The Rancher and the Girl Next Door

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.

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