As Beth headed for her own desk to do a little catch-up work, she wondered what he was really seeing.
Beth knew what she wished she wasn’t seeing. Her mother, the school secretary, walking by the classroom, lips pursed, a half dozen times.
Since the three Armstrong girls hit puberty, their mother had had two purposes: educate the girls so they could be self-sufficient and/or keep the girls safe and marry them off to nice churchgoing doctors or lawyers or business owners. Patsy wasn’t old-fashioned or a snob. She just wanted her daughters to graduate from college and/or be married to men who chose nice, safe, well-paying professions.
Two areas in which Mom felt her own life had suffered.
Beth’s oldest sister, Linda, hadn’t met either criteria: no college, no nice young man. Middle sister, Susan, had started college, but dropped out to get married and Mom didn’t really approve of her husband’s profession as a police officer.
Not a safe career.
Her mother’s dreams settled like a yoke across Beth’s shoulders. Attending teachers college hadn’t been a choice, it had been an order. To save money, Beth had managed to graduate in three years instead of four. And right now, her mother was championing the new youth minister at their church. Being a youth minister wasn’t a well-paying job, but Nathan Fisher was also a physical therapist.
Beth set most of the class to cleaning up their seat area. Then, row by row, she called them by her desk where the mailboxes were. With the exception of Matt, all did her bidding.
He’d been even more lethargic than usual today. No doubt she could blame some of it on his uncle Joel and a late-night call from the hospital. Quite a lot for a five-year-old to handle.
No tiny bits of paper were on the floor by his desk. He’d barely started his cutting project. As for crayons, he had only used three—a brown, a black and a red—and they were stored in his crayon box. The upside-down book was already placed neatly in his desk. His lunch box, she knew, contained a peanut butter sandwich with three small bite marks.
That was all she could convince him to eat.
“Come on, Matt. You have a few papers to take home.”
He shrugged. This wasn’t what Mandy would have wanted.
Which was why Beth had headed to Solitaire Farm last night. She’d been mad, and although she wasn’t one to act on impulse, when Jared hadn’t shown up for his parent-teacher conference time, she’d taken it personally.
So at seven-thirty, after she’d finally gotten her classroom back in order and prepped for the following day, she’d headed for Solitaire Farm and Matt McCreedy’s father.
After a long day on the farm, Jared hadn’t been in the mood to hear what she had to say. He’d promised to reschedule. Thanked her for caring enough to make a home visit. Then, politely walked her to her car.
She and Linda had been his late wife’s best friends. Mandy had been in Linda’s class, but had always identified with the youngest Armstrong, treating her as a favorite kid sister and then an adult best friend. For nine years, Solitaire Farm had been a second home. That Mandy’s sons were suffering broke Beth’s heart.
“Matt, I need you to get your backpack.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
Beth swallowed. Joel was standing in her classroom doorway and didn’t look like he’d been in an automobile accident at all.
She blurted the first words that came to mind. “What are you doing here?”
He grinned, and eight years of maturity completely deserted her in one heart-melting moment—taking her right back to her schoolgirl crush.
“I’m feeling much better,” he said. “Just a mild concussion. Thanks for asking. I’m lucky you were around to help. As for what I’m doing here, I needed to get my truck in for service. Without it, I either walk or hitch rides. I told Billy I’d meet him here at three.”
“Here, as in my classroom?” The words came out more accusing than she meant them to be. But she didn’t need any more questions from fellow teachers, not about Joel. And she certainly didn’t need her mother to come marching down the hallway, all pursed lips and disapproving. Plus, she was a bit concerned about the look on Matt’s face. The boy was staring at his uncle half in awe and half in terror.
“I also need to return this.” He pulled her cell phone from his back jeans pocket.
“Miss Armstrong, Mitzi put trash on my floor,” came a small, accusing voice.
Sure enough, little Mitzi, instead of walking all the way to the classroom trash can, had dumped her paper, her broken crayons and her half-eaten chicken finger by another student’s desk.
A third student added to the fray, “Teacher, I gotta go …”
Joel smiled and laid the phone on a bookcase by the door. “I’ll let you get back to work. Maybe you’ll let me take you out for dinner some night as a proper thank-you.”
“I don’t think so,” Beth said, giving Mitzi a look that sent her scurrying to clean up her mess again. She tried the same look on Joel, but it only made his grin widen before he left her classroom.
What really amazed Beth was how easily he waltzed into and out of the elementary school, without the tiniest hint of guilt. Now, her mother would do more than just walk by Beth’s door with her lips pursed. Now, the other teachers and some of the parents wouldn’t start with the polite, “So, I hear you were up late last night?”
Their questions would be more concrete.
Because Joel McCreedy wasn’t just a prodigal son, he was really a prodigal thief.
Chapter Two
“You’ve got some nerve.”
The softly spoken words came from a source Joel knew well and one who stood blocking the school exit. Patsy Armstrong. She hadn’t changed much in the last eight years. She looked like her two older daughters, tall, brunette, with a sturdy bearing that aged well.
Beth didn’t look, or act, much like her mother.
Maybe that’s why he hadn’t recognized Beth right away last night? That, plus the fact she’d been four years behind him. He’d been in her oldest sister’s graduating class.
“Hello, Mrs. Armstrong. I wondered if you were still working here.”
Actually, he hadn’t wondered. Until just this minute, she’d existed in the “out of sight, out of mind” realm of life. Joel was much too busy worrying about how Jared would react to forced hospitality. Jared’s initial response—yesterday evening—had been the same as Mrs. Armstrong’s.
You’ve got some nerve.
“I most certainly do still work here.” Mrs. Armstrong wasn’t finished. “I believe in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”
Implying Joel didn’t. She definitely wasn’t one who would consider bull riding a profession, and it wouldn’t matter how many purses Joel won or who his sponsor was. Bull riding didn’t come with benefits like unemployment, a 401(k) or retirement. Not really.
The final bell rang. Joel could hear classroom doors opening and the excited clamor of student freedom, but Mrs. Armstrong wasn’t finished. She just got louder. “Did you stop by the office and get a guest pass?”
“My nephews attend here.”
“Your name is not listed on their student cards. You’ll still need to sign in at the office. There