Her Single Dad Hero Page 6

  “Mine’s roughout,” he said. “You can get this same style in a true suede or a slick leather, even exotics, though I don’t recommend that.”

  She reached for a slick leather in a medium reddish-brown.

  “You’ll have to polish that one to keep it looking good,” he pointed out, “but it’s a better-looking boot, for sure.”

  “I don’t mind a little polishing,” she said, turning the boot over in her hand.

  He smiled. “Try it on.”

  She quickly discovered what he meant about padding where it counted most—and that her skinny jeans looked a little odd tucked into the tops of these boots, which were not as tall as the showy pair she’d bought in Duncan. She decided to let Dean advise her on the proper cut of jeans to go with her new boots.

  The new jeans felt strangely familiar when she slipped them on, and she couldn’t help smiling when she recalled wearing Rex’s old hand-me-downs. How simple and carefree life had seemed back then. Secure in the love and acceptance of her family, all she’d cared about was the day’s activities. She’d never even stopped to wonder what anyone else thought of her. Frowning, she suddenly worried that she might be slipping back into harmful old habits.

  When she stepped out of the dressing room, however, Dean’s eyes lit up with unmistakable approval. Still, she couldn’t help feeling concern.

  Twisting at the waist, she asked, “You don’t think they’re too masculine?”

  He barked laughter. “On you? You’re the girl who rocked a pair of cleats and a batting helmet. Now you’re worried about looking masculine?”

  Was he saying that she’d looked good in cleats and a helmet or that it was too late to worry about her femininity? At least Donovan’s opinion seemed unambiguous.

  “She looks pretty, don’t she, Dad?”

  Dean ruffled the boy’s shaggy hair, saying, “Of course.”

  Still doubtful, Ann turned her back to the mirror and looked over her shoulder in time to catch Dean’s expression in the mirror.

  Rolling his eyes, he said, “Look, who’s going to see you, anyway? It’s not like you’ll wear these things anywhere but the field. Right?”

  That was true. No one but the ranch hands and these two would likely see her dressed like this. It was far too late to try to impress Dean, and the ranch hands still thought of her as that little girl who ran around the place in her brother’s outgrown clothes, so what did she have to lose?

  “I’ll take them,” she decided, and just for old times’ sake she’d take a couple of lightweight, long-sleeved shirts, too. If nothing else, they’d help keep the freckles on her arms at bay. She’d leave them here when she returned to Dallas, and Jordan would never be the wiser. Meanwhile, she’d at least be more comfortable while on the job at Straight Arrow Ranch. And maybe—just maybe—she’d feel some of that old, carefree joy, too.

  * * *

  The snoring from the backseat made Dean chuckle. He had no doubt that they’d worn out the boy. Donovan had been dragging his steps long before they’d gotten back to the truck. He’d been snoring almost before his belt had been buckled on his safety seat. Dean knew his son well, though, and he wasn’t buying it.

  After nearly an hour of silence, as soon as Dean turned the dually onto Straight Arrow Road, Ann asked, “Dean, what did you mean earlier when you said that you didn’t expect anything else from me?”

  He’d suspected that she’d been stewing about that, but he still hadn’t decided exactly how to answer her. He wouldn’t be giving her an explanation in front of his son, though. Lifting a finger to his lips, he brought the truck to a safe stop beside the house and shifted around in his seat.

  “Hey, pard,” he said quietly, “I’m going to walk Miss Ann to her door now. Okay?”

  Donovan’s eyes popped open. He sat up straight and grinned. “Sure.”

  Dean looked at Ann, who bowed her head to hide her smile. “You wait right here. I won’t be long.”

  “I’m real tired,” the boy said, sounding anything but. “I’ll just take another nap.”

  “You do that,” Dean replied, glancing pointedly at Ann again before opening his door and stepping out of the truck, leaving his hat behind.

  She let herself out before he could gather up her packages from the backseat and get around to do it, but he supposed that was to be expected considering how he’d acted earlier. He felt a certain amount of shame about that now. He’d had no right to feel slighted by her before; she just seemed to have that effect on him sometimes; too often, actually. Catching up to her, he walked alongside her, his arms laden with bags and boxes, until they were well beneath the trees on the pathway to the porch.

  “Let’s face it,” he finally said, “Donovan was matchmaking back there at the diner, and it made you uncomfortable. I expected you to show Mrs. Lightner that he’s barking up the wrong tree, and you did just that.”

  “So he’s done this before,” Ann mused.

  “Uh, not really,” Dean had to say. “It’s not like single women are thick on the ground around here. My grandma’s always urging me to get out and date, and it’s obvious that he wants a mother. I—I think it’s a matter of you showing up at the right time, and that hair.”

  “Just as he’s about to start school, you mean.”

  “Exactly.”

  She reached up and touched her head. “The hair, though...”

  They stepped onto the porch.

  “He has red hair. You have red hair,” Dean explained. “To him that means you look like his mother. Makes you a prime candidate.”

  “Ah.”

  “Of course, I know you’re not interested in us.” Even though he’d had a terrible crush on her as a boy. She hadn’t known it, still didn’t know it, and he had no intention of informing her, no more than he had of explaining that her eagerness to rid Mrs. Lightner of any hint that they might be dating, or were even friends, had unexpectedly hurt him.

  “Look, Dean,” Ann began, but just then the front door opened, and her sister, Meredith, stepped out. “Meri!” Ann exclaimed. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “Dad couldn’t wait another day to get home. He’s terribly ill, though, Annie. I had to pull the car right up to the back door to get him into the house.” That probably explained why Dean hadn’t spotted the vehicle when he’d driven in, that and Ann’s question.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,” Ann was saying. “I wish you’d let me know you were coming.”

  “I meant to, but frankly I had my hands full just getting him here.” Meredith glanced at Dean then, adding, “Looks like you’ve got your hands full, too.” He stepped forward as she reached out and began shifting his burdens to her and Ann, while she explained they’d been shopping.

  “Thanks so much for your help with this, Dean.”

  “My pleasure,” he told Ann. “Please let Wes know that Grandma and I are praying for him.”

  “That means a lot,” Meredith said.

  “Don’t hesitate to call on us if we can do anything else.”

  Nodding, Ann said, “Say goodbye to Donovan for me.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He walked away heavy of heart. Wes Billings was a good man, and Dean hoped fervently that he would beat this awful disease, for Wes’s sake but also for the sakes of his children and everyone who knew them. He sensed instinctively that if Wes didn’t make it, Ann would likely never step foot in War Bonnet again. Something about that struck Dean as deeply, desperately, sadly wrong.

  * * *

  To Dean’s surprise, Ann showed up at Countryside Church the next morning. He’d assumed that her father’s illness would keep her away. She’d grown up in this area, so folks greeted her warmly, not that they wouldn’t have done the same for a stranger, but she was Wes Billi
ngs’s girl, and that meant something around here. It didn’t hurt that she looked like a peacock among hens in a shiny, cornflower-blue suit that ignited her eyes and made her skin glow. The slim skirt and high heels accentuated her height and long legs. How she walked in them he would never know, but he liked that she didn’t try to hide her height. So many tall women did, and it just made them look uncertain and awkward. Ann Billings looked ready to take on the world and left the impression that she could do it without breaking a fingernail.

  Still, she looked a little sad and lonely sitting all alone. If Donovan had been there instead of children’s church, he’d have rushed up and thrown his arms around her. Dean didn’t have his son’s confidence that his greeting would be returned with equal warmth, so he contented himself with a nod and a mumble.

  “Nice to see you.”

  His grandmother scolded him, in her fashion, after the service.

  “You need to speak to her, Dean. You’ve had more to do with her than anyone here, I figure, and the Billingses have been good to us.”

  Betty Gladys Pryor was a stout, tall woman who wore her long, gray hair curled into a droopy bun on the back of her head and gave up her jeans and T-shirts for a dress only on Sundays, but Dean had never known her to own a pair of nylon stockings or a tube of lipstick. She’d worked alongside her husband in the field when they’d farmed wheat and raised two daughters, one of whom—Dean’s mother, Wynona—had been a terrible disappointment. Betty still managed a good acre of a vegetable garden every year, as well as her grandson and great-grandson. She spoke her mind but never with rancor and faced each day with calm, patient acceptance and the expectation of joy. Dean had learned, with some difficulty, to value her advice and opinions, but if she had a failing it was thinking more highly of him than she had any reason to.

  “Don’t you go getting any ideas,” he grumbled, even as he began to forge a path through the disbanding crowd to Ann’s side. Betty snagged a forefinger in his belt loop and tagged along in his wake.

  “How’s your dad doing?” Dean asked as soon as he reached Ann, who had yet to leave her pew because of the people gathered around her. She turned a smile on him and spoke in a voice loud enough for all to hear.

  “It’s pretty rough right now. He isn’t allowed many visitors for fear of infection while his immune system is at a low ebb, but Meredith is taking good care of him. He wanted me here today specifically to let y’all know that he appreciates your prayers and support.”

  “Anything we can do?” someone asked.

  “Mostly keep up those prayers,” Ann answered.

  “You sure got those,” someone else said.

  “A card now and again would brighten his day,” she suggested.

  “We can make that happen,” one of the women said, and she stepped away with two or three others to discuss a mail campaign.

  The crowd began to break up. His grandmother edged forward then, and Dean introduced her.

  “Ann, I’m not sure you’ve ever met my grandmother. Grandma, this is Ann Billings. Ann, my grandmother, Betty Pryor.”

  “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Pryor.”

  “Oh, call me Betty or Grandma. Everyone does. Forgive me if I’m stepping on your toes, sugar, but with Callie away, your sister nursing your dad and you running things up at the Straight Arrow, I’m wondering if you couldn’t use some good old-fashioned home cooking about now. I’m no Gloria Billings, but I can put together a meat loaf right quick. What do you say?”

  Ann looked to Dean, and he could see the relief in her eyes but also the polite protest she was forming. He spoke before she could.

  “You put it together, Grandma. I’ll deliver it.”

  Ann gave in without a fight. “Thank you so much. Callie put up what she could for us, but I’m not even any good at reheating it. I always get the oven too hot or the burner too high. And Meri has her hands full right now. If Dad could just get one decent meal...”

  “Tell you what,” Grandma said, taking Ann’s hand. “I’ve got some chicken soup canned for when Donovan gets his usual winter croup. I’ll send that over, too, and a few other things that are still sitting around from last year’s garden. Maybe some creamed corn or bean soup would ease Wes’s stomach. You can warm that in the microwave.”

  “Mrs. Pry—Betty, you are a Godsend,” Ann declared.

  Just then, Donovan came barreling through a side door. “Dad!”

  His teacher waved at Dean to let him know that she hadn’t just turned the boy loose. “Sorry!” Dean called. “Got a little held up.”

  “Donovan, please don’t run or shout in the sanctuary,” Dean instructed as the boy crashed into his side, waving his class papers.

  “Yessir. Boy, we had a good story. Did you know about Lazarus?”

  “I did.”

  “He died, and it was so long he was probably all stinky and everything, but Jesus brought him back.” Before Dean could even remark on that, Donovan turned to his great-grandmother. Then he spied Ann and threw himself at her, nearly knocking her backward in his exuberance.

  She laughed, staggering behind his hug. “Hello to you, too.”

  Donovan promptly backed up a step, tilted back his head and declared, “Wow, you sure are pretty.”

  Ann glanced around uncertainly, but then she smiled and said, “Why, thank you, Donovan.”

  He grabbed his father’s hand and said to Betty. “She sure is pretty, ain’t she, Grandma?”

  “Isn’t she,” Dean corrected, trying not to look at Ann as he said it.

  Grandma hid her smile behind her hand and nodded before answering. “She sure is. That color suits her very well.”

  Ann shook her head, blushing.

  “Come on, you,” Dean said, rescuing her by grasping Donovan’s shoulders and turning him up the aisle. “We have to get going. Grandma has some cooking to do.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Donovan crowed.

  “What did I say about shouting in the sanctuary?” Dean reminded him.

  Ducking his head, Donovan lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “Woo-hoo.” Dean started him toward the doors at the back of the long room. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse,” Donovan claimed to no one in particular, “A dead, stinky horse.”

  Behind them, Grandma and Ann laughed. Dean liked the sound of their mingled voices, and—not for the first time—he wished that he could be as free with his compliments as his son was with his. That ring on Ann’s finger tied Dean’s tongue, though, not that she wanted to hear compliments from him in any event, a fact he would do well to remember in the future.

  * * *

  By the time Ann heard tires on the red dirt road outside the ranch house later that afternoon, she was half out of her mind.

  “That has to be Dean.”

  “Whoever it is, get them in here,” Meredith barked, holding their father’s head as he slumped into the corner by the bathroom door. “You should’ve called me,” she scolded for perhaps the tenth time as Ann ran for the front door.

  “Man’s...got his...pride,” Wes gasped.

  Ann was still shaking her head about that when she opened the front door to find Dean ambling along the path toward the porch, a big cardboard box in his arms.

  “Hurry!” she exclaimed. “We need your help.”

  He broke into long, loping strides. She stepped back, holding open both the screen and the front doors.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as he slipped past her, the box clutched to his chest.

  “Dad fell on his way back from the bathroom, and we can’t get him up.”

  “Where is he?”

  She hurried around him and quickly led the way through the foyer and along the hallway past the living room and back staircase into the spacious kitchen, where he left the box and his hat on the table. They rushed acro
ss the room and into the back hallway to the first door on the left.

  Rex had brought in a hospital bed and opened a doorway into an updated bath behind the mudroom so their dad could make a convenient downstairs bed suite in the space their mom had once claimed for her crafts and sewing. The room was large enough to allow for a dresser and a couple comfortable chairs, a flat-screen television and bedside tables, and the wheelchair that Wes so hated to use. Ann and her sister had done their best to dress up the space with fresh paint, their late mother’s needlework and filmy curtains on the large windows overlooking the side yard. The hardwood floors were clean, bare and even.

  Meredith popped up from the far side of the bed by the bathroom door.

  “Oh, thank God you’re here, Dean. We can’t lift him.”

  Dean shot across the room and rounded the bed, going down on his haunches next to Wes, who lay crumpled into the corner.

  “You okay there, Wes? Did you hit your head?”

  “I think he knocked his elbow against the wall, but he doesn’t seem to have broken anything,” Meredith answered.

  “Pushed it...a little...too far,” Wes panted, lifting an arm toward Dean.

  Gingerly looping Wes’s arm around his neck, Dean scooped his own arms around Wes’s shoulders and hips, asking, “Do you think you can get your feet under you?”

  “Think so,” Wes muttered, wrapping his other arm around Dean.

  “Okay. Let’s get you up.”

  Standing, Dean literally lifted Wes with him. He scrabbled for a moment, but then Wes got his feet planted and stiffened his legs. Ann noted that as soon as Wes was standing, Dean shifted, keeping a supportive arm about her dad. Obviously Dean was doing his best to afford her father every dignity. Ann felt tears fill her eyes and quickly busied herself straightening the covers on her dad’s bed. Wes sidled closer and eased himself down onto the edge of the bed, Dean supporting him all the way.

  As soon as Dean backed away, Meredith stepped in and removed the slippers from their father’s feet, lifting his legs up and onto the bed and making him comfortable.

  “How’s your stomach?”

  Wes laid a large, bony hand across his flat middle. Despite the thirty pounds or more he’d dropped in the past weeks, he was still a big man, but the chemo had taken his once lush, cinnamon-and-sugar hair, giving him a cadaverish look that broke Ann’s heart every time she saw him.