Which meant this might very well be part of the recent small acts of sabotage that had been plaguing the region.
He was just punching in a text to his friend Heath Grayson, a Texas Ranger who was spending his spare time investigating the sabotage problem, when a familiar pickup approached. Heath Grayson himself got out.
“Just the man I want to see.” Flint pocketed his phone with the text message unsent.
Heath walked around the truck and toward Flint, holding up a cooler. The small bag on top of it produced a home-baked smell that made Flint’s stomach rumble. “Josie heard Mrs. Toler quit,” Heath explained, “so she sent over some of her famous mac and cheese for your dinner. Couple of giant chocolate chips cookies, too.”
At that, Logan came running out of the barn, followed by Martin. “Cookies! Can I have mine now, Dad?”
Flint thought. It was four thirty, and he had another hour or more of work to do around here before he could take Logan home and start dinner. Or rather, heat up dinner, thanks to Josie and Heath’s generosity. It was a long time for a hungry little boy to wait. “Sure. Say thank you to Mr. Grayson first.”
“Thanks!” Logan said, his eyes widening as he took the big cookie Heath held out to him.
“That’s big! Can I have some of it?” Martin asked.
“No way!” Logan turned away from the other boy.
“Logan.” Flint squatted down in front of his son, who was holding his cookie to his chest like the other boy might grab it.
Which, judging from Martin’s angry stance, might well happen.
“We share what we have,” he told Logan. “That’s what it means to be a friend.”
Logan’s expression was defiant, and worry pushed at the edges of Flint’s mind. How did you make sure a kid grew up right? He knew how to get Logan to do his chores and follow behavior rules, but what about the softer side, things like being generous and helping others?
Things that mattered most of all?
Something one of Logan’s Sunday school teachers had put into the church newsletter came to him. Values are caught, not taught.
He turned to Logan’s friend, inhaled the chocolate chip aroma regretfully, and held out the cookie bag. “Here, Martin. You can have my cookie.”
“Thanks, Mr. Rawlings!” Martin pulled the cookie out of the bag and took a big bite.
Heath was laughing. “You scored, Martin. That’s Mr. Rawlings’s favorite kind of cookie.”
Logan looked briefly ashamed, then his face lit up with a new idea. “Let’s climb up in the hayloft and eat them.”
“Cool!”
They turned, and then Logan stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Is that okay, Dad?”
“Sure, if you take it slow up the ladder.” Flint was glad to see Logan had asked permission.
“Can I go first?” Martin asked.
Logan opened his mouth, then shut it again, a struggle apparent on his face. He looked up at Flint.
Flint just waited.
“Yeah,” Logan said finally. “You can go first.”
Flint gave Logan a nod and a smile, and Logan’s face lit up again.
As the two boys ran toward the barn, Cowboy racing in circles around them, Heath chuckled. “I’m taking notes.” He’d just gotten engaged to Josie Markham, who’d been widowed right after discovering she was pregnant. Flint was pretty sure the wedding would happen sooner rather than later, because Heath wanted to help parent Josie’s baby from day one.
“Notes might help, but nothing’s going to prepare you for fatherhood. How’s Josie doing?”
“Okay, except she wants to keep working as hard as ever, and at almost seven months pregnant, she can’t do it all.”
“Thank her for me.” Flint gestured toward the cooler. “Logan’ll be glad to have something that’s not out of a box. And for that matter, so will I.”
Heath chuckled. “I’d rather have an MRE than your cooking.”
MREs. Meals Ready to Eat. The acronym, and the thought of military rations, brought back a wave of wartime memories for Flint, and a glance at Heath’s face showed the same had happened to him.
They’d been through a lot together.
The awareness was there, but neither of them wanted to bring it up. Some memories were best left sleeping. “How’s your grandpa?” Flint asked to change the subject. “Still planning a visit?”
Flint had helped track Edmund Grayson down last month. When old Cyrus Culpepper had left the Triple C to the Lone Star Cowboy League, his bequest had come with the condition that the other four original residents of the boys ranch be located and, if possible, brought to the area for the LSCL’s anniversary celebration in March. The League was hard at work to fulfill the conditions so they could keep the boys ranch going strong.
Heath’s grandfather, Edmund Grayson, was one of those original residents, and it had been Flint’s responsibility to help find him. Which he’d done, with Heath’s help.
“Coming out for Christmas, I think. And for sure to the reunion in March.” Heath leaned against the fence surrounding the horse corral. “You said you wanted to see me about something?”
Flint pushed back his hat and leaned on the fence beside his friend, looking out over the land he’d come to love, brown grass of December notwithstanding. Then he hitched a thumb toward the barn. “Missing some saddles,” he said, and told Heath what was gone and when he’d last seen them.
As Flint had expected, Heath got into analyzing the situation right away. During his enforced leave from his Texas Ranger job last month, he’d started digging into some of the recent problems in the area. Although he was back at work now, he’d continued to keep an eye on the situation. “You’ve got more valuable saddles they didn’t take, right?”
Flint nodded. “Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.” He waited for Heath to home in on the ranch boys as suspects. Flint was worried about that, himself. They were the ones who had the most opportunity.
All the more reason Logan shouldn’t be over-involved with them. Flint would have to keep up the effort to recruit more varied after-school friends for Logan.
Heath was rubbing his chin, looking thoughtful. “Could be someone trying to pin a theft on the ranch boys, make ’em look bad.”
Since Heath had only recently overcome his animosity to the boys ranch, his attitude pleased Flint. “Like who?” he asked. “Phillips?” Fletcher Snowden Phillips, local lawyer and chief curmudgeon, was forever criticizing the ranch for its supposed negative impact on property values and attracting new business.
“Could be.” Heath plucked a piece of grass and chewed it, absently. “Could be Avery Culpepper, too. She’s got some pretty strong opinions about the ranch.”
Two of Flint’s least favorite people. “You’re right. Could be either one. Except I can’t figure either of them getting their hands dirty, breaking into a barn and stealing saddles.”
“Good point. Truth is, any lowlife who knows about the ranch might take kid stuff. Because they’d figure we’d blame the boys.”
“Yeah, and those saddles do have some resale value.” And Flint would have to replace them if they weren’t found quickly.
“I’ll take a look around,” Heath said.
As they walked toward the barn, Flint’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out. An unfamiliar number, but local. “I’d better take this,” he said, gesturing for Heath to go ahead into the tack room. He clicked to answer the call.
“Mr. Rawlings, this is Lana Alvarez over at the school.”
Flint stopped. Liking for her musical voice warred with a sense that, whatever Lana Alvarez had to say to him, it wasn’t going to be good. “What’s up?”
“I’m calling to request a conference. Could we set up a time for you to come in to school? I’m afraid there’s a problem wit
h Logan.”
Chapter Two
The next afternoon, Lana Alvarez looked at the large school clock and frowned. Her nervousness was turning into annoyance.
Flint Rawlings was late.
“Still here?” Rhetta Douglass, the other first-grade teacher, stuck her dreadlocked head through the door and then walked in. “Girl, it’s four fifteen on a Friday. This place is empty. Go home! Get a life!”
“Parent conference.” Lana wrinkled her nose. If Rhetta only knew how little of a life Lana had, she’d probably laugh...and then invite her over.
Lana and Rhetta had both started as new teachers this year, and they were becoming friends, but Rhetta had a husband and twin three-year-old sons. She didn’t need Lana horning in on her family time.
Rhetta put down her bags, bulging with student work and supplies, and came over to perch on the edge of Lana’s desk. “Who schedules a conference at four fifteen on the one day we’re allowed to leave early? You better look out, or I’m going to sign you up for Cowboy Singles-dot-com.”
Waving a hand back and forth and laughing, Lana leaned back in her teacher’s chair. “Not going there. And I’m about to leave. I didn’t schedule the conference for four fifteen. The parent is—”
At that moment Flint Rawlings appeared in the doorway, taking off his hat and running a hand through messy blond hair. “Sorry I’m late.” His well-worn boots, plaid shirt and jeans proclaimed he’d come straight from the ranch.
Rhetta raised an eyebrow at Lana. “On second thought, you may not need that website after all,” she murmured, and headed over toward her things. She waved at Flint as she walked out the door.
Lana crossed the room to greet Flint, hoping he hadn’t heard that Cowboy Singles remark. “Come in, Mr. Rawlings.” She led the way back through the classroom to the teacher’s desk up front.
Although she’d already put an adult-sized metal folding chair beside her desk, anticipating Flint’s visit, it didn’t seem large enough for the rugged rancher. Maybe it was the fact that she was used to males of the first-grade variety, but Flint Rawlings seemed to overwhelm the room by his very presence.
“Thank you for—”
“I’m sorry about—”
They both stopped. “Go ahead,” Lana said, gesturing for Flint to finish.
He shook his head. “Nothing important. It’s just, we had a little episode up at the ranch. That’s why I’m late. If you need to reschedule, it’s fine.”
It sounded like he wanted her to reschedule. Really? Wasn’t he concerned about his son? “I think the situation is important enough that we’d better discuss it now.”
“That’s fine, then. What’s going on?” He propped a booted foot on one knee and then set it down again. Like he was trying to get comfortable, or...
He wiped a bandanna across his forehead, and understanding struck Lana. He was nervous! The manly Flint Rawlings was sweating bullets in the classroom of his son’s first-grade teacher.
It was a phenomenon she’d seen in her previous job, too. Lots of parents had anxiety around teachers, usually a result of bad childhood experiences or just excessive worry about their children. Whatever was the case with Flint, the realization siphoned off some of her annoyance.
She crossed her legs, folded her hands and faced him. “So, we had some trouble with Logan yesterday.”
“What sort of trouble?” He raised his eyes from the floor—or had he been looking at her legs?—and frowned. “If it was disrespect—”
“Not exactly. Hear me out.” She picked up a pencil and tapped it on the table, end over end, eraser and then point. “During our one-on-one reading time, he refused to read. Just clamped his mouth shut and wouldn’t say anything.”
“That’s funny.” Flint looked puzzled. “He likes to look through picture books at home, and he’s always pointing out words he recognizes on signs and such.”
“I’m glad you have books for him at home. That’s so important.” She smiled at the man, wanting to put him at ease. “He usually enjoys reading here, too. He’s definitely ahead of the curve in the subject. But yesterday, nothing.”
“I’ll talk to him.” Flint scooted his chair back as if the conference was over.
She folded her arms. “There’s more.”
“What else?” he asked, visibly forcing himself to sit still and focus.
“After reading time, he knocked over a bucket of erasers.” She nodded over to them, now neatly atop a stand beside the chalkboard. “He refused to pick them up. Just crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. I thought about sending him to the principal, but—”
“What?” Flint half rose from the chair. “The principal? Why am I only now hearing about this?”
“I called yesterday,” Lana reminded him, “and offered you a choice of conference times. This was the earliest one that worked for you.” She emphasized the last word slightly.
“Right. Go on.”
“After I kept Logan in at recess and talked to him, I decided I should get in touch with you before bringing the principal into the picture. Didn’t Logan tell you about any of this?”
Flint shook his head slowly. “Not a word. Is that all?” He looked at her and sank back into the chair. “That’s not all, is it.” It was a statement, not a question.
“If that were all, I wouldn’t have called you.” This was the hardest part, but it needed to be said. “During our conversation at recess, he refused to apologize. I asked some questions, tried to figure out what was going on with him—because this behavior was pretty unusual for Logan—but he wouldn’t answer. Until...” She paused.
Flint’s blue eyes were on her. For better or worse, she had his attention now.
“He wanted to know if he was in enough trouble to be sent to live with the other boys at the main ranch house.”
Flint closed his eyes for a minute and then opened them.
“When I said no, of course not, he burst into tears. He kept asking, ‘What do I have to do to get to live there?’”
* * *
Flint stared at Lana, trying to conceal the emotions that were churning in his gut. Not only did he feel like a failure as a father, but he ached for his son.
What Logan really wanted was a mother, a family, company his own age instead of an elderly nanny who tried to get him to sit still and watch TV with her. He wanted attention, not constant scolding from his dad as he followed him around the barn, getting in the way and causing trouble.
Flint wanted those things for Logan, too.
But unfortunately for both of them, none of what Logan wanted was in the cards for him. Not now, and not in the foreseeable future. “I’ll talk to him,” Flint said as soon as he could control his voice.
“That’s great, but I’m not sure it’s enough,” Lana said gently. “I might be able to help, if you can let me in on some of the things Logan’s struggling with.”
The sympathy on her face just made him feel worse. He hardened his voice. Toughened up his heart. “Bottom line,” he said, “Logan’s struggling with not having a mother. That can’t be helped. And since his nanny quit, he needs something more after school.”
Lana nodded, looking a little skeptical.
“I’m trying to find him some better playmates,” Flint defended himself. “And I’ve put out feelers about another nanny.”
“I wonder if what he might need,” she said, still sounding gentle, “is more attention from you.”
That, on top of how stressed-out he already felt, made him mad. “I have a demanding job. I don’t get off at three thirty like a teacher does!”
She looked pointedly up at the clock, now creeping toward five. “A teacher’s work doesn’t end when the students go home, but that’s not the issue.” She leaned back and looked at him narrowly, tappi
ng a pencil on the desk. “May I be honest, Mr. Rawlings?”
“Doesn’t seem like you have a problem with that.”
“When it’s called for. Mr. Rawlings, there were three children whose parents didn’t come to Open House. Two were from migrant families who were trying to get here when their truck broke down on the road outside town. The other was Logan.” She paused, letting that sink in good and deep, and then spoke again. “All three of them cried the next day when the other children were sharing about their families’ reactions to Open House.”
Flint just looked at her, absorbing the criticism in her words and her expression. Yep, a failure as a father.
“Now, I happen to know the ranch went on lockdown that night. I know there were problems with the boys, and you probably had to help. Logan knows that, too,” she said. “In his mind, at least. But maybe not in his heart.”
Flint let his head drop into his hands and stared down at the floor. He loved Logan more than he’d ever loved anyone, but according to Miss Lana Alvarez, he wasn’t doing a very good job of showing it.
“The other two families who missed Open House got in touch to find out if there was another way to be involved with the school. I had one mother, who’s a great cook, bring in flan for our Harvest Celebration. The other child’s parents both work in the fields, possibly even longer hours than you work.”
Was that sarcasm in her voice? He felt too guilty to be sure.
“But his grandpa, who’s too disabled for farmwork, is helping me tutor the kids who need help in reading, one day a week before school.”
He looked up at her then, spread his hands. “I’ll talk to Logan about his behavior,” he said. More like, talk at him. He needed to show how much he cared, not just lecture his son. “And I’ll come to...whatever I’m supposed to come to, whatever you recommend, here at the school.”
The Nanny's Texas Christmas Page 2
