style="font-size:15px;"> Not long enough.
“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
