true. But it’s not because I planned it that way,” Tucker said defensively. “It’s just that the nature of my retreat and adventure programs seem to appeal more to males than females. And it’s not as if there’s never a woman around—”
“Women who Will has frequent occasions to talk with? I don’t mean family. I mean women, where he’s had the opportunity to form some sort of relationship, even if it’s only casual.”
“Well, sure he has.” He hesitated. “I think. Well, maybe not.”
“I thought not. So my suggestion to you, over the summer, is to arrange some activities where Will is more exposed to some female presence. A sport that both genders play. Chores where both genders are involved. Something to ease that nervousness he feels around females.”
“Is he that way with you?”
Mrs. Riddle sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “Mr. MacKinnon. Do I strike you as the nature of woman who would make an adolescent boy stutter?”
Tucker readily recognized there was no possible way he could answer that. Admitting she looked like an army tank didn’t seem the right thing to mention. She ruled with an iron hand. Kids came out of her class thrilled to be free—but by reputation, they all considered they learned the most from her compared to the “easy” teachers. Anyway … he had to admit he understood what her concern with Will was about.
Tucker abruptly recalled the last time they’d stopped for burgers and fries. Will had tripped over a chair looking at a pigtailed tween on the other side of the room. So yeah. The kid had turned into a bumbler with girls.
Tucker got his son’s report card and clipped out of the classroom, feeling edgy and frustrated. How was a father supposed to fix something like that? Sure, Will had a shy side with girls. But he was ten. Every boy had a bumbling stage around girls when they started adolescence.
Still, there was a nick of truth that bugged him. Will really didn’t get exposed to many females, because of their lives, and Tucker’s job, and where they lived. That never seemed to matter before. Will was a happy kid. Now, though, Tucker could see how a guy-dominated environment could add up for Will—particularly since the only relevant female in his life, his mother, was hardly a role model.
Still … how to approach this topic with his son? And what would he tell Will about the meeting with his teacher?
He whipped around the corner—and charged smack into someone leaning against the wall. Or … not someone. Her. Petie’s mom. Garnet.
While Pete needed a stop in the boy’s bathroom, Garnet leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes. She replayed every second of her conversation with Mrs. Riddle. Then did it all over again.
The lump in her throat refused to disappear.
She’d always been a marshmallow. A soft, peace-loving marshmallow. Confrontations always gave her nightmares.
Still, where her son was concerned, Garnet could change from happy wallflower into riled-up mama porcupine in two seconds flat. Nobody hurt her son. It was hard for her to hear even the smallest criticism of Petie for the obvious reason.
He wasn’t just the best thing in her life. He was the best kid in the entire universe.
For Mrs. Riddle’s sake, the teacher was lucky she hadn’t picked on Petie.
Instead, she’d picked on Garnet.
Normally Garnet was braced for criticism. Lots of people had found fault with her—particularly in her own family. Lots of people claimed she’d disappointed them. But no one had ever suggested that she wasn’t a good mother. At least before today.
Garnet still had the lump in her throat, the stab in her heart. Mrs. Riddle hadn’t exactly said that she was an inadequate mom, but she’d implied it. A boy needed male role models. She’d failed to provide them. And that didn’t bite just because the teacher said it. It bit because Garnet had worried about the same darn thing for eons now.
Absently she lifted a hand and immediately discovered a ragged cuticle.
Dang it. She loved working with dirt. Dirt, herbs, spices, flowers, plants of all kinds. But she always wore gloves when she was working outside—not because she was vain about her hands, but because of this. The instant a nail split, or a cuticle got ragged, she couldn’t stand it. She had to fix it. She couldn’t think with a frayed cuticle.
She was just biting the offending cuticle when a Mack truck ran into her.
The air whooshed out of her lungs. Her head hit the cement wall at the same time the Mack truck tire connected with her foot … the vulnerable, naked foot in the green Teva sandals.
“Aw, hell. Aw, hell. I’m really sorry. I wasn’t looking—are you all right?”
If she were unconscious and in a coma, she’d have recognized that low, wicked baritone. Tucker. Tucker MacKinnon.
It just wasn’t fair. Being hit with a real Mack truck, she could have coped with. Freight train, no problem. Bulldozer, ditto. Anything or anyone but Tucker.
He was undoubtedly trying to help, by steadying her, then rushing his hands down her arms, his gaze searching, seeking any injuries. She certainly had some. The back of her head was gushing something warm and wet, and so was her right foot.
None of the injuries were lethal. She was just going to be stuck with a couple of bruises. He was big; she was small. That was the total equation. It’s just that if she had to have an accident, she wished it could have happened with anything but Tucker. Anyone but Tucker.
“I’m fine,” she said. Although temporarily she was pretty sure her right foot was broken in fifty or sixty places.
“You can’t be fine. You’re not fine. Damn. The back of your head’s getting a goose egg, and there’s blood.”
Undoubtedly. She’d scraped her head against the cement wall. Something had to give, and it hadn’t been the wall.
“Let me see.” His eyes were suddenly close enough for her to experience that electric-blue color close up. “The school’s so deserted I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be there. I was waiting for my son, thinking, not looking where I was going. Listen—”
After checking out her head, his hands cuffed her shoulders again. He was still squinting. Still searching for injuries. She was still dying, but more from embarrassment by then, particularly when he hunkered down.
“Broke your big toenail.” He winced in sympathy. “Just hope I didn’t break a toe. Or two.”
He had. But who cared? Once the football hero of the county—there was no one in the county who didn’t know the MacKinnon name—and he was kneeling at her feet. “I’m sure you didn’t.”
“How about if you just sit down right here, in the hall. I’ll run into the office. They have to have some Band-Aids and first-aid supplies around here.” Again, he tilted her head, not to look for injuries this time. He met her eyes. “Garnet, I couldn’t be sorrier.”
“It’s okay. Honestly. Don’t bother. I’ve got first-aid stuff at home.”
He’d
