice lay before her. Should she ask the hard questions, or should she keep this light and friendly? Part of her wanted to take the easy road and ask for a refill on her lemonade and buy into this Mayberry atmosphere, but her journalistic instincts wanted more. She gave in to that side and leaned forward.
“I’m sure you realize that this particular setup is unusual. This ranch has been operational for generations, the family members don’t seem to leave, and you all live in cabins within a stone’s throw from each other. Some might ask if this is a cult.”
Tiffani chuckled. “Oh, yes, we’ve been asked that quite a lot. No, we’re not a cult. We’re a strong Christian family who works together for a cause we believe in, but that’s as far as that goes. If a boy was really miserable here and we couldn’t help him, we’d see about finding him a better fit. As for the family sticking around, well, once you’ve had a chance to see the place and meet everyone, you’ll understand. We all have a place here and we all pull together to see the fantastic end results.”
“And those end results are?”
“Healthy, happy, well-adjusted adults who have healed from their pasts and are ready to face the future with confidence.”
“I see.” Lani made another note. “Have you ever had any failures? A boy who refused to get with the program?”
“I don’t believe so,” Tiffani said, turning to Frank. “Have we?”
He shook his head. “We’ve had to work harder with some than others, but in the end, love and cookies always win out.”
“That’s your secret? Love and cookies?” Lani asked, feeling incredulous. How would that change the life of a boy who had been arrested for drug use or gang involvement?
“It sounds unbelievable, but once you’ve tasted my mother’s cookies, you’ll understand,” Frank told her with another of those smiles. He had either practiced that look for hours on end, or it was his natural expression. If that’s how charming he was naturally, it’s a good thing she didn’t live nearby. He could be trouble. And she should keep her distance.
To that end, she decided to keep diving into this mystery. “I’ve noticed, Tiffani, that you keep glancing over at Frank while you’re answering my questions. Can you tell me why that is? If this isn’t a cult with some kind of male dominance in place, why do you feel like you need his permission to speak?”
Tiffani blinked a few times. “I don’t need his permission to speak,” she said after collecting herself. “I’ve only been on the ranch for a short time and I don’t know the history like he does. If there’s anything you need to know about the family itself, it’s best to ask a family member, isn’t it? Otherwise, what you get might be considered hearsay, and I’m not sure using that’s good journalistic practice.”
Lani nodded her approval. This girl was tougher than she looked. “Touché,” she replied. “I appreciate your candor, and I apologize if I caused offense.”
“I’m not offended at all,” Tiffani replied. “I can imagine that it must have seemed odd. I assure you, though, that every woman here on the ranch is fully capable of standing up for herself and speaking her own mind. The men are also strong and have their own opinions. We’re neither feminist nor male dominated—we work together as a team.”
Lani blinked. “That’s not something I hear every day in my line of work.”
“It’s the only way things can truly be successful around here,” Tiffani replied. “If we’re not a team, we’re not strong enough to handle the challenges we take on.”
“I can see that.” Lani glanced back and forth between them. “I’m ready for that tour, if you think it’s time.” She for one was ready for a breather. That was the risk she took when asking the hard questions—they were just as hard for her as they were for the person she was interviewing.
They rose, and Frank touched Tiffani’s shoulder. Once again, Lani noticed that Tiffani seemed calmer afterwards. What was going on? Was he injecting her with something out of a teeny, tiny needle no one could see from across the room? Spraying her with some kind of tranquilizer? She had to figure this out. It was going to drive her nuts until she did.