Felicity supposed his wife was one of those long-suffering women who stood by their men or, in this case, stood waiting for them to come home, which might not seem very romantic to a child, but certainly, to Felicity's way of thinking, wasn't to be scoffed at.
She knew very little about rodeo herself. She'd never met a bull rider. A third-grade teacher who'd been married to a concert cellist didn't travel in the same circles with professional bull riders. It seemed a pretty exotic thing to be. She was amazed that you could make a living at it. She doubted very many people could. But apparently until two years ago, Becky's father had. Now, according to Becky, he was staying home.
"Teaching," Becky had announced just last week. "Like you."
"I thought you said he was a bull rider."
"He was. Is. Now he teaches. How to ride bulls."
Felicity couldn't imagine. Did he give tests? Homework? Draw up lesson plans?
She'd have to ask him, she thought with a smile as she sat at her desk and graded a math quiz. The Joneses would be here any moment. Without their daughter. Becky and Susannah had made it onto the bus this afternoon. Felicity had stood right next to it until it pulled away just to make sure. Not that they seemed to have any desire to linger.
Becky had, in fact, been bouncing with suppressed excitement all afternoon. Felicity wondered at it, but could hardly ask. Did she know her parents were coming to meet her teacher? Was she pleased?
It didn't seem likely—not since all Becky had to show for the first three weeks of school was a string of zeroes in the grade book after her name.
The sound of footsteps at the doorway made her look up, smiling in the expectation of seeing Becky's parents.
She saw the handsomest cowboy she'd ever seen.
Lean and tanned, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, he was the epitome of every woman's western fantasy. Lori, she thought irrelevantly, would have approved.
His hat was a Stetson, his jeans were Wranglers, and his dusty boots looked like they had been places that would turn an urban cowboy pale. He was not, she noted, wearing spurs. Obviously, then, he was not Mr. Jones.
Her perusal took far longer than it should have. When she recollected herself, she realized he'd been making an equally astonished study of her. She reddened. "May I help you?" she said coolly, trying to regain her equilibrium.
He reached up and jerked off his Stetson, baring a short thatch of thick dark hair. "I'm … looking for Ms. Albright?" He clearly thought he hadn't found her.
Felicity wiped suddenly damp palms on her jungle-print skirt and stood up, holding out her hand as she came around the desk. "I'm Felicity Albright."
"Taggart Jones." He took her hand.
"I … I'm so glad you could come, Mr. Jones," Felicity said, her mouth oddly dry.
"Taggart," he corrected her. "If you call me Mr. Jones, I'll be lookin' over my shoulder for my dad." The grin he flashed her must have sent women all over the rodeo circuit into a tailspin.
Felicity, who had been immune to that sort of thing from anyone other than Dirk, felt a faint stirring deep within. It surprised her so much that she jerked her hand out of his grasp.
He didn't seem sorry to break the contact. He quickly stuffed his hand into the pocket of his jeans. The other tightened on the brim of his hat. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am." He dipped his head, and for an instant, his gaze trapped hers. He had the most intensely green eyes she had ever seen. Deep-set and sparkling, they reminded her of a pool in a forest glen, a pattern of sunlight and shadow on a jade both still and deep.
How fanciful is that, she chided herself, disgusted. She didn't ordinarily wax poetic about the parents of the children she taught. "I'm delighted to meet you, too, Mr., er … Taggart. Won't you sit down?" She gestured toward one of the children's chairs. "Becky has talked a lot about you."
"She has?" He sounded doubtful. He tried to sit in one of the children's chairs, then another. Both were far too small, and after trying for several seconds to find a comfortable spot, he gave up and swung himself up to sit on the waist-high counter above her storage cupboard, his boots dangling.
"Sorry," he apologized, but his grin was as unrepentant as Becky's. "I used to get into trouble for sittin' up here when I was in school. You gonna make me get down, too?"
Felicity tried to resist his grin. "I'd have to," she told him in her best severe-schoolmarm voice, "if the children were here. Since they aren't—" she shrugged and smiled, her tone softening "—no, I won't."
Their gazes caught again. Something electric seemed to hover in the air. Abruptly, Felicity looked away and slipped behind her desk, grateful for the solid expanse of wood that separated her from Taggart Jones.
What was the matter with her? He was Becky's father! He was married!
It was just that dratted Lori and her subliminal suggestion about a cowboy, Felicity told herself—and the sudden reactivation of her two-years-asleep hormones. She drew a steadying breath and pulled out her grade book. "I'm sorry Mrs. Jones couldn't make it."
"There isn't one."
The baldness of his statement rocked her. His tone was matter-of-fact, but embarrassment burned her cheeks, anyway. Why hadn't she checked? When half her California students had been from single-parent families, why had she assumed that none of her Montana kids would be?
"I'm sorry," she said.
He shrugged. "Not your fault. She left us when Becky was two months old. It's common knowledge hereabouts. I should've said when you asked for her, but that was when I thought you were asking for my mom. And then when you weren't, I guess I was more concerned about Becky."
Felicity felt like a fool. She twisted her pencil and finally mustered a smile. But when Taggart smiled back, and all those dormant hormones suddenly took it upon themselves to dance around again, she looked down at her grade book. "Er, yes, well, um … Becky. She's quite a … an interesting child. She told me she wants to be a bull rider like her father."
Taggart rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. "It's what she knows. She'll figure out sooner or later that there's plenty better ways to make a living."
"She's very proud of you."
"I'm proud of her, too." Their gazes met again. This time Felicity kept her hormones under strict control.
"Of course you are," she said, and wondered how she could gracefully ease into the part of the conference that he might not be so proud of.
"So, what's wrong with her?" he said, neatly solving her dilemma.
"Wrong?"
He grinned. "Nobody ever called my folks to talk about me when I was doin' everything I was supposed to. You got a problem with Becky, I want to hear it."
Felicity sucked in her breath. "You're absolutely right. There are one or two things I hope you can help me with." She opened her grade book. "As you can see—" she turned the book so he could follow the line of zeroes her finger traced "—Becky hasn't turned any work in all year. Now, there may have been some things she wasn't quite sure about, but I'm certain she can—"
"Hasn't turned anything in? Nothing? All year?" Taggart's grin vanished. He bounded down off the counter and came to loom over her.
"There have been several reading work sheets due already, as you can see. Not large assignments, of course. But she hasn't done any of them. And here—" she turned the page "—is a record of the arithmetic assignments I've given them." More zeroes. "We've finished our first unit in social studies." Still another line of zeroes. She showed him the incomplete for the science project, the penmanship grade— "Not really important," she allowed. "But another indication…"
Taggart's jaw tightened. The deep tan on his face was underlined by an even deeper red beneath. He scowled fiercely. "Becky always does her work! She never misses." Felicity didn't know whether he was talking to her or to himself.
"In the past, you mean? Then … there isn't any reason, um, at home … why she might not be…"
"A reason at home for her not doing her work? Hell, no. But I'll give her a damn
good one for doing it!"
"I'm sure you will." Felicity felt a flicker of sympathy for Becky Jones. "But I'd really like to know why she isn't doing any now—especially if you say she's always done her work before."
Taggart shook his head. He walked across the room and stared at the children's stories she'd hung on the wall, scowling at them. "Susannah doin' hers?"
"Yes, all of it. And very well, too."
He raked a hand through his hair, ruffling it where his hat had jammed it down. "I don't know, then. I figured maybe if Susannah wasn't doin' hers, either… They're friends, you see."
"I know. They … do a lot together. That's another thing I wanted to talk to you about." She hesitated, unsure how to phrase it.
Taggart leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. Felicity had to look up to meet his gaze. If she didn't, her eyes were on a level with his big gold world championship belt buckle. She studied it. Her eyes lowered a bit farther. Bad idea.
"What else?" he demanded.
There was only the bald truth. "Becky and Susannah seem to be … following me."
"Following you?" He gaped at her.
"You said they were missing the bus," she reminded him quickly. "Some days after school when I'm walking home or to the grocery store or wherever I'm going, I look back and they're … following me."
Taggart frowned again, but it wasn't so much a frown of anger now as one of total bafflement. "This is a small town. You could just happen to look around and see them."
"I know it's a small town. That's how I know they're following me. You notice things like that. I notice things like that. And whenever I glance over my shoulder—at the library, at the Laundromat, at the grocery store—there they are."
"An' you think they're doing it deliberately?"
"I would say so, yes. It's happened several times a week since the beginning of school. I thought you might have some idea…"
"Not a clue. She's never done anything like it before. Of course, she's never not done her work before, either. Damn." Taggart scratched the back of his head. He slapped his hat against his thigh and shoved away from the counter. "I'll sort her out. I'll get to the bottom of it, Ms. Albright. Believe me." He started toward the door.
Felicity went after him. "Uh, Mr. Jones? Taggart?"
He turned. "There's more?"
"One … other thing."
He waited, not speaking.
"Spurs."
"What?"
Felicity shrugged helplessly. "She's wearing … spurs."
He stared. "To school?"
Felicity nodded. "Every day. Except the first day. I don't remember her wearing them then. But it was pretty chaotic. Still," she mused, "I think I would have noticed."
"I'd bet on it," Taggart said darkly. He smacked one fist into his other palm. "When I get my hands on that kid—"
"There isn't really a rule about it," Felicity said quickly. "I checked."
"Don't reckon anybody ever figured you'd need one." Taggart strangled his hat brim. "Spurs! Damn that kid. What's she up to?"
"Perhaps she wants attention."
"She'll get it, believe me."
"I didn't ask you to come in so I'd get her in trouble," she said quickly. "I simply wanted to understand what was going on."
"You and me both." He fixed his gaze on her. "Did you ask her?" he said. "About the spurs?"
"She said she needed to wear them."
"Needed to?" Taggart's eyes narrowed. He frowned, and the line between his dark brows deepened. "And what about the following business? Did you ask her about that?"
"I didn't want to accuse them of something." Felicity gave a little shrug. "I mean, I'm not from Elmer and I didn't want to … get off on the wrong foot. I thought it was maybe some local custom…"
"Not one I ever heard of." Taggart started toward the door again, then turned back once more. "Is that all?"
"That's all." She ventured a smile.
He didn't return it. "It's enough." He drew himself up straighter and squared his shoulders. "I appreciate your calling me, ma'am. I'll take care of it. And there'll be lots of work and no more following you around, I promise."
"Thank you." Felicity gave him a grateful smile. "And the spurs?"
"No more spurs." Taggart set his hat on his head and tugged it down tight. "Count on it."
* * *
He didn't know whether he was madder at Becky or at himself. He was plenty annoyed at his daughter, that was for sure. And puzzled, too. But he'd sort her out pronto, no two ways about it. He only wished he could sort himself out as quick.
That was Becky's teacher? That young knockout of a blonde? They sure as hell hadn't made teachers like her when he was a kid!
"A looker," Noah had called her. The word didn't begin to describe Felicity Albright. When he'd first glanced at her sitting there behind the teacher's desk, Taggart had thought she was some high school girl who came to help out. But then he'd taken a closer look and realized she was old enough to teach. She was just too damn pretty!
And all his wistful hormones sure as hell noticed. He couldn't remember being knocked for a loop like that since Julie. And the simple memory of that had nearly sent him running.
She wasn't Julie, he reminded himself. She was a teacher. His kid's teacher. And he'd been there to talk to her—like the concerned, intelligent, mature parent he was.
Still, he was lucky he'd managed to cross the room without stumbling over his boots. Remembering the way he'd stared and his initial stammering awkwardness, Taggart cursed under his breath now as he drove up the highway toward the ranch. The beautiful Ms. Albright must think he was an idiot.
And that he had an idiot for a kid.
Damn Becky, anyway! What on earth was she doing? How could she not turn in any work for three full weeks? How could she tail her teacher after school? And for God's sake, what was with the spurs? Spurs!
Taggart's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Was she upset because his folks had moved away? Was she trying to say she'd be happier if he let her go live with them in Bozeman?
His mother had offered to let her come with them, though she knew Taggart would never agree. When he left rodeoing after the accident, he'd done it because he wanted to be with Becky. He still wanted it.
Didn't she?
Maybe not. Maybe … oh, hell, there were a million maybes. Most of the time his daughter was an open book. Not for her the feminine wiles that so entranced and then entangled him with Julie! She wasn't ever going to be like her mother, he assured himself time and again.
Now he wondered if he knew her at all.
As he pulled into the yard at Noah's new house, he saw Becky's sun-streaked hair and Susannah's dark head in the window of the tree house he and Noah had built for them. They peered down at him as he shut the engine off, but the moment he opened the door, both heads abruptly disappeared.
He stalked over to the tree. "Rebecca Kathleen! Get your rear end down here!"
There was a mouselike scuffling overhead, then Becky's green eyes appeared in the window. "Oh, hi, Daddy."
Hands on hips, he glowered up at her. "Down. Now."
"But we were just—"
"Down, Rebecca."
Her head disappeared again.
"That's twice he's called you Rebecca," he heard Susannah whisper. "You'd better go."
"I'm goin'." Becky didn't sound nearly as nervous as she ought to. Taggart tapped the toe of his boot on the dirt.
"Taggart!" He turned to see Tess, with Clay balanced on one hip, waving at him from the kitchen door. "Have time for a glass of lemonade?"
"Not today. Thanks, anyway. Just collectin' my kid."
When he turned back, Becky was climbing down the ladder. She was wearing dusty blue jeans, a T-shirt. And spurs. Taggart's teeth came together with a snap.
"I gotta get my backpack," Becky said the instant her feet hit the ground. She skirted around him quickly, heading toward the house.
"Got
a lot of homework, have you?"
Becky looked back at him guiltily, gave a tiny nod, then scurried toward the house. She seemed, for the first time, just a little nervous.
She damned well ought to be. Taggart went back to the truck and leaned against the door, arms folded across his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Susannah peeking down at him from the window of the tree house. Usually she came skipping right up to him, ready to share some bit of news. Not today.
Becky retrieved her backpack, answered something Tess had said, then trudged toward him across the yard. There was a definite reluctance in her walk now. She didn't look at him, just climbed into the passenger side of the truck and fastened her seat belt without him even having to remind her.
Taggart got in, flicked on the engine, threw the truck into reverse and backed around. Becky sat silently beside him. Every now and then she slanted him a quick glance, like someone checking the fuse on a stick of dynamite she'd set.
The entire ride was accomplished in silence. She didn't even ask to steer the truck through the gate while he opened and closed it. Taggart didn't remark on it. They reached the kitchen before either of them said a word.
Becky headed for the stairs. "I gotta go do my homework."
"Why start now?"
She flinched as if she'd been shot. Then she ventured a wary look at him over her shoulder. He beckoned to her. Sighing, she turned and came to stand in front of him, looking up at him solemnly, like a condemned prisoner about to face the firing squad. Taggart felt a momentary remorse, then promptly squelched it. She was in the wrong, not him.
"So," he said evenly, "why don't you tell me what's going on?"
Becky blinked. Her eyes widened fractionally. "Going on?"
"You know I went to see your teacher today." She nodded.
"And you must have a pretty good idea what she told me."
Another nod, this one a little more hesitant.
"Want to guess what she told me?"
"Um…" She paused and ran her tongue over her lips. "That I didn't do my homework?"
The Cowboy and the Kid Page 3
