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“You expect me to strip right here in the middle of camp?”

“There are bushes. There’s privacy by the latrine. Find a place.”

Matthew snatched the clothes and stomped off. Squish, squish, squish.

When Weston turned back to the fire, Paisley had stomped off in the opposite direction. Not that he cared.

Oh, look, there was his unfinished lunch. A sandwich on three-day-old bread. Stale chips. Flexible carrot sticks. He glanced around, but no one was nearby. He dumped the whole thing in the fire and added a couple of logs. He’d make a pot of cowboy coffee and gnaw on some jerky later. Maybe eat that protein bar he’d stashed in his pack. Or missing a meal wouldn’t kill him. Not when his gut churned the way it did from confronting that blasted kid over and over.

“Who wants to go fishing?” Harvey called from over by the infamous rocks.

Kids swarmed from all around.

“Who wants to go riding?” Paisley called.

A few kids turned that direction. Several stood undecided.

That was Weston’s gig she was taking over like he wasn’t standing right there. She’d likely surmised that he was in no frame of mind to deal with a bunch of nattering children. And she’d be correct.

Weston needed to get a grip on himself again. Why couldn’t he simply be a nice guy? Why couldn’t he go with the flow? Why couldn’t he gain respect without being an ogre?

“Where do I put these?” Matthew asked sullenly, holding out his wet clothes.

“Put your shoes near the fire — not too close, mind you — and we’ll hang the rest over on the kitchen line.”

The boy propped the sneakers against the log, shot a nasty look at Weston, and marched over to the rope. He slung his balled-up shirt and pants over the line.

“Here, let me help.” Weston nearly choked on his own words. “We’ll drape them evenly, so they’ll dry quicker. Like this.” He shook out the wadded shirt and clothes-pinned it to the line.

“Thanks.” Matthew didn’t sound like he meant it.

“You’re welcome.” Weston studied the kid. What would his own self at that age have responded to? Not much. “Fishing or horses?”

“You riding?” The eye-daggers were back.

“Not this time. Paisley’s got it.”

“Riding, then. I’ve had enough of the lake.”

Weston gestured toward the makeshift corral, where several voices chattered as the group tacked up. “Have at it.”

As the kid stalked away, Weston rolled his shoulders. He became aware of someone beside him and glanced down.

Susanna Little stood there, shaking her head. “That boy needs help.”

Ya think?

She sighed. “He’s an only child, and his parents expect a lot out of him. I don’t think he gets much love and attention.”

Weston had had the love, at least from his mother. Dad had been something else. They’d clashed over everything, from which boot to put on first to whether Weston could ride the bull.

Great. He’d turned into his own father, grousing bitterly at everything and everyone. One big difference? He didn’t have kids of his own to poison by treating them the same way.

No, he’d settle for raking other people’s kids through the coals.

Wrong answer, Weston.

Susanna wiped her eyes. Wait, what? The woman was sniffling over someone else’s rebel? “Isn’t that all anyone needs? Just love. Jesus gives that in abundance. Paisley mentioned you’re both believers when we corresponded prior to the trip. I don’t know how to reach Matthew with God’s love, though. Any ideas?”