The Cowboy and the Kid

by Anne McAllister

  "About you."

  "Me?" She stared at him.

  He shrugged as if he wished he hadn't brought it up. "They're a couple of whiners. Nothin' makes 'em happy, but—" his mouth twisted "—sometimes they can get out of hand."

  Felicity looked at him warily. "What do you mean, out of hand?"

  "They get a bee in their bonnet about somethin' they don't like, and they want to get rid of it, you know?"

  "Get rid of me, you mean?"

  His fingers started drumming again. "Not necessarily. I mean, I don't think they're aimin' to get rid of you, exactly. Not yet, but…" His voice trailed off. It was pretty clear to Felicity that if they weren't there yet, Taggart thought they were soon going to be.

  "What did they say?" she demanded. "Exactly."

  "Well, I can't say word for word, but—"

  "You must have a pretty good idea. You asked me out to dinner on the basis of it."

  He shoved back in his chair and raised his hands as if to defend himself. "Hey, I just thought you had a right to know."

  "So tell me!"

  But he studied the tabletop for a long moment before he finally raised his eyes to meet hers. "They said you were playin' games. They said you weren't doing basics. They said the kids weren't learning the right things."

  "Not learning the right things? They're learning history! They're learning to read and write and understand how their world works!"

  "But not the way we used to."

  Her gaze narrowed on him. "You mean if it's boring, it's better?"

  "No! Hell, no. I didn't say that!"

  "But that's what you're implying."

  "They're implying. Not me. I think they're full of you know what." He paused. "But—" He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of helplessness.

  "But what?"

  "But Orrin Bacon is on the school board and—"

  "Sam Bacon's dad? He wasn't even there!"

  "Elizabeth was. His wife," Taggart explained. "Orrin's probably on the road. Couldn't make it, but—"

  "Then exactly how is he qualified to judge my teaching?"

  "I never said he was, just said he's doing it."

  Felicity felt her mouth open, then close, then open again. A hundred responses crowded her brain. None of this made any sense! "Are you telling me my job is in jeopardy?" she asked him finally.

  The waitress came bringing their steaks. Felicity had lost her appetite. She waited, but Taggart didn't reply until the waitress had left. "I don't know," he said, his gaze level, meeting hers. "Orrin's a pretty tough guy to buck. He's got plenty of opinions and he doesn't hesitate to make them known."

  "But Sam's doing well!"

  Taggart's mouth twisted. "By your standards, maybe."

  "By anyone's standards, I should think. He wasn't doing any better with traditional methods! Damn it." Felicity attacked her steak with the desire to cut Orrin Bacon in two. "I can't believe this!" Felicity pointed her knife at Taggart. "Do you know how hard Sam has had it in school? No, of course you don't. And I shouldn't be telling you." Another breach of professional ethics. She went back to sawing her steak.

  "I know," Taggart said quietly. He spread his hands when she looked up at him warily. "How could I not? This is a small town, remember? Everybody knows I took you to dinner. I know Sam has trouble in school."

  "Well, then, do you know that I'm finally reaching him?"

  He shook his head. "No, I didn't know that."

  "Because the darling Bacons aren't talking about it, obviously."

  "But if you are, why aren't they pleased?"

  "I don't know! Because they're perverse. Because they're stubborn. Because they're determined stick-in-the-muds who only want success if they get it their way!" Felicity brought her silverware down with a clatter.

  "Hey," Taggart said gently, "careful with the dishes. And don't kill the messenger."

  Felicity sighed. "Sorry." She managed a smile, but it was a pained smile. How could the Bacons be the ones complaining? Of all the parents, they ought to be most pleased. "Does anyone else have problems?"

  His gaze flickered away for a moment. "One or two. Nothing much."

  "What?" She wanted all the cards on the table now.

  He shrugged awkwardly. "A couple said the program was … frivolous."

  "Frivolous." She repeated the word with deadly calm.

  "The costumes and the … I don't know what you'd call it … multimedia approach, I guess. Hands-on, maybe that's the word. They thought it was … unnecessary. They thought the thing on parents' occupations was, too." He gave her a helpless look. "I don't mean I'm agreeing with 'em. I just thought you ought to know. They don't like frills."

  She stared at him, stupefied. "Frills?"

  "They want their kids memorizing things, doing papers, turning 'em in, getting a grade. Going on to the next subject."

  "And it doesn't matter if their kids learn anything?"

  "Kids do learn that way. I did," he added defensively.

  "And loved every minute of it, obviously. I remember all those happy stories you told me … about you and Cloribel the Horrible."

  He looked uncomfortable. "I did learn from her. I told you that."

  "And you so clearly enjoyed every minute."

  "I didn't need to."

  "Wouldn't you rather have enjoyed it?"

  "Of course, but—"

  "Then what's wrong with making what they have to learn anyway interesting and enjoyable? Why make them hate it? I believe in what I'm doing. And I think I've made a difference for the better. For all the kids, Sam included. Especially Sam. What are Bacons going to do?"

  "What do you mean, going to do?"

  "I mean, you're obviously concerned about this. You braved having dinner with me to tell me." He scowled at her wording, but she didn't care. "So what's going to happen? Is he going to shoot me? Run me out of town?"

  "Of course not. He can't do either. But he might have the power to see that your contract isn't renewed."

  She wanted to say, "So what?" She couldn't, because there was nothing "so what" about it. She cared—far more than she thought she would—about keeping this job. Elmer, in the few months she'd been here, had come to seem more like a home to her than California ever had. It was the place where she'd discovered how to live again after Dirk's death. And to have it threatened right out of the blue—especially when she knew she was doing a good job! Her stomach knotted. So did her fist around the knife.

  Taggart watched her worriedly. "I didn't tell you in order to upset you," he apologized.

  "I know. I'm sorry. It's just not fair. I thought people were pleased."

  "People ought to be," he said firmly. "I am. Becky's a bright enough kid, and she's done well in school—when she's worked," he added wryly. "But she's never liked it the way she has this year. And it's not just because … because she thinks you'd be … uh, because you'd be…" He stumbled, then stopped. "Aw, hell."

  "Because I'd be mother material?"

  He shot her a glance from beneath lowered brows. "She knows better now. I straightened her out," he said firmly.

  "I gathered you had."

  She tried to look upbeat, but she must not have done a very good job, because Taggart said, "It isn't that I don't … like you. I just don't want to get married."

  "You don't have to explain," she said, feeling her cheeks warm.

  "Yes, I do. I don't want you to think I'm … findin' fault. Like the Bacons, you know?" He looked at her earnestly.

  Felicity smiled faintly. "So I won't feel like I'm a complete all-around failure, you mean?"

  "Cripes, no, I never meant that."

  He was flustered now, she could tell, and she knew she had to take pity on him.

  "I understand, Taggart. I was teasing."

  "Oh," he mumbled. "Yeah." He bent his head over his dinner, sawing doggedly at his steak.

  Felicity cut hers, too, and took another bite, but all the while she chewed, she couldn't take her eyes off
Taggart Jones.

  She knew it was a lost cause. She'd finally awakened to the possibility of having a new man in her life, and the new man she had awakened to had apparently vowed to become Rip Van Winkle where women were concerned.

  Still, she watched him. She couldn't seem to get enough of watching him. She'd played her video of bull-riding school over and over again, watching not just the bull rider, Taggart Jones, who was impressive, but the teacher, Taggart Jones, who impressed her even more.

  "You teach the way I do," she said suddenly.

  His head jerked up. "What? What are you talking about?"

  "You don't teach your students out of books. You show them things—videos, even—and then you put them on the bulls."

  "Because I'm teaching bull riding," he said patiently.

  "But it has to do with life. You said so. And I'm teaching my students what they need to know in life, too. I'm teaching them subjects—like reading and history and arithmetic. But more important, I'm teaching them how to learn, how to find out things later on when they're out of school. They won't bother if they think it's all drudgery. But if I show them that there are alternative ways to learn things—" she was poking her knife at him again, she realized. Deliberately she set it down. But then she looked back up, fire in her eyes. "If I show them ways to learn that they can understand, they'll use those ways in the future. They'll have the tools they need to learn whatever they need to!"

  She looked at him, impatient, waiting for a response. He wasn't agreeing enthusiastically, that was for sure.

  But finally he nodded his head. "Yeah. You're right."

  That was all he said. He wasn't fired up the way she was, but there was a quiet certainty to his tone that was just as good. Better, perhaps, because she suspected she could count on it. Felicity smiled at him, justified.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, Taggart returned her smile.

  * * *

  Eight

  « ^ »

  There. He'd done it. He'd taken her to dinner. He'd told her about the grumblings of Sam Bacon's mother, he'd hinted at the furor he knew damn well Orrin Bacon could stir up. He'd done his duty. He'd even managed a bit of small talk on the side.

  After they'd disposed of the Bacons, he'd asked her about her time in California. And then, later, about Europe. "If you don't mind talking about it," he'd said hastily, realizing she might not want to relive memories of trips with her husband with him.

  But she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she talked about him quite willingly and at length. Dirk Albright sounded like a damned paragon. But Taggart couldn't dislike a guy who'd built a car out of spare parts as a teenager, who'd spent an entire summer canoeing in northern Canada with his brother, who'd swept Felicity off her feet in junior high by writing her messages in Morse code.

  "Love letters," Felicity had giggled.

  For a cellist, he actually sounded almost like a regular guy. Maybe even a fun one. Taggart sort of wished he could have met him. Sort of.

  It was obvious how much Felicity had loved her husband. It showed in her face, in her eyes, in her smile, even the wistful one. Part of him wished he'd never brought Europe up—or Dirk. Another part told him it was salutary that he had.

  He knew Felicity had had a wonderful marriage, just like he knew he'd had a lousy one. They had nothing in common, see?

  He saw. It didn't help.

  Because he also saw a woman he wanted. When she told him about traveling to Europe—to Paris and Vienna and Salzburg the summer after she and Dirk had graduated from college, camping and staying in hostels—she made it seem not very different from the way he'd lived, going down the road from town to town. Only a little more exotic. He thought he'd like to see some of those places some day. He said so.

  "You'd love it," she told him eagerly, eyes sparkling. They'd finished their dinner and were drinking coffee. It was getting late, and he should be taking her home, but he made no move other than to sit and sip. He even dared look at her now and then for longer than a split second.

  "Yeah, I probably would," he said now, reflectively. He wished he could see it all. With her.

  But that would never happen, he told himself firmly. Tonight was a one-off. A sort of test. Like riding a bull. He was pitting himself against an unknown force, setting himself up against the temptation of succumbing to Felicity Albright's charms.

  He'd needed to. To prove that he could do it—and survive.

  And he had. Even though he wanted her more now than he had this afternoon.

  Taggart finished his coffee quickly and paid the bill. Then he ushered her ahead of him toward the door and held it open so she could precede him.

  Out into the swirling snow.

  Snow?

  Small sharp flakes stung his eyes as the wind whipped them in his face. An icy north wind bit into him. Oh, yes, snow. Unseasonable, unpredictable, entirely possible Montana snow.

  Felicity shivered and turned to him, incredulous. "I don't believe this."

  "I do," Taggart said darkly, cursing his lack of forethought. The National Weather Service hadn't said anything about a coming storm, but he didn't need them to have seen the high, fast-moving cirrus clouds that had come over the mountains from the west earlier in the evening. He didn't need them to tell him about the sharp wind. He'd just been too strung out over Felicity to notice. And now he was going to pay.

  "Is it … safe to drive back to Elmer in this?" Felicity asked.

  Safer than spending the night in a motel room, Taggart thought. "It'll be fine," he promised. "There's only a couple of inches on the ground so far. We can make it." Taking her arm, he steered her toward the truck. He could touch her through her jacket with immunity, he was certain. Well, maybe not so certain. She was so close she radiated warmth as she stumbled along beside him, her head ducked down.

  "It won't be bad, will it? It's only October," she said hopefully.

  "The worst storm I ever saw was in October," he replied before he thought.

  She winced. "Then you think this is going to be a big one."

  "Naw. I doubt it," he said, not wanting to make things worse than they already were. "It'll probably let up soon."

  "Says the guy who isn't wearing sandals."

  He glanced down. Her bare toes were peeking out at him. "Damn!" He bent, reached around and swung her up into his arms.

  "Taggart!"

  "You'd rather get your feet frozen? Relax. It's only a few feet."

  It really wasn't far distancewise. She wasn't even very heavy. Heck, he slung Becky around all the time—not to mention saddles and hay bales and other ranch gear. The trouble was, Felicity didn't feel like any ranch gear he'd ever lugged. She didn't feel very much like his daughter, either.

  He cursed under his breath, all too aware of the firm warmth of her body in his arms. Her mouth was so close that her breath warmed his cheek. He turned his head. Even so, he could smell a flowery scent. Lilacs, he thought.

  In the snow? Was he losing his mind? Yep. And his composure.

  He almost dumped her next to the truck, then opened the door. She slipped in with a grateful sigh. Taggart caught her feet and brushed the snow off her bare toes. They were cold and trembled at his touch. She gave a tiny giggle that sent a shaft of need zinging through him.

  He backed away hastily. "There's a blanket in the back of the cab. Can you reach it?"

  She was tucking it around her when he climbed in the other side. "You come prepared." She turned a smile on him. Snowflakes glistened on her lashes and shone in her hair like tiny diamonds. He wanted to touch one.

  No, you don't, he told himself firmly, sucking in his breath and flicking the key in the ignition. That way lay disaster. He was almost home free.

  But he wasn't home yet.

  "Got to be prepared in Montana," he said brusquely. "You never know what to expect."

  Something else Julie had hated, he reminded himself. "I don't mind cold weather," she'd said, "but some days it's 50 degrees below zero.
The next it's 50 above. It rains one minute, then snows the next. And the wind. God, I hate the wind."

  Felicity hugged herself. "This is wonderful."

  Taggart's head jerked around. He shot her a wary glance. "What's wonderful?"

  She was still smiling. "This weather. It's amazing. I love it."

  He gave her a sour look. "And when there's a job opening in the Antarctic, you'll take it?"

  Felicity laughed. "No, but I'm serious about this. California—where I lived in California, at least—the weather was always the same. You almost never even noticed it."

  "Must have been nice," Taggart said dryly.

  "It was boring."

  "Well, whatever this is—boring it ain't." He put the truck in gear and eased out into the street.

  He got them out of town and up onto the Interstate without too much trouble. Felicity settled in quietly beside him, apparently trusting him to be as good as his word. Taggart gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

  Soon they'd be taking the highway north, provided he could see it. The snow had already covered the roadway and was still coming down so thick and fast that the signs were all but invisible. The headlights of a semi appeared dimly in the rearview mirror.

  Taggart sucked in his breath. It had been in weather like this, the first snow of a heavy storm, that he and Noah had had their accident. A semi had come up behind them fast then, too. His jaw clenched. He felt a cold sweat break out against the back of his neck.

  They'd been damned lucky that time. He didn't expect to be that lucky twice.

  "Shall I put on the radio and see if I can get the weather station?"

  He took a jerky breath. "Yeah, why not?"

  Felicity did. Snow, they said in cheerful tones.

  "No kidding," Taggart said through his teeth, one eye on the semi. It was getting closer.

  High winds, they said. Low visibility. Not a good night to travel. Stay home if you could. Use chains if you were attempting one of the passes.

  "We aren't attempting any passes, are we?" Felicity asked.

  "No. We shouldn't have any trouble. This is pretty much a straight shot until we get to the hills leading up toward Elmer."

  The wind shook the truck, making it harder to steer. The sign for the exit to the highway north loomed suddenly in the swirling whiteness. In his rearview mirror the semi seemed almost on his tail. His whole body tensed.