Her Single Dad Hero

As they talked, she heard Donovan’s high-pitched voice outside, speaking to his dog, Digger. Before long, Ann mused, her little niece, Bodie Jane, would be running around the place much like Donovan did now. That was what she and Rex had done. They’d run wild, practically living on horseback and knocking out every step their dad had taken around the place until school had intruded.

Being the youngest, Meredith had spent more time with their mom, Gloria, but Ann had desperately wanted to do everything that Rex and Wes had done. That, no doubt, had been her downfall.

Unbidden, other words ran through Ann’s mind.

You sure are pretty. And you got red hair like me.

At least Donovan thought she was pretty, and it seemed to matter that she had red hair like him.

Not that she cared one way or another what the Pryors thought.

She yanked off the ball cap and touched a hand to her long, stiffly waving locks, wondering when its shade had ever before been a plus for her. She wished Callie had told her that she’d given the kid free run of the house before she’d taken off to Tulsa with Rex and Bodie. Maybe then she wouldn’t have come off so...tough. Maybe she’d have had a chance to appear soft and womanly.

On the other hand, Dean Pryor had known her a lot longer than she’d realized. She’d probably never be able to overcome the image of her hard-slugging, hard-driving, super-competitive past with him.

Not that it mattered. Actually, it didn’t matter one whit what he or anyone else around War Bonnet thought of her.

Jolly.

She shook her head. It had been a long time since anyone had called her that.

Not long enough.

Chapter Two

“Watch it, Dean!”

“Sorry.”

So much for not thinking of Ann Billings. Dean Paul pulled his attention back to the job at hand, getting the lift chains on the feed bin released without braining any of his help or injuring himself. A man could easily lose a finger if he didn’t focus. Besides, what did it matter? He’d never been anything but an underclassman to her, and he was still obviously underclass in her estimation.

He could live with her low opinion of him, but it burned him up that she’d thought his son had been stealing cookies. Dean had learned to swallow his anger and focus on his joy a long time ago. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help wanting to give her a piece of his mind where his boy was concerned. He listened as he worked and caught the sound of his son talking to his dog in the distance. The exact words escaped him, but the tone of Donovan’s voice assured Dean that all was well. His five-year-old son, born Christmas Day, was the gift of a lifetime, in Dean’s opinion.

Smiling, he released the last heavy link and let the chain fall, calling, “Heads up!” He tossed the heavy, locking S hook to the ground and descended the ladder.

When Rex had told him that Ann would be here to oversee and help with the build-out and harvest, Dean had felt a secret thrill of anticipation, but apparently nothing had changed in the last decade. She still obviously thought she was too good for the likes of him. And maybe she was. God knew that he’d made more than his fair share of mistakes in this life already.

Being a father to his son was not one of them, however. Being Donovan’s dad had shown Dean that he could do anything that he had to do. It had also given him more joy than he had known the world could contain. That was all he needed, more than he’d ever expected, enough to keep him thanking God every day.

No matter how hard things got, Dean would thank God for Donovan Jessup Pryor. Those sparkling blue eyes and that happy smile gave Dean’s life purpose. That little red head warmed Dean’s heart as nothing else could. He just wished he had better answers for the inevitable questions that Donovan had begun to ask.

How come I don’t have a mom?

Why don’t she want us?

Dean had asked those same questions his whole life and still had no satisfactory answers for them. Grandmothers and aunts were wonderful, but they weren’t mothers. At least Donovan had a father who loved and wanted him. At least he’d been able to give his son that much.

It was more than Dean had had.

Hopefully it would be enough, for Dean didn’t see himself marrying anytime soon. He could barely afford to feed himself and Donovan, let alone a wife and any other children. In a perfect world, he’d like a half dozen more kids.

But Dean Paul Pryor’s world had never approached anything near perfect. The closest he’d ever come was the day a nurse had placed a tiny, redheaded bundle in his arms and exclaimed, “Merry Christmas!”

He had wept for joy that day, and the memory still made him smile.

What was another snub, even one from Ann Jollett Billings, in the light of that?

He shook his head and got back to work. The men helped Dean chain up the first of ten-ton storage bins and connect it to the crane. Then Dean climbed into the cab of the crane and started the engine. Donovan and Digger showed up again, the boy’s curiosity alive on his freckled face. He grinned and waved, showing the empty space where he’d knocked out his baby tooth jumping from the tire swing in their front yard. Dean sighed, torn between satisfying that little boy’s love of all things mechanical and keeping his kid at a safe distance.

His first instinct was always to keep Donovan as close as possible, and soon that would no longer be close enough. Donovan would start kindergarten in a month, and their days of constant companionship would come to an end. Sighing, Dean killed the engine on the old crane once again and climbed down out of the cab. He walked to his pickup truck and extracted a hard hat and a 40-pound sandbag then waved to the ever-hopeful boy.

Donovan darted across the field, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground, the cuffs of his oversize jeans dragging in the dirt. He’d torn the pocket on his striped polo shirt. Grandma would have to mend it before putting it into the wash. His socks would never be white again but a pale, muddy, pinkish orange. He needed boots for playing out here in these red dirt fields, but he grew so fast that Dean dared not spend the money for them. The dog loped along behind him, its pink tongue lolling from its mouth.

Dean patted the side of the truck bed, commanding, “Digger, up!” Obediently, the dog launched himself into the bed of the truck. “Stay.”

Panting, the heeler hung its front paws over the side of the truck, watching as Dean adjusted the liner of the hard hat and plunked it onto Donovan’s head.

“I could use a little help with these big bins.”

Donovan’s smile could not have grown wider. “Yessir.”

Dean lifted the sandbag onto his shoulder and walked with his son to the crane. Reaching inside, Dean pushed down the jump seat in the rear corner of the cab. Then he tossed the sandbag into the opposite corner before lifting Donovan onto the jump seat and belting him down.

“Sit on your hands,” he instructed, “and keep your feet still.”

Donovan tucked his hands under his thighs and crossed his ankles. Nodding approval, Dean climbed up into the operator’s seat again.

“Keep still now,” he cautioned again as he started the engine once more.

So far as he could tell, the boy didn’t move a muscle as Dean guided the crane to lift the feed bin from the tractor trailer, swing it across the open ground, position it and carefully lower it, guided by the hands of his temporary crew, into place. Thankfully the job took only one try. When the chains at last went slack, Donovan hooted with glee. Dean glanced over his shoulder, smiling.

A wide smile split his son’s freckled face, but he sat still as a statue. Dean’s heart swelled with pride, both because the boy was truly well behaved and because he had derived such pleasure from watching the process. Dean killed the engine and swiveled the seat to pat the boy’s knee.

“Good job.”

“That was so cool!” Donovan swung his arm, demonstrating how the steel bin had swung through the air, complete with sound effects.

Chuckling, Dean slid down to the ground. “Stay put. We’ve got two more to do.”

After all three bins were in place and secured, Dean released his son’s belt and lifted him down from the crane cab.

“You’re the best oparader!” Donovan declared.

“I’m an adequate crane operator,” Dean said. “Couldn’t have done it without you.” He leaned inside to grab the sandbag with which he’d balanced his son’s weight, hefting the bag onto his shoulder once more.

Still wearing his hard hat, Donovan proudly walked back to the pickup truck with his father. “I helped, Digger,” Donovan told his dog.

Caramel-brown ears flicking against his mottled dark gray head, the animal waited for a discernible command. Dean dumped the sandbag into the bed of the truck and ruffled the dog’s fur before snapping his fingers next to his thigh to let the dog know he could hop down. The dog vaulted lightly to the ground.

“Why don’t you guys go play in the shade while I load the crane onto the trailer?” Dean said, pointing to the trees in front of the house across the road.

“Can’t I help?” Donovan whined.

“Not this time,” Dean told him, taking the boy’s hard hat. “I think I remember a swing on the porch. I’m sure it’s okay if you and Digger want to swing for a bit. Then, after I talk to Miss Ann, we’ll go look at the horses.”

Donovan dug the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “O-kay.”

“Sure is hot out here,” Dean said, lifting off his own hat to mop his brow with the red cloth plucked from his hip pocket. “You need to be in the shade. Maybe we can stop for a snow cone on the way home.”

Donovan’s eyes lit up. He loved the sweet, icy treats, especially the coconut-flavored ones that turned his mouth blue.

“Yay! Come on, Digger.” They ran across the dusty road and into the trees.

Dean sighed. Cookies and snow cones. They’d be dealing with a sugar high this evening for sure. Well, five-year-old boys hardly ever stopped moving. He’d burn it off before bedtime. Besides, Donovan was a good eater. The only vegetables he wouldn’t touch were Brussels sprouts and cooked greens. Big for his age, he was pretty much a bottomless pit already.

Dean shuddered to think what it was going to take to feed his son at fifteen. He worried that they might have to move away from War Bonnet for him to make a decent living, but most of his work came during harvest time, and even with Oklahoma’s elongated season, he hadn’t yet been able to make those earnings comfortably stretch through the whole year.

Putting aside those thoughts, he went back to work, thankful that Rex Billings had tapped him for this extra job. Soon he had the rented crane loaded. While the crew chained it down so that it was ready for pick-up, he traded his hard hat for the clean, pale straw cowboy hat that his grandma had bought him for his birthday just two weeks earlier. Then he walked to the house, weary to the bone, to get payment from Ann. After showing Donovan the horses, he’d drive straight to the bank with her check, deposit it and pay his help.

When he stepped onto the porch, he found Donovan and Digger on the cushioned swing, Donovan singing softly as he pushed them both. The boy started to get up, but Dean waved him back as he stepped up to the door.

“I’ll only be a few minutes. You stay right there.”

“Okay, Dad.”

Dean opened the screen door and rapped his knuckles against the heavily carved inner door. After only moments Ann stood frowning up at him. He didn’t know what she had to be unhappy about or why she seemed intent on taking it out on him. Her grumpiness did not, unfortunately, detract from her looks.

She had an unusual face, a longish rectangle with a squarish jaw and chin, prominent cheekbones and a high forehead. It was the sort of face that could have been outfitted with features from either gender, but hers were unmistakably feminine, from her perfect lips to her dainty, straight nose and the gentle curves of her slender brows over her big, exotic eyes. Those eyes were like orbs plucked from a clear blue sky, ringed in storm gray around shiny black pupils. They suited her as nothing else could have. He’d always thought her one of the most beautiful girls, even when she’d had freckles splattered across her nose and cheeks. He kind of missed those freckles.

Aware that he was staring, he cleared his throat. “All done for now.”

She inclined her head, her red hair sliding across her face. Of a more muted shade than Donovan’s, more golden, less orange, it glistened like copper pennies. Dean frowned. Hadn’t her hair been brighter at one time? He fought the insane urge to rub locks of it between his fingers to see if the color rubbed off and exposed the brighter hue he seemed to recall.

Turning, she led the way into the study where he had conducted his business with her father and brother. Dean lifted off his hat, stepped inside, pushed the door closed behind him and followed. Leaning over the desk, she signed a check, tore it from a large, hard-backed checkbook and handed it over.

“I really didn’t know about the cookies,” she said defensively. “Callie didn’t tell me.”

He glanced at the check, folded it and stashed it in his shirt pocket. “I suppose she had a lot on her mind, what with the wedding and all.”

The young widowed mother had come to keep house for the Billings men and help take care of Wes, who was fighting cancer. It had quickly become obvious to everyone who saw them together that she and Ann’s brother, Rex, were made for each other. They had married within weeks.

Ann dropped down into the chair behind the desk, muttering, “I suppose. I don’t really see what the rush was, though.”

Surprised, Dean lifted his brows at that. “Don’t you?”

“No,” she stated flatly, laying both of her hands on the desk blotter. “I don’t.”

He saw the big diamond on her left hand then, and understanding dawned. Along with unwelcome disappointment. “Ah. And how long have you been engaged?”

“Not long,” she said, smiling and leaning back in the desk chair, “but I don’t intend to rush things. A proper wedding takes time to plan.”

His throat burned with a sudden welling of acid. “Does it? I thought Rex and Callie’s wedding was everything proper.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No. Sorry, I don’t.”

Ann rolled her pale eyes. “Well, for starters, I won’t be getting married here.”

He nodded, an ugly bitterness surging inside him. “Got it. War Bonnet’s not good enough for you.”

Blinking, she rose to her feet. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s just that the majority of my friends and most of my business contacts live in Dallas now.”

“Uh-huh.”

She folded her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just...” He really needed to shut his mouth and get out of there. Instead, he said, “You haven’t changed much, have you? Except you’re coloring your hair now.” He knew it suddenly, and she confirmed it by lifting a hand to her hair, something like guilt flashing across her face.

“What do you mean, I haven’t changed? I’ve changed a lot.”

“No, you haven’t,” he said, knowing he was being rude but unable to help himself for some reason. “You’re still a snob.”

She jerked as if he’d hit her. “I am not a snob.”

“Really? Couldn’t prove it by me.” He might as well still be the ball boy to her athletic highness.

“What do you have to do with it?” she demanded.

“Not a thing,” he told her, thumping his hat onto his head and turning away.

“And what’s wrong with my hair?” she demanded.

He looked back at her. “I like the real you better, that’s all.”

“You don’t know the real me,” she snapped.

He let his gaze sweep over her, liking what he saw, missing what he didn’t see, wishing otherwise on both counts.

“Don’t I?” he asked. “You still look and act like the queen of War Bonnet High to me.”

With that, he finally got out of there, calling himself ten kinds of fool. The queen, after all, couldn’t be expected to do more than barely acknowledge her servants.

* * *

Calling herself the very worst kind of fool, Ann guided her father’s pickup truck off the dusty road and over the rough cattle guard between the pipes supporting the fencing. She didn’t know why she’d come. Rex had told her simply to make sure that Dean could get his equipment in and out of the field without problem. As the weather had remained hot and dry, Dean could have had no issues whatsoever, so she really had no reason to trek out here and inspect the job site. His rudeness the day before should have been reason enough to forgo this particular chore, and yet she’d found herself dressing with ridiculous detail for an encounter she had no desire to make. Why should she care what he thought of her, after all? Yet, here she was in all her feminine glory, including denim leggings, a matching tank top and a formfitting, crocheted cardigan that perfectly matched her white high-heeled sandals.

Dean had obviously taken down a section of the barbed wire in order to get his combine into the field. He was even now using a come-along to draw the post back into position, the wires still attached, so he could temporarily restore the fence. Ann beeped the truck’s horn to stop him then killed the engine and got out.

Watching her pick her way across the ground on her high heels, he let the wire stretcher drop, stripped off his leather gloves and took off his sunglasses, dropping them into his shirt pocket. The hard hat had been replaced by a faded red baseball cap, which he tugged lower over his eyes. Dirt gritted between her toes as she made her way toward him, but she refused to show any discomfort. At least the early-morning temperature wouldn’t melt her carefully applied makeup or frizz her hair, which she’d painstakingly set on heated curlers after her shower and predawn run. Resisting the urge to tug on the hem of her tank top, she plastered on a smile and tucked her muted red hair behind one ear so he could see the dainty pearl earrings she was wearing.

“I meant to tell you yesterday,” she announced. “Rex had the hands move all the cattle to the east range, so you don’t have to worry about replacing the fence until you’re done here.”

He glanced around, his gaze landing on her feet. “Okay. Good to know. Thanks.”

She heard barking a second before Digger shot out of the thigh-high golden oats, a yellow bandanna clenched in his doggy teeth. Giggling wildly, Donovan careened behind him. The dog skidded to a halt, facing Donovan, who snatched at the bandanna. Turning, the dog took off again, making straight for Ann and Dean. Before either could react, the animal bolted between them and came to a taunting halt just beyond. Shrieking with laughter, Donovan gave chase. Right across Ann’s toes.

“Ow!” Yelping in pain, she reeled backward.

Dean lurched forward, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her into his embrace even as he scolded the boy. “Donovan Jessup! Watch what you’re doing.”

The child immediately sobered, turning to face the adults. “I’m sorry.”

Ann staggered against Dean, her elbow digging into his side, his very solid side. His large, heavy hands cupped her other elbow and clamped her waist, steadying her. Those were the hands of a real man, strong, capable, sure. She felt dainty, safe and cherished in that moment.

“You okay?”

Aware that her heartbeat raced, she ignored her throbbing toes to smile and nod. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good,” he said, dropping his arms and stepping back. “Next time you come out here, maybe you’ll wear boots.”

Ann gasped, her silly illusions abruptly shattered. “And maybe you’ll control that wild thing you call a child,” she snapped, regretting the words the moment they escaped her mouth.

Dean’s expression instantly hardened. “Let me walk you to your truck,” he stated firmly.

Setting her jaw, Ann intended to refuse—until she caught sight of Donovan’s face. The dismay on that small, freckled face smacked her right in the chest. She bit back the caustic reply on the tip of her tongue and allowed Dean to clamp his large, hard hand around her arm just above her elbow. They moved across the ground in silence. She teetered and danced across the uneven terrain while he strode purposefully along beside her.

When they reached the truck, he opened the driver’s door and all but tossed her up behind the wheel before stepping close, looking her straight in the eye and commanding flatly, “Don’t ever speak that way in front of my son again.”

“I won’t,” she capitulated softly. “I’m sorry.”

Dean relaxed a bit and sucked in a calming breath. “He’s five. He makes mistakes, but he’s a good boy. He’d have apologized again if you’d given him a chance.”

She nodded. “I was just...hurt. And I didn’t realize that he’s so young.”

Dean shifted until he was halfway inside the cab, draping his left arm over the top of the steering wheel. “He’s big for his age, I admit.” He rubbed a hand over his face before asking, “Your toes okay?”

For some reason she couldn’t seem to breathe as easily as she ought to, but she managed to squeak, “I think so.”

“Next time,” he said quietly, pointedly, “wear boots.”

“Don’t you like my shoes?” she asked, truly curious about that.

A crease appeared between his brows. “What’s that got to do with anything?” Angling his head, he looked down at the floorboard. “Your shoes are fine. That’s not the point.” He looked her in the eye, adding, “If you’re going to come out here, you need the proper footwear.”

“Unfortunately, I only have dress shoes and running shoes.”

“Well, you better go shopping, then.”

“In War Bonnet?”

He chuckled. “Most of us drive to Ardmore or Duncan or even Lawton or Oklahoma City.”

“That’s more than an hour away!”

“I’m told that it can take more than an hour to drive across Dallas.”

He had her there. “True. But I know where to shop in Dallas, and I wouldn’t have to drive across town to do it.”

Shrugging, he backed out of the cab and straightened. “Risk your toes, then. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Great, she thought. So much for showing her feminine side.

She just could not win with this guy. No matter what she did, it turned out wrong. She didn’t know why it mattered.

Somehow, though, it did matter. A lot.

Still, she had a job to do here, and she was all about doing the job. That, at least, she could manage. If she needed boots to do the job, she’d figure out how to get her hands on a pair of boots. Couldn’t be that difficult. Right?

Chapter Three

Ann had once owned numerous pairs of boots, but she’d thrown them all away, convinced that such masculine attire should no longer be tolerated. She wondered if her sister had done the same, however. Long ago she and Meri had worn the same size shoes. In fact, they’d worn the same size everything, then Ann had experienced a sudden growth spurt during her freshman year in high school and shot up several inches. Everyone had expected Meredith to follow suit, but she never had. Still, looking in Meri’s closet was worth a shot.

Though Meredith’s surviving cat had traveled to Oklahoma City with Meri and their father, Ann opened the door to her sister’s bedroom with some trepidation. Meredith had an apartment in the city and, while on temporary leave at the moment, worked as a nurse in the very hospital where Wes was even now receiving his chemotherapy. Generous to a fault and sweet, Meri was, nevertheless, manic about her cats, one of which had been accidentally killed on the day of Rex’s wedding.

Her room showed her obsession. Every kind of cat contraption imaginable filled the space. Connecting tubes, scratching posts, toys, feeding stations and an elaborate litter pan/carrier thingy. Meri even had framed photos of her cats, including the dead one. Meredith still blamed the local veterinarian for not saving the poor thing. Ann certainly would not have done away with the cat, but one cat per house seemed quite adequate to her. Meredith claimed that Ann just didn’t understand, and Ann supposed that was true. She was more of a dog person, really.