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“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 (#uc6611ddc-0efd-54a8-a0cf-4149be4dfd66)
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.
The intelligent face of Donovan Pryor’s dog came to mind with its perky, twitching ears and alert black eyes. That dog certainly seemed smart and playful, a great companion for a little boy.
This space was too small for the amount of cat junk crammed into it, Ann noted. There was hardly room enough for the bed.
After searching her sister’s closet, Ann found three pairs of Western boots. All proved too small, so she reluctantly accepted defeat before carefully closing the bedroom door behind her.
Her next step took her into War Bonnet, but Mrs. Burton’s Soft Goods had long since closed, and the local grocery sent her to the Feed and Grain, which offered nothing more than work gloves and tool belts. She stopped at the gas station to refuel her BMW coupe for the drive out of town, and that was where she ran into the one person she had most hoped to avoid.
Jack Lyons had been a fixture at War Bonnet High for at least two decades. So far as Ann knew, he had never married. All indications were that he ate, drank and slept sports. Yet it was common knowledge that he had turned down positions with much larger school districts, and for that he was greatly revered by the local populace. Coach Lyons had spotted Ann’s athleticism early on, but he hadn’t offered her extra batting practice until she’d buckled down and gotten serious about improving her stats and landing a softball scholarship. The extra practice had meant working out with several of the guys on the baseball team.
Those practice sessions had involved lots of teasing and laughter, but Ann hadn’t cared. Like every other kid who played for Lyons, his respect meant everything to her. She hadn’t always managed to hold her own against the guys, but she’d done so often enough to be good-natured about it when she failed. This had prompted Lyons to tag her with the Jolly nickname, a play on her middle name, Jollett. Ann had done her best to live up to the label.
Under his tutelage, the softball team had won their district championship four years in a row, with Ann as the team’s number-one slugger. Coach Lyons had written her glowing recommendations, and she’d managed to win a minor scholarship to Southeastern State in Durant, where she’d studied business management and marketing. For the next three years she’d driven home as often as she could, and she’d never failed to stop by the school and say hello to Coach Lyons. He’d always seemed happy to see her. Then, near the end of her junior year, she’d stopped by the field house just in time to overhear a conversation between Lyons and another teacher.
“Saw Ann Billings pull into the parking lot a minute ago.” It had sounded, strangely, as if the other teacher, Caroline Carmody, was warning Coach.
