Книга - The Rancher and the Girl Next Door

The Rancher and the Girl Next Door
Jeannie Watt


Coming home to a new lifeTen years ago Brett Bishop made a bad mistake…and paid the price. But he’s finally come back to the Nevada ranching land that he loves. Now he has the chance to make things right.He’s distracted by the girl next door – the new schoolteacher, Claire Flynn. As if she didn’t have enough on her hands with a school full of unruly kids, Claire is out to save Brett from himself.Her sexy curves and sassy ways aren’t good for his peace of mind – but he’s starting to wonder if peace is really what he wants!













“I hear you were a wild man back in the day,” Claire said softly.



“Where’d you hear that?”



“Out and about. You were a rodeo star…?”



“Yeah, I was.” Too close for comfort. Those days had ended up being the dark turning point of his life and he wasn’t going to discuss them. Period. Brett popped the cork back into the bottle. He pushed it across the table towards her.



She stood. “You keep it.”



“You’ll probably need it more than me.” He picked it up and pressed it into her hands.



“Thanks for the help,” she said. “See you around.”



He watched her walk down the path for a moment, admiring the subtle swing of her hips beneath the swirly skirt she wore.



Claire Flynn was not going to be good for his peace of mind.




Available in July 2009

from Mills & Boon


Superromance


A Mum For Amy

by Ann Evans



Because of a Boy

by Anna DeStefano



The Rancher and the Girl Next Door

by Jeannie Watt



Doctor in Her House

by Amy Knupp




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


JEANNIE WATT lives with her husband in an isolated area of northern Nevada, and teaches science in a town forty miles away from her home. She lives off the grid in the heart of ranch country, and considers the battery-operated laptop to be one of the greatest inventions ever. When she is not writing, Jeannie likes to paint, sew and feed her menagerie of horses, ponies, dogs and cats. She has degrees in geology and education.




The Rancher and the Girl Next Door

JEANNIE WATT





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Gary, with love.




CHAPTER ONE


NO ONE EXPECTED Claire Flynn to last long in Barlow Ridge. Even Claire had her doubts about making the transition to life in the tiny Nevada community, but she had sworn to herself that no matter how great the emergency or how dire the circumstances, she would not ask for help. It was a matter of pride.

And now here she was, going in search of help.

Drat.

She trudged up the rickety wooden steps leading to Brett Bishop’s front door. Technically he was her landlord and therefore the logical person to help her with domestic emergencies. But he was also her sister’s new brother-in-law, and a bit of an enigma. An interesting combination, Claire mused as she raised her hand to knock on his weathered kitchen door. It opened before her knuckles touched wood.

Brett did not look pleased to see her, but then he never looked too pleased about anything. That enigma thing. Claire enjoyed enigmas.

“There’s a snake in my house.”

His brown eyes became even more guarded than usual. “What kind of snake?”

“Grayish, no markings, maybe twelve to eighteen inches long. Very fast and uncooperative.”

It had scared the daylights out of her when she’d moved a box and found it curled up in a corner. The feeling had apparently been mutual, since the creature had shot off toward the washing machine before Claire’s feet were back on the ground. It was then that she’d decided to go for reinforcements. If her computer had been connected to the Internet, she might have done some quick research on snake removal, but it wasn’t, so she took the coward’s way out. When she’d made her vow of independence, she hadn’t factored in reptiles.

Brett regarded her for a moment, his mouth flattening exactly the way it had when she’d made the mistake of flirting with him during their wedding-duty dance just over a year ago. And then he gave his dark head a fatalistic shake.

“Let’s go see what you’ve got,” he said.



WHEN CLAIRE FLYNN SMILED, she looked like she knew a secret, and if you treated her right she might just tell you what it was. Brett did not want to know Claire’s secrets. He’d had enough secrets for one lifetime.

He stepped out onto the porch, preparing himself for the inevitable. His brother, Will, had asked him to give Claire a hand when necessary, and Brett had agreed, but he hadn’t anticipated snake removal as one of the services required.

“I appreciate this,” Claire said as he pulled the door shut behind him.

“No problem.” But he did wonder how much more help she was going to need before her year of teaching was over. And he also wondered just how well she was going to fit into this small community, with her choppy blond hair and trendy clothing. Not many women in Barlow Ridge wore skirts that clung and swirled, strappy tops or flimsy sandals. In fact, none of them did. He imagined the locals were going to have a fine old time discussing her.

Claire walked briskly beside Brett as they left the homestead house and headed across the field toward the single-wide trailer she was now calling home. The field had just been mowed and baled with third-cutting alfalfa, so although the walking was easy, he expected the hay stubble was probably scratching up Claire’s bare ankles pretty good. She didn’t say a word, though, which kind of surprised him.

And she hadn’t whined about the condition of the trailer—the only place to rent in Barlow Ridge—which happened to sit on the edge of his hay field. Another surprise. The previous teacher to rent it, a guy named Nelson, had registered at least a complaint a day.

“Where’d you last see the snake?” Brett asked when they were a few yards from the house. Dark clouds were moving in from the south. The evening thunderstorm was brewing early today and Brett hoped he’d be able to get rid of the snake and return home before lightning began to strike.

“It went behind the washer.”

Brett grimaced. Nothing like moving a heavy major appliance with his worst nightmare lurking behind it.

Claire opened the trailer door and stood back. The interior smelled of industrial-strength cleanser. Brett wheezed as the stringent odor hit his nostrils.

“You know,” he said, “if you just close the door and give the snake a little time, it’ll probably pass out from the fumes.”

“Very funny.”

He sucked in a breath of fresh air, then stepped inside and headed down the hall to a narrow alcove where the washer was installed. Claire was close behind him. He grabbed a broom propped against the wall and handed it to her before taking hold of the washer, keeping his feet as far away as possible.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked, lifting the broom, a clunky wooden bracelet sliding down her arm in the process. Who cleaned house wearing a bracelet?

“Defend us.”

Brett took a firm hold and started rocking the appliance toward him, fully expecting the snake to shoot straight up his pant leg at any moment. Damn, he hated snakes.

He finally got the heavy machine pulled out far enough so that he could see the snake coiled in the corner, looking as threatened as Brett felt. A blue racer. Fast but not dangerous. Unless it went up your pant leg.

He reached his hand out for the broom. “Better stand back.”

Brett gently nudged the snake into the hall, trying not to dance too much as he blocked the reptile’s repeated escape attempts with the broom, before finally managing to send it sailing through the front door. For several seconds it remained motionless, but then it came back to life and slithered off into the grass.

From behind him, Brett heard Claire sigh with relief. He turned to give her an incredulous look.

“Just because I don’t want it living with me doesn’t mean I want it to get hurt.”

Brett closed the door. Sweat beaded his forehead, and it wasn’t entirely due to the hellishly hot interior of the trailer. He set the broom back against the wall, noticing that it was damp. He touched the surface again, experimentally, with the palm of his hand. She’d washed the walls.

“Are you some kind of germophobe?” he asked as he pushed the door wide to let out both the heat and the cleaning fumes. She had the windows open, but the air was still in the heavy pre-thunderstorm atmosphere.

“I prefer it to ophidiophobia.”

“Ophidio…”

“Fear of—”

“I know what it is,” he snapped. Or at least he could make a good guess. He hadn’t realized it was that obvious. “I’m not afraid of snakes. I’m just cautious.” Like all sensible Nevadans. He wiped his sleeve over his damp forehead. “Why don’t you turn the cooler on?”

“It made a funny noise, like it was losing a bearing.” Her green eyes were steady on his. “I didn’t want to bother you. I thought I’d find out who the local handyman was.”

Brett walked over to the cooler panel and flipped the pump switch, followed by the blower switch. A low screech became progressively louder as the blower wheel began to turn. He quickly snapped both switches off. Yes, it did sound like a bearing was going, and for some reason he hated the fact she had figured that out.

“I’ll have a look at it.” He could not leave her in a hotbox until Manny Fernandez had time to come round and fix the cooler. She’d likely be using the furnace by that time—which was also probably in need of repair.

“I don’t suppose you have any tools?”

She walked into the kitchen and returned a few seconds later with a zebra-striped tool kit.

“It was a gift,” she said before he had time to comment. “From the class I student—taught last year.”

Brett felt an unexpected desire to smile at the defensiveness in her voice. So Claire’s fashion sense had its limits. “They must have liked you.”

“We…developed a rapport,” she said cryptically, as she followed him outside.

There was an old wooden ladder lying beside the trailer, and Brett propped it up against the siding. A sudden gust of wind almost knocked it over again. He waited a moment until the wind settled down, making the air seem heavier than before, and then he began to climb.

Swamp coolers were not complex machines, and it wasn’t too difficult to tell that this one was on its last legs. Claire was in for a warmish time in her trailer. He’d have to see about ordering parts, if they still made them for this dinosaur.

The ladder shifted, and a moment later Claire climbed up onto the roof herself. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.

“Another snake?” he asked wryly.

“Just curious. Someday I may have to fix this thing myself.”

“You going to be here that long?”

“Ten months, and then back to grad school. What’s the prognosis?” she asked.

“Terminal.” The wind gusted again and the first faint rumblings of thunder sounded in the distance. The storm was moving in fast. “We’d better get down to the ground.” He closed the cooler’s heavy hinged cover.

Once they were back on solid earth, Brett put the ladder beside the trailer and handed Claire her tools. “I’m going to Wesley tomorrow. I’ll see about getting some parts, if they still make them. If not, I’ll see about a new cooler.” He felt bad leaving her in an oven. “It’s going to be kind of hot without it.”

“That’s the beauty of being a Vegas native. I’m used to it.” She pushed her choppy bangs away from her forehead. They stuck up, giving her a punk rock look. She smiled. “So…You want to go down to the bar and grab a bite or have a drink? As a thank-you?”

He hesitated just a little too long.

“I take it that’s a no.”

He wasn’t sure how to say what he needed to without being insulting and possibly pissing off his brother for not being nice to Claire. “Look,” Brett said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone, “I’ll help you out whenever you need it, but I’m not much of a socializer.”

“What does that mean?”

That I’m not going to risk screwing up again with someone so closely tied to my brother?

“It just means I’m not much on socializing,” he said with a touch of impatience. “It’s nothing personal.” Not the total truth, but close enough.

“All right.” She didn’t look particularly offended, but the smile was gone from her eyes. “I guess I’ll get back to work. Thanks for the help. I’ll call you if I need anything.” She started for the trailer door.

“There’s something you should know, Claire.”

She looked back. “What’s that?”

“I don’t think it was an accident that there was a snake in your house. There was a bunch of kids hanging around, just before you got here. I went to see what they were doing, and they took off running.”

“You think they were my students?”

“I’d say it’s a real possibility.”

Claire considered his words for a moment. “Should make for an interesting year, don’t you think?”

“Uh, yeah.” That was one way of putting it.

“I think I can probably handle anything they might dish out.” She sounded confident.

Brett nodded, wondering if she knew what she was up against. Apparently not. There was a flash of lightning, followed by thunder. “I think I’ll head back before it rains.”



SO HER STUDENTS HAD PUT a snake in her house and Brett didn’t want to socialize with her. Claire shook her head as she went through the door. Not exactly a welcoming beginning to her new life in Barlow Ridge. She was surprised about her students, and not so surprised about Brett. She’d only met him three times before deciding to take the teaching job here, but every time they’d been together she’d been struck by his standoffish attitude. With her and with his family.

Well, Claire didn’t do standoffish. With the exception of her mother, Arlene, who could still make her quake in her boots, she’d never met anyone who intimidated her. Maybe she should thank her mother for that.

The trailer was starting to cool off as the wind grew stronger, blowing in through the open windows. Another flash of lightning lit the sky, and Claire wondered how safe it was being in a metal can during a thunderstorm. It had to be safe, though. There were lots of trailers in the world and she’d never heard of one being struck by lightning. But leave it to her to be the first.

She sank down in the reclining chair, pulling her knees up to her chest as the sky flashed and a blast of thunder shook the trailer almost simultaneously. This was not only her first night alone in her new home, it was one of her first nights really alone anywhere. As in, no family down the hall, no neighbor on the other side of the wall. No neighbors within a quarter of a mile, for that matter.

It felt…strange.

But she could handle it.

In fact, she had a feeling that she might even grow to like it. If not, she only had ten months to get through before she moved back to Vegas.

Her cell phone buzzed. Claire glanced at the number, debated, and then gave in to the inevitable.

“Hi, Mom.” She forced a note of cheerful optimism into her voice. Nothing set her mother off like Claire doing what she pleased and enjoying it. Arlene had wanted her to be an engineer. Claire was talented in math, but hated the cut-and-dried engineering way of thinking. She was more free-form—way more free-form—and didn’t understand why Arlene couldn’t see that a free-form engineer who hated to double-check her equations was probably going to be a dangerous engineer. Arlene resented the fact that neither of her daughters had gone into the high-profile, high-paying professions she had chosen for them before they’d entered preschool. And she still hadn’t given up on turning their lives around.

“I called to see how you’re settling in.”

“Just fine,” Claire said breezily, deciding not to share her snake adventure just yet. “I’ll be going to school tomorrow to see my new room and do some decorating.”

“Any regrets?” her mother asked hopefully.

“Not yet, but there’s still time.” Claire knew that Arlene wanted her to at least entertain the possibility that she’d be sorry for putting off grad school for a year.

“Well, there’s a reason they can’t keep a teacher at that school.”

“Any idea what it is?” Claire asked innocently.

Arlene did not deign to answer, and Claire decided to change the subject while they were still on polite terms. She sifted through several topics and dismissed them all. Her stepfather, Stephen, was off-limits, since he had moved out of the house, informing Arlene that he would not come back unless she decided being a companion was as important as running her business. Claire wasn’t all that sure that Stephen would ever be coming back.

She couldn’t ask her for career advice—or decorating advice, since she was living in a rundown rented trailer on the edge of a hay field. But she could try cooking, their only common ground.

“Hey, Mom…” A boom of thunder nearly drowned out her words.

“What on earth?”

“Thunderstorm.”

“You shouldn’t be on the phone.”

“It’s a cell phone.” Claire decided not to argue. “You’re right.” She smiled slightly. “Thanks for calling, Mom. I was lonely.”

“Goodbye, Claire. It was good talking to you.”

Claire pushed the end button. It really hadn’t been too bad a conversation. They’d both behaved fairly well. She held the phone in her hand for a moment, then punched in her sister’s number. Regan answered on the first ring.

“I’ve been waiting,” she said.

“Why?” Claire knew why. For about nine-tenths of her life, she’d run every decision past Regan, even if she rarely followed her sister’s advice. It was a habit that had started when they were young, and continued well into college. It wasn’t until Regan had moved away from Las Vegas that Claire realized maybe life wasn’t always a joint venture.

“Because you’ve never lived alone before.”

“Well, I’ve been alone,” Claire said, “and this isn’t all that different.”

“So how are you settling in?”

“Fine, now that Brett got the snake out of the house…”

“The snake?”

“My students hid a snake in my house before I got here. It scared the daylights out of me when I found it, and since I don’t know anything about snakes, I had Brett come and remove it. Then I asked him out for a beer as a thank-you and he told me he doesn’t socialize.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then Regan murmured, “Don’t take it personally.”

“That’s what he said,” Claire replied, swinging her legs over the one arm of the chair and leaning back against the other. “And I’m not. I just thought it was odd, which makes me wonder, why are the gorgeous ones always tweaked in some weird way?”

Regan laughed.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just thinking that you could take a long look in the mirror and ask yourself that same question.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” They talked for a few more minutes, making plans to meet when Claire made her next trip to Wesley for supplies.

“Speaking of shopping,” Regan said, “Kylie is planning an Elko trip and she wants to know when you can come. She says your taste is better than mine, which, I have to tell you, worries her father a bit.”

“Tell her to name the day,” Claire said with a laugh. Elko shopping was nothing like Vegas shopping, but it was a heck of a lot better than Barlow Ridge shopping or Wesley shopping. And Kylie, Regan’s stepdaughter, was a girl after Claire’s own heart. A true renegade.

Claire finally hung up and set the phone back on the side table. The thunderstorm had passed without dropping any rain, but the air in the trailer felt fresher, cooler. She got to her feet and headed down the narrow hallway to her bedroom, walking a little faster as she passed the washing machine. Logic told her there were no more snakes lying in wait for her, but her instincts told her to take no chances. She’d yet to have much experience with animals, but when she did, she wanted them to be furry and friendly.



“YOU THE NEW TEACHER?”

Claire smiled at the grouchy-looking woman behind the mercantile counter. “Yes, I am.”

“Gonna stay?”

“One year.” Claire spoke easily, truthfully.

The woman snorted. “That’s the reason the kids are running wild, you know.”

“What is?”

“The fact that none of you will stay.”

“Yes, well, there’s not a lot to do here, is there?”

The woman gave her another sour look, but didn’t argue. It would have been hard to. The community had one store, a bar that served food and a community center that looked as if it was well over a hundred years old. Actually, everything in the town looked a hundred years old. Including the proprietress of the store, who was still glaring at Claire as if it were her fault teachers didn’t want to settle permanently in a community a zillion miles from civilization.

“I’m Claire Flynn,” she said with her best smile.

“Anne McKirk,” the woman grudgingly replied.

“You have a nice store.” It was definitely an everything-under-the-sun store. Food, hardware, crafts, clothing. One of the soda coolers held veterinary medications. It wasn’t a large space, but it was packed to the rafters.

“I try.”

Claire unloaded her basket on the counter. She would have liked some fresh fruit, but considering the circumstances, she’d take what she could get.

“Your sister taught here.”

“Yes. Three years ago.”

“She was good, but she didn’t last long.”

“She would have had a bit of a commute if she’d stayed,” Claire pointed out. Will Bishop, the man Regan had married, lived seventy miles away in Wesley, Nevada, where she now taught.

“Well, it would have been nice if Will had taken over the old homestead, instead of his brother. Then she would have stayed.”

“Yes, she would have,” Claire agreed. But it hadn’t worked out that way, so now the town was stuck with the wrong brother and the wrong sister.

“You interested in joining the quilting club?”

“I, uh, don’t know,” Claire hedged. She had never done anything more complicated with a needle than sew on the occasional button. She did it well, but she had a feeling that quilting was more difficult than button attachment.

“I’ll have Trini give you a call. Everybody joins quilting club.”

“Then I’ll join.”

Claire said goodbye, then strolled down the five-block-long street to Barlow Ridge Elementary, which was situated at the edge of town. Her trailer was only a half mile away, so she could walk to work on the nice days.

The school, constructed in the 1930s, had a certain vintage charm, but Claire knew from her initial visit that it would have been a lot more charming had it benefited from regular upkeep. It consisted of three classrooms—one used as a lunchroom—a gymnasium with a velvet-curtained stage at one end, two restrooms and a tiny office barely big enough to hold a desk and a copy machine.

Claire unlocked the stubborn front door and went into her room, setting her lunch on the shelving unit just inside. The space was of adequate size, but the equipment it contained was old, tired and makeshift. With the exception of a new computer on the teacher’s desk, everything dated from the previous century. There was no tech cart for projecting computer images, only an old overhead projector. No whiteboards or dry-erase markers, but instead a grungy-looking blackboard and a few small pieces of chalk.

She went to run her hand over the board, and found the surface grooved and wavy. Picking up a piece of chalk, she experimentally wrote her name. The chalk made thin, waxy lines, barely legible. Something needed to be done about this.

The desks came in a hodgepodge of sizes and shapes, all of them old-fashioned, with lift-up lids. She’d been thinking about how she would arrange them. Rows…a horseshoe…in groups. The students should probably have a say.

Behind her desk was a door in the wall that opened into a long, narrow closet jammed to the ceiling with junk. Probably seventy years’ worth of junk, from the look of things. She’d be doing something about this. Claire hated disorganization and wasted space.

She left her classroom and walked through the silent school. There was another mystery door, at the opposite end of the hall from the restrooms. She pulled the handle, and though the door proved to be a challenge, it eventually screeched open. A set of stone steps led downward.

A school with a dungeon. How nice.

There was no light switch, but a solitary bulb hung from a cord at the bottom of the steps, adding to the torture-chamber ambience.

Claire started down the steps. The smell of dampness and mildew grew stronger as she descended. She pulled the string attached to the light, illuminating most of the basement and casting the rest into spooky shadows. The floor was damp and there were dark patches on the walls that looked like moss. A frog croaked from somewhere in the darkness.

Stacks of rubber storage bins lined the walls, labeled Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Easter. Others were marked History, English and Extra. Probably some great stuff in that last one, Claire thought as she went to lift the corner of a lid. The bin was filled with old blue-ink ditto papers. There were also several tables, a plastic swimming pool and a net bag of playground balls hanging from an antique metal hook on the wall.

The frog croaked again and Claire decided she’d seen just about all there was to see. She went back upstairs, the air growing warmer and dryer with each step. Once she reached the top she wrestled the door closed and pushed the latch back into place.

“Is that you, Claire?”

The unexpected voice nearly made her jump out of her skin. She pressed her hand to her heart as she turned so see Bertie Gunderson, a small yet sturdy-looking woman with short gray hair, peeking out of the office doorway. Claire had met her the first time two days earlier at the district staff development meeting.

“Darn it, Bertie, you scared me.”

The other teacher smiled. “It’s refreshing to hear that I’m more frightening than the basement.”

Claire followed her back into the office, where she was copying papers on the antique copy machine—a hand-me-down from another school, no doubt. Regan had told her that Barlow Ridge Elementary got all the district’s reject equipment. “I was wondering about the blackboards.”

“What about them?”

“They’re unusable. Is there any chance of talking the district into putting up whiteboards?”

Bertie cackled. “Yeah. Sure.”

Claire felt slightly deflated, which, for her, was always the first step toward utter determination.

“You can try,” the veteran teacher said.

“I’ll do that.”

Bertie was still in her classroom working when Claire finally left three hours later. She’d started sorting through her storage closet but gave up after a half hour, concentrating instead on making her first week’s lesson plans. She would be teaching five different subjects—some of them at four different grade levels. Regan had already explained that she could combine science and social studies into single units of study for all her grades, but English and math had to be by grade level. The challenge was scheduling—keeping one grade busy while another was being taught.

But Claire loved a challenge, and this would be just that. Plus, she’d have an excellent background for her planned master’s thesis on combined classroom education. Old equipment and a wavy blackboard were not going to slow her down.



BRETT’S CELL PHONE RANG at seven-thirty, while he was driving the washboard county road that led to Wesley.

Phil Ryker. His boss.

“Hey, pard,” Phil drawled, setting Brett’s teeth on edge. He had to remind himself to practice tolerance. Phil was an urban boy who wanted to be a cowboy, and being heir to the man who owned most of the land in the Barlow Ridge area, including Brett’s family homestead, he was wealthy enough to indulge his dreams. Brett considered himself fortunate to be leasing his homestead with an option to buy, which he was close to exercising, and also to be working for Phil, managing the man’s hobby ranch during the three hundred days a year he was not in residence. Those two circumstances were enough to help Brett overlook a fake drawl and words such as pard.

“Hi, Phil.”

“I won’t be able to get to the ranch next week like I planned, but I did buy a couple of horses and a mule, and I’m having them shipped out.”

“All right.” What now? Brett knew from past experience that the horses could be anything from fully trained Lipizzans to ratty little mustangs.

“One of them is a bit rough. I thought maybe you could tune him up for me.”

“Define ‘a bit rough.’” Brett’s and Phil’s idea of rough were usually quite different.

“Seven years old and green broke, but he’s beautiful,” Phil said importantly. “You’ll see what I mean when he arrives.”

“He isn’t…”

“He’s a stud. I’d like to show him, so I need him fit for polite society.” Phil laughed. “I’ll get a hold of you closer to the delivery date. Hey, did you figure out that problem with the north well?”

“Yeah. Yesterday. The water level is fine, but the pump needs to be replaced. I sent you an estimate.”

“Just take care of it. We can’t have that pivot go down.”

“Sure can’t.” Because that would mean that he wouldn’t be able to grow hay at a loss. Brett figured Phil knew what he was doing. A hobby ranch that was slowly losing money was a tax write-off and apparently Phil needed write-offs. Brett had tried to interest him in a number of ideas that would make the ranch more economical, perhaps even profitable, but he had his own ideas. Brett gave up after the third set of suggestions was rejected, finally understanding that Phil wasn’t particularly concerned about losing money. Must feel good, he mused as he hung up the phone.

Amazingly, Brett found the parts he needed for the swamp cooler at the hardware store in Wesley. Now all he needed to do was go home and get them installed—with luck, while Claire was still at school mucking out her classroom.

He didn’t want to spend a lot of time around her. It wouldn’t be prudent, since he found her ridiculously attractive, and he was really trying to mind his p’s and q’s where the family was concerned. He’d spent more than a decade being the missing brother, and before that, he’d been the rebellious brother.

Now he owed it to his family to be the good brother. And this was one time he was not going to fail.




CHAPTER TWO


CLAIRE SMILED AT HER NEW class—all ten of them—and wondered who’d masterminded the snake incident. They all looked more than capable of it, but at least the younger students, the fifth and sixth graders, were smiling back at her with varying degrees of curiosity and friendliness. By contrast, the five older students, the seventh and eighth graders, stared at her with impassive, just-try-to-engage-us-and-see-how-far-you-get expressions.

“I’m Miss Flynn,” Claire said, as she wrote her name on the overhead projector.

“We know who you are,” one of the kids muttered snidely. Claire glanced up, startled by the blatant rudeness, but she couldn’t tell who’d spoken. “I’m looking forward to a productive year, and I thought that in order to—”

One of the eighth-grade boys raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Do you think you’ll be here for the whole year?”

“It’s one of my goals,” Claire said dryly. She knew that her class had had three teachers in two years, each less effective than the previous one. “As I was saying, in order to get to know each other better, I thought we could all introduce ourselves and tell one thing we did this summer. How about starting on this side of the room?” She nodded at the boy in eighth grade, Dylan, who sat farthest to her right.

“I think everyone knows who I am. This summer I slept.” He fixed her with a steely look.

Claire quelled an instant urge to jump into battle, as her instincts were telling her to do, deciding it would be wiser to bide her time and get a read on her opponent.

“How nice,” she said. She nodded at the girl sitting next to him.

“I’m Toni.”

“Did you accomplish anything this summer?”

“No.” But then Toni suddenly made an O with her mouth. “Yes,” she amended, with a satisfied expression. “I almost talked my mom into getting rid of her bum of a boyfriend.”

Claire gave the girl a tight smile and moved on.

“My name is Ashley,” the redheaded girl sitting next to Toni chirped. “This summer I totally revamped my wardrobe.” She jangled the bracelets on her wrist as if to prove the point.

Claire was saved from the remaining introductions by the sudden appearance of a first grader.

“Mrs. Gunderson said to tell you we have sheep!” he squeaked, his eyes wide with excitement.

“Sheep?”

“On the play field.”

“And…?” Claire asked with a frown, but her students were already out of their seats and heading for the door. She followed them, wondering if this was an elaborate ruse and if she should order them back into the classroom, but then Bertie emerged from the office.

“Sorry about this. The older kids herd sheep better than the younger ones. It should only take a few minutes. I’ve just called Echetto and told him to get his buns over here and take care of his flock. The man really should leave his dog when he goes somewhere. The dog works a lot faster than the kids.”

A thundering herd of woolly bodies circled past the front of the school and disappeared around the side. Bertie’s class was crowded onto the steps. Trini, the school aid, had the four kindergarten kids perched on the windowsills in Bertie’s room, where they laughed and giggled as the sheep ran by again, the older students in hot pursuit.

“They like to watch,” Bertie explained, before cupping her hand to her mouth and yelling at Claire’s students, “Just get them into Echetto’s front yard. He can put them away when he gets back.”

Claire was impressed by the way the kids worked in unison to gather the sheep and herd them off the play field, onto the road and then halfway down the block to the house that apparently belonged to Echetto, whoever he was. Ashley and Toni hung toward the rear, but when a couple of ewes made a break for it, they expertly chased them back into the flock. A few minutes later all the kids returned, filed past Claire into the school and took their seats. They’d been smiling while they were outside, but the older ones were once again stony faced—except when they looked at each other.

“Well, this is a first,” Claire said. “We don’t have many sheep emergencies in Las Vegas.”

No one smiled back. In fact, they were making a real effort to make her feel stupid for trying to talk to them like people. “Are you always this rude?” she asked softly.

The younger kids glanced down. The older ones continued to stare at her.

“We can work on manners,” she added.

No response, although she noticed the younger kids were now watching the older students, looking for cues.

“This morning I’m going to have you take placement tests, so I can plan the English and math curriculums. Then, after break, we’ll do a writing activity. I need you to clear your desks and we’ll get going on the tests right now, while you’re fresh.”

The older kids grudgingly shoved notebooks into their desks, a couple of them muttering under their breath.

The rest of the day passed so slowly and dismally that Claire was beginning to wish the sheep would escape again. She knew the younger ones were not on board with the older ones—yet. But they were watching and learning.

She had to do something. Fast. The headache that had begun shortly after the sheep roundup was approaching migraine status by now.

“I have a list of supplies I’d like you to have within the next week,” she announced just before afternoon recess.

Ashley raised her hand and Claire nodded at her. “What about the kids who can’t afford supplies?”

A reasonable question, and one that might have denoted concern for those with financial limitations—if it hadn’t been for the girl’s condescending tone. Ashley, with her salon-streaked hair, Abercrombie T-shirt and Guess jeans, was obviously not going to have difficulty buying five dollars’ worth of supplies. And then, as if to make it perfectly clear that she was establishing her own status, she glanced pointedly over at one of the fifth graders, a rather shabbily dressed boy named Jesse.

Claire looked Ashley straight in the eye. “If you have trouble affording supplies, please see me in private.”

The girl flushed. “I wasn’t talking about myself,” she snapped.

“Well, it is kind of you to be concerned about others,” Claire interjected, before the girl could name names. “If any of you do not have the opportunity to buy supplies, we’ll work something out. Please see me.” She smiled at Ashley. “Does that answer your question?”

The girl did not bother to reply. Claire decided to fight the politeness battle later. She noticed a couple of the younger kids trying not to smile. Apparently they appreciated Ashley getting hers, and Claire made a mental note to find out more about the girl and her family.

The last two hours of the day passed without incident, although it became apparent by then that Ashley held a grudge and owned a cell phone. Ashley’s mother arrived just before school ended. She waited in the hall outside the classroom, marching up to Claire as soon as the room had emptied of students.

“Miss Flynn. I’m Ashley’s mother. Deirdre Landau.”

Claire could see the resemblance in both features and clothes. In fact, the mother was dressed almost exactly like the daughter, in pricey jeans and T-shirt, with expensive hair in a make-believe color. Claire was in no position to comment on make-believe hair colors, since she was a little blonder than nature had ever intended, so she overlooked that detail.

“You embarrassed Ashley today.”

“I apologize for that,” Claire said honestly. And she was sorry. She wished the incident had never happened, but she wasn’t going to let Ashley humiliate a defenseless fifth grader, either.

There was a silence.

“That’s it?” Deirdre finally asked.

“What more would you like?” Claire asked reasonably.

The woman’s mouth worked as she fought for words. She’d received an apology. Readily and sincerely. And that was the problem. She’d wanted Claire to grovel. Or protest. Or, at the very least, put up a struggle. She tried again.

“A promise not to do it again.”

“Fine. As long as Ashley understands that I will not tolerate an intentional attempt to hurt another student’s feelings.”

Deirdre looked shocked. “Ashley would do no such thing.”

“Then perhaps I misread the situation,” Claire said in an agreeable tone. “So the next time it happens, I’ll just give you a call and you can come to the school and we’ll discuss it while it’s fresh in everyone’s mind.”

“I would welcome that.”

“Great, because I believe that communication among parents, students and teachers is imperative in an educational situation.”

Deirdre blinked. “And I want you to apologize to Ashley in front of the class. After all, she was embarrassed in front of the class.”

“Sure.” Again, Claire did not hesitate in her response, and it seemed to confuse Deirdre. She frowned suspiciously.

“Tomorrow.”

“First thing.”

“All right.” It was obvious the woman didn’t trust Claire’s easy acquiescence. “Ashley’s waiting. I need to be going.”

Claire refrained from saying “See you soon,” even though she had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before she and Ashley’s mom were face-to-face again.

Claire called Regan that night. “What do you do when you’re teaching the undead?” she asked as soon as her sister answered the phone.

“Excuse me?”

“Zombies. My older kids behave like zombies, except for when they’re herding sheep or sniping at me.”

“Echetto’s sheep got out again?”

“This is common?”

“Couple times a year.”

“Sheep I can live with, but these older kids are mean, Reg. I thought I’d have a group of sweet rural kids who’d been left to their own devices for too long. And instead I have three snotty ringleaders trying to get the best of me, and a bunch of younger kids learning to follow their lead. Can you tell me anything about Toni Green, Ashley Landau and Dylan Masterson that might help me?”

“Not a lot,” Regan confessed. “The only one I know is Dylan, and he wasn’t bad as a fourth grader. He just needed a strong hand.”

“Well, he didn’t get it.”

“As to the zombie issue, you’re going to have to live with it.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s a control thing, and you can’t force them to be enthusiastic learners. But you can do what Will does when he trains a horse. If they show an appropriate response, reward them. If they act like zombies, ignore it and do your job.”

“Kind of like the extinction theory?”

“Pretty much.” Regan’s voice softened. “You do know you may have a power struggle for a while?”

“I’m getting that idea.”

“Stay consistent. Stay strong.”

“I’ll be Hercules.”

“You may have to be,” Regan said with a laugh. “Call any time you need moral support, all right?”

“Are you sure you mean that?” Claire asked ironically. There was a time when she’d automatically called Regan before even thinking about a problem.

“I mean it. Anytime.” A muffled voice sounded in the background. Regan laughed, then said, “Kylie wants you to promise to come watch her ride at the regional horse show and to wear something to impress her friends.”

“Tell her I’ll get right on it.”

Claire felt better for having called. She had no intention of crying on Regan’s shoulder every time something went wrong, but it was good to know she had backup if she needed it.



“BEFORE WE START CLASS, there’s something I need to attend to,” Claire said as soon as the students were seated following the Pledge of Allegiance. Ashley was already smirking.

“Yesterday I embarrassed Ashley, and I want to apologize for that.”

The girl nodded, like a queen granting pardon to an offending subject.

Claire hitched a hip onto the edge of her desk and swung her foot. “In order to avoid this happening in the future, I think I should explain some things to you as a class. I don’t want anyone to be embarrassed, but if I see you trying to hurt someone else, I will call you on it. It may embarrass you. It’s called a consequence. I don’t know how many of you have been following the latest developments in self-esteem studies…” The class stared at her blankly. “But the pendulum is swinging from the stroking of egos back to consequences for actions.”

Rudy tentatively raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Would you please translate that?”

“If you do the crime, you’ll do the time.”

A look of dawning awareness crossed ten faces. Ashley’s mouth flattened so much that Claire wondered if it would stay that way forever.

“I’m not exactly stupid,” Claire continued. “I can tell when someone is trying to hurt someone else, and I will not put up with it. Any questions?” Several kids shook their heads. “Great. Please get out your math homework.”

The fifth and sixth graders had their homework ready. One of the seventh graders had half of the assignment done. The remaining four older students had nothing.

“Where’s your homework?” Claire asked.

“I didn’t do it,” Dylan answered nonchalantly.

“Any particular reason?”

He shrugged. “Mr. Nelson never made us. Homework was just practice. It was the tests that counted.”

“If we could pass the tests, he said we really didn’t have to do the homework,” Lexi chimed in.

“And did you pass the tests?”

“Yes,” the older kids said in unison.

Which made Claire wonder if Mr. Nelson had even bothered to grade the tests. Because after looking at the math placement results from the day before, she was thinking these kids had either gotten a case of collective amnesia over the summer or they hadn’t learned the concepts in the first place.

“Well, things have changed,” Claire said. “Homework is no longer optional. It is very much required. If you don’t do your homework and show me your work, you will not pass math.”

The kids looked as if she’d just told them that lunch was canceled for the year.

“But if we can pass the tests…”

“I’m sorry,” Claire said pleasantly, “but this is not a negotiable issue.”

“That’s not fair.”

She simply smiled. “In order to be fair, I’ll let you do last night’s homework tonight. We’ll review today. Then, starting tomorrow, homework counts. Now, let’s see what you remember from yesterday.”

It was another long day. With each lesson she taught, it became more and more apparent that these kids had some serious holes in their education.

After school, Claire was sitting with her elbows planted on her desk, her forehead resting on her fingertips, pondering the situation, when she heard the door open. She shifted her hands to see Elena standing there, biting her lower lip.

“Hi, Elena. What can I do for you?”

“I forgot my math book.” The girl went to her desk and took out the book. She hesitated, then asked, “Are you feeling all right?”

Claire smiled. “I’m fine. Just a little tired.” And discouraged.

“We’ve never had a teacher that looked like you before,” the girl said shyly. “I like your shoes.”

Claire smiled again. She liked her shoes, too. It had taken her most of the summer to find the shade of green that perfectly matched her skirt. “Thanks. Hey, can I ask you a question?”

Elena nodded.

“Do you understand the math?”

“I do now.”

“Did you yesterday?”

She shook her head, her dark braids moving on her shoulders. “Today you went slower, and I think I got it.”

“Thanks, Elena. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you, Miss Flynn.”

So she needed to slow down. All right. She could do that. But it killed her to be reviewing multiplication facts and long division, when she was supposed to be moving on into other aspects of math.

And as far as English went…She glanced down at the stack of poorly punctuated drills in front of her. Yowza. She hadn’t created this monster, but she was supposed to tame it.

Welcome to the real world of education.



BRETT SAT DOWN at his computer and took a deep breath. The chores were done, and there was nothing pressing at the Ryker place. It was time. In fact, it was well past time.

Brett was going to college. Online. He just hoped no one found out—in case he failed.

During junior and senior high he’d been a poor student—not because he couldn’t do the work, but because he wouldn’t. His dad had made a career of comparing Brett’s achievements to Will’s, and Brett had invariably failed to measure up. Finally, he’d accepted the fact that in his dad’s eyes he was never going to be as good at anything as Will was, so he quit trying, telling himself he wasn’t really a loser, since he wasn’t playing the game.

But still, he had silently resented Will for being so damn good at everything, and resented their dad for constantly reminding him of it.

Brett had eventually gotten his petty revenge, though, and had done a pretty fair job of messing up a number of lives in the process. Not bad for an underachiever.

Okay. First lesson. Concentrate.

Brett started by reading the introduction. Then he reread the introduction, and wondered if maybe he should start with his humanities class instead of algebra.

There was a knock on the door and he literally jumped at the chance to put his education on hold again.

And then he looked out and saw who it was. Claire. With a bottle of wine, no less.

This could not be good.

He opened the door, but only because he had no other option.

“Yes, I know,” she said, as she walked in without waiting for an invitation. “We’re holding on to our personal space, but I need some help, and damn it, Bishop, you’re the only one who can give it to me.” She handed him the bottle and walked to the cupboards. “Where do you keep your glasses?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re pushy?”

Claire smiled at him over her shoulder as she opened a cupboard. “All the time.”

“And it doesn’t slow you down?”

“Not in the least.”

Brett gave up. “Next to the fridge.”

Claire opened the cupboard he indicated, then frowned as she pulled out a smallish glass. “What’s this?”

“It’s a wineglass.”

“No. This is an overgrown shot glass. And where’s the stem?”

“It’s a poor man’s wineglass. I can’t afford stems. You’re lucky it’s not a jelly glass.”

She smiled again as she took out a second one. “All right. But it’s small, so we’ll have to fill them more often.”

“How long do you plan on staying?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re tactless?” she asked.

He smiled instead of answering.

“And that doesn’t slow you down?”

“Not in the least.”

Brett pulled a corkscrew out of the utensil drawer before Claire had a chance to tear the kitchen apart looking for it. He plunged it into the cork with a little more force than necessary.

“White wine?” he asked.

“Is that a problem?”

“I prefer red wine when I solve problems.”

“I’ll make a note of that.”

“Actually, I can’t see us doing a lot of joint problem solving,” he said pointedly.

Claire settled herself on one of the mismatched kitchen chairs. “I know that Will asked you to help me when you could. And I may need a lot of help before this year is over.”

She accepted the glass he offered, took a bracing drink, then reached up with her free hand to ruffle the top of her hair in a gesture that clearly suggested exhaustion, or possibly frustration. “Are you renovating?” She looked down the hall to the living room, where he was in the process of tearing up the old floor so he could lay a new one.

“The place needs work, so I try to do a little every month. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like some information.”

“On…?”

“My kids. My students. I’ve survived day two, and I’m not ashamed to admit that these kids are close to getting the best of me. That means I have to plan a strategy.”

Brett was impressed, in spite of himself. He’d always admired proactive people, as long as they weren’t running roughshod over him—or trying to.

“I’ll tell you what I know, but you gotta realize I haven’t lived here that long.”

“But you’re a native of the area.”

“My grandfather and great-grandfather were natives. Granddad sold.”

“Well, you’ve got to know more than I do.” Claire reached down for her purse and pulled out a small spiral notebook. “I’m thinking that if I can just understand the lay of the land, who’s related to whom and who does what, maybe I can connect better with the kids. I don’t want any dirt or gossip. Just information that’s in the public domain.”

Brett lifted the wine to his lips, sipped. It really wasn’t that bad for white wine. “Don’t you have school records with that kind of information?”

“Allegedly, but they’re in pretty bad shape. The district is sending me copies of missing documents, but I want to know about families. Where they live. What they do.”

Brett shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Okay, first off, tell me about the Landaus.”

“They’re rich.” Claire waited, and he expanded. “They’re one of the few families here that are not land rich and cash poor. Landau’s a nice guy. Ashley is his stepdaughter. Only child. He married the mother about three years ago, I think.”

“How about Jesse Lane?”

Brett shook his head. “Don’t know any Lanes. They aren’t locals. It might be that new guy who has the trailer north of town.”

“Elena and Lexi Moreno.”

“They’re related to the Hernandezes.”

“Ramon and Lily?”

“Hardworking families. The Hernandezes work for the Landaus. The Morenos have their own place.”

“So I have cousins in the classroom, as well as brothers and sisters,” Claire said musingly. “Okay. Rudy Liscano.”

Brett smiled slightly. Everyone knew Rudy. Everybody liked Rudy. “Rudy’s another cousin to the Hernandezes and the Morenos. His dad works for the county-road department. He’s the one you yell at when you blow a tire.”

“I see. How about Rachel Tyler?”

“Her family has the oldest ranch in the area. They raise nice horses.”

“Dylan Masterson?”

“I’m not certain. The Mastersons aren’t local. I think they own some businesses somewhere and are out here escaping. I know they built a hell of a place on the other side of town.”

“You mean, that A-frame?”

“That’s it.” Brett drained his glass. “I think she’s an artist or something.”

“And Toni Green.”

“Her mom works at the bar. They live in the rooms over the bar.” Brett had been invited to see those rooms before the latest boyfriend had taken up residence, but he’d declined the invitation. “I think she’s escaping, too, but for a different reason.”

Claire flipped her notebook shut. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t give you all that much information.”

“I just want enough to understand where my kids are coming from, and I didn’t want to ask Bertie. I think the ones who are ranch kids for real probably have different references and values than the imports.” She refilled their glasses without asking. “In one of my college classes, the prof said that home visits were a must in order to understand your students, but…I think in a community like this, visits might be seen as nosiness unless the families invited me.”

“You’re right,” Brett agreed.

“So, I decided to rely on hearsay.”

“Then you should hit the post office and the mercantile.”

“You gave me what I need.” She leaned back in her chair, studying him in that steady way of hers. Her lips curved slightly. She had a really nice mouth. “So, tell me again, Brett. Why is it that we can’t socialize?”

Brett felt his own mouth tighten.

Claire shrugged. “Hey. You’re the one who laid down the rules. I was just wondering why.”

And then he saw that he’d probably made a major tactical error. He’d already figured out from their first few encounters—and from the fact that she’d taken a teaching assignment in Barlow Ridge—that Claire was a woman who loved a challenge. And that was exactly what he’d given her. Stupid move.

“I didn’t say we couldn’t socialize. I said I wasn’t much on socializing.”

“You seemed to do okay at the wedding, except with me.”

“Claire.”

She raised her eyebrows, making her green eyes even wider beneath her pearly lavender eye shadow. He frowned, annoyed at the way she shook his concentration. “We can socialize, but it has to be on a certain…level.” She tilted her head inquiringly, but Brett had a suspicion that she knew exactly what he was referring to. “You were coming on to me at the wedding.”

“A little,” she agreed, totally missing his point.

“We can’t…I mean, we’re practically related, and I don’t want to create a situation.”

“Wow.” Claire took a careful sip of wine, her expression maddeningly calm. “You certainly extrapolate things out, don’t you? That’s almost like jumping from a simple hello into marriage.”

“No. It’s not.” He didn’t like the way she made him feel foolish for a perfectly logical statement of fact.

“Well, I think you’re dodging stones that haven’t even been thrown.”

“I like to err on the side of caution.”

“That’s not what I hear,” she said softly. “Rumor has it you were a wild guy back in the day.”

“Where’d you hear that?” he asked in an equally quiet tone.

“Around.”

“Regan?” Damn, he hoped not. He didn’t want Claire to know his story. But she and Regan were sisters.

“No. Actually, a couple of women were discussing you in the bar when I went in for a sandwich yesterday. You were a rodeo star, according to them.”

“Yeah. I was.”

Too close for comfort. Those rodeo days had ended up being the dark point of his life, and he wasn’t going to discuss them. Period.

Brett slid the cork back into the bottle. Rudeness and tactlessness seemed to be his best strategies. He pushed the bottle across the table toward her. “I was kind of in the middle of something when you came.”

She nudged it back toward him before she stood. “You keep it.”

“You’ll probably need it more than me.” He picked up the wine and pressed it into her hands.

“Thanks for the help, Brett. See you around.” A few seconds later, the screen door banged shut behind her. Brett watched her walk down the path for a moment, admiring the subtle swing of her hips beneath the swirly skirt in spite of himself.

Claire Flynn was not going to be good for his peace of mind.




CHAPTER THREE


CLAIRE GAVE HERSELF a good talking to as she walked home across the bristly hay field. Once upon a time she’d berated Regan for dating the wrong kind of man—which was truly a case of the pot calling the kettle black, since Claire also tended to pursue guys for the wrong reasons.

She liked to attain the unattainable.

It was a bad habit, and one she was trying to break herself of. Being attracted to Brett Bishop was not a step in the right direction, since she suspected her interest in him was sparked solely by his corresponding lack of interest in her.

But she couldn’t get around the fact that there was something about him that made her want to know more. Like, why the barriers? With her, with his brother, and with his niece, Kylie.

There was probably a simple explanation.

Claire wondered how long it was going to take her to figure it out.



ON MONDAY MORNING Claire started her school day by handing out progress reports listing the students’ grades in each subject.

“What are these?” Dylan asked with a sneer. Claire was going to start working on his attitude just as soon as she’d made some headway with Ashley.

“Those are your grades for your first week of school. I’d like you to show them to your parents, have them sign the bottom and then bring them back by Wednesday at the latest.” The grades were, for the most part, dismal in math and English. Primarily because few of the students were doing their homework.

Dylan frowned. Elena Moreno’s mouth was actually hanging open. Only Rudy and Jesse seemed satisfied with what was on the paper. Rudy had all A’s. Jesse had straight C’s, and apparently that was good enough for him. He was an earnest kid who tried hard, but it was especially obvious he had some holes in his education. His records had yet to arrive from his previous school, and Claire had no idea what his background was.

“Are you going to do this every week?” Ashley asked with disbelief.

“Every Monday. This way there will be no nasty surprises at the end of the quarter. Everyone will know their grades, and your parents will be aware of your progress.”

“But making us bring them back signed shows you don’t trust us.”

“You do know that trust is earned, don’t you? I doubt we’ll do the parent signatures all year, but I want to start out that way, until everyone is aware of what to expect.”

“What’re you going to do if we don’t bring them back by Wednesday?” Dylan asked in his most obnoxious tone.

“I’ll phone or e-mail your parents. Now, please get out your math homework.”

Dylan blew out a disgusted breath and made a show of shoving the grade paper into his pocket in a big wad. The other kids tucked their slips away less dramatically, some in notebooks, some in pockets, and started digging for their math books.

“My mom is going to kill me,” Toni murmured to Ashley later, as the class left for morning break.

“Mine won’t,” Ashley responded with a smug lift of her chin. She spoke loudly enough to make certain Claire heard her. Claire smiled, but it was an effort. She didn’t even have the pleasure of knowing that real life would teach Ashley a lesson or two. Ashley’s family probably had enough money to cushion her from reality.

Pity.

Ashley didn’t have to grow up to be a shallow, arrogant person, but there didn’t appear to be much to keep it from happening. And then, as if to solidify Claire’s opinion, she heard Ashley through her open window after school, making fun of Jesse.

“Do you live here or something?” Ashley asked in a snooty voice.

“No. My dad works late.” The poor kid was often sitting on the swings, waiting for his father to come pick him up, when Claire went home, and she left late most nights.

“Well, I hope he works overtime, so he can buy you some decent clothes.”

Claire barely stayed in her seat. But she knew Jesse wouldn’t appreciate his teacher coming to the rescue. He probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing that she’d overheard the conversation, either.

“Hey, at least people like me,” Jesse said.

“That’s what you think,” Ashley retorted smugly. “Come on, Toni. Let’s go.”

Claire drew in a breath, let it out slowly, and after a quick look out the window, forced herself to continue her grading. Jesse was still sitting on a swing, and he seemed to be okay. And Claire was going to see to it that he remained okay, at least while he was at school.



THE FIRST MEETING of the school parent-teacher organization was called to order that evening by Ashley’s mother, who’d once again raided her daughter’s wardrobe. There were at least twenty parents in attendance, in addition to Trini and Bertie. Claire was impressed. The parent-teacher organization of her old school had been comprised of approximately twenty percent of the parents. The Barlow Ridge PTO attendance seemed to be hovering around the one hundred percent mark. Claire was even more impressed with the treasurer’s report. These people were either prolific savers, or they were talented at fund-raising. It turned out to be a combination of the two.

They discussed the year’s fund-raisers—a Christmas craft show, a chili feed and a quilt auction. Claire knew of the quilt auction via Regan, who now owned two heirloom-quality hand-pieced quilts.

Almost twenty minutes were spent debating whether the PTO’s Santa suit would last another season, or if they’d need to buy another before the Christmas pageant. And then they went on to folding chairs. Were there enough? Should the broken ones be fixed or replaced? And when had the piano last been tuned?

The meeting was almost over when Deirdre focused on Bertie and Claire, who were seated at the back of the room. “Have we covered everything?”

“I, um, have a request,” Claire said.

Everyone half turned in their chairs to look at her. Claire decided it was a good thing that she enjoyed public speaking, because all eyes—some of them not that friendly—were on her.

“First of all, I’m enjoying working with your kids. We have some ground to make up because of teacher turnover during the past few years, and I was wondering if the PTO would purchase math manipulatives and four novel sets, one for each quarter.”

Claire could tell by the way expressions shifted and glances were exchanged that she’d accidentally hit on a sore spot. She wondered what it could be. It certainly wasn’t finances, from the sound of the treasurer’s report. She tried again.

“The novels in the storeroom are not only old and not entirely grade appropriate, they’re in really bad shape,” she explained. “I don’t know if they’ll survive another reading. And as far as math manipulatives go, there aren’t any.”

“There’s a reason for that,” one of the parents said. “We’ve bought several programs in the past that other teachers packed up and took with them when they left.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Not at all. And I think our new novel sets and some reference books ended up in Wesley at the elementary school when a teacher transferred there. We also bought a pricey math program that left with another teacher, and she didn’t even stay with our district. She moved out of state.”

Another parent smiled condescendingly at Claire. “How long are you planning on being here?”

“I’m going to graduate school next fall. I made that clear when I interviewed here.” And I was hired because no one else would take the job. Under normal circumstances Claire wouldn’t have held her tongue, but she had enough of a fight on her hands bringing her students under control. She needed parental support, or her battle was going to be twice as hard.

“Couldn’t you borrow what you need from one of the schools in Wesley?”

“I’ll ask.”

“It’s nothing personal, Miss Flynn.” Claire was getting very tired of hearing how nothing was personal in Barlow Ridge. “It’s just that we’ve been burned in the past.”

“And I don’t think our kids need fancy programs and gimmicks.” An older woman near the front spoke up. “They need a good teacher.”

Claire was beginning to see that isolation might not be the only problem with teaching in Barlow Ridge. She composed herself before going on the offensive.

“Your children also need discipline and development of a work ethic, if they are going to achieve grade level.”

Her statement caused a ripple. “What do you mean by ‘achieve grade level’?” Deirdre demanded in a shocked tone.

Claire frowned. “I mean, that many of my seventh and eighth grade students are behind in at least one subject area—primarily math. They need to catch up. Didn’t you get standardized test scores last year?”

There was another ripple as the parents exchanged puzzled looks.

“No.”

“None of you received scores?” Bertie asked. The group shook their heads in unison. “I gave them to Mr. Nelson. He was supposed to staple them to the year-end report cards.”

“And when did Mr. Nelson do anything he was supposed to do?” Trini muttered.

“Didn’t you wonder why the younger kids had scores and the older ones didn’t?” Bertie asked the group.

“I just assumed that the upper grades weren’t tested. You know how they’ve messed with the tests lately, changing dates and grade levels…” Deirdre said.

“We have copies in your children’s files,” Bertie said, with a frustrated sigh. “We’ll need some time to locate and duplicate them, but you’ll get the scores before Friday.”

The meeting was adjourned shortly thereafter, and Claire went into her room to collect her jacket and purse. She had no new novel sets, no math manipulatives—just parents who didn’t think she was up to the job of teaching their children. Parents who hadn’t been aware of how far behind their kids were.

And even though she didn’t need the point hammered home that the parents weren’t supporting her, it had been hammered home.

“What really fries me,” one parent said as she passed by Clare’s open door on the way to the exit, “is that the school district must know we have low scores, but they send out the most inexperienced teacher they can find.”

“Well, she certainly isn’t engaging Lexi,” her companion responded. “It looks like all she’s doing is drawing lines in the sand and daring the kids to step across. That’s not teaching.”

Claire swallowed hard and turned off the lights. She and Bertie stepped out of their rooms and into the hall at the same moment. Bertie signaled for her to wait a minute as the two parents made their way to the exit.

As soon as the door swung shut, Bertie said, “Try not to—”

“Take it personally?” Claire shook her head. “It’s kind of hard not to.”

“These kids haven’t had a real teacher since Regan left, and the parents are getting frustrated.”

“Well, I can’t blame them, but I hate being prejudged.”

“That’s a tendency here,” Bertie said. “You’re newly graduated, which is a strike against you. And the kids are complaining, which is another strike. Plus…” She hesitated, then said, “You dress kind of…fancy. Which might put some parents off.”

“They don’t like the way I dress?” Claire was wearing a knee-length chiffon skirt in a bright floral pattern, a silky peach T-shirt and a chunky necklace. Normal fare for her. But she remembered Elena saying they’d never had a teacher that looked like her.

“Well…” Bertie looked down at her own clothing, which consisted of brown corduroy pants, a white cotton T-shirt and well-worn athletic shoes. “I think it’s been awhile since they’ve seen anyone wear hosiery to school.”

“I’m not buying a new wardrobe to fit in,” Claire muttered. “I like my clothes.” She and Bertie walked down the hall together, exiting the school into the inky darkness of a cloudy night.

“I like your clothes, too. I wish I had the energy to dress better, but I don’t.” Bertie stuck her key in the lock and abruptly changed the subject as she twisted her hand. “This test thing really annoys me. It’s good that Nelson got out of teaching, because I think the parents have cause for legal action.”

“Would they do that?”

“Barlow Ridge parents are not passive parents.” She smiled grimly before asking Claire, “Where’s your car?”

“I walked.”

“It’s going to storm. Do you want a ride home?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Coming to quilting club on Wednesday?”

“Will it be friendlier than the PTO?”

Bertie smiled ruefully. “There’s some crossover—Deirdre, Willa, Mary Ann. I think they’re already betting you won’t show.”

Claire smiled humorlessly. “In that case, I’ll show.” She couldn’t sew a stitch, but she figured she could either be there, trying to do her part for the quilt auction, or sitting home alone with her ears ringing as the other women discussed her.



PHIL’S HORSES AND MULES arrived while Brett was in the middle of his online class. Horses he understood. Reacquainting himself with math was going to take some time. He was making headway, but he was glad to give himself a break in order to drive over to the ranch, less than a mile away, and take delivery.

He went to meet the shipper, who opened the door of a trailer to reveal a handsome black mule. Beyond that Brett could see two broad chestnut-colored backs, but the dividers kept him from seeing the horses’ heads.

“They’re tall,” he commented to the driver.

“Yeah. And Numb Nuts, up front, doesn’t have any manners.”

“Good to hear.”

Brett stepped in and ran a hand over the mule’s neck. The big animal gave him a get-me-out-of-here look. Brett complied, leading the big guy out of the trailer and over to one of the many individual corrals adjacent to the barn. When he released it, the mule circled the pen once and then went to the water trough for a long drink.

“Where’re you from?” Brett asked, suddenly realizing that he had no idea where these animals were being shipped from.

“San Diego. I left them in the trailer last night, because I didn’t know if I could get the stud back in.”

Phil wouldn’t like that, Brett thought. Phil couldn’t tell a good animal from a bad one without help, but he insisted that all of his animals be treated right. It was the one thing that helped Brett overlook his boss’s other foibles, which included a healthy dose of arrogance coupled with ignorance about matters he wanted to look like an expert in. Such as horses.

Brett stepped back into the trailer to unload a very nice quarter horse. The mare followed him placidly to her pen, and then she, too, went straight for the water.

And now for Numb Nuts.

He had a feeling from the way the trailer was rocking, now that the stallion was alone and wondering where his mare had gone, that his nuts were actually not all that numb.

Brett opened the divider and the horse rolled an eye at him, showing white. And then the animal screamed. Brett untied him, taking a firm hold on the rope close to the snap, and started to lead him to his pen. The stud danced and rolled his eyes again, but he respected the lead rope, and Brett got him shifted safely. As soon as the stallion had drank his fill, however, he started pacing the fence, back and forth, back forth, punctuating every turn with a fierce whinny.

The driver smiled and headed for his truck, obviously glad to be on his way.

Brett decided to let the horse settle in for a day or two before he attempted to tune him up. And as soon as he could, he was going to suggest to Phil that unless he wanted to make a complete spectacle of himself, perhaps he might want to find a calmer animal to show.

When Brett pulled into his driveway, he saw Claire walking across the field toward his house. What now? She met him at his truck.

“I need a favor.”

“So do I,” Brett said wearily, pushing his hat back.

“What do you need?”

“I need someone to tactfully tell my boss that he’s in over his head.”

Claire frowned. “Who’s your boss?”

“See that ranch over there?”

She nodded.

“It’s one of many around here owned by the Ryker family. They have a land company and they lease ranches—including the one that I’m living on. Phil Ryker decided to become a cowboy a few years back, and took over that ranch as his personal hobby. I take care of it for him while he’s away.”

“I see.”

“And he likes to buy horses. And cows. And mules. He even bought some llamas, once.”

“And he’s just bought something you don’t think he can handle?”

Brett smiled wryly, wondering why he was unloading on Claire. She didn’t seem to mind, though. “He bought something I know he can’t handle, and now he has to be convinced of it before he hurts himself.”

“Good luck,” she said with a smile. Damn, but she had a nice smile.

“Yeah,” he said, sobering up. “What favor do you need? Snake removal? Cooler renovation?”

“I’m joining the quilting club and Regan has a bag of stuff for me at her place. If you’re going to Wesley this week, could you pick it up?”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

“Thanks.” She smiled again. “Well, I have a ton of planning to do, so I’ll see you later.” She took a few backward steps before turning around. “Good luck with your boss.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. He was probably going to need it.

The next morning Brett made his weekly trip to Wesley, picking up groceries, animal feed, hardware, and vaccines for the new horses. He put off stopping at his brother’s place until last.

It was close to four when he knocked on the door. It swung open almost immediately, Kylie’s wide smile fading when she saw him. She forced the corners of her mouth back up again.

“Hi. I thought you were someone else.”

Obviously. Kylie had grown into a beautiful girl—almost a carbon copy of her mother—which added to Brett’s awkwardness whenever he had to face her alone. Kylie always picked up on the vibe and reflected it back, making their one-on-ones a tad uncomfortable.

“Regan has a bag of quilt supplies for Claire that I’m supposed to pick up.”

“Oh. Right. I was wondering what this was.” Kylie stepped back to retrieve a large plastic bag, which she handed to him. For a moment they stared at each other, neither certain of what to say. As usual.

“Are you coming to watch me ride?” There was a regional 4-H horse show in Elko in two weeks, and Kylie had qualified in several events.

“Yes, I am.” He made it a point to watch her ride or play basketball whenever he could. It hurt in some ways, but it was a price he was willing to pay.

“Do you know about the barbecue afterward?”

“What barbecue?”

“Regan wanted to have a get-together since Claire is here, so that she can introduce her around.”

Brett automatically shook his head. “No. I probably won’t be coming.”

“All right.” Kylie seemed fine with it. Relieved, in fact. Brett felt the usual twinge of regret.

A truck pulled into the drive behind his, and a kid who looked too young to be driving jumped out. Kylie’s face lit up and Brett felt a stirring of protectiveness. Surely Will wasn’t letting her date already? She was only fifteen.

“Hi, Kylie. Hi…” The boy’s face contorted in confusion for a second and then he said, “I thought you were Mr. Bishop.”

“He is,” Kylie said. “This is my uncle.”

“Oh. Hi. I’m Shane.” The boy extended his hand, and Brett gave him points for manners.

“Nice to meet you.” He glanced over at Kylie, encountering eyes exactly like his own. “I gotta get going. Nice meeting you, Shane. Bye, Kylie.”

“See ya.”



CLAIRE PERCHED ON the edge of her desk, an expectant look on her face. After a few seconds of staring silently, she asked, “Is there a problem with the topic?”

The students shook their heads, then began writing in their journals.

Claire waited the full fifteen minutes before asking, “Does anyone want to share?”

As usual, the students sat staring straight ahead. Even the young ones. They were learning fast. Claire sighed and told the kids to get out their social-studies texts. When she’d informed Brett that she could take whatever these students could dish out, she’d meant challenges such as snakes—not things like a stupefying lack of response. And she was fairly certain it wasn’t too late for the younger kids, that they would respond if it weren’t for fear of being laughed at by the older students.

What to do?

Claire drummed her fingers on her desk, then stopped when a few kids looked up at her. She opened her grade book and pretended to study the columns of numbers. The obvious answer was to separate the younger students from the older ones, but she couldn’t do that in the space she had available.

She thought back to her professors, with all their pie-in-the-sky educational theories. Never once had it been mentioned that she might be faced with kids who simply refused to engage themselves. Kids who did not want to learn.

Regan had advised her to ignore the stony stares and reward the behavior that met her expectations, but hadn’t mentioned what to do if the behavior of the older kids was tainting the younger ones.

Claire headed for the office phone. Something had to be done before it was too late.

Back in the classroom, she told the fifth and sixth graders to go outside for recess. When the older kids also rose to their feet, she asked them to remain. She spoke quietly, but there was no doubt that she meant what she said. The seventh and eighth graders sat back down.

“We need to talk. You guys are role models for the younger kids. I want to know if you think you’re setting them a good example?”

They did not even have the grace to appear ashamed. If anything, they looked smug, and Claire felt her anger growing.

“You guys are acting like a bunch of jerks, and it has to stop. I will not have you ruining the education of the other students. I’ve phoned Principal Rupert, and if this behavior continues, he will be driving out to have a talk with each one of you on an individual basis.”

Dylan and Ashley both smirked. Toni gave Claire a stony stare.

“He’s also calling your parents today.”

Ashley looked unconcerned, but Dylan and Toni paled slightly. So there was some fear. That was good. Maybe there was hope.

“I don’t hold grudges,” Claire continued. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, if you start acting the way you know you’re supposed to act.” She drew in a breath, wondering if the kids knew how much she was winging it. “Instead of recess, I would like you to write about how your behavior is affecting the other kids. Ashley, I want to talk to you privately.”

“Sure,” the girl said with a toss of her head. She followed Claire out into the hallway.

“I know you feel safe, Ashley—like no consequence can touch you.”

The girl smiled.

“And I want a straight answer. Are you going to set a better example with your behavior? Or are you going to continue as you’ve been doing?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with my behavior, and neither does my mother.”

“You don’t see how the younger kids are learning from watching you?”

She shook her head.

“Then my only option is to put you where they can’t watch you. Your desk will be in the hall for the remainder of the day and tomorrow, until we talk to the principal. We’ll reevaluate then.”

“I’m going to sit in the hall?”

“Yes.”

“How will I hear what you’re saying?”

“What would that matter, Ashley? You seem to think you already know everything. Stay here. I’ll go get your desk.”

Claire took a few steps toward the room, angry with herself for sniping at the girl. She turned back, wanting to give it one last stab. “This is your choice, Ashley. I don’t want you out here. If you’ll participate in class in a respectful way, I want you in the room with everyone else. You’re a bright girl, and you can help the younger students learn.”

She raised her chin and narrowed her eyes. But she did not respond.

A steaming Ashley was sitting at her desk in the hall when the younger kids came traipsing in again. Claire stood next to her door and watched the procession. The kids looked first at Ashley, then at Claire. No one said anything.

There was a definite change in attitude, now that Ashley was no longer in residence. Claire took her the work for the afternoon, then closed the classroom door. There would, no doubt, be a hot phone call from Deirdre Landau later. Maybe even a personal visit. But it was worthwhile, if Claire could save her younger students from going over to the dark side.

Surprisingly, Ashley left school that afternoon without summoning her mother. She walked away, her chin held high and her books pressed close to her chest. Toni walked with her, but their heads were not together as usual. Claire felt a little bad, but knew she had to draw the line somewhere.

She graded papers until three-thirty and then went into her storage closet, prior to her usual trip to the basement before going home. Every evening she sorted and carted one shelf of stuff off to the nether regions. She almost had space in her closet now to store the textbooks that were shoved into boxes under her counters. And in the process she had uncovered some useful supplies, as well as some hilarious artifacts of days gone by. She figured that with her box-a-day strategy, she’d have decades worth of haphazardly stored items properly sorted and put away by the end of the semester. If nothing else, she would leave the school better organized than she’d found it—and the students better educated. Even if it killed her. And them.

Claire pulled open the stubborn basement door and started down the stairs, descending into the earthy coolness, which felt good after the heat of the classroom. She had just heaved the box up on top of the lowest stack of rubber bins when she heard a heavy scraping noise, followed by a dull thud.

The door. Someone had closed the basement door.

Bertie must have come back, seen it open…

Claire trudged up the stairs and pushed. The door didn’t budge. She controlled a twinge of panic, twisted the handle and pushed again. Nothing. Someone had thrown the dead bolt. She began to pound with the heel of her hand.

“Bertie!”

No answer. Claire pounded until her hand was bruised, more in frustration than from any hope of being heard. It was pretty obvious she’d been locked in on purpose. Three guesses as to who had done it.

She sank down onto the top step and stared at the dangling light. About time for the bulb to burn out, the way things were going. She had a flash of inspiration and shot a glance over her shoulder at the door.

But the hinges were on the outer side. Drat.

The frog croaked and Claire’s shoulders slumped.

Could it be she was going to spend a night in the basement? Not if she could help it.

She rose to her feet and tromped down the stairs. The ventilation windows were covered with screens, and they were quite small. And high—probably seven feet off the floor. Claire glanced down at her hips, then back up at the window. What would be worse? Spending the night in the basement or spending the night stuck in a window?

It was a no-brainer. She was going for stuck-in-the-window.

Claire searched for some moderately safe way to get herself up there. With all the stored files and equipment, would it have been too much to ask that a ladder be among them? Apparently so. The only bits of furniture were rickety or broken. An old file cabinet wobbled when she tried to move it, so she started stacking rubber bins. The ones that were full enough to support her weight were also quite heavy. She managed to pile them three high and then climbed on top, grimacing as her hands pushed the damp, mossy wall when she steadied herself.

The window was now at shoulder level, and it wouldn’t open. It had no latch.

Claire said a word that was normally frowned upon in a school setting, then climbed off the stack of boxes to find something she could use to break the glass.



THE PHONE RANG just as Brett started working on his algebra assignment. He’d already done all the damage he could to his humanities lesson, and it was time to move on.

“Hi, Brett,” Regan said. “Have you seen Claire?”

“Uh, no. I left the bag of supplies inside her door. She wasn’t home.”

“She’s not answering her phone, and I’m getting concerned.”

“Maybe she’s in the shower.”

“For two hours?”

Actually, he could imagine that. Brett glanced out the window and saw the lights weren’t on in the trailer, shooting that theory to hell. “I’ll walk over to her house.”

“Thanks, Brett. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Maybe it was quilting night, Brett reasoned as he headed across the dark field, flashlight in hand. Or maybe she had a date. On a Thursday? Probably not. Maybe she was still working. That seemed the most reasonable answer, even if it was going on seven o’clock.

Claire pulled into her driveway just as Brett rounded the rear of her trailer. He turned off the flashlight and thought about disappearing when she got out of her car, but then noticed that she was looking…rough. Her white blouse and her face were smeared with a dark substance, which he hoped wasn’t blood. It was hard to tell in the fluorescent glow of the yard light. And her skirt was ripped up the side.

Alarmed, he stepped out of the darkness, his movement obviously startling her, and then he saw to his relief that the stains were not blood.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a remarkable amount of dignity, considering the fact that she was green.

“Regan called. She was worried about you.”

“Oh, that’s right. I was supposed to—” She broke off and frowned at Brett. “Well, thanks for checking on me. I’ll give her a call.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

She shook her head. “No. I think I’ll employ that we-need-to-keep-our-own-space rule you invented.”

“Suit yourself.” His mouth tightened as he fought with himself. She was vertical, obviously not hurt—physically, anyway. He’d love to know how she’d gotten smeared with green gunk, but it was none of his business. Still…“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?” She walked past him into her house, the tear in her skirt exposing a lot of leg as she disappeared. The door closed with a thump.

Brett stared at it for a moment, then turned his flashlight on again and started back across the field.

This was not going to be a restful school year.




CHAPTER FOUR


A GROAN ESCAPED Claire’s lips as she saw her reflection in the living-room mirror. She was green.

How had Brett kept from laughing? Or asking more questions?

She blew out a breath that lifted her short bangs, and headed toward the bathroom, where she cranked on the hot water and stripped off her ruined clothing.

Claire had made a career out of trying not to let problems bother her—instead, she let them bother Regan. Regan was a caretaker by nature, and Claire was more than happy to let her sister smooth out the wrinkles in her life. At least until that unhappy day when Regan had moved from Las Vegas to Wesley, and suddenly Claire had found herself dealing with her issues on her own. But to her amazement, after a few false starts and many long phone calls, she had done all right.

She wasn’t going to tell Regan about this escapade. Not just yet, anyway. She braced her hands on the sink and let her head droop as she waited for the water to warm up.

Reaction was setting in. Anger. Bewilderment. And a grudging appreciation for Ashley’s style of revenge. The kid was good. Now, Claire would have to be even better.



BRETT PACED THROUGH his house. He was supposed to be finishing his math, since it was due the next day, but he also had some work to do in his living room. He’d torn out the existing floor and was down to subfloor. There were bundles of interlocking hardwood flooring sitting there, and they weren’t going to lay themselves.

Algebra or flooring? He headed for his computer. When a guy felt like doing flooring, it probably meant he was avoiding something that needed his attention more.

Brett had figured it was going to take some work to bring himself up to speed in his studies, but he hadn’t realized just how much he’d forgotten, or at the very least, misplaced in his brain. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t used math throughout his adult life, calculating animal dosages, fencing footage, acreage, amounts of feed. But somehow, that came easier than solving for X.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jeannie-watt/the-rancher-and-the-girl-next-door/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.