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the feeling she didn't have the faintest idea.
    He found Myrtle Street and turned right. A handful of bungalows lined one side; the other was taken up by a lumberyard, the tall fencing that surrounded it topped by razor wire and lit by spots.
    "I can get out here," Roan said, her hand already on the door handle.
    "Which one's yours?" Cal gambled that she wouldn't jump out while the truck was still moving, but he slowed just in case. He didn't need to be peeling her off the road tonight, not with dawn just hours away.
    She bit her lip, barely looking at him. "Why do you need to know?"
    "Look," Cal said, letting out an exasperated sigh. "I can find out easy enough. You already know my name, you know where I live, and I guess by now we can agree I'm not exactly a danger to you. In fact, I might be the kind of friend you could stand to have."
    Why had he said that? He'd asked Roan to lunch tomorrow just so he could get a little closure on the events in the burned house: if he established his relationship to Mimi, to his friends, to the ranch, maybe he could help Roan get whatever it was she was looking for without complicating their renting situation. Which was tenuous, to say the least; Mimi wasn't exactly the easiest landlady in the world, according to Matthew. The rest of them hadn't met her yet, since Matthew took care of all the details.
    He wanted to help . The notion echoed back in his mind, mocking him. The same voice he fought every day since he'd been an out-of-control teenager, the voice that tried to seduce him into quitting, giving up, agreeing with the rest of the world that he was no good and never would be.
    "Let me help, damn it," he repeated. Way louder than necessary. Roan gave him a startled glance and he knew he'd gone too far. He gripped the steering wheel so hard he thought he might pull it off the steering column.
    "I have plenty of friends," Roan mumbled. But Cal knew a lie when he heard one. Her hand was still on the door handle; she was looking down at the floor of the truck.
    "It's that one," he said, pointing at a little white house with brick trim and a pair of crabapple trees flanking the walk. A row of shrubs was neatly wrapped in burlap; window boxes had been filled with cut greens. The house itself had seen better days; paint peeled and the porch listed and one of the shutters was hanging by a nail.
    "How did you know?" She finally looked him in the eye.
    Cal shrugged. As deductive detective work went, it was hardly a challenge. He pointed to the garage at the end of the pebbled driveway; leaning against its side were half a dozen bicycle tires and several bikes in various states of disrepair and dismantling. "They're yours, right?"
    She looked from the bicycle parts back to him and nodded.
    "You fix bikes."
    "I work at Walt's bike shop."
    Cal couldn't think of anything else to say. He was uncomfortably aware of trying to stretch the conversation out. "So I'll see you tomorrow. Bluebird okay? Noon?"
    "I guess." This time she opened the door and jumped out without looking at him. Cal considered getting out and lifting her bike from the truck bed, but he figured she'd only glare at him. She had it out, her hand under the frame like it weighed nothing, in seconds.
    Cal watched Roan wheel the thing down the drive and around the back of the house. She never looked back.

CHAPTER FOUR
    " Angel," Roan said softly, sliding her backpack onto the battered table next to the door. "My big girl."
    In response she heard the thump of a feathered tail against the wall of the kitchen. As Roan snapped on a light, bathing one of her two small rooms in golden light, she winced, knowing that Angel was getting slowly to her feet, her hips trembling with pain and effort as she braced herself against the wall.
    "Animals are incredibly adaptable," Dr. Raj had told Roan kindly last time she'd taken Angel in. She knew Dr. Raj had been trying to make her feel better. His gentle, caring ways went well beyond the animals in