A Homecoming Romance

Ten years ago Ann Billings left her Oklahoma ranch behind and headed to the big city. But when her ailing father needs her to temporarily run the spread, she’s back—successful, accomplished…and engaged. She’s got her whole life on track—but she never planned on Dean Pryor or his gap-toothed five-year-old son. Years ago the farmer would’ve done anything to be noticed by Ann, and it seems nothing’s changed. His feelings still run deep, and this time his boy’s fallen for her, too. Now Dean faces a most daunting task: showing Ann that their little trio may not be what she’d mapped out…but it’s exactly what she’s always needed.

“Do you think I’m feminine?”

What? When Ann looked in the mirror, didn’t she see what he saw?

She didn’t wait for his reply. “I can’t cook. I don’t know anything about kids. I can’t sew. I—”

Dean stopped her rant. “You, Ann Billings, are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

For an instant, everything froze.

Then he was lost to the wonder of her smile.

Then it faded. “Sorry. I was having a pity party and I dragged you into it.”

“You think I said that out of pity?” The woman was clueless! “You know, the only masculine thing about you is your stubborn inability to see what’s in front of you.”

“Huh?”

“I’m talking about me!” he snapped.

She looked stunned. “I didn’t... I never...”

The words just died away, and that was all he could handle.

“I have to go.” He stepped around her and kept on walking. Had he just revealed he’d carried a torch for her for years?

Oh, what had he done?

ARLENE JAMES has been publishing steadily for nearly four decades and is a charter member of RWA. She is married to an acclaimed artist, and together they have traveled extensively. After growing up in Oklahoma, Arlene lived thirty-four years in Texas and now abides in beautiful northwest Arkansas, near two of the world’s three loveliest, smartest, most talented granddaughters. She is heavily involved in her family, church and community.

Dear Reader,

Misunderstandings fuel many of life’s problems and decisions. A lack of solid information can have devastating effects on our beliefs, attitudes and actions. Yet, God can use even that to our benefit—and His—when we are surrendered to Him.

Saul misunderstood Who Christ is and the very nature of Christianity. As a result, Saul made some bad decisions and serious mistakes. After he met Jesus on the road to Damascus and learned the full truth, God changed him into Paul and used his past mistakes as a powerful witness, taking Christianity to the gentile world. What a blessing!

We make mistakes. We misunderstand at times and let that color our thoughts and actions. But take heart. Ann and Dean’s story illustrates that, when we belong to Him, God is always at work in our lives. He can turn misunderstandings and mistakes into blessings!

God bless you!

Her Single Dad Hero

Arlene James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—His good, pleasing and perfect will.

—Romans 12:2

I know some truly intelligent, talented, loving, beautiful professional women, and quite a few of them live in Oklahoma, but only one is my niece. Hillary, your many accomplishments speak volumes, but your faith is especially eloquent. I’m so proud of you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Dear Reader

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The sprawling old house creaked and groaned in the afternoon heat. Its cedar siding expanded with reluctant moans, while the steep, gleaming metal roof snapped impatiently beneath the relentless July sun. Such was summer in south central Oklahoma.

Having grown up here on Straight Arrow Ranch, Ann Jollett Billings found the heat of mid-July no surprise. She was used to worse, frankly, and better, having spent the past six years in Dallas, Texas, being a manager in the finest hotel that city had to offer. Despite the opulence of her usual surroundings, however, what Ann now found difficult to bear was not the utilitarian inconveniences of her childhood home but the silence.

She couldn’t recall the last time that she’d had more than a few quiet hours to herself, let alone two whole days. Managing a hotel meant being on call virtually around the clock; managing a ranch, not so much, even apparently during the “busy season.” At least her brother had claimed this to be the busy season before he had taken off to Tulsa with his new wife and adorable baby girl to settle personal business and put his condo on the market, leaving Ann in charge of the family ranch during his absence. She’d taken the time to fully computerize their bookkeeping, which would allow Rex to track everything online. Their sister, Meredith, a nurse, had left the afternoon after Rex, on Sunday, to take their father, Wes, to Oklahoma City for his second chemotherapy treatment. The house had been as silent as a tomb ever since.

So who was pushing a chair across the kitchen floor? That noise, Ann suddenly realized, could not be anything else.

“Oh, Lord,” she prayed softly, “please don’t let this be happening. Not here. Not now.”

Rising from the battered old desk in her father’s study, Ann crept to the door that led into the foyer and listened. The screeching stopped, but other sounds ensued. She was definitely not alone in the house. Her imagination, fueled by her years in Dallas, conjured numerous scenarios, none of them innocent. Reason told her that theft was a rare thing around the small town of War Bonnet, Oklahoma, which lay five miles or so away. Rarer still in the outlying rural surrounds, but perhaps one of the employees of the custom cutter hired to install the new feed bins and harvest the oat and sorghum crops had assumed that, with Wes and Rex gone, the house would be empty and, therefore, easy pickings.

Well, she was no helpless female. Never had been; never would be. At five feet eight inches in height and a hundred thirty-five pounds, she had enough heft to do some damage, if necessary, though more than once she’d wished otherwise.

“All right. If this is how it has to be,” she whispered, “then give me strength, give me wisdom, give me courage, and send that thief running.”

Moving quietly in her expensive Gucci flats, black jeans and lace-trimmed, jade-green silk T-shirt, she eased open the door of the coat closet at the foot of the front stairs and reached inside for the baseball bat that had been stored there since her brother had left home for college twenty years earlier. She could have taken the shotgun or the rifle from the high shelf, but it had been too long since she’d used a gun. Besides, she knew how to swing a bat for maximum effect, having played four years of fast-pitch softball in high school and three in college.

Holding the bat at her side, she slunk in long, silent steps across the foyer, through the living room and dining room to the door of the kitchen, glancing out the windows as she went. She saw no new vehicles parked alongside the dusty, red-clay road that ran between the ranch house and the outbuildings that sheltered machinery, fodder and livestock, primarily the horses used to work the two-square-mile Straight Arrow Ranch. The regular hands—Woody, Cam and Duffy—lived off-site and would have simply come to the front door if they’d needed to speak to her.

She lifted the heavy wood club into position and darted through the door into the kitchen. A dog—a mottled, black-masked blue heeler with brown markings, one of the better herding dogs—wagged its tail expectantly beside a kitchen chair pushed up to the counter, atop which kneeled an impish redheaded boy with his arm buried up to the elbow in the owl-shaped cookie jar.

“Hello!” sang out the boy, his bright blue eyes hitting a chord of familiarity within her. Completely unrepentant to have been caught stealing cookies, he turned onto his bottom, pitched a cookie to his dog and crammed another into his mouth. “Mmm-mmm.”

Stunned, Ann let the bat slide through her hands until she could park the butt on the floor and lean against the top. “Thank You, Lord!” she breathed. Then, in as reasonable a tone as she could muster, she demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?”

He blinked at her, his freckles standing out in sharp contrast to his pale skin.

“Eatin’ cookies,” he answered carefully as if any dummy could see that.

His eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen, far brighter than her own pale, lackluster shade. He had eyes like sapphires. Hers more closely resembled the sun-bleached sky of a hot, cloudless summer noon. Suddenly she remembered where she’d seen eyes like them before, and to whom they belonged. Dean Paul Pryor. The very reason she was stuck in this dusty backcountry.

She had first met Pryor at her brother’s wedding reception, when Rex had identified him as the custom cutter who would be harvesting their oat and remaining barley crops and installing the new feed storage and mixing station while Rex, his new bride, Callie, and her baby daughter were in Tulsa on a combined honeymoon and business trip. Pryor had presented himself again that morning when he’d reported for work.

Dean Paul Pryor was everything Ann disliked in a man: tall, gorgeous, confident, masculine. She suspected he stood taller than her brother, who was at least six foot two. Dean might even be as tall as her dad, at six foot four. Solidly built, he outweighed her by at least fifty pounds. Add the short, thick, wheat-blond hair, gem-like blue eyes and the square-jawed perfection of his face, and he had everything he needed to make most women melt at his feet. But not her.

He’d mentioned that morning that he had his son with him. She hadn’t expected the boy to be so young, however. This child couldn’t be older than six or seven.

“Where is your father?” she asked icily, taking a choke hold on the bat again.

“Workin’,” came the laconic answer.

Obviously the father, as well as the son, needed to be taught some manners. Well, this wouldn’t be the first spoiled brat who she’d had to deal with or the first lazy, uninvolved parent she’d had to set straight. This was why she didn’t have children, why she never intended to have children. One of the reasons.

“Come.”

Shrugging, the shameless imp helped himself to several more cookies. What he couldn’t stuff into his mouth, he crammed into the pockets of his baggy jeans before hopping down onto the chair and then the floor. As she had no intention of eating the cookies or anything he’d touched, she allowed it. He began to push the chair back toward the table, its feet screeching across the wood planks.

“Leave it!” Ann ordered, her eyes crossing at the high-pitched noise.

The dog barked sharply as if in agreement, and the boy again shrugged. Ann again pointed to the door, and he happily set off, the dog falling in at his side.

“Mmm, Mizz Callie mawkz ze bezz cookeez,” he said around the mass in his mouth as Ann escorted him through the house.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk with your mouth full?” she scolded, stopping to put the bat back in the closet.

Nodding, he looked up at her with those big blue eyes, gulped and said, “You sure are pretty. And you got red hair like me.” He grinned suddenly, displaying an empty space in the front of his mouth where a tooth should be. “Come and meet my dad, why doncha?” With that, he turned, opened the front door and ran outside, the dog scampering after him.

Her mouth agape, Ann snatched a faded ball cap from its wall peg, a shield against the relentless summer sun and the possibility of freckles, crammed it onto her head and went after the miniature thief.

* * *

From the corner of his eye, Dean Paul Pryor caught sight of his son in the field just south of the big red barn. As previously instructed, Donovan stopped at a safe distance to watch as Dean used the small, rented crane to drag a cone-shaped steel bin on stilts from a flatbed trailer and carefully, painstakingly stand it upright. Dean let out a sigh of relief as four workers in white hard hats guided the stilt legs of the bin to the concrete base. Donovan, meanwhile, munched his cookies and watched, rapt, as the workers settled the five-ton bin, one of several, and began bolting it down.

Smiling, Dean shook his head. He should’ve known that nothing, not even chocolate chip cookies, could keep the boy away from the construction zone. What red-blooded boy could resist the lure of heavy machinery and risky maneuvers? At least Donovan had sense enough to keep his distance.

Just then one of the workers dropped a fist-size nut meant for an enormous bolt. The nut bumped across the uneven ground.

The boy darted forward, yelling, “I’ll get it!”

Dean’s heart leaped into his throat. Abruptly letting out the clutch, he killed the engine on the old crane and bailed out of the cab, waving his arms and shouting over the sound of screeching metal as the full weight of the bin suddenly came to rest.

“Donovan! No! Get back! Get back!”

The boy froze in his tracks then began creeping backward. The worker who had dropped the nut quickly retrieved it and began threading it onto the bolt sticking up from the concrete base. Pocketing his mirrored sunglasses, Pryor strode toward the boy. To Dean’s surprise, Ann Jollett Billings got to Donovan before he did, pulling the boy backward several steps. Dean temporarily ignored her.

“Son, I meant it when I told you that you couldn’t help with the feed bins,” he said firmly. “It’s too dangerous. That’s why I sent you to the house.”

“You sent him to the house?” Ann demanded.

Dean swept off his hard hat. He never could ignore her for long, and as always she was a sight for sore eyes, especially with that familiar old baseball cap on her head.

“Hello, Jolly,” he said around a grin.

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

“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.

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.

He had sighed and said, “Guess that means she’ll be here soon.”

Ann had paused beside his office door to listen, puzzled.

“What’s the deal with her?” Caroline had asked. “She’s been out of school for years. Why is she still coming around?”

“The awkward ones are like that sometimes,” the coach had opined.

“You think she’s awkward?” Caroline had asked.

Jack Lyons had snorted. “She’s taller than half the male population. She could outhit most of the teenage boys I’ve worked with, and if you cut off her hair, I’m not sure you could tell the difference.”

Horrified, Ann had slapped a hand over her own mouth to keep from crying out in pain.

“It’s true she’s not the most feminine girl I’ve ever known,” Caroline had said with a chortle. “If she comes back to War Bonnet after college, she’ll probably wind up an old maid out on that ranch with her mom and dad.”

Lyons said something else, but Ann hadn’t stayed around to listen. She’d run as quickly and quietly from the field house as possible.

Some serious thinking had followed, and her conclusions had been painful.

Her parents had not encouraged her to date during high school, and the pickings around War Bonnet had seemed slim at best, especially once she’d started outdoing many of the guys at sports. For most of her college career, she’d focused on academics, sports and working enough to help her parents afford tuition and expenses. Her disinterest in partying had ruled out a great many prospective dating partners, but she hadn’t worried about it. Now, suddenly, she wondered if something might be fundamentally wrong with her, if she was seriously lacking in the feminine qualities necessary to attract male interest.

Horrified by the future painted for her by Coach Lyons and the teacher, Caroline Carmody, she had taken steps to ensure that she would never be War Bonnet’s pathetic spinster. Telling her family that she wanted to focus on hotel management, she had transferred to the University of North Texas for her senior year. The move had required her to give up her scholarship, take several extra classes and delay graduation until the age of twenty-two, but she’d made up for all that with hard work and early success in her field.

She’d told only one other soul about the fears she’d nursed for so long.

Her fiancé Jordan’s only response at the time had been to say that War Bonnet’s loss was Luxury HotelInc’s gain. Later, when he’d proposed, Jordan had reminded her that no one in War Bonnet could possibly value her as much as he and LHI did.

Ann had successfully avoided conversation with Jack Lyons until that very morning at the gas station. Jack climbed up out of his vintage Mustang and reached for the gas nozzle. He’d put on a bit of weight, but he still looked almost exactly like he had the day he’d impacted her life. His gaze slid over Ann on the opposite side of the pump with a friendly, disinterested nod then came back for a second look.

“Jolly!” he exclaimed, making Ann cringe.

“Coach,” she returned quietly, willing the slow old pump to fill the coupe tank faster.

Lyons walked around the pump to take a long look at the coupe.

“Very nice. Series 4?”

She nodded.

“I always knew you’d make good,” he said, smiling. “You still in Dallas?”

“Yes. I manage a hotel there.”

His gaze raked over the car again. “Big, fancy hotel, I imagine.”

“You could say that. I, uh, I understand you’re head coach now.”

“Athletic director,” he corrected proudly.

She put on a smile. “Ah. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. How’s your dad? Heard he’s been ill.”

She nodded. “Undergoing chemotherapy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

Lifting her arms, she swept her hair back with both hands, trying not to fidget beneath his stare.

“Is that an engagement ring I see, or have you taken to wearing a house on your finger?” he quipped.

Feeling rather smug about it, Ann straightened the cushion-cut diamond. “I am engaged, as a matter of fact.”

“Congratulations. Dallas boy?”

“Not a boy,” Ann said pointedly, “and not from Dallas, at least not originally. He’s actually from New Hampshire, though he’s moved around a lot. Right now he’s filling in for me while I’m here helping out.”

“So you’re coworkers, then.”

“Not exactly. He used to be my boss. Now he’s upper management in another area of the company.”

“So when you’re married you’ll be living where?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” she admitted. “Jordan is working that out with the company now.”

“Won’t be in War Bonnet, though, will it?”

“No. It won’t be in War Bonnet.”

Jack nodded. “Well, don’t be a stranger.”

The fuel pump clicked off. Ann turned away with a sense of satisfaction mingled with relief, saying, “I’ll try not to. I really need to get going now.”

He pushed away from the truck. “Important doings, huh?”

“Boot shopping.”

“Ah. Where you headed?”

“Duncan, I suppose.” Ann replaced the cap on the neck of the gas tank.

“Try the Western wear store on 81,” he advised.

“Okay.”

“Good seeing you,” he said, wandering back toward his vehicle.

Smiling, Ann climbed into the car, started up the engine and drove away, thinking how odd it was that the man who had so impacted her life would never know how he had changed things for her. Had she not overheard that conversation that day, she might well have finished school, come back to War Bonnet and...what? She’d had some vague notion of taking over the ranch at some point, but other than that...

For some reason, Dean Pryor’s face sprang up before her mind’s eye, so real in that instant that she gasped.

Heart pounding, she shook her head. Dean Paul Pryor was nothing to her. He could never be anything to her. Why, he didn’t even compare to Jordan.

She told herself that was because Jordan existed on an entirely different plane than the men in War Bonnet. He was suave, polished, always expertly groomed. She’d never seen him in anything other than a classically tailored suit. Jordan’s idea of casual wear was a suit without a tie, but even then he tended to favor silk T-shirts in place of his usual handmade dress shirts. She wondered if he even owned a pair of jeans. He must. They’d been friends for years, and she’d seen photos of him swimming and skiing. Surely he didn’t wade up out of the ocean or come down off the slopes only to relax in a nice three-piece, Italian wool suit. It was just that most of their interactions had taken place in more formal surroundings.

Truthfully, Ann didn’t have much of a life outside the hotel. Being on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week put a damper on a girl’s social life. That was why she and Jordan had become friends in the first place; she just didn’t have a lot of other options.

When Jordan had returned to Dallas to temporarily take over for her during her leave of absence so she could help her father through this health challenge, Jordan had immediately confessed that he’d formed feelings for her when he’d been her boss that had gone beyond friendship. He’d declared that he meant to sweep her off her feet, and then he’d done just that. In the three weeks they’d had to bring him up to speed on the current operations of the hotel before she’d left for Oklahoma, they’d become engaged.

Strangely, however, Jordan, Dallas and the hotel no longer seemed quite real. Instead, Dean Pryor, War Bonnet and the Straight Arrow were her current reality. Surely it was natural, then, to compare Jordan to Dean.

And yet, she could not bring herself to do it. She simply refused to compare her fiancé to Dean Pryor in any way. She didn’t even want to know why.

* * *

“Yep, those are boots, all right,” Dean pronounced, staring down at Ann’s feet on Friday morning. He was very glad that he’d kept his sunglasses on after she’d driven up and gotten out of the truck, for he feared that she’d have read in his eyes exactly what he thought of those pink-and-pearl-white, pointed-toe monstrosities.

Apparently he didn’t cover his opinion up well enough, because she brought her hands to her shapely hips and demanded, “What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “They’ll protect your toes out here just fine.”

She frowned at the rounded toes of his scuffed, brown leather boots then tilted her head, obviously comparing her own footwear with his. Her boots were designed for riding, with toes so sharp that they almost curled upward at the tips. She had clearly chosen them based on color and style rather than function, but he wouldn’t embarrass her by saying so. Unfortunately, Cam wasn’t that circumspect.

One of the longtime hands at Straight Arrow Ranch, Cam had evidently known Ann from childhood. How else could he have gotten away with calling her pet names?

“You always did like fancy duds, Freckles,” Cam declared, strolling up to the harvester where Dean and Ann stood talking. “Oo-ee! You bought them boots right outta the window of the Western wear store up there in Duncan, didn’t you? Why, them things been there nigh on thirty years, I reckon.” He grinned at Dean, shaking his head. “Just goes to show that something’ll come back in style if you wait long enough, don’t it?”

Dean kept his jaw clamped and rubbed his nose, while Ann turned red. She lifted her chin and seemed about to turn on her heel when Donovan ran up behind her. He just naturally threw his arms around her thighs and hugged her, startling a high, shocked yip out of her. To Donovan, anyone he saw more than twice was a close, personal friend.

“Hello!” he sang, swinging around her body as if she were a maypole, a long-legged maypole wearing hideous boots.

She recovered quickly, smiled and smoothed a hand across Donovan’s back. “Hello. Where’s your dog?”

For an answer, Donovan put his head back and yelled, “Digger!” The dog bolted from somewhere to the boy’s side. “Here he is.”

“That’s one fine dog,” Cam declared enviously. “Show her what he can do.”

Thinking that it might take her mind off the boots and Donovan’s unorthodox greeting, Dean complied. He put Digger through a series of tricks then nodded to Donovan.

“Ready?” Donovan fell to his knees. “Digger, protect!” Dean commanded.

Instantly the dog knocked the boy to the ground and stood over him with all four legs, growling, teeth bared, while Donovan lay still beneath the animal.

“Digger, safe!” Dean said.

The dog moved to sit beside the boy, its tongue lolling happily from its mouth. Donovan hugged and petted the dog, crooning softly to it.

“That’s amazing,” Ann said.

“Wish I had me a dog like that,” Cam said, not for the first time. “You ought to think about training dogs for a living, Dean.”

Dean chuckled. “Not much call for that around here, I imagine.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Ann said. “Lots of local farmers and ranchers use herding dogs. They might be interested in the kind of protective training Digger has.”

Dean shrugged. “You can’t train just the dog. You have to train the owner, too.”

Donovan got up, and Dean went to dust him off, but Ann reached him before Dean did.

“How does your mama manage your laundry?” she asked, ruffling his hair.

“Don’t got a mama,” Donovan announced baldly. “Grandma does my laundry.”

“And a chore it is, too,” Dean said quickly, whacking dirt from Donovan’s bottom. “Run and get the water jug now. We’ve got work to do.”

Donovan nodded, but he stood looking up at Ann for a second longer. “I like your boots,” he said before taking off with Digger on his heels.

“Thank you,” she called after him, turning a wry smile on Dean. He had to clear his throat and swallow to keep from laughing as he turned toward the cab of the harvester.

Cam said, “That reminds me. I need to check the water in the east range.” He ambled off toward the four-wheeler that Rex had recently purchased.

Dean traded his cowboy hat for the ball cap then turned toward the combine. To his surprise, he felt Ann’s hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to find her biting her lip.

“Um, obviously I could use some...guidance.”

Guidance. Somehow he thought this could be a momentous admission for Ann Jollett Billings. Letting go of the rails, he turned to face her.

“About?”

She looked down at her toes then up at him. “I’ve been away from the ranch for a long time. Obviously I don’t have a clue about what boots to buy.”

The grin he’d been trying to hold back since she’d first climbed out of her dad’s old truck broke free at last. “They sure saw you coming, didn’t they?”

She smacked him in the shoulder, which made him laugh. Then she laughed, too.

“They were in the window. I thought they were the latest style. I didn’t even look at anything else.”

“I hope they were cheap, at least.”

“I don’t know.” She told him what she’d paid, and he nodded.

“Cheap enough.” He considered a moment and made a decision. “I’ve got to take Donovan shopping for school supplies tomorrow. If you want to come along, we’ll see about getting you into a proper pair of boots.”

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude.”

“Donovan would love it if you came,” Dean pointed out, “especially as Digger will have to stay home.” He shook his head. “The truth is, I’m not sure how he’s going to manage school without Digger. Donovan was eighteen months old when we got that dog. I’m having to find ways to wean them apart.”

“I see. Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’ll work till noon,” he told her. “Then we’d planned to grab lunch in town and go shopping after that. Sound okay to you?”

To his surprise, she nodded. “Sounds fine. Thanks. I’ll be ready.”

“Saturday it is,” he told her, turning away again. He climbed up into the cab and tried not to be too obvious about watching her walk back to her truck.

Something about the way a woman walked in a pair of jeans and boots, even ugly boots, made a man sit up and take notice. Like he hadn’t noticed before this. To his disgust, he’d noticed when she’d worn a softball uniform and cleats. Not that it mattered. The woman was engaged to be married, after all, and on her way back to Dallas and her hotshot career as soon as her dad could do without her.

Sighing, Dean straightened his sunglasses as his son ran toward him, hauling the heavy water jug by its handle. He reached down a hand for the water jug as Donovan shoved it toward him. He stashed the jug in a corner then helped Donovan scramble up into the cab of the harvester before following him and settling into the operator’s seat.

Donovan leaned against his back and said straight into his ear, “She sure is pretty, ain’t she, Dad?”

He meant Ann, of course. Donovan had been playing pint-size matchmaker since Ann had literally caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. For the past year or more, since he’d come to understand what going to school really meant, Donovan had gone on the lookout for a mom. Dean figured it was as much concern about him being on his own during the time Donovan would be in school as it was the boy’s natural desire for a mother. The boy didn’t realize that most husbands and wives spent relatively little time together and that almost no fathers were blessed with the almost constant companionship of their children.

Dean mentally sorted through a number of possible replies, everything from correcting Donovan’s grammar to playing dumb. In the end he chose casual honesty.

“She’s pretty.”

“And you like red hair, don’cha?”

“I do. But you realize that she doesn’t actually live here, right?”

“Huh?”

“She’s just visiting, son. Before long she’ll go on back to where she came from and stay there.”

“Huh. Is it a long ways off?”

“Yep. Afraid so.”

Only a few hours away by car. Worlds away by every other measure.

But then that had always been the way with him and Ann Billings.

Donovan couldn’t know that, of course.

Dean hoped that he never would.

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