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© 2004
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One
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Heather Burroughs stood in the doorway of her new employer's massive living room unable to believe what she was seeing.
Unable to stomach what she was hearing.
Since no one bothered answering her persistent attempts at making her presence at the front door known, she let herself in and followed the sound of a deep voice to the spot where she presently stood rooted in horror. Matching that voice to a particularly handsome face did little to allay Heather's fears that she had just been hired by a monster.
A monster who was presently taunting a child with a cookie.
"Say it, Dylan," the man coaxed, his voice straining with impatience.
He was so intent on imposing his will upon the toddler that he remained unaware of Heather's presence. A cherub of three reached out a chubby hand for the treat dangled in his face, only to have it snatched away the instant his fingers touched the sugary delight. Tears pooled in a pair of eyes the exact same color and shape as his tormenter's. It spilled down his ruddy cheeks and caused the monster to mumble a slight invective under his breath.
"Come on, Dylan. Just say it!"
Heather knew firsthand what it felt like to have a cookie dangled in front of one's face, and she wasn't about to stand idly by and watch her new employer play such mean-spirited games with his son—even if it did mean losing her job on the very first day of work.
Even if that job meant the difference between financial independence or possibly living on the streets.
"Give me that!"
Ignoring the man's startled look, Heather marched into the room and grabbed the cookie from his hands. She proceeded to bend down, wipe the tears from his little boy's face with the cuff of her sleeve and give him the cookie. Dylan accepted it with both hands and a look of pure gratitude, shoving as much of it into his mouth before his father could confiscate it. When he grinned up at Heather through a mouthful of gooey chocolate, it was all she could do to keep from sweeping him up in her arms and making a break for the front door.
"Just who do you think you are, lady, and what in the hell do you think you're doing?" Tobias Danforth demanded to know.
He glared at her from a squatting position on the floor. The denim of his jeans was stretched taut over thighs that strained as he rose to his full height of six feet. He towered over Heather, who barely weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. In tennis shoes, she was almost a foot shorter than he was. She felt like David facing Goliath.
Without a slingshot.
Summoning her stage presence, Heather responded in a regal tone that belied the fact she was the underling and he, technically, her boss.
"I'm the nanny the employment agency hired, and what I'm doing is putting an end to you taunting this boy. In case you're unaware of it, Mr. Danforth, Dylan is a child, not an animal to be trained with doggie biscuits."
"How dare you—"
"I dare because I care," she countered, sticking her chin out as if daring him to take a shot at it.
Those icy-blue eyes of his pinned her to the spot like some hapless butterfly in a child's science fair project. Nonetheless, if this fellow thought he was going to label Heather Burroughs a mere cowardus interruptus, he had another thing coming. Having endured the training of some of the most sadistic music teachers on the planet, it was going to take a whole lot more than an imposing presence to make her back down.
"And you think I don't care?"
His voice was sardonic.
And as cutting as the eyes trained on her.
What she beheld glimmering in those arctic depths was a ferocity that would send a wild wolf scurrying for protection. Placing her hands on her hips, she held her ground. Albeit on shaky legs.
"I doubt if Protective Services would approve of your type of parenting any more than I do," she told him, suddenly glad for the schooling that kept her voice from quavering in times of duress.
"Get out of my home, lady."
Though spoken so softly that the child caught between the two of them didn't so much as flinch, the man's words tore through Heather like bullets.
Why after twenty-five years of compliance she had finally discovered her backbone was as much a mystery to her as it was to her parents. They had all but disowned her for turning her back on their dreams. A neophyte at standing up for her beliefs, Heather had yet to develop the skills needed to temper her newfound assertiveness with prudence. The truth of the matter was that she was in no position to sacrifice this job unless she was ready to humble herself and, as her father had so bluntly put it, "come crawling back" to him for his support.
Still, she had no desire whatsoever to work for a man who struck her as being so very like her stern, demanding father. A man determined to withhold his approval unless his child performed up to his level of satisfaction.
Stiffening her spine, Heather started toward the door. She reminded herself that throughout the ages, scores of renowned musicians testified that poverty was good for the soul.
A tentative, childish voice stopped her in her tracks.
"Cookie!"
Tobias Danforth's face might as well have been made of wax the way his son's sudden outburst rearranged his sharp, masculine features. Eyes that only a moment before had been as icy as a Wyoming lake in January thawed instantly. Dropping to his knees, he took the boy by both shoulders to peer into his eyes.
"What did you just say?"
Had his touch not been so overtly tender, Heather might well have jumped to the conclusion that he intended to shake a response out of the lad.
She wondered what kind of father couldn't understand his own child's adorable attempt at forming words. Because her throat had turned to dust, her own words sounded altogether too scratchy as she endeavored to enlighten the poor man.
"I believe he said cookie. For what it's worth, I think he'd like another one."
"For what it's worth, he can have the whole damn bag!" Tobias shouted in startling jubilation.
He grabbed Dylan up under the arms and swung him around in the air. The print of the boy's cowboy-themed shirt blurred into a brightly spinning top. The exuberant expression on his father's face caused Heather's pulse to skitter. It burst into a gallop before it came skidding to a dead stop. If it was possible that there might actually be a nice guy hiding behind the mask of a monster, she hoped he knew CPR.
Squealing with delight, Dylan repeated the feat that had earned him such an enthusiastic response.
"Cookie!"
That hard and judgmental something, lodged inside Heather's heart, softened to see unshed tears glistening in Tobias Danforth's eyes as he set his son down and ruffled his dark hair. The man was reputed to be worth millions and was looked upon by locals as somewhat of a reclusive mystery. Indeed, any outsider who could afford to treat ranching as a gentleman's hobby was generally regarded with suspicion among those born and bred of this unforgiving land. That such a man could actually be moved to tears by such an unremarkable accomplishment took Heather completely by surprise.
True to his word, Tobias grabbed the bag of cookies off a nearby ledge and handed it over to Dylan. Heather's dark suspicions about her former employer evaporated as the boy threw his arms around his daddy's neck and proceeded to cover his face with kisses. The scene was so unlike anything from her own childhood that Heather felt a pang of regret that her invitation to stick around long enough to get to know either of them better had been revoked.
As she turned to leave, she was halted by a Southern drawl as strong as a rope. And as tender as a prayer.
"And just where do you
think you're going?"
Heather turned slowly around. The sight of her interrogator with chocolate-chip kisses smeared across his face did much to lessen the tension smoldering between them. The ghost of a smile made the angular planes of that face look far less formidable than the first impression Heather received of it.
"You just fired me," she reminded him gently.
Tobias took a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped at his face.
"Well, consider yourself un-fired."
Heather's heart banged against her chest. If there was any chance of salvaging this job, she had better put a smile on her face and a conciliatory tone in her voice. Aside from the fact that she didn't want to be reduced to begging her parents for money, it would be almost impossible to find a position better suited to her needs at the present time. Not to mention she felt such an immediate connection with the child who was to be her charge. She reached out and took the handkerchief from Tobias's hand.
"Here, let me help you with that," she offered, dabbing at a crumb hanging from his mustache.
What was meant as a friendly gesture turned suddenly intimate as Tobias's eyes bored into hers. A shiver starting at the base of Heather's neck raced through her and played with every nerve ending in her body. A telltale tremble caused the handkerchief in her hand to resemble a white flag of surrender. As a general rule, Heather liked clean-shaven men, but as her gaze lingered upon the curve of the mouth peeking out from beneath a well-groomed mustache, she didn't think it would take much persuasion to change her mind.
Have you gone completely crazy? Heather asked herself.
She refused to fall into the same self-destructive pattern that had ruined the last relationship she'd had with a man, who had professed himself to be her mentor. She struggled to find something to say that would put their relationship back on professional footing. Entertaining romantic notions about an employer, no matter how handsome or baffling to the senses, was risking emotional suicide.
"We'd better discuss the terms of my employment before I accept your conditions—especially if they include the kind of behavior modification I saw you using on your son."
Tobias reached out to take her hand into his. Heather gasped at the intensity of the voltage that coursed through her body at his touch. The sound caused him to immediately release his grip. The handkerchief fluttered to the ground between them, a symbolic victim of the war between the sexes.
"Let me assure you, Miss Burroughs, I have no intention of compromising your virtue while you're in my employment, if that's what you're worried about. I can also wipe my own face, and my own butt, as far as that goes. As frazzled as I might appear at the moment, I'm not looking for someone to take care of me. I'm perfectly capable of doing that for myself. What I desperately need is someone who will support my parenting efforts—and the exercises that Dylan's speech therapist prescribed for him, like the one you just so rudely interrupted."
It was Heather's turn to look nonplussed. It had never occurred to her that a three-year-old would be subjected to such treatment as part of a prearranged professional treatment. That in itself made her all the more aware of her shortcomings as Dylan's intended caregiver. If she ever hoped to obtain her teaching degree, she was going to have to stop jumping to conclusions and transferring her childhood trauma onto other people.
"I-I'm truly sorry," she stammered, wishing there were some way she could start all over again.
Tobias shoved the splayed fingers of one hand through a shock of dark hair that was anything but a quiet shade. Brown at the roots, the sun had frosted its ends with golden highlights. The fact that he was in need of a haircut didn't keep Heather from wanting to test its texture with her own fingers.
"Don't be. You just had more success with Dylan in the five minutes you've been here than I have since his mother left," Tobias admitted.
Bitterness laced his words and desperation creased his brow.
Heather wondered what had happened to Dylan's mother. Had she left simply because of the isolation of living on a ranch miles from the nearest neighbor? Or through some fault of her husband? Had she run away feeling as manipulated as a child reaching for a cookie that could only be earned by performing some trick?
Whatever the woman's reasons, Heather felt a surge of pity for any child forsaken by his mother. Having been sent away by her own parents under the guise of developing her artistic gift, she understood just how devastating it felt to be abandoned by those who professed to love you the most. And how desperately one would work to earn and to keep their approval.
Tobias's words drew Heather out of the past and into a present that was growing more and more complicated by the minute.
"In case the agency misrepresented this job, Miss Burroughs, Dylan is developmentally delayed."
The last two words seemed to stick in Tobias's throat. Although Heather was tempted to give him a reassuring pat to help him continue, she refrained from touching him again. As she saw it, the biggest drawback to this job was not working with a developmentally delayed child but rather living in such close quarters with a man who made her feel so keenly aware of her own sexuality. Falling for Josef had cost Heather her love of music. Falling for this man could well cost her what was left of her self-respect.
Tobias cleared his throat and continued. "You come highly recommended, and I was hoping that you and Dylan might find a common bond in your mutual talent."
He gestured to the grand piano against the far wall. Its black polish glistened beneath the natural sunlight spilling into the room. It evoked in Heather such a mixture of conflicting emotions that she had to reach for the back of a chair to steady herself. Part of her longed to run her fingers over those beautiful ivory keys. And part of her had already slammed the lid shut on that part of her life forever.
"Your résumé indicated that you are an accomplished musician. Dylan has some talent in that area. At the age of three with no formal training, he can already play melodies on the piano."
The buttons on the proud daddy's shirt swelled against a chest that was already broad enough to tempt a woman to run her hands across its width, and to see if she could lace her fingers together when her arms spanned its brawny circumference. Heather gave him a challenging look.
"I hope you aren't thinking of shipping him out to a specialized school like my parents did to me. While twice Dylan's age at the time, I wasn't nearly old enough to deal with the pressures of such a performance-driven institution."
Tobias's eyes widened in surprise. He shook his head emphatically. "I have no intention of shipping my boy off anywhere. His mother may have felt restrained by family life, but I most certainly don't. Whatever you think of my parenting methods, make no mistake about the fact that I love my son, and I'll do whatever it takes to help him find his voice again. Even bribing him with a cookie if that's what the speech therapist recommends."
Though Heather blushed at the implicit reprimand, she nevertheless wanted to make sure they were clear on what she perceived to be the differences in their respective teaching approaches.
"As long as you don't expect me to use those kind of techniques myself, I promise to do everything else in my power to support you. I'll be honest with you, Mr. Danforth. I'm not much of a behavior modification fan."
"Fair enough, Miss Burroughs," he said, matching her formality with a sardonic lift of an eyebrow. "All I'm really hoping for is that you can strike a common chord that will help bring my son out of his shell."
Recognizing that his words were deliberately chosen for their symbolic value, Heather selected hers with equal care. Well intended or not, she could never bring herself to force a child to perform as her parents had forced her, inadvertently turning the lovely gift God had given her into a curse.
"I would be more than happy to help Dylan with his musical gifts—as far as he wants to develop them."
Tobias looked relieved. Elated.
"Good, that's settled then. The rest of your job is second
ary to attending to Dylan. While I expect you to cook and clean, I'm not particularly fussy about either of those duties, if that helps any to put your mind at ease."
Heather didn't think there was anything about working for a man as handsome as a movie star and as rich as Croesus that could possibly put her mind or her traitorous hormones at ease. Still, his words and accompanying smile did help reduce her stress level. Applying for a job was in itself a new experience for her. Groveling for the position was out of the question. However, since Heather was hardly in the position to be setting conditions for employment, she decided to withhold the fact that her cooking experience was almost as limited as her time spent actually working with children.
"It's way past time for introductions, but just so you know, I prefer being called Toby than either Mr. Danforth or Tobias," he said, offering her his hand.
Again the jolt of lightning at his touch struck Heather's heart. Tingling all over, she tried to focus on the fact that such an affluent man preferred the less formal moniker. She liked that almost as much as she liked the fact that hard work marked his hands with calluses. Josef's hands had been as smooth as a child's, and though they had played her like a concerto, she suffered terribly beneath their cruel ministrations.
"You've already met Dylan," Toby said, continuing introductions.
Hearing his name, the child abandoned his bag of cookies and stretched out his arms to Heather. She did not hesitate to take the sticky little urchin into her own arms. He smelled of chocolate and baby shampoo and unconditional love. Dylan wrapped his arms around her neck and squeezed hard. The kiss he placed upon her cheek left its mark upon her heart.
The smile that reached Toby's eyes held no hint of jealousy.
"It looks like love at first sight."
Heather flinched. Although she knew he was referring to her interaction with his son, her father had said the exact same thing when he had introduced her to Josef. That relationship ended disastrously, and she had no desire to let her personal history repeat itself. She reminded herself to guard her heart against getting too involved with either Dylan or his father. This job was nothing more than a way to make enough money to get her feet solidly under her so that she would never again be dependent upon any man. That included her father.
COWBOY CRESCENDO Page 1
