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She gasped. “Jolly!”
The nickname, a reference to her middle name, Jollett, had once been used by those closest to her, but Dean had momentarily forgotten that particular circle had never included him. The look she gave him said so in no uncertain terms, the message coming across loud and clear. He sucked in a quiet breath.
“You really don’t remember me at all, do you?” he asked on a wry chuckle, scratching his nose to hide a hurt that he had no real right to feel.
She tossed her long, wavy hair off her shoulder with a flick of her hand. “Should I?”
“We went to school together.”
“We did not.”
“Oh, we did,” Dean insisted lightly. “I was ball boy for the softball team all four years you played.”
Ann stiffened. “That was you?” Obviously she didn’t like being reminded of those she had once considered beneath her. “Ah. Well, you’re younger than me, then.”
“Not that much younger. Three years.”
“A lifetime in high school,” Ann retorted dismissively.
“High school,” Dean said drily, “doesn’t last forever. Three years makes a difference at thirteen and sixteen. Not so much at twenty-five and twenty-eight.”
She lifted her pert little nose. “Matter of opinion.”
Stung, as he had so often been in the past by her, he switched his attention to the boy. “Get your cookies?”
“You sent him to the house to steal cookies?” Ann yelped.
“How is it stealing,” Dean asked, frowning as he plunked his hard hat onto his head again and pulled his son to stand against his legs, “when Callie left the cookies for him and told us where to find them?”
He saw the shock of that roll over her, deflating her anger, but then she lifted that stubborn chin again.
“He should at least knock.”
Dean looked down at the boy. “Donovan, did you knock?”
“Yessir.”
“I was sitting at the desk in the study, right next to the front door,” Ann argued.
“I sent him to the back door,” Dean Paul pointed out, “because his shoes were dusty.” He looked down at Donovan again. “What did Miss Callie say you were to do if no one answered?”
“Go in and he’p myself.”
Dean looked to Ann, who colored brightly even as she sniffed, “Well, no one told me.”
He lifted his eyebrows to tell her that wasn’t his problem. Then he looked down at his son and said, “Why don’t you and Digger go explore the corrals while I take care of the big feed bin.” He speared Ann with a direct, challenging look then. “If that’s all right with you.”
“Yes, of course,” she muttered.
“Just don’t go into the stables,” Dean warned his son.
“Mr. Wes said it was okay.”
“Yes, he did, but you’re not to go in there alone. I’ll take you inside to look at the horses later. Understood?”
“Yessir.” The boy reached into his pocket and produced a cookie for his father. Despite the boy’s grimy hands and the melting chocolate, Dean took it and bit off a huge chunk.
“Yum.”
“Don’t tell Grandma,” Donovan said in a husky whisper, “but Mizz Callie makes the best cookies.”
Dean held a finger to his lips, but the boy was already running toward the big red barn and the maze of corrals beyond it. Smiling, Dean polished off the remainder of the cookie in a single large bite.
“He may be right,” Dean mused after swallowing. “All I know is that they’re really good. Don’t you agree?”
Ann jerked slightly. Then she nodded, shook her head, nodded again. “I’m sure they are.”
He swept his gaze over her. “You haven’t even tried them.”
Was she that vain now, this polished, sophisticated version of the fun, competitive girl he used to know—and admire? Did that svelte figure and the fit of those pricey clothes matter more to her now than a little sugar, a moment’s enjoyment? Oddly, it hurt him to think it, but it was none of his business. Nothing about her had ever been any of his business, much as he might have wished it otherwise.
“He’s awfully young to be out here with you, isn’t he?” she asked pointedly.
“Donovan’s been coming into the field with me since he was toilet trained,” Dean informed her. “I figure he’s safer with me than anywhere else. I always know where he is and what he’s doing. Besides, I want him with me. The day’s fast coming when he can’t be.”
“I see. Well, it’s your business.”
“It is that.”
“And I don’t care for sweets,” Ann called defensively as he turned away and began to trudge toward the newly installed feed bin, plucking his sunglasses from his shirt pocket.
“It shows,” he drawled, and not just in her trim figure. Her attitude could use some sweetening, in his opinion, but he couldn’t fault her shape.
Telling himself to put her out of mind as he had so often done before, he strode to the feed bin, climbed the attached metal ladder and began releasing the chains with which he had hoisted the heavy, white-painted steel bin into place. Tomorrow he would begin harvesting the oats that would be stored in this particular bin.
The second bin—this one painted green—was even larger and would contain the sorghum crop. This, too, Dean would harvest, but only after the oats were in, as much more heat would strip the oats of their protein content. After that, a blending plant would be built.
Rex and Wes Billings had decided to take the ranch onto an organic pathway. Wes had started the process months ago when he’d allowed Dean to plant and oversee the two forage crops without any pesticides. To Dean’s surprise, Rex had even given up his law practice in Tulsa to permanently move home to the Straight Arrow Ranch and oversee the transition, while his dad received treatment for his cancer. Wes imagined that Rex’s wife, Callie, had something to do with that decision.
If Rex was happy living on the Straight Arrow and practicing law in War Bonnet, the tiny Oklahoma town where he, Ann and their younger sister, Meredith, had all gone to school, then Dean wished him well, but he couldn’t imagine that Ann would follow suit. She had long ago let her disdain be known for this community and everyone in it, himself included, not that she’d ever seemed to know he was alive until now.
So why, Dean wondered, did he feel particularly slighted? Why had Ann Billings always had the power to wound him?
* * *
Ann marched across the pasture to the road. Red-orange dust settled on the toes of her buttery, pale leather flats as she crossed the hard-packed dirt road that ran between the big sagging red barn and the house. She told herself that Dean Pryor’s disdain meant nothing to her. Why should it? He was just another local yokel. She’d barely noticed him in high school—and yet now that she thought about it, he’d always been there on the periphery during what she thought of as her jock phase.
Memories of that time in her life made Ann mentally cringe. She hadn’t stopped to think back then that being able to compete with her brother, out-swinging half the guys on the baseball team and generally acting like a tomboyish hoyden would mark her as less than feminine. Her middle name, which she shared with her mother and grandmother, had been a source of pride for her, even when the coach who’d given her extra batting practice with the boys’ baseball team had shortened Jollett to “Jolly” and the nickname had stuck. It hadn’t occurred to her that being seen as “one of the guys” would literally mean being seen as one of the guys. Even now, though, all these years later, she couldn’t seem to outlive either the nickname or the impression.
Around War Bonnet and the Straight Arrow, she was Jolly Billings, the mannish, unfeminine daughter of Wes Billings, and nothing she could do would change that. No matter that she rose every morning at daylight and ran for miles to keep her figure. Never mind that she spent hours every day on her makeup and hair or wore the finest Manolo Blahnik shoes and Escada suits, not that the clodhoppers around here even knew the difference.
No, she didn’t belong here, could never again belong here. Suddenly she longed for the anonymous, frenetic energy of Dallas and the quiet, reserved presence of her fiancé, Jordan Teel. At 41, Jordan was thirteen years her senior, but then Ann had always been mature for her age. That, she told herself, was why she had forgotten Dean Pryor, the younger batboy for the softball team.
She heard the phone ringing before she got back to the house and hurried inside to find her brother calling. Pushing aside thoughts of Dean Pryor, she took notes as Rex advised her of the contractors who would soon be journeying from Ardmore and Duncan to bid on building a garage behind the house and remodeling the master bedroom for him and Callie. Ann promised to take the bids, scan them and email them to him.
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 (#uc6611ddc-0efd-54a8-a0cf-4149be4dfd66)
“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.
