Sweet Mountain Rancher. Loree Lough
wouldn’t always behave like Little Lord Fauntleroys. Most seemed sincere when they said things like “Boys will be boys” and “How bad could they be?” But even the most well-intentioned had trouble disguising shock, impatience, even full-blown disgust when the boys tested them with crude language or outrageous manners.
Nate Marshall was not one of those people. The boys could distinguish between phony acceptance and genuine interest, so when he issued clear-cut rules about everything from pushing and shoving to foul language, they listened. And when he told them that respect had to be earned, not doled out like candy, she could see by their solemn expressions that he’d earned theirs.
He wasn’t a man who took shortcuts, either. That first night, he brought the boys into the kitchen of his two-story log cabin, showed them where to find pots and pans, his corn bread recipe and the ingredients, and instructed them to work together, because supper was in their hands. He didn’t complain about the noise or the mess they’d made preparing his famous five-alarm chili. Instead, he laughed and joked during the meal, and let it be known it was their responsibility to clean up after themselves.
He’d taken the same approach in the bunkhouse, where it had at first looked as though their duffel bags exploded, raining jeans, T-shirts and socks everywhere. Without warnings or threats, he simply stated that until the place was shipshape, no one would saddle up again.
As they’d piled into the van, everyone but Thomas had thanked Nate—with no prompting from Eden—and asked how soon they might come back. Much to her delight and theirs, he’d invited them to the Marshalls’ annual July Fourth festivities.
“I’m starved,” Travis said once they arrived home. “Okay if I make a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“Biology test tomorrow,” Kirk reminded him.
“I know, I know.” He addressed the group. “Anybody else want one?”
Only Thomas—the one who could use a little more meat on his bones—remained quiet.
“All right,” Kirk said, “but that means lights out the minute you get upstairs.”
Eden wondered which of the teens would volunteer to clean up, to put off bedtime a few minutes more.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Thomas said.
“But you ain’t even eatin’,” Wade pointed out.
“Aren’t,” Eden said. “Let’s use paper plates. And I’ll clean up the griddle.”
Several of the boys distributed napkins, plates, and paper cups of milk. The others formed an assembly line, one buttering bread, another slapping on sliced cheese, while Travis tended the stove.
Eden thought back a few months, to when a similar event would have incited arguments and shoving matches that led to threats and balled-up fists. Time—and Kirk’s steady presence—helped her deescalate the brawls, and slowly they began to put into practice the lessons she’d taught about negotiations and compromises that allowed them to live in harmony.
They devoured two dozen sandwiches, all while discussing what Nate had taught them...and wondering aloud what more they might learn on their next trip to the Double M. It was so good to see them looking forward to something that Eden found herself fighting tears.
“Hey,” Wade said, “what you cryin’ about, Eden?”
“My eyes are as tired as the rest of me,” she said. “And speaking of tired, it’s time for you guys to head upstairs.”
“Biology exam,” Kirk repeated.
Groaning, the boys disposed of their plates. They each said good-night before heading for their rooms.
Half an hour later, when Eden closed the door to her own room, she expected to lie awake, worrying about where she’d find the money to fix the roof, the leaky washing machine and on-its-last-legs dryer. Instead, memories of Nate’s interactions with the boys lulled her to sleep.
She woke feeling rested and upbeat, until the boys gathered at the table, devouring oatmeal or crunchy cereal as they picked up where they’d left off last night. Listening as they recounted the trip to the Double M...and their perceptions of Nate.
“I like him,” Travis said, “’cause he ain’t all full of himself.” He glanced at Eden and quickly added, “Isn’t.”
“Yeah, but all grown-ups seem real at first,” DeShawn observed. “Takes a while before the phony wears off and the real hangs out.”
Eden started to disagree, but what if he’d been correct? Jake had seemed too good to be true at first, too; what if Nate’s friendly behavior had been nothing more than a polite facade? Every one of the teens had experienced some level of abandonment...
Once their plates and bowls were stacked in the sink, they grumbled all the way to the science lab, well aware that after the exam, Kirk intended to walk them through their last assignment of the year: frog dissection.
Dishes done, Eden joined them, standing at the back of the classroom as her able assistant handled their protests with his usual aplomb. The young counselor had completed several degrees, and could surely earn far money more teaching or counseling elsewhere. Instead, he’d chosen to dedicate himself to the boys of Latimer House, teaching math, science and history, as well as fixing broken doorknobs and leaky faucets. Eden was the first to admit that without him, the place might have fallen down around them—literally and figuratively—months ago.
The doorbell pealed and Eden hurried to respond to the impatient, unscheduled visitor. Brett Michaels stood on the porch. Eden’s nerves prickled with dread as the landlord swaggered into the foyer.
She forced a smile. “Brett. Hi. What brings you here so early on a weekday morning?”
As usual, he didn’t answer her question. “You look lovely, as always.” He nodded toward the classrooms. “Amazing, considering what you do for a living.”
Eden ignored the snide remark. “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen...”
“Sounds great,” he said, following her.
Something about his attitude heightened her tension. Back in November, the purpose of a similar early-morning visit had been to raise the rent a hundred dollars a month. She’d managed, barely, by trading her new car for the big clunking van, and by directing a portion of her county-paid salary toward other Latimer bills. Adding those saved dollars to minuscule funds raised by local churches and a handful of regular donors, she’d made every payment. Eden didn’t know what other corners she could cut if he wanted more.
“Almost fresh from the oven,” she said, peeling the plastic wrap from a chipped ceramic plate of chocolate chip cookies.
“My favorite. But you knew that, didn’t you.” He sat at the Formica and chrome table donated by Kirk’s parents. Winking, Brett added, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sweet on me.”
Not a chance. Eden grabbed a mug from the drainboard and filled it. “Now, now, we both know I’m not your type.”
For the first time since they’d met, Brett looked genuinely surprised. “And what, exactly, do you think my type is?”
The same kind of woman Nate is attracted to, she thought, frowning slightly. Eden searched her mind for a polite way to say “stuck up,” and noticed a crack in the ceiling. Brett followed her line of vision, from the light fixture above the table to the corner beside the back door. He sipped his coffee, pretending not to see it.
“She’d need a degree from Barnard,” Eden said finally. “Or Brown, and memberships at Valverde Yacht Club and Castle Pines Golf Club.” Laughing quietly, she added, “For starters.”
“Is that how you see me? As some guy who’s only interested in social networking?”
To be honest, Eden thought, yes.
“But,