* * *
Lana Alvarez’s heart went out to the little boy who kept pressing closer and closer to her side. Funny, Logan Rawlings wasn’t one of the at-risk residents, but he seemed just as needy as they were. She wondered if his single dad even knew where he was.
“Scoot in closer,” she said to the five other first-and second-grade boys clustered around her, patting the couch on her other side to encourage shy little Timmy Landon to sit there. He slid in, hesitantly, and Lana smiled at him.
No question, she adored kids. All of them. And even though she probably wouldn’t have any of her own—not now, not after her single humiliating attempt at a normal relationship—she was blessed to be able to love so many kids through her day job as a teacher and through her volunteer work.
She turned the page of the illustrated book they were reading together and held it so all the boys could see the picture. “What do you think’s going to happen next?”
“I know!”
“Me, me!”
“Uh-oh.” Beside her, Logan tensed, looking toward the door.
Through which a very big, very handsome, very displeased-looking cowboy was coming their way.
Flint Rawlings. That curious flush she felt every time she saw him came on strong. It was probably annoyance, because he had to be the most aloof, inattentive father on the planet.
At least from what she’d seen. She knew she shouldn’t judge, but when a child’s best interests were at stake, it was hard for her to help it.
She put a protective arm around Logan, who’d pressed even closer as his father reached their little group.
“My son’s not supposed to be here.” His voice sounded accusatory, and she felt Logan cringe.
Men. If it weren’t for that fact that she needed to model politeness to these young boys, she’d chew out the cowboy for his sharp tone and the way he was speaking to her instead of his son.
“Nice to see you.” She allowed the slightest hint of censure to show in her voice as she extended her hand.
His face reddened. He reached out and wrapped his hand around hers. “Likewise.”
The gravelly voice and the feel of his work-hardened hand raised her heart rate, and she pulled away, feeling suddenly flustered. What was that all about?
“Come on, Logan,” Flint said, squatting down. “You’ve worried Mrs. Toler so much that she had to go home. You’ll have to come back to work with me.”
Logan drew closer to Lana, his lower lip thrusting out. “I want to hear the rest of the story.”
“Logan.” The word was stern, sharp.
Too stern and sharp for a little boy, in Lana’s opinion. But, she reminded herself, everyone had a different style of parenting.
On the other hand, this was working into a family fight that the rest of the boys didn’t need to see. “He’s welcome to stay with me,” she offered. “I’m here until five. I’ll be tutoring some of the kids after story time, and I’m sure Logan would be no trouble.”
“Please, Daddy?”
Flint’s eyes narrowed, and a shadow crossed his face. “No. I want him to come with me.” He reached down, effortlessly picked Logan up, and set him on his feet outside the group.
Two big tears rolled down Logan’s face despite his obvious attempt not to cry, and Lana’s heart broke a little. She opened her mouth to protest, but a look from Flint quelled her.
Of course, a parent had more say over a child’s life than a teacher. She had to remember she was just a teacher.
Would always be just a teacher.
“Thank you for looking out for him,” Flint said stiffly. Then he took Logan’s hand, and they walked away, the small boy straightening his back and trying to match his cowboy-booted steps to his father’s longer strides.
Lana’s throat felt tight. She beckoned for one of the boys to hand her the water bottle she always carried, took a long drink, and then forced a smile onto her face. “Okay, boys. Where were we?”
* * *
Two days later, Flint walked into the tack room to get out some saddles for the younger boys’ evening riding lesson. His two-year-old black Lab, Cowboy, trotted along beside him.
Only, the saddles weren’t there.
He looked around, wondering if one of the riding instructors had moved them, and then walked out into the main barn. Five minutes of searching didn’t turn them up.
That left one likely culprit. “Logan!”
Since Mrs. Toler had definitively quit, he’d had Logan around the barn after school, which had meant some extra trouble and mischief. But last night, Flint had called around, and the result was a friend for Logan to play with today. A friend from school, not the ranch.
Flint liked the kids here at the ranch, knew that most were decent boys who’d gotten in trouble due to home problems that weren’t their fault. But he didn’t want them to be Logan’s only friends. Martin Delgado was the son of a local doctor and, according to Logan, the smartest boy in the class.
What he should have asked Logan, Flint realized now, was how often the boy got in trouble.
Logan’s blond head peeked in the barn door and was immediately joined by a dark one. Both faces looked guilty.
Flint restrained a smile. “Did you take the saddles that were in the tack room?” They were heavy for Logan to carry alone, but with his friend’s help they could definitely be moved.
“We didn’t touch them.” Logan came farther in, relief on his face, and Martin followed.
At which point he saw why they’d been looking so guilty. Somehow they’d gotten into the paint he’d been using to touch up some fencing. They each had a white stripe down the backs of their shirts.
After he’d gotten an explanation—“we were playing skunk!”—and had taken the paint away from them, he set them to sweeping the barn floor under Cowboy’s watchful eye while he took one last look around for the saddles. He didn’t find them, and a couple of phone calls ascertained that no one else from the ranch had taken them anywhere. No adults, anyway.
Which meant this might very well be part of the recent small acts of sabotage that had been plaguing the region.
He was just punching in a text to his friend Heath Grayson, a Texas Ranger who was spending his spare time investigating the sabotage problem, when a familiar pickup approached. Heath Grayson himself got out.
“Just the man I want to see.” Flint pocketed his phone with the text message unsent.
Heath walked around the truck and toward Flint, holding up a cooler. The small bag on top of it produced a home-baked smell that made Flint’s stomach rumble. “Josie heard Mrs. Toler quit,” Heath explained, “so she sent over some of her famous mac and cheese for your dinner. Couple of giant chocolate chips cookies, too.”
At that, Logan came running out of the barn, followed by Martin. “Cookies! Can I have mine now, Dad?”
Flint thought. It was four thirty, and he had another hour or more of work to do around here before he could take Logan home and start dinner. Or rather, heat up dinner, thanks to Josie and Heath’s generosity. It was a long time for a hungry little boy to wait. “Sure. Say thank you to Mr. Grayson first.”
“Thanks!” Logan said, his eyes widening as he took the big cookie Heath held out to him.
“That’s big! Can I have some of it?” Martin asked.
“No way!” Logan turned away from the other boy.
“Logan.”