The Rancher and the Girl Next Door
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Okay. First lesson. Concentrate.
Brett started by reading the introduction. Then he reread the introduction, and wondered if maybe he should start with his humanities class instead of algebra.
There was a knock on the door and he literally jumped at the chance to put his education on hold again.
And then he looked out and saw who it was. Claire. With a bottle of wine, no less.
This could not be good.
He opened the door, but only because he had no other option.
“Yes, I know,” she said, as she walked in without waiting for an invitation. “We’re holding on to our personal space, but I need some help, and damn it, Bishop, you’re the only one who can give it to me.” She handed him the bottle and walked to the cupboards. “Where do you keep your glasses?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re pushy?”
Claire smiled at him over her shoulder as she opened a cupboard. “All the time.”
“And it doesn’t slow you down?”
“Not in the least.”
Brett gave up. “Next to the fridge.”
Claire opened the cupboard he indicated, then frowned as she pulled out a smallish glass. “What’s this?”
“It’s a wineglass.”
“No. This is an overgrown shot glass. And where’s the stem?”
“It’s a poor man’s wineglass. I can’t afford stems. You’re lucky it’s not a jelly glass.”
She smiled again as she took out a second one. “All right. But it’s small, so we’ll have to fill them more often.”
“How long do you plan on staying?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re tactless?” she asked.
He smiled instead of answering.
“And that doesn’t slow you down?”
“Not in the least.”
Brett pulled a corkscrew out of the utensil drawer before Claire had a chance to tear the kitchen apart looking for it. He plunged it into the cork with a little more force than necessary.
“White wine?” he asked.
“Is that a problem?”
“I prefer red wine when I solve problems.”
“I’ll make a note of that.”
“Actually, I can’t see us doing a lot of joint problem solving,” he said pointedly.
Claire settled herself on one of the mismatched kitchen chairs. “I know that Will asked you to help me when you could. And I may need a lot of help before this year is over.”
She accepted the glass he offered, took a bracing drink, then reached up with her free hand to ruffle the top of her hair in a gesture that clearly suggested exhaustion, or possibly frustration. “Are you renovating?” She looked down the hall to the living room, where he was in the process of tearing up the old floor so he could lay a new one.
“The place needs work, so I try to do a little every month. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like some information.”
“On…?”
“My kids. My students. I’ve survived day two, and I’m not ashamed to admit that these kids are close to getting the best of me. That means I have to plan a strategy.”
Brett was impressed, in spite of himself. He’d always admired proactive people, as long as they weren’t running roughshod over him—or trying to.
“I’ll tell you what I know, but you gotta realize I haven’t lived here that long.”
“But you’re a native of the area.”
“My grandfather and great-grandfather were natives. Granddad sold.”
“Well, you’ve got to know more than I do.” Claire reached down for her purse and pulled out a small spiral notebook. “I’m thinking that if I can just understand the lay of the land, who’s related to whom and who does what, maybe I can connect better with the kids. I don’t want any dirt or gossip. Just information that’s in the public domain.”
Brett lifted the wine to his lips, sipped. It really wasn’t that bad for white wine. “Don’t you have school records with that kind of information?”
“Allegedly, but they’re in pretty bad shape. The district is sending me copies of missing documents, but I want to know about families. Where they live. What they do.”
Brett shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I can.”
“Okay, first off, tell me about the Landaus.”
“They’re rich.” Claire waited, and he expanded. “They’re one of the few families here that are not land rich and cash poor. Landau’s a nice guy. Ashley is his stepdaughter. Only child. He married the mother about three years ago, I think.”
“How about Jesse Lane?”
Brett shook his head. “Don’t know any Lanes. They aren’t locals. It might be that new guy who has the trailer north of town.”
“Elena and Lexi Moreno.”
“They’re related to the Hernandezes.”
“Ramon and Lily?”
“Hardworking families. The Hernandezes work for the Landaus. The Morenos have their own place.”
“So I have cousins in the classroom, as well as brothers and sisters,” Claire said musingly. “Okay. Rudy Liscano.”
Brett smiled slightly. Everyone knew Rudy. Everybody liked Rudy. “Rudy’s another cousin to the Hernandezes and the Morenos. His dad works for the county-road department. He’s the one you yell at when you blow a tire.”
“I see. How about Rachel Tyler?”
“Her family has the oldest ranch in the area. They raise nice horses.”
“Dylan Masterson?”
“I’m not certain. The Mastersons aren’t local. I think they own some businesses somewhere and are out here escaping. I know they built a hell of a place on the other side of town.”
“You mean, that A-frame?”
“That’s it.” Brett drained his glass. “I think she’s an artist or something.”
“And Toni Green.”
“Her mom works at the bar. They live in the rooms over the bar.” Brett had been invited to see those rooms before the latest boyfriend had taken up residence, but he’d declined the invitation. “I think she’s escaping, too, but for a different reason.”
Claire flipped her notebook shut. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t give you all that much information.”
“I just want enough to understand where my kids are coming from, and I didn’t want to ask Bertie. I think the ones who are ranch kids for real probably have different references and values than the imports.” She refilled their glasses without asking. “In one of my college classes, the prof said that home visits were a must in order to understand your students, but…I think in a community like this, visits might be seen as nosiness unless the families invited me.”
“You’re right,” Brett agreed.
“So, I decided to rely on hearsay.”
“Then you should hit the post office and the mercantile.”
“You gave me what I need.” She leaned back in her chair, studying him in that steady way of hers. Her lips curved slightly. She had a really nice mouth. “So, tell me again, Brett. Why is it that we can’t socialize?”
Brett felt his own mouth tighten.
Claire shrugged. “Hey. You’re the one who laid down the rules. I was just wondering why.”
And then he saw that he’d probably made a major tactical error. He’d already figured out from their first few encounters—and from the fact that she’d taken a teaching assignment in Barlow Ridge—that Claire was a woman who loved a challenge. And that was exactly what he’d given her. Stupid move.
“I didn’t say we couldn’t socialize. I said I wasn’t much on socializing.”
“You seemed to do okay at the wedding, except with me.”
“Claire.”
She raised her eyebrows, making her green eyes even wider beneath her pearly lavender eye shadow. He frowned, annoyed at the way she shook his concentration. “We can socialize, but it has to be on a certain…level.” She tilted her head inquiringly, but Brett had a suspicion that she knew exactly what he was referring to. “You were coming on to me at the wedding.”
“A little,” she agreed, totally missing his point.
“We can’t…I mean, we’re practically related, and I don’t want to create a situation.”
“Wow.” Claire took a careful sip of wine, her expression maddeningly calm. “You certainly extrapolate things out, don’t you? That’s almost like jumping from a simple hello into marriage.”
“No. It’s not.” He didn’t like the way she made him feel foolish for a perfectly logical statement of fact.
“Well, I think you’re dodging stones that haven’t even been thrown.”
“I like to err on the side of caution.”
“That’s not what I hear,” she said softly. “Rumor has it you were a wild guy back in the day.”
“Where’d you hear that?” he asked in an equally quiet tone.
“Around.”
“Regan?” Damn, he hoped not. He didn’t want Claire to know his story. But she and Regan were sisters.
“No. Actually, a couple of women were discussing you in the bar when I went in for a sandwich yesterday. You were a rodeo star, according to them.”
“Yeah. I was.”
Too close for comfort. Those rodeo days had ended up being the dark point of his life, and he wasn’t going to discuss them. Period.
Brett slid the cork back into the bottle. Rudeness and tactlessness seemed to be his best strategies. He pushed the bottle across the table toward her. “I was kind of in the middle of something when you came.”
She nudged it back toward him before she stood. “You keep it.”
“You’ll probably need it more than me.” He picked up the wine and pressed it into her hands.
“Thanks for the help, Brett. See you around.” A few seconds later, the screen door banged shut behind her. Brett watched her walk down the path for a moment, admiring the subtle swing of her hips beneath the swirly skirt in spite of himself.
Claire Flynn was not going to be good for his peace of mind.
CHAPTER THREE
CLAIRE GAVE HERSELF a good talking to as she walked home across the bristly hay field. Once upon a time she’d berated Regan for dating the wrong kind of man—which was truly a case of the pot calling the kettle black, since Claire also tended to pursue guys for the wrong reasons.
She liked to attain the unattainable.
It was a bad habit, and one she was trying to break herself of. Being attracted to Brett Bishop was not a step in the right direction, since she suspected her interest in him was sparked solely by his corresponding lack of interest in her.
But she couldn’t get around the fact that there was something about him that made her want to know more. Like, why the barriers? With her, with his brother, and with his niece, Kylie.
There was probably a simple explanation.
Claire wondered how long it was going to take her to figure it out.
ON MONDAY MORNING Claire started her school day by handing out progress reports listing the students’ grades in each subject.
“What are these?” Dylan asked with a sneer. Claire was going to start working on his attitude just as soon as she’d made some headway with Ashley.
“Those are your grades for your first week of school. I’d like you to show them to your parents, have them sign the bottom and then bring them back by Wednesday at the latest.” The grades were, for the most part, dismal in math and English. Primarily because few of the students were doing their homework.
Dylan frowned. Elena Moreno’s mouth was actually hanging open. Only Rudy and Jesse seemed satisfied with what was on the paper. Rudy had all A’s. Jesse had straight C’s, and apparently that was good enough for him. He was an earnest kid who tried hard, but it was especially obvious he had some holes in his education. His records had yet to arrive from his previous school, and Claire had no idea what his background was.
“Are you going to do this every week?” Ashley asked with disbelief.
“Every Monday. This way there will be no nasty surprises at the end of the quarter. Everyone will know their grades, and your parents will be aware of your progress.”
“But making us bring them back signed shows you don’t trust us.”
“You do know that trust is earned, don’t you? I doubt we’ll do the parent signatures all year, but I want to start out that way, until everyone is aware of what to expect.”
“What’re you going to do if we don’t bring them back by Wednesday?” Dylan asked in his most obnoxious tone.
“I’ll phone or e-mail your parents. Now, please get out your math homework.”
Dylan blew out a disgusted breath and made a show of shoving the grade paper into his pocket in a big wad. The other kids tucked their slips away less dramatically, some in notebooks, some in pockets, and started digging for their math books.
“My mom is going to kill me,” Toni murmured to Ashley later, as the class left for morning break.
“Mine won’t,” Ashley responded with a smug lift of her chin. She spoke loudly enough to make certain Claire heard her. Claire smiled, but it was an effort. She didn’t even have the pleasure of knowing that real life would teach Ashley a lesson or two. Ashley’s family probably had enough money to cushion her from reality.
Pity.
Ashley didn’t have to grow up to be a shallow, arrogant person, but there didn’t appear to be much to keep it from happening. And then, as if to solidify Claire’s opinion, she heard Ashley through her open window after school, making fun of Jesse.
“Do you live here or something?” Ashley asked in a snooty voice.
“No. My dad works late.” The poor kid was often sitting on the swings, waiting for his father to come pick him up, when Claire went home, and she left late most nights.
“Well, I hope he works overtime, so he can buy you some decent clothes.”
Claire barely stayed in her seat. But she knew Jesse wouldn’t appreciate his teacher coming to the rescue. He probably wouldn’t appreciate knowing that she’d overheard the conversation, either.
“Hey, at least people like me,” Jesse said.
“That’s what you think,” Ashley retorted smugly. “Come on, Toni. Let’s go.”
Claire drew in a breath, let it out slowly, and after a quick look out the window, forced herself to continue her grading. Jesse was still sitting on a swing, and he seemed to be okay. And Claire was going to see to it that he remained okay, at least while he was at school.
THE FIRST MEETING of the school parent-teacher organization was called to order that evening by Ashley’s mother, who’d once again raided her daughter’s wardrobe. There were at least twenty parents in attendance, in addition to Trini and Bertie. Claire was impressed. The parent-teacher organization of her old school had been comprised of approximately twenty percent of the parents. The Barlow Ridge PTO attendance seemed to be hovering around the one hundred percent mark. Claire was even more impressed with the treasurer’s report. These people were either prolific savers, or they were talented at fund-raising. It turned out to be a combination of the two.
They discussed the year’s fund-raisers—a Christmas craft show, a chili feed and a quilt auction. Claire knew of the quilt auction via Regan, who now owned two heirloom-quality hand-pieced quilts.
Almost twenty minutes were spent debating whether the PTO’s Santa suit would last another season, or if they’d need to buy another before the Christmas pageant. And then they went on to folding chairs. Were there enough? Should the broken ones be fixed or replaced? And when had the piano last been tuned?
The meeting was almost over when Deirdre focused on Bertie and Claire, who were seated at the back of the room. “Have we covered everything?”
“I, um, have a request,” Claire said.
Everyone half turned in their chairs to look at her. Claire decided it was a good thing that she enjoyed public speaking, because all eyes—some of them not that friendly—were on her.
“First of all, I’m enjoying working with your kids. We have some ground to make up because of teacher turnover during the past few years, and I was wondering if the PTO would purchase math manipulatives and four novel sets, one for each quarter.”
Claire could tell by the way expressions shifted and glances were exchanged that she’d accidentally hit on a sore spot. She wondered what it could be. It certainly wasn’t finances, from the sound of the treasurer’s report. She tried again.
“The novels in the storeroom are not only old and not entirely grade appropriate, they’re in really bad shape,” she explained. “I don’t know if they’ll survive another reading. And as far as math manipulatives go, there aren’t any.”
“There’s a reason for that,” one of the parents said. “We’ve bought several programs in the past that other teachers packed up and took with them when they left.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Not at all. And I think our new novel sets and some reference books ended up in Wesley at the elementary school when a teacher transferred there. We also bought a pricey math program that left with another teacher, and she didn’t even stay with our district. She moved out of state.”
Another parent smiled condescendingly at Claire. “How long are you planning on being here?”
“I’m going to graduate school next fall. I made that clear when I interviewed here.” And I was hired because no one else would take the job. Under normal circumstances Claire wouldn’t have held her tongue, but she had enough of a fight on her hands bringing her students under control. She needed parental support, or her battle was going to be twice as hard.
“Couldn’t you borrow what you need from one of the schools in Wesley?”
“I’ll ask.”
“It’s nothing personal, Miss Flynn.” Claire was getting very tired of hearing how nothing was personal in Barlow Ridge. “It’s just that we’ve been burned in the past.”
“And I don’t think our kids need fancy programs and gimmicks.” An older woman near the front spoke up. “They need a good teacher.”
Claire was beginning to see that isolation might not be the only problem with teaching in Barlow Ridge. She composed herself before going on the offensive.
“Your children also need discipline and development of a work ethic, if they are going to achieve grade level.”
Her statement caused a ripple. “What do you mean by ‘achieve grade level’?” Deirdre demanded in a shocked tone.
Claire frowned. “I mean, that many of my seventh and eighth grade students are behind in at least one subject area—primarily math. They need to catch up. Didn’t you get standardized test scores last year?”
There was another ripple as the parents exchanged puzzled looks.
“No.”
“None of you received scores?” Bertie asked. The group shook their heads in unison. “I gave them to Mr. Nelson. He was supposed to staple them to the year-end report cards.”
“And when did Mr. Nelson do anything he was supposed to do?” Trini muttered.
“Didn’t you wonder why the younger kids had scores and the older ones didn’t?” Bertie asked the group.
“I just assumed that the upper grades weren’t tested. You know how they’ve messed with the tests lately, changing dates and grade levels…” Deirdre said.
“We have copies in your children’s files,” Bertie said, with a frustrated sigh. “We’ll need some time to locate and duplicate them, but you’ll get the scores before Friday.”
The meeting was adjourned shortly thereafter, and Claire went into her room to collect her jacket and purse. She had no new novel sets, no math manipulatives—just parents who didn’t think she was up to the job of teaching their children. Parents who hadn’t been aware of how far behind their kids were.
And even though she didn’t need the point hammered home that the parents weren’t supporting her, it had been hammered home.
“What really fries me,” one parent said as she passed by Clare’s open door on the way to the exit, “is that the school district must know we have low scores, but they send out the most inexperienced teacher they can find.”
“Well, she certainly isn’t engaging Lexi,” her companion responded. “It looks like all she’s doing is drawing lines in the sand and daring the kids to step across. That’s not teaching.”
Claire swallowed hard and turned off the lights. She and Bertie stepped out of their rooms and into the hall at the same moment. Bertie signaled for her to wait a minute as the two parents made their way to the exit.
As soon as the door swung shut, Bertie said, “Try not to—”
“Take it personally?” Claire shook her head. “It’s kind of hard not to.”
“These kids haven’t had a real teacher since Regan left, and the parents are getting frustrated.”
“Well, I can’t blame them, but I hate being prejudged.”
“That’s a tendency here,” Bertie said. “You’re newly graduated, which is a strike against you. And the kids are complaining, which is another strike. Plus…” She hesitated, then said, “You dress kind of…fancy. Which might put some parents off.”
“They don’t like the way I dress?” Claire was wearing a knee-length chiffon skirt in a bright floral pattern, a silky peach T-shirt and a chunky necklace. Normal fare for her. But she remembered Elena saying they’d never had a teacher that looked like her.
“Well…” Bertie looked down at her own clothing, which consisted of brown corduroy pants, a white cotton T-shirt and well-worn athletic shoes. “I think it’s been awhile since they’ve seen anyone wear hosiery to school.”
“I’m not buying a new wardrobe to fit in,” Claire muttered. “I like my clothes.” She and Bertie walked down the hall together, exiting the school into the inky darkness of a cloudy night.
“I like your clothes, too. I wish I had the energy to dress better, but I don’t.” Bertie stuck her key in the lock and abruptly changed the subject as she twisted her hand. “This test thing really annoys me. It’s good that Nelson got out of teaching, because I think the parents have cause for legal action.”
“Would they do that?”
“Barlow Ridge parents are not passive parents.” She smiled grimly before asking Claire, “Where’s your car?”
“I walked.”
“It’s going to storm. Do you want a ride home?”
She shook her head. “Thanks, anyway.”
“Coming to quilting club on Wednesday?”
“Will it be friendlier than the PTO?”
Bertie smiled ruefully. “There’s some crossover—Deirdre, Willa, Mary Ann. I think they’re already betting you won’t show.”
Claire smiled humorlessly. “In that case, I’ll show.” She couldn’t sew a stitch, but she figured she could either be there, trying to do her part for the quilt auction, or sitting home alone with her ears ringing as the other women discussed her.
PHIL’S HORSES AND MULES arrived while Brett was in the middle of his online class. Horses he understood. Reacquainting himself with math was going to take some time. He was making headway, but he was glad to give himself a break in order to drive over to the ranch, less than a mile away, and take delivery.
He went to meet the shipper, who opened the door of a trailer to reveal a handsome black mule. Beyond that Brett could see two broad chestnut-colored backs, but the dividers kept him from seeing the horses’ heads.
“They’re tall,” he commented to the driver.
“Yeah. And Numb Nuts, up front, doesn’t have any manners.”
“Good to hear.”
Brett stepped in and ran a hand over the mule’s neck. The big animal gave him a get-me-out-of-here look. Brett complied, leading the big guy out of the trailer and over to one of the many individual corrals adjacent to the barn. When he released it, the mule circled the pen once and then went to the water trough for a long drink.
“Where’re you from?” Brett asked, suddenly realizing that he had no idea where these animals were being shipped from.
“San Diego. I left them in the trailer last night, because I didn’t know if I could get the stud back in.”
Phil wouldn’t like that, Brett thought. Phil couldn’t tell a good animal from a bad one without help, but he insisted that all of his animals be treated right. It was the one thing that helped Brett overlook his boss’s other foibles, which included a healthy dose of arrogance coupled with ignorance about matters he wanted to look like an expert in. Such as horses.
Brett stepped back into the trailer to unload a very nice quarter horse. The mare followed him placidly to her pen, and then she, too, went straight for the water.