read me a story anytime. Es muy atractiva!”
“Respect, Robby,” Flint said automatically. The boy was probably too young to be interested in girls his own age, or at least, too awkward to know how to interact with them. But a crush on an older teacher? Maybe. Or maybe the kid was just trying to get attention—something all the at-risk boys craved. Flint thumped Robby’s shoulder. “You did a good job helping to take apart that swather,” he told the young teenager. “Make sure you show up tomorrow, and we’ll put it back together.”
Robby beamed and turned toward the main ranch house, and Flint veered off toward the little library behind it. He wished he could put his life back together as easily as a broken piece of farm equipment.
Mrs. Toler, their third babysitter this year, had seemed like a perfect solution to Flint’s child-care problems. But Flint should have known it wouldn’t work for long. The Lord didn’t tend to look out for Flint and Logan. Never had.
Consciously relaxing his fists, Flint strode toward the library. Once inside the doorway, he stopped dead.
Amid a small group of the ranch’s youngest residents, Logan was cuddled up on a low couch right beside his slender, long-legged teacher. His towhead shone bright against her dark, wavy hair.
The sight hurt. It was what he’d imagined he’d see with Logan’s mother, until Stacie had decided she was too young to be tied down and dumped them both. As he’d scrambled to learn to care for his baby son alone, he’d vowed he wouldn’t let a woman get close again, lest she break Logan’s heart.
Never mind his own heart. After six years, it had pretty much frozen over.
Which didn’t explain why he felt compelled to stand, watching, just one more minute. Watching his son laugh and cuddle in a carefree way, looking happier than he had in weeks. Just one more minute before he went and tore Logan away from the things he wanted most in the whole world: a big family of boys, and a whole lot of warm mothering.
Flint forced down his emotions. Logan wasn’t one of the ranch’s troubled residents. Whatever Flint’s failings as a father, he’d provided his son with a safe home and good discipline. Flint didn’t mind Logan’s befriending the residents—after all, they all rode the same bus to the local public school and played together on the playground—but from what Mrs. Toler had said, Logan was picking up some bad habits. And while Flint didn’t consider the young residents hooligans and delinquents, as Mrs. Toler did, he had to acknowledge that Logan might have learned some inappropriate language and attitudes.
Which had to stop.
Not only that, but Logan was distracting Lana Alvarez from the boys clustered around her feet, the ones she’d come to work with. He was taking attention from kids who truly needed her help.
And in the process, Logan was getting way too attached to his teacher. No more. Flint needed to get his son out of there.
He’d just take one more minute to watch Logan looking so happy.
* * *
Lana Alvarez’s heart went out to the little boy who kept pressing closer and closer to her side. Funny, Logan Rawlings wasn’t one of the at-risk residents, but he seemed just as needy as they were. She wondered if his single dad even knew where he was.
“Scoot in closer,” she said to the five other first-and second-grade boys clustered around her, patting the couch on her other side to encourage shy little Timmy Landon to sit there. He slid in, hesitantly, and Lana smiled at him.
No question, she adored kids. All of them. And even though she probably wouldn’t have any of her own—not now, not after her single humiliating attempt at a normal relationship—she was blessed to be able to love so many kids through her day job as a teacher and through her volunteer work.
She turned the page of the illustrated book they were reading together and held it so all the boys could see the picture. “What do you think’s going to happen next?”
“I know!”
“Me, me!”
“Uh-oh.” Beside her, Logan tensed, looking toward the door.
Through which a very big, very handsome, very displeased-looking cowboy was coming their way.
Flint Rawlings. That curious flush she felt every time she saw him came on strong. It was probably annoyance, because he had to be the most aloof, inattentive father on the planet.
At least from what she’d seen. She knew she shouldn’t judge, but when a child’s best interests were at stake, it was hard for her to help it.
She put a protective arm around Logan, who’d pressed even closer as his father reached their little group.
“My son’s not supposed to be here.” His voice sounded accusatory, and she felt Logan cringe.
Men. If it weren’t for that fact that she needed to model politeness to these young boys, she’d chew out the cowboy for his sharp tone and the way he was speaking to her instead of his son.
“Nice to see you.” She allowed the slightest hint of censure to show in her voice as she extended her hand.
His face reddened. He reached out and wrapped his hand around hers. “Likewise.”
The gravelly voice and the feel of his work-hardened hand raised her heart rate, and she pulled away, feeling suddenly flustered. What was that all about?
“Come on, Logan,” Flint said, squatting down. “You’ve worried Mrs. Toler so much that she had to go home. You’ll have to come back to work with me.”
Logan drew closer to Lana, his lower lip thrusting out. “I want to hear the rest of the story.”
“Logan.” The word was stern, sharp.
Too stern and sharp for a little boy, in Lana’s opinion. But, she reminded herself, everyone had a different style of parenting.
On the other hand, this was working into a family fight that the rest of the boys didn’t need to see. “He’s welcome to stay with me,” she offered. “I’m here until five. I’ll be tutoring some of the kids after story time, and I’m sure Logan would be no trouble.”
“Please, Daddy?”
Flint’s eyes narrowed, and a shadow crossed his face. “No. I want him to come with me.” He reached down, effortlessly picked Logan up, and set him on his feet outside the group.
Two big tears rolled down Logan’s face despite his obvious attempt not to cry, and Lana’s heart broke a little. She opened her mouth to protest, but a look from Flint quelled her.
Of course, a parent had more say over a child’s life than a teacher. She had to remember she was just a teacher.
Would always be just a teacher.
“Thank you for looking out for him,” Flint said stiffly. Then he took Logan’s hand, and they walked away, the small boy straightening his back and trying to match his cowboy-booted steps to his father’s longer strides.
Lana’s throat felt tight. She beckoned for one of the boys to hand her the
