Her Single Dad Hero

“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, more golden, less orange, it glistened like copper pennies. Dean frowned. Hadn’t her hair been brighter at one time? He fought the insane urge to rub locks of it between his fingers to see if the color rubbed off and exposed the brighter hue he seemed to recall.

Turning, she led the way into the study where he had conducted his business with her father and brother. Dean lifted off his hat, stepped inside, pushed the door closed behind him and followed. Leaning over the desk, she signed a check, tore it from a large, hard-backed checkbook and handed it over.

“I really didn’t know about the cookies,” she said defensively. “Callie didn’t tell me.”

He glanced at the check, folded it and stashed it in his shirt pocket. “I suppose she had a lot on her mind, what with the wedding and all.”

The young widowed mother had come to keep house for the Billings men and help take care of Wes, who was fighting cancer. It had quickly become obvious to everyone who saw them together that she and Ann’s brother, Rex, were made for each other. They had married within weeks.

Ann dropped down into the chair behind the desk, muttering, “I suppose. I don’t really see what the rush was, though.”

Surprised, Dean lifted his brows at that. “Don’t you?”

“No,” she stated flatly, laying both of her hands on the desk blotter. “I don’t.”

He saw the big diamond on her left hand then, and understanding dawned. Along with unwelcome disappointment. “Ah. And how long have you been engaged?”

“Not long,” she said, smiling and leaning back in the desk chair, “but I don’t intend to rush things. A proper wedding takes time to plan.”

His throat burned with a sudden welling of acid. “Does it? I thought Rex and Callie’s wedding was everything proper.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No. Sorry, I don’t.”

Ann rolled her pale eyes. “Well, for starters, I won’t be getting married here.”

He nodded, an ugly bitterness surging inside him. “Got it. War Bonnet’s not good enough for you.”

Blinking, she rose to her feet. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s just that the majority of my friends and most of my business contacts live in Dallas now.”

“Uh-huh.”

She folded her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just...” He really needed to shut his mouth and get out of there. Instead, he said, “You haven’t changed much, have you? Except you’re coloring your hair now.” He knew it suddenly, and she confirmed it by lifting a hand to her hair, something like guilt flashing across her face.

“What do you mean, I haven’t changed? I’ve changed a lot.”

“No, you haven’t,” he said, knowing he was being rude but unable to help himself for some reason. “You’re still a snob.”

She jerked as if he’d hit her. “I am not a snob.”

“Really? Couldn’t prove it by me.” He might as well still be the ball boy to her athletic highness.

“What do you have to do with it?” she demanded.

“Not a thing,” he told her, thumping his hat onto his head and turning away.

“And what’s wrong with my hair?” she demanded.

He looked back at her. “I like the real you better, that’s all.”

“You don’t know the real me,” she snapped.

He let his gaze sweep over her, liking what he saw, missing what he didn’t see, wishing otherwise on both counts.

“Don’t I?” he asked. “You still look and act like the queen of War Bonnet High to me.”

With that, he finally got out of there, calling himself ten kinds of fool. The queen, after all, couldn’t be expected to do more than barely acknowledge her servants.