The Nanny's Texas Christmas. Lee McClain Tobin
share what we have,” he told Logan. “That’s what it means to be a friend.”
Logan’s expression was defiant, and worry pushed at the edges of Flint’s mind. How did you make sure a kid grew up right? He knew how to get Logan to do his chores and follow behavior rules, but what about the softer side, things like being generous and helping others?
Things that mattered most of all?
Something one of Logan’s Sunday school teachers had put into the church newsletter came to him. Values are caught, not taught.
He turned to Logan’s friend, inhaled the chocolate chip aroma regretfully, and held out the cookie bag. “Here, Martin. You can have my cookie.”
“Thanks, Mr. Rawlings!” Martin pulled the cookie out of the bag and took a big bite.
Heath was laughing. “You scored, Martin. That’s Mr. Rawlings’s favorite kind of cookie.”
Logan looked briefly ashamed, then his face lit up with a new idea. “Let’s climb up in the hayloft and eat them.”
“Cool!”
They turned, and then Logan stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Is that okay, Dad?”
“Sure, if you take it slow up the ladder.” Flint was glad to see Logan had asked permission.
“Can I go first?” Martin asked.
Logan opened his mouth, then shut it again, a struggle apparent on his face. He looked up at Flint.
Flint just waited.
“Yeah,” Logan said finally. “You can go first.”
Flint gave Logan a nod and a smile, and Logan’s face lit up again.
As the two boys ran toward the barn, Cowboy racing in circles around them, Heath chuckled. “I’m taking notes.” He’d just gotten engaged to Josie Markham, who’d been widowed right after discovering she was pregnant. Flint was pretty sure the wedding would happen sooner rather than later, because Heath wanted to help parent Josie’s baby from day one.
“Notes might help, but nothing’s going to prepare you for fatherhood. How’s Josie doing?”
“Okay, except she wants to keep working as hard as ever, and at almost seven months pregnant, she can’t do it all.”
“Thank her for me.” Flint gestured toward the cooler. “Logan’ll be glad to have something that’s not out of a box. And for that matter, so will I.”
Heath chuckled. “I’d rather have an MRE than your cooking.”
MREs. Meals Ready to Eat. The acronym, and the thought of military rations, brought back a wave of wartime memories for Flint, and a glance at Heath’s face showed the same had happened to him.
They’d been through a lot together.
The awareness was there, but neither of them wanted to bring it up. Some memories were best left sleeping. “How’s your grandpa?” Flint asked to change the subject. “Still planning a visit?”
Flint had helped track Edmund Grayson down last month. When old Cyrus Culpepper had left the Triple C to the Lone Star Cowboy League, his bequest had come with the condition that the other four original residents of the boys ranch be located and, if possible, brought to the area for the LSCL’s anniversary celebration in March. The League was hard at work to fulfill the conditions so they could keep the boys ranch going strong.
Heath’s grandfather, Edmund Grayson, was one of those original residents, and it had been Flint’s responsibility to help find him. Which he’d done, with Heath’s help.
“Coming out for Christmas, I think. And for sure to the reunion in March.” Heath leaned against the fence surrounding the horse corral. “You said you wanted to see me about something?”
Flint pushed back his hat and leaned on the fence beside his friend, looking out over the land he’d come to love, brown grass of December notwithstanding. Then he hitched a thumb toward the barn. “Missing some saddles,” he said, and told Heath what was gone and when he’d last seen them.
As Flint had expected, Heath got into analyzing the situation right away. During his enforced leave from his Texas Ranger job last month, he’d started digging into some of the recent problems in the area. Although he was back at work now, he’d continued to keep an eye on the situation. “You’ve got more valuable saddles they didn’t take, right?”
Flint nodded. “Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.” He waited for Heath to home in on the ranch boys as suspects. Flint was worried about that, himself. They were the ones who had the most opportunity.
All the more reason Logan shouldn’t be over-involved with them. Flint would have to keep up the effort to recruit more varied after-school friends for Logan.
Heath was rubbing his chin, looking thoughtful. “Could be someone trying to pin a theft on the ranch boys, make ’em look bad.”
Since Heath had only recently overcome his animosity to the boys ranch, his attitude pleased Flint. “Like who?” he asked. “Phillips?” Fletcher Snowden Phillips, local lawyer and chief curmudgeon, was forever criticizing the ranch for its supposed negative impact on property values and attracting new business.
“Could be.” Heath plucked a piece of grass and chewed it, absently. “Could be Avery Culpepper, too. She’s got some pretty strong opinions about the ranch.”
Two of Flint’s least favorite people. “You’re right. Could be either one. Except I can’t figure either of them getting their hands dirty, breaking into a barn and stealing saddles.”
“Good point. Truth is, any lowlife who knows about the ranch might take kid stuff. Because they’d figure we’d blame the boys.”
“Yeah, and those saddles do have some resale value.” And Flint would have to replace them if they weren’t found quickly.
“I’ll take a look around,” Heath said.
As they walked toward the barn, Flint’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out. An unfamiliar number, but local. “I’d better take this,” he said, gesturing for Heath to go ahead into the tack room. He clicked to answer the call.
“Mr. Rawlings, this is Lana Alvarez over at the school.”
Flint stopped. Liking for her musical voice warred with a sense that, whatever Lana Alvarez had to say to him, it wasn’t going to be good. “What’s up?”
“I’m calling to request a conference. Could we set up a time for you to come in to school? I’m afraid there’s a problem with Logan.”
The next afternoon, Lana Alvarez looked at the large school clock and frowned. Her nervousness was turning into annoyance.
Flint Rawlings was late.
“Still here?” Rhetta Douglass, the other first-grade teacher, stuck her dreadlocked head through the door and then walked in. “Girl, it’s four fifteen on a Friday. This place is empty. Go home! Get a life!”
“Parent conference.” Lana wrinkled her nose. If Rhetta only knew how little of a life Lana had, she’d probably laugh...and then invite her over.
Lana and Rhetta had both started as new teachers this year, and they were becoming friends, but Rhetta had a husband and twin three-year-old sons. She didn’t need Lana horning in on her family time.
Rhetta put down her bags, bulging with student work and supplies, and came over to perch on the edge of Lana’s desk. “Who schedules a conference at four fifteen on the one day we’re allowed to leave early? You better look out, or I’m going to sign you up for Cowboy Singles-dot-com.”
Waving