Rubbing her eyes as much in reaction to the incongruous sight as against the early-morning glare, Neesa Little reached into her convertible sports coupe’s compartment for sun glasses as she waited for the neighborhood children to board the big yellow bus. Remembering she’d left the sun glasses on her kitchen counter, she muttered sharply under her breath while squinting in the direction of the newcomer at the bus stop.
The man wearing the Stetson most certainly didn’t blend into the pruned, tamed and manicured landscaping of Holly Mount subdivision. Not a bit. In fact, with his faded chambray work shirt, tight jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, he didn’t appear to come from anywhere near Ellis Springs, Georgia. He rather looked as if he’d ridden right out of the wild West. The only things missing were a lariat, a faithful cow pony and a herding dog.
He bent to receive an exuberant farewell hug from the last little girl to board the bus. It was the final day of the school year, and joy showed on the child’s face. Witnessing the simple parent-child scene set off an old familiar pain. Neesa winced, mentally chiding herself to quit dwelling on her own biological deficiencies.
As he straightened, the cowboy looked directly at Neesa, whose open convertible idled in the opposite lane facing the bus.
Her breath caught sharply in her throat. Within the few seconds that he held her gaze, she felt vulnerable, wished she hadn’t put the ragtop down this morning. Wished too that she had, at least, the scant protection of sun glasses, for his dark eyes seemed to knowingly plumb the depths of her very soul.
Plumb the depths of her very soul.
How silly. The June sun was beginning to addle her brains.
It was just an accidental glance, for goodness sakes. And he was a stranger. An ordinary suburban dad. Probably happily married. With two point five kids, a hefty mortgage and golf clubs in the back of a minivan. The cowboy duds would be purely for macho show.
What special powers could he have to know her deepest vulnerabilities? What interest at all could he have in her? She swallowed hard.
“You’re drooling on the steering wheel!” The lilting voice of Claire English, her best friend, neighbor and carpool companion, startled Neesa back into the here and now. “And besides, the bus driver’s turned off the blinking red lights. Git, girl.”
The bus slowly passed them, going in the opposite direction. As Neesa took her foot off the brake, she glanced at the bus stop one more time. The tennis-skirted moms were hovering about the man in the Stetson like long-legged moths to a flame. Obviously he didn’t need yet another admirer.
“Isn’t that a picture?” Claire asked merrily. “Do you suppose he’ll hightail it back to his ranch come Monday morning, or will the lovely ladies-who-lunch lure him into staying? Turn him into their very own suburban cowboy?”
“He doesn’t live here?” Neesa knew Claire would only need one question to get her started.
Her friend inhaled deeply as if she were preparing for the tale she had to tell. Claire English knew everything about their subdivision neighbors. And she liked nothing better than to share her observations with Neesa.
“No, he doesn’t live here. His name’s Hank Whittaker. He’s baby-sitting the Russell kids today through Sunday while Evan and Cilla are out of town, working on their marriage.”
Turning out of the subdivision onto the state road, Neesa remembered from Claire’s past tales that the Russell relationship was rocky. She didn’t want to talk about the Russells, however. “Is Mr. Whittaker really a rancher, or were you just guessing?” She had an ulterior motive in asking.
“Oh, he’s a rancher, all right. Raises and trains logging horses on a spread off Route 176. A big spread, I hear tell.”
Neesa’s professional antennae went up, but she tried not to appear too concerned, for Claire would certainly misinterpret her interest in the handsome cowboy. “Well, he doesn’t quite fit the nanny type,” she offered nonchalantly.
“My, my, if that’s not the truth.” Claire chortled. “Did you get a look at the fit of his jeans?”
Neesa hadn’t. Not really. She’d been lost, instead, in his eyes. Eyes the color of midnight. Intense and probing. With a hint of arrogance. No...not arrogance. Something subtler. More intricate. An aloofness that most probably would coincide with his occupation. Unless she missed her guess, rancher Hank Whittaker was a loner. Someone so sure of the distance between himself and others that he wouldn’t shrink from staring into a woman’s soul.
She shivered. She didn’t like having her soul examined.
Pressing her foot to the accelerator, she skillfully maneuvered the car along the winding two-lane. The wind loosened strands of hair from the clasp at the back of her neck. She loved driving her little roadster with the top down, and she loved driving fast. It was a way of easing, for a brief time, the pressure of professional challenges and the ache of personal worries.
With her thumb she rubbed the bare ring finger of her left hand. Force of habit. Why, after a year, should it still pain her that the wedding band was gone?
“Are we in a hurry this morning?” That was Claire’s hint to slow down. They played this game every time it was Neesa’s turn to drive. Claire liked her gossip quick and breezy, not her commute.
“In fact, we are.” Neesa sighed heavily. “I need every extra minute I can squeeze out of today. Unless I come up with a sponsor—and soon—for my Kids & Animals program idea, my supervisor’s going to make me abandon it. Trouble is, I have to find the sponsor on my own time. Between regular client appointments and paperwork.”
“But that idea’s a wonderful enrichment program. So many of the kids would benefit from it.”
“How I know it. But if I can’t find a sponsor, I can’t even get a pilot program off the ground. And until I can do that, my idea remains a creative frill.”
There were far too few frills in the lives of the kids Neesa dealt with daily. She grimaced. And unfortunately, these particular children experienced far too few of life’s necessities, as well. She worked for an unusual private group that helped government agencies find homes—both permanent and temporary—for hard-to-place kids. Kids with emotional problems. Kids with physical problems. Kids who might not ever have a loving home. If she couldn’t find them homes, she tried to find support programs to help them cope with life in a state-run institution.
She’d planned her Kids & Animals idea as just such a support program. For the children consistently left behind.
“I’m amazed you haven’t already thought of this!” Claire exclaimed.
“What?”
“Our temporary neighbor. Rancher Hank Whittaker.”
“What about him?”
“Ranch. Animals. Kids.” Claire beamed. “Duh!”
“But how to approach him?” Neesa tapped one finger rhythmically on the steering wheel. “I don’t know the man. He’s not even one of our neighbors. I can’t very well walk up to him and ask him for this huge commitment before the introductions are cold.”
“Use your imagination. Isn’t that what your agency pays you for?” Claire chuckled. “For instance, the pool opens tomorrow. The Russell kids are part fish. Wear your sunblock and play your cards right, and you’ll have the weekend to meet Gary Cooper, then convince him to sponsor Kids & Animals. His ranch would be perfect.”
Oh, Neesa had already thought of that. But an uneasy feeling made her hesitate before acting upon her thoughts. Heretofore, she’d never held back from a work-related challenge. Never hesitated to approach anyone who might be of help to her kids in need. What held her back now, however, was that long soulful stare she’d received just minutes ago. Something told her that in getting involved with Hank Whittaker—even professionally—she would be getting