per hour because the child had been oblivious to the danger involved, and yet he appeared to be at least six or seven years old.
The sounds of a slamming door and pounding footsteps nearby drew Whitney’s focus toward the house in front of her. A large man, over six feet tall, jogged across the lawn toward them. His intense gaze first took in the child and woman, then slipped to Whitney hovering a few feet from the pair. It skimmed down her length before moving away. When his appraisal connected with her Volkswagen bug, a frown carved hard lines into his face.
“Aunt Louise, what happened?”
“Jason—” the older woman whimpered the name, tears streaking down her face as she clung to the child. “He—he…”
After patting the woman and whispering, “It’s okay. I’ll deal with this,” the man fixed his gaze on Whitney and strode toward her. “What happened?”
His question frosted the air between them. She straightened, her hands clenched at her sides. “The little boy ran out into the street from between these two parked cars.” She gestured toward the vehicles. “I had to swerve to avoid hitting him.”
His color drained from his face. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy and the older woman. The child tried to pull from her embrace, his arm outstretched toward Whitney’s VW.
“Aunt Louise, can you take Jason inside? I’ll be there in a minute.” When the pair was on the porch, the man turned back to Whitney. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” His cultured voice held a smooth, calmer tone, meant to put a person at ease. Concern—directed totally toward her—darkened his green eyes.
“Better than my car.” She flipped her quivering hand toward her convertible. “I ran into someone’s SUV. I—”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s mine. Cars can be fixed much easier than people.” He walked toward the back of his vehicle and examined the damage. When he looked at hers, he whistled. “Yours will be more involved.”
“Yeah. It’s sorta like a beetle slamming into a wall.” Where was she going to get the money to pay for this? Even if the man could take care of his SUV, her car repairs would cost a lot and with a five-hundred-dollar deductible—money she didn’t have—she had no answer. She would not accept any more help from her older brother. She’d always managed to make her way in the world by herself. She wasn’t going to let this change that. She would figure out something.
After rounding the back of her vehicle and inspecting the crash from all angles, the man came back to her side. “I see what you mean. I’ll take care of your car.”
“No, I crashed into your SUV.”
“But if you hadn’t reacted quickly, my son would have been hit. I owe you. I’ll take care of it.” He stuck his hand out for her to shake. “Shane McCoy.”
“I’m Whitney Maxwell.” His warm, firm clasp conveyed a man who took charge of situations and solved problems. Her defenses quickly went up.
“Noah’s sister?”
“Yes, you know my brother?”
“I’ve been working with Stone’s Refuge ever since it began. And since he’s on its board, we’ve gotten to know each other these past few years.”
Now that she was thinking somewhat rationally, she remembered Noah talking about a Dr. McCoy seeing some of the kids who lived at Stone’s Refuge, a place for foster children who needed help. “You’re the child psychologist.” Then she recalled her brother mentioning how much Dr. McCoy had helped his adopted son. “The one who worked with Rusty.”
“Your brother was the best thing that happened to Rusty.”
“I think my nephew would agree. Noah’s taken to being a dad.” Although she had discovered she loved children since returning to Cimarron City, she never saw herself as a mother. She never wanted to disappoint a child like she had been.
“Come in and I’ll call a wrecker to take your car to a shop I know that does excellent work for a fair price.”
Shane McCoy had everything figured out. She fortified her defenses. “I’ll drive my car to school and come up with something.”
He shook his head. “That car isn’t going anywhere without a wrecker.”
Whitney did her own examination of her VW and noticed the front hood was crumpled into her right tire. He was correct. Although the school was about two miles away, maybe she could walk and still make it on time. She glanced down at her watch and winced. That wasn’t an option if she wanted to be on time or at least only a few minutes late.
“You mentioned driving to school—the university?”
“No, Will Rogers Elementary School.”
“You’re a teacher there?”
“A teacher’s assistant.” If all her plans worked out, she would be a teacher in three years.
“My son starts kindergarten there on Thursday. We’ve been marking off the days until school starts. So since I was going there this morning anyway to show Jason around before the meeting there this afternoon, I can take you. That’s the least I can do.”
She looked down at the damaged hood. “Fine, but I need to call a wrecker then the school to let them know I’ll be a few minutes late.” She hated being late her first day on the job, but there was just so much help she would accept from Shane McCoy.
“Are you sure I can’t arrange for a wrecker to take your car to Carl’s Body Shop?”
“I’m sure.” If she had been paying better attention instead of looking for Zoey Crandell’s house, maybe she would have seen the child racing across the lawn toward the street. But ever since she’d made the decision to move out of her brother’s guesthouse, her attention had been focused on finding an apartment, and Zoey’s sounded perfect for her.
“You can call inside while I prepare Jason to leave now.”
“Prepare?” slipped out before Whitney could stop it. Jason didn’t act like a normal kindergartner. What was wrong with him?
“It won’t take long. I just have to prepare my son for something a little different. He already knew he was going to the school today.” Shane started for the large Victorian house, stopped and said, “My aunt makes a great cup of coffee. Would you like some?”
“That sounds good.” Whitney reached into her VW and grabbed her purse and the classified section of the newspaper she’d brought with her. Peering at a circled ad, she noted the address she’d been searching for and the reason she was on this particular street. “Do you know Zoey Crandell?” she called out to Shane.
He paused a few steps away from her and swung back around. “Yes, she lives at the end of this block.” He pointed toward another Victorian house five away from his on the other side of the street.
Whitney noticed he wore a wedding ring and wondered where his wife was since it wasn’t much after seven. “I wanted to get a peek at the garage apartment she had advertised for rent,” she said when she saw the question in his eyes.
“That’s
