Double Blind. Hannah Alexander

      Canaan stepped through the large room he’d occupied far too much in the past few weeks—the principal’s office. When he was a student here, it was the one place all the children dreaded to go. That hadn’t changed for him. In fact, he’d learned that the principal hated disciplining the child more than the child hated to be disciplined.

      Or, at least, this principal hated it. He was not principal material. When his grandfather had asked him to fill this position on an emergency basis, the teachers and other staff had promised to help him with the load. Now he was afraid to ask for help. Whom could he trust?

      He entered the clinic, where he’d spent many nights lately, often falling asleep at the desk in the corner. Sinking into the well-used chair, he turned his attention to the bank of file cabinets, where patient records dating back to the founding of the school thirty years ago were waiting for him to study.

      And study them he must, as soon as he found time.

      People in these parts, including the staff, believed Canaan’s grandfather, Johnny Jacobs, to be a wealthy man. After all, he’d spared no expense on the new buildings last year, especially the clinic, which was, in truth, a very modern medical station, with excellent technical capabilities. The equipment had all been donated by Arizona hospitals, but Johnny made sure that everything was in good working order.

      What few people knew was that Granddad had sunk his whole fortune in Twin Mesas and three other mission schools around the state, with just enough generated income to meet the payroll at each school. He also accepted donations from several benefactors who had supported his goals for educating Navajo children from the start. He kept careful records, which he shared with the other contributors.

      It was the principal’s job at each school to make an annual report. Bob Jaffrey had done the preliminary work for Twin Mesas this year, but it was up to Canaan to complete it. He looked at a stack of files piled on a corner of the desk and sighed—yet another task he didn’t feel capable of performing.

      Canaan loved and respected his grandfather. He would do anything to help him and this school. The problem was that Canaan had almost reached his limit.

      When he’d first discovered Sheila was coming, he’d been hopeful. Hard on the heels of that hope, he’d recalled the trouble Sheila had endured here at the time of her mother’s death. He would never forget the haunted child she’d become before her father took her away. No one had seen her pain as Canaan had.

      Because of this knowledge, he’d argued with his grandfather about this choice. He’d also argued with Doc Cottonwood, who thought Sheila’s arrival would be reason for celebration.

      Johnny Jacobs was not a man easily swayed, or he’d have given up on his dreams for his Navajo friends years ago. He was sold on Sheila’s qualifications, and Canaan hadn’t been able to talk him out of her coming.

      After all, as Granddad had emphasized, Sheila was grown now: her traumatic experiences were long behind her. He believed she could handle returning, and that she was familiar enough with their ways that she would be an excellent fit with the schoolchildren she would be helping.

      Judging by today, however, Canaan had even more doubts that she’d be able to carry out what needed doing—the blood testing, the physicals. He knew she could perform the tasks, but would she be able to win over the sometimes skeptical children and staff?

      Tanya’s reaction concerned him. And Tanya wouldn’t be the only one to resist Sheila’s presence.

      He would have to wait and see.

       Chapter Seven

       P reston shoved his cell phone into the front pocket of his shirt as Blaze walked up the hill toward the house, with a child holding on to each hand. Brittany chortled with laughter at something he had just said; Lucy chuckled with less abandon…though not with less enjoyment. Blaze knew enough animal jokes and stories to keep the girls entertained all day, and he seemed to be having as much fun as they were.

      Several of the staff at the Hideaway Hospital had tried to convince Blaze that he had a future in pediatrics. His favorite comment was that he preferred piglets to kidlets, though judging by his behavior with Lucy and Brittany, he would be hard-pressed to charm a baby pig with any more tenderness.

      “What’s up?” Blaze stepped up onto the deck, eyeing the glass Preston held in his hand. “That your famous Preston Black iced coffee? Got any more?”

      Preston jerked his head toward the kitchen door behind him. “Help yourself. There’s coffee and ice in the kitchen. You know where the glasses are.”

      Blaze grimaced and shook his head. “Nah. It doesn’t taste the same if I have to make it myself. Yours are always the best.”

      “Who’d ever suspect the great, hardworking Blaze Farmer would be too lazy to make his own drink?” Preston quipped.

      “Ask Cook. He’ll tell you how my cooking skills have dropped off since I started college. I can peel taters and haul groceries from the store, but once I start to work around the stove, the boys at the ranch suddenly discover they’ve got to be somewhere else for supper.”

      “I guess it’s a good thing Fawn Morrison can cook, then,” Preston teased, and was rewarded by a warm, if clueless, smile. Blaze and Fawn—both students at College of the Ozarks—had been best friends since Fawn’s arrival in Hideaway two years ago. Nearly the whole population of the town knew they were sweet on each other, except for the two of them.

      “She’s got Bertie’s black walnut waffles down to a fine art,” Blaze said. “And she’s about to improve on the recipe. I get the rundown on every ingredient change she makes, and I get to sample the results.”

      Preston didn’t pursue the subject. Those two kids would pick up on the obvious one day. Until then, let their friendship continue to develop; it was the best way to build a long-lasting marriage. But then, Preston hadn’t ever been married, so what would he know?

      Blaze frowned at him. “You got something on your mind today?”

      Preston glanced toward the door. “Why don’t I make you my special iced cappuccino.”

      “Why don’t I take the girls horseback riding as soon as they wash all the lake mud off their arms and legs,” Blaze said, giving the girls a pointed look.

      Before Preston could respond, Lucy and Brittany were racing into the house, arguing over who would be first at the sink.

      With a smile, Preston jerked his head toward the door, and led the way inside to make Blaze’s favorite coffee drink.

      Blaze followed. “Sheila get to Arizona yet?”

      Preston nodded.

      “She doing okay?”

      Preston placed ice in the blender and started adding coffee, cream, spices. “Not sure.”

      “That don’t sound good.”

      Preston gave his young friend a glance. Blaze had arrived in Hideaway as a fifteen-year-old kid with dreadlocks, an undeserved reputation as an arsonist…and a broken heart. His father, a divorced veterinarian, had raised