The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(50)

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Where are your parents?” she asked, fast and sharp.

“Dead.”

Her coldness suddenly thawed, her shoulders rounding and a sweetness she’d hidden filling her gaze when she looked at Della beside me. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I squeezed Della’s fingers harder.

“Is my dad right? That you’ve been on the streets for a while?”

I shot her father a glance. He’d said I couldn’t lie, but he didn’t say I could omit the truth. “We’ve never slept on the streets.”

Technically, it wasn’t a lie. We slept in forests with tents and sleeping bags, never on empty concrete in heartless cities.

“I don’t believe you.” Cassie Wilson crossed her arms. “You look like you’ve just crawled from the jungle.”

My lips twitched, not from her joke, but from pride. I liked that I looked more feral than civilized. I enjoyed being different to her even though the longer I stared, the more I found to notice about her.

Her hair caught the kitchen lights with golden strands as well as brown. Her eyes had specks of hazel and not just green. She licked her lips when she was angry or nervous. And she vibrated with energy I desperately needed so I could get better and leave this place.

She made me nervous, and I daren’t analyse why.

“I don’t care what you think of me,” I muttered. “We made a mistake sleeping in your father’s barn.”

She waved her hand. “Meh, I don’t care that you slept there. You didn’t hurt my ponies, so you’re already better than some of our old farmhands, and you care for your sister like I care for my brother, so that makes you kind. Dad says to give you a chance, so I will.” Her eyes slipped back into suspicion. “But don’t make me regret it.”

“That’s enough, Cas.” John Wilson cleared his throat, then pinned his eyes on me. “Before Cassie steals this entire conversation, I better come out with it. My wife and I have discussed options. Our first instinct was to call the police and have them tell your parents where you are. You haven’t told us your ages, but I doubt you’re legally able to live on your own with a minor. I didn’t invade your privacy and go through your bag, but if I’m right about you guys being homeless…that leads to the question of why.”

“That’s none of your business,” I said coldly, calmly. “Our life is our own. It’s not your place to call the police or—”

“Ah, see that’s where you’re wrong.” John Wilson held up his hand. “It is my place if I believe you’re at risk, parents are missing you, or if you’re up to no good. We’ve dealt with a few runaways while operating this farm, and most of them we send directly home to parents who are sick with worry and only have love and honourable intentions for their children. Other times, we…” He looked at his wife, trailing off.

“Other times, you what?” Adrenaline filled my veins, already hearing horror stories of eating children for lunch or selling them like I’d been sold.

Such filth shouted loudly in my head, so I wasn’t ready for him to say, “We give them a safe place to rest and figure out what they want to do. We don’t pressure them to go home and we don’t call the police with the understanding that there are no secrets between us.”

He leaned forward, planting his large hands on the table. “I’ve been around a while, Ren, so I know a kid that’s been abused versus one that has been loved. Winter is a slow time of year for a farm, but I’m willing to offer you employment, if you want it, and a place to stay with the only proviso that you tell me the truth.”

I froze. “You’re offering me a job?” A cough punctuated the end of my question, bending me over with wracking convulsions.

John Wilson waited until I’d stopped coughing before chuckling. “When you’re better, yes, I’m offering you a job. For now, your only task is to get better.”

I shook my head. “I-I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” I searched his face for an ulterior motive. I begged my instincts to strip back any falsehoods and help me see the fine print of such a deal.

No one could be that generous…surely?

“I’m doing this because a while ago, my eldest boy ran away thanks to a fight we had. He was missing for three years. We all believed he was dead and mourned every day from lack of news and guilt for failing him. I should never have lost my temper. He was just a kid—your age or thereabouts. It was my fault.”

Patricia Wilson reached out and patted her husband’s hairy hand. “It wasn’t just your fault, John. Adam was as much to blame.”

He smiled at his wife and shrugged at me. “Anyway, the good news is one day, a few years ago, we received a phone call from a family two counties over. They said they’d found our son sleeping behind their local supermarket. He was pretty beaten up, but when they’d tried to call the police, he’d hobbled away on a broken leg to avoid the mess between us. Instead of tying him down and calling the authorities, they took him in, cared for him, and believed him when he said he’d run from an abusive home and didn’t want the police to send him back.”

Pain shadowed the old farmer’s eyes, a wince smarting even now. “Obviously, he lied to them, but they gave him shelter and offered him no judgment or expectation. They helped him find a job, earn some money, and mature enough to see that our fight was stupid and idiotic and not worth the estrangement anymore. Finally, my son told them the truth; that he wasn’t from an abusive family, bore the brunt of their disappointment that he’d lied, let them call us with the news, and came back home.”