Her Single Dad Hero. Arlene James
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 his father. “I helped, Digger,” Donovan told his dog.
Caramel-brown ears flicking against his mottled dark gray head, the animal waited for a discernible command. Dean dumped the sandbag into the bed of the truck and ruffled the dog’s fur before snapping his fingers next to his thigh to let the dog know he could hop down. The dog vaulted lightly to the ground.
“Why don’t you guys go play in the shade while I load the crane onto the trailer?” Dean said, pointing to the trees in front of the house across the road.
“Can’t I help?” Donovan whined.
“Not this time,” Dean told him, taking the boy’s hard hat. “I think I remember a swing on the porch. I’m sure it’s okay if you and Digger want to swing for a bit. Then, after I talk to Miss Ann, we’ll go look at the horses.”
Donovan dug the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “O-kay.”
“Sure is hot out here,” Dean said, lifting off his own hat to mop his brow with the red cloth plucked from his hip pocket. “You need to be in the shade. Maybe we can stop for a snow cone on the way home.”
Donovan’s eyes lit up. He loved the sweet, icy treats, especially the coconut-flavored ones that turned his mouth blue.
“Yay! Come on, Digger.” They ran across the dusty road and into the trees.
Dean sighed. Cookies and snow cones. They’d be dealing with a sugar high this evening for sure. Well, five-year-old boys hardly ever stopped moving. He’d burn it off before bedtime. Besides, Donovan was a good eater. The only vegetables he wouldn’t touch were Brussels sprouts and cooked greens. Big for his age, he was pretty much a bottomless pit already.
Dean shuddered to think what it was going to take to feed his son at fifteen. He worried that they might have to move away from War Bonnet for him to make a decent living, but most of his work came during harvest time, and even with Oklahoma’s elongated season, he hadn’t yet been able to make those earnings comfortably stretch through the whole year.
Putting aside those thoughts, he went back to work, thankful that Rex Billings had tapped him for this extra job. Soon he had the rented crane loaded. While the crew chained it down so that it was ready for pick-up, he traded his hard hat for the clean, pale straw cowboy hat that his grandma had bought him for his birthday just two weeks earlier. Then he walked to the house, weary to the bone, to get payment from Ann. After showing Donovan the horses, he’d drive straight to the bank with her check, deposit it and pay his help.
When he stepped onto the porch, he found Donovan and Digger on the cushioned swing, Donovan singing softly as he pushed them both. The boy started to get up, but Dean waved him back as he stepped up to the door.
“I’ll only be a few minutes. You stay right there.”
“Okay, Dad.”
Dean opened the screen door and rapped his knuckles against the heavily carved inner door. After only moments Ann stood frowning up at him. He didn’t know what she had to be unhappy about or why she seemed intent on taking it out on him. Her grumpiness did not, unfortunately, detract from her looks.
She had an unusual face, a longish rectangle with a squarish jaw and chin, prominent cheekbones and a high forehead. It was the sort of face that could have been outfitted with features from either gender, but hers were unmistakably feminine, from her perfect lips to her dainty, straight nose and the gentle curves of her slender brows over her big, exotic eyes. Those eyes were like orbs plucked from a clear blue sky, ringed in storm gray around shiny black pupils. They suited her as nothing else could have. He’d always thought her one of the most beautiful girls, even when she’d had freckles splattered across her nose and cheeks. He kind of missed those freckles.
Aware that he was staring, he cleared his throat. “All done for now.”
She inclined her head, her red hair sliding across her face. Of a more muted shade than Donovan’s,