The Rancher and the Girl Next Door
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She went to run her hand over the board, and found the surface grooved and wavy. Picking up a piece of chalk, she experimentally wrote her name. The chalk made thin, waxy lines, barely legible. Something needed to be done about this.
The desks came in a hodgepodge of sizes and shapes, all of them old-fashioned, with lift-up lids. She’d been thinking about how she would arrange them. Rows…a horseshoe…in groups. The students should probably have a say.
Behind her desk was a door in the wall that opened into a long, narrow closet jammed to the ceiling with junk. Probably seventy years’ worth of junk, from the look of things. She’d be doing something about this. Claire hated disorganization and wasted space.
She left her classroom and walked through the silent school. There was another mystery door, at the opposite end of the hall from the restrooms. She pulled the handle, and though the door proved to be a challenge, it eventually screeched open. A set of stone steps led downward.
A school with a dungeon. How nice.
There was no light switch, but a solitary bulb hung from a cord at the bottom of the steps, adding to the torture-chamber ambience.
Claire started down the steps. The smell of dampness and mildew grew stronger as she descended. She pulled the string attached to the light, illuminating most of the basement and casting the rest into spooky shadows. The floor was damp and there were dark patches on the walls that looked like moss. A frog croaked from somewhere in the darkness.
Stacks of rubber storage bins lined the walls, labeled Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Easter. Others were marked History, English and Extra. Probably some great stuff in that last one, Claire thought as she went to lift the corner of a lid. The bin was filled with old blue-ink ditto papers. There were also several tables, a plastic swimming pool and a net bag of playground balls hanging from an antique metal hook on the wall.
The frog croaked again and Claire decided she’d seen just about all there was to see. She went back upstairs, the air growing warmer and dryer with each step. Once she reached the top she wrestled the door closed and pushed the latch back into place.
“Is that you, Claire?”
The unexpected voice nearly made her jump out of her skin. She pressed her hand to her heart as she turned so see Bertie Gunderson, a small yet sturdy-looking woman with short gray hair, peeking out of the office doorway. Claire had met her the first time two days earlier at the district staff development meeting.
“Darn it, Bertie, you scared me.”
The other teacher smiled. “It’s refreshing to hear that I’m more frightening than the basement.”
Claire followed her back into the office, where she was copying papers on the antique copy machine—a hand-me-down from another school, no doubt. Regan had told her that Barlow Ridge Elementary got all the district’s reject equipment. “I was wondering about the blackboards.”
“What about them?”
“They’re unusable. Is there any chance of talking the district into putting up whiteboards?”
Bertie cackled. “Yeah. Sure.”
Claire felt slightly deflated, which, for her, was always the first step toward utter determination.
“You can try,” the veteran teacher said.
“I’ll do that.”
Bertie was still in her classroom working when Claire finally left three hours later. She’d started sorting through her storage closet but gave up after a half hour, concentrating instead on making her first week’s lesson plans. She would be teaching five different subjects—some of them at four different grade levels. Regan had already explained that she could combine science and social studies into single units of study for all her grades, but English and math had to be by grade level. The challenge was scheduling—keeping one grade busy while another was being taught.
But Claire loved a challenge, and this would be just that. Plus, she’d have an excellent background for her planned master’s thesis on combined classroom education. Old equipment and a wavy blackboard were not going to slow her down.
BRETT’S CELL PHONE RANG at seven-thirty, while he was driving the washboard county road that led to Wesley.
Phil Ryker. His boss.
“Hey, pard,” Phil drawled, setting Brett’s teeth on edge. He had to remind himself to practice tolerance. Phil was an urban boy who wanted to be a cowboy, and being heir to the man who owned most of the land in the Barlow Ridge area, including Brett’s family homestead, he was wealthy enough to indulge his dreams. Brett considered himself fortunate to be leasing his homestead with an option to buy, which he was close to exercising, and also to be working for Phil, managing the man’s hobby ranch during the three hundred days a year he was not in residence. Those two circumstances were enough to help Brett overlook a fake drawl and words such as pard.
“Hi, Phil.”
“I won’t be able to get to the ranch next week like I planned, but I did buy a couple of horses and a mule, and I’m having them shipped out.”
“All right.” What now? Brett knew from past experience that the horses could be anything from fully trained Lipizzans to ratty little mustangs.
“One of them is a bit rough. I thought maybe you could tune him up for me.”
“Define ‘a bit rough.’” Brett’s and Phil’s idea of rough were usually quite different.
“Seven years old and green broke, but he’s beautiful,” Phil said importantly. “You’ll see what I mean when he arrives.”
“He isn’t…”
“He’s a stud. I’d like to show him, so I need him fit for polite society.” Phil laughed. “I’ll get a hold of you closer to the delivery date. Hey, did you figure out that problem with the north well?”
“Yeah. Yesterday. The water level is fine, but the pump needs to be replaced. I sent you an estimate.”
“Just take care of it. We can’t have that pivot go down.”
“Sure can’t.” Because that would mean that he wouldn’t be able to grow hay at a loss. Brett figured Phil knew what he was doing. A hobby ranch that was slowly losing money was a tax write-off and apparently Phil needed write-offs. Brett had tried to interest him in a number of ideas that would make the ranch more economical, perhaps even profitable, but he had his own ideas. Brett gave up after the third set of suggestions was rejected, finally understanding that Phil wasn’t particularly concerned about losing money. Must feel good, he mused as he hung up the phone.
Amazingly, Brett found the parts he needed for the swamp cooler at the hardware store in Wesley. Now all he needed to do was go home and get them installed—with luck, while Claire was still at school mucking out her classroom.
He didn’t want to spend a lot of time around her. It wouldn’t be prudent, since he found her ridiculously attractive, and he was really trying to mind his p’s and q’s where the family was concerned. He’d spent more than a decade being the missing brother, and before that, he’d been the rebellious brother.
Now he owed it to his family to be the good brother. And this was one time he was not going to fail.
CHAPTER TWO
CLAIRE SMILED AT HER NEW class—all ten of them—and wondered who’d masterminded the snake incident. They all looked more than capable of it, but at least the younger students, the fifth and sixth graders, were smiling back at her with varying degrees of curiosity and friendliness. By contrast, the five older students, the seventh and eighth graders, stared at her with impassive, just-try-to-engage-us-and-see-how-far-you-get expressions.
“I’m Miss Flynn,” Claire said, as she wrote her name on the overhead projector.
“We know who you are,” one of the kids muttered snidely. Claire glanced up, startled by the blatant rudeness, but she couldn’t tell who’d spoken. “I’m looking forward to a productive year, and I thought that in order to—”
One of the eighth-grade boys raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Do you think you’ll be here for the whole year?”
“It’s one of my goals,” Claire said dryly. She knew that her class had had three teachers in two years, each less effective than the previous one. “As I was saying, in order to get to know each other better, I thought we could all introduce ourselves and tell one thing we did this summer. How about starting on this side of the room?” She nodded at the boy in eighth grade, Dylan, who sat farthest to her right.
“I think everyone knows who I am. This summer I slept.” He fixed her with a steely look.
Claire quelled an instant urge to jump into battle, as her instincts were telling her to do, deciding it would be wiser to bide her time and get a read on her opponent.
“How nice,” she said. She nodded at the girl sitting next to him.
“I’m Toni.”
“Did you accomplish anything this summer?”
“No.” But then Toni suddenly made an O with her mouth. “Yes,” she amended, with a satisfied expression. “I almost talked my mom into getting rid of her bum of a boyfriend.”
Claire gave the girl a tight smile and moved on.
“My name is Ashley,” the redheaded girl sitting next to Toni chirped. “This summer I totally revamped my wardrobe.” She jangled the bracelets on her wrist as if to prove the point.
Claire was saved from the remaining introductions by the sudden appearance of a first grader.
“Mrs. Gunderson said to tell you we have sheep!” he squeaked, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Sheep?”
“On the play field.”
“And…?” Claire asked with a frown, but her students were already out of their seats and heading for the door. She followed them, wondering if this was an elaborate ruse and if she should order them back into the classroom, but then Bertie emerged from the office.
“Sorry about this. The older kids herd sheep better than the younger ones. It should only take a few minutes. I’ve just called Echetto and told him to get his buns over here and take care of his flock. The man really should leave his dog when he goes somewhere. The dog works a lot faster than the kids.”
A thundering herd of woolly bodies circled past the front of the school and disappeared around the side. Bertie’s class was crowded onto the steps. Trini, the school aid, had the four kindergarten kids perched on the windowsills in Bertie’s room, where they laughed and giggled as the sheep ran by again, the older students in hot pursuit.
“They like to watch,” Bertie explained, before cupping her hand to her mouth and yelling at Claire’s students, “Just get them into Echetto’s front yard. He can put them away when he gets back.”
Claire was impressed by the way the kids worked in unison to gather the sheep and herd them off the play field, onto the road and then halfway down the block to the house that apparently belonged to Echetto, whoever he was. Ashley and Toni hung toward the rear, but when a couple of ewes made a break for it, they expertly chased them back into the flock. A few minutes later all the kids returned, filed past Claire into the school and took their seats. They’d been smiling while they were outside, but the older ones were once again stony faced—except when they looked at each other.
“Well, this is a first,” Claire said. “We don’t have many sheep emergencies in Las Vegas.”
No one smiled back. In fact, they were making a real effort to make her feel stupid for trying to talk to them like people. “Are you always this rude?” she asked softly.
The younger kids glanced down. The older ones continued to stare at her.
“We can work on manners,” she added.
No response, although she noticed the younger kids were now watching the older students, looking for cues.
“This morning I’m going to have you take placement tests, so I can plan the English and math curriculums. Then, after break, we’ll do a writing activity. I need you to clear your desks and we’ll get going on the tests right now, while you’re fresh.”
The older kids grudgingly shoved notebooks into their desks, a couple of them muttering under their breath.
The rest of the day passed so slowly and dismally that Claire was beginning to wish the sheep would escape again. She knew the younger ones were not on board with the older ones—yet. But they were watching and learning.
She had to do something. Fast. The headache that had begun shortly after the sheep roundup was approaching migraine status by now.
“I have a list of supplies I’d like you to have within the next week,” she announced just before afternoon recess.
Ashley raised her hand and Claire nodded at her. “What about the kids who can’t afford supplies?”
A reasonable question, and one that might have denoted concern for those with financial limitations—if it hadn’t been for the girl’s condescending tone. Ashley, with her salon-streaked hair, Abercrombie T-shirt and Guess jeans, was obviously not going to have difficulty buying five dollars’ worth of supplies. And then, as if to make it perfectly clear that she was establishing her own status, she glanced pointedly over at one of the fifth graders, a rather shabbily dressed boy named Jesse.
Claire looked Ashley straight in the eye. “If you have trouble affording supplies, please see me in private.”
The girl flushed. “I wasn’t talking about myself,” she snapped.
“Well, it is kind of you to be concerned about others,” Claire interjected, before the girl could name names. “If any of you do not have the opportunity to buy supplies, we’ll work something out. Please see me.” She smiled at Ashley. “Does that answer your question?”
The girl did not bother to reply. Claire decided to fight the politeness battle later. She noticed a couple of the younger kids trying not to smile. Apparently they appreciated Ashley getting hers, and Claire made a mental note to find out more about the girl and her family.
The last two hours of the day passed without incident, although it became apparent by then that Ashley held a grudge and owned a cell phone. Ashley’s mother arrived just before school ended. She waited in the hall outside the classroom, marching up to Claire as soon as the room had emptied of students.
“Miss Flynn. I’m Ashley’s mother. Deirdre Landau.”
Claire could see the resemblance in both features and clothes. In fact, the mother was dressed almost exactly like the daughter, in pricey jeans and T-shirt, with expensive hair in a make-believe color. Claire was in no position to comment on make-believe hair colors, since she was a little blonder than nature had ever intended, so she overlooked that detail.
“You embarrassed Ashley today.”
“I apologize for that,” Claire said honestly. And she was sorry. She wished the incident had never happened, but she wasn’t going to let Ashley humiliate a defenseless fifth grader, either.
There was a silence.
“That’s it?” Deirdre finally asked.
“What more would you like?” Claire asked reasonably.
The woman’s mouth worked as she fought for words. She’d received an apology. Readily and sincerely. And that was the problem. She’d wanted Claire to grovel. Or protest. Or, at the very least, put up a struggle. She tried again.
“A promise not to do it again.”
“Fine. As long as Ashley understands that I will not tolerate an intentional attempt to hurt another student’s feelings.”
Deirdre looked shocked. “Ashley would do no such thing.”
“Then perhaps I misread the situation,” Claire said in an agreeable tone. “So the next time it happens, I’ll just give you a call and you can come to the school and we’ll discuss it while it’s fresh in everyone’s mind.”
“I would welcome that.”
“Great, because I believe that communication among parents, students and teachers is imperative in an educational situation.”
Deirdre blinked. “And I want you to apologize to Ashley in front of the class. After all, she was embarrassed in front of the class.”
“Sure.” Again, Claire did not hesitate in her response, and it seemed to confuse Deirdre. She frowned suspiciously.
“Tomorrow.”
“First thing.”
“All right.” It was obvious the woman didn’t trust Claire’s easy acquiescence. “Ashley’s waiting. I need to be going.”
Claire refrained from saying “See you soon,” even though she had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before she and Ashley’s mom were face-to-face again.
Claire called Regan that night. “What do you do when you’re teaching the undead?” she asked as soon as her sister answered the phone.
“Excuse me?”
“Zombies. My older kids behave like zombies, except for when they’re herding sheep or sniping at me.”
“Echetto’s sheep got out again?”
“This is common?”
“Couple times a year.”
“Sheep I can live with, but these older kids are mean, Reg. I thought I’d have a group of sweet rural kids who’d been left to their own devices for too long. And instead I have three snotty ringleaders trying to get the best of me, and a bunch of younger kids learning to follow their lead. Can you tell me anything about Toni Green, Ashley Landau and Dylan Masterson that might help me?”
“Not a lot,” Regan confessed. “The only one I know is Dylan, and he wasn’t bad as a fourth grader. He just needed a strong hand.”
“Well, he didn’t get it.”
“As to the zombie issue, you’re going to have to live with it.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s a control thing, and you can’t force them to be enthusiastic learners. But you can do what Will does when he trains a horse. If they show an appropriate response, reward them. If they act like zombies, ignore it and do your job.”
“Kind of like the extinction theory?”
“Pretty much.” Regan’s voice softened. “You do know you may have a power struggle for a while?”
“I’m getting that idea.”
“Stay consistent. Stay strong.”
“I’ll be Hercules.”
“You may have to be,” Regan said with a laugh. “Call any time you need moral support, all right?”
“Are you sure you mean that?” Claire asked ironically. There was a time when she’d automatically called Regan before even thinking about a problem.
“I mean it. Anytime.” A muffled voice sounded in the background. Regan laughed, then said, “Kylie wants you to promise to come watch her ride at the regional horse show and to wear something to impress her friends.”
“Tell her I’ll get right on it.”
Claire felt better for having called. She had no intention of crying on Regan’s shoulder every time something went wrong, but it was good to know she had backup if she needed it.
“BEFORE WE START CLASS, there’s something I need to attend to,” Claire said as soon as the students were seated following the Pledge of Allegiance. Ashley was already smirking.
“Yesterday I embarrassed Ashley, and I want to apologize for that.”
The girl nodded, like a queen granting pardon to an offending subject.
Claire hitched a hip onto the edge of her desk and swung her foot. “In order to avoid this happening in the future, I think I should explain some things to you as a class. I don’t want anyone to be embarrassed, but if I see you trying to hurt someone else, I will call you on it. It may embarrass you. It’s called a consequence. I don’t know how many of you have been following the latest developments in self-esteem studies…” The class stared at her blankly. “But the pendulum is swinging from the stroking of egos back to consequences for actions.”
Rudy tentatively raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Would you please translate that?”
“If you do the crime, you’ll do the time.”
A look of dawning awareness crossed ten faces. Ashley’s mouth flattened so much that Claire wondered if it would stay that way forever.
“I’m not exactly stupid,” Claire continued. “I can tell when someone is trying to hurt someone else, and I will not put up with it. Any questions?” Several kids shook their heads. “Great. Please get out your math homework.”
The fifth and sixth graders had their homework ready. One of the seventh graders had half of the assignment done. The remaining four older students had nothing.
“Where’s your homework?” Claire asked.
“I didn’t do it,” Dylan answered nonchalantly.
“Any particular reason?”
He shrugged. “Mr. Nelson never made us. Homework was just practice. It was the tests that counted.”
“If we could pass the tests, he said we really didn’t have to do the homework,” Lexi chimed in.
“And did you pass the tests?”
“Yes,” the older kids said in unison.
Which made Claire wonder if Mr. Nelson had even bothered to grade the tests. Because after looking at the math placement results from the day before, she was thinking these kids had either gotten a case of collective amnesia over the summer or they hadn’t learned the concepts in the first place.
“Well, things have changed,” Claire said. “Homework is no longer optional. It is very much required. If you don’t do your homework and show me your work, you will not pass math.”
The kids looked as if she’d just told them that lunch was canceled for the year.
“But if we can pass the tests…”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said pleasantly, “but this is not a negotiable issue.”
“That’s not fair.”
She simply smiled. “In order to be fair, I’ll let you do last night’s homework tonight. We’ll review today. Then, starting tomorrow, homework counts. Now, let’s see what you remember from yesterday.”
It was another long day. With each lesson she taught, it became more and more apparent that these kids had some serious holes in their education.
After school, Claire was sitting with her elbows planted on her desk, her forehead resting on her fingertips, pondering the situation, when she heard the door open. She shifted her hands to see Elena standing there, biting her lower lip.
“Hi, Elena. What can I do for you?”
“I forgot my math book.” The girl went to her desk and took out the book. She hesitated, then asked, “Are you feeling all right?”
Claire smiled. “I’m fine. Just a little tired.” And discouraged.
“We’ve never had a teacher that looked like you before,” the girl said shyly. “I like your shoes.”
Claire smiled again. She liked her shoes, too. It had taken her most of the summer to find the shade of green that perfectly matched her skirt. “Thanks. Hey, can I ask you a question?”
Elena nodded.
“Do you understand the math?”
“I do now.”
“Did you yesterday?”
She shook her head, her dark braids moving on her shoulders. “Today you went slower, and I think I got it.”
“Thanks, Elena. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you, Miss Flynn.”
So she needed to slow down. All right. She could do that. But it killed her to be reviewing multiplication facts and long division, when she was supposed to be moving on into other aspects of math.
And as far as English went…She glanced down at the stack of poorly punctuated drills in front of her. Yowza. She hadn’t created this monster, but she was supposed to tame it.
Welcome to the real world of education.
BRETT SAT DOWN at his computer and took a deep breath. The chores were done, and there was nothing pressing at the Ryker place. It was time. In fact, it was well past time.
Brett was going to college. Online. He just hoped no one found out—in case he failed.
During junior and senior high he’d been a poor student—not because he couldn’t do the work, but because he wouldn’t. His dad had made a career of comparing Brett’s achievements to Will’s, and Brett had invariably failed to measure up. Finally, he’d accepted the fact that in his dad’s eyes he was never going to be as good at anything as Will was, so he quit trying, telling himself he wasn’t really a loser, since he wasn’t playing the game.
But still, he had silently resented Will for being so damn good at everything, and resented their dad for constantly reminding him of it.
Brett had eventually gotten his petty revenge, though, and had done a pretty fair job of messing up a number of lives in the process. Not bad for an underachiever.