All his wayward male fantasies dissipated like mist in the sunrise when she sat behind the desk in a businesslike manner and folded her hands.
“Mr. Whitley, please sit down so we can discuss your application. For openers, I’m really not sure if you’re suitable for this position.”
He levered his long body into a chair and watched her across the desk, holding his hat on his knee. “Not suitable? In what way?”
She put on a pair of reading glasses and flipped through his application.
Lucia Osborne had the role down pat. She knew all the lines and mannerisms. In fact, she looked pretty damned convincing, and there was no doubt she was good at her job.
But somewhere deep in her eyes he caught a flash of the woman who lived within, the one who probably laughed when she was by herself, and maybe even sang aloud. A woman who felt lonely sometimes, and perhaps even scared of the heavy responsibility of running this school.
Get a grip, cowboy, he told himself, shifting in the chair. Don’t start letting your imagination run away with you.
In fact, this was often a problem for Jim Whitley. He had a warm easy manner, and a vivid imagination that sometimes caused him to endow other people, especially women, with qualities they didn’t really possess. In the past, these mistakes had caused him a lot of painful disappointment, and now he tended to be more wary.
She gestured at his application with a slim hand.
Jim realized he also really liked her hands. The nails were neatly trimmed and free of polish, and she wore no rings at all.
He pictured himself lifting that hand and kissing the tips of each pink finger, then…
“You have a rather erratic employment history,” she said.
He grinned and leaned back in the chair, extending his long denim-clad legs. “Yeah, I guess that’s true,” he admitted cheerfully. “You might say I’m a bit of a rolling stone.”
“Well, I’m really looking for somebody a little more stable.” She took off her reading glasses and gazed at him directly. “This is a very difficult class, Mr. Whitley. They’re bright, lively students, but there are thirty-two in the class. They need somebody with enough commitment to bring them under control and keep them in line.”
“Then I’m your man. I’ll have them shaped up in no time.”
“I see. And how will you do that?” she asked.
“I’m a teacher, Ms. Osborne,” he told her calmly. “I know how to deal with a tough group of students. As you can see in my application, I’ve never had any kind of discipline problems.”
“But this class needs more than a strict disciplinarian.” The principal frowned again at the papers in front of her. “They also need to have their test scores brought up at least eight basis points, because they’re the lowest in the school. They bring down our average. And right now,” she added, her face clouding, “we need the highest average we can possibly muster.”
“Why?” he asked, surprised by her sudden look of tension. “What’s so important about test scores right now?”
She ignored his question. “Now, about your previous experience—”
“Is there anything in my application that leads you to believe I can’t raise their test scores?” he asked.
The flush mounted on the pale curve of her cheek. Jim watched its soft color with interest, wondering again what was bothering her.
“I just…” She waved her hand at the forms on her desk and searched for words, something he suspected she didn’t have to do very often.
“You’re wondering why I never stay in one place very long,” he said to help her.
“Yes, in fact I am. You’ve apparently done a good job at quite a number of schools, Mr. Whitley, yet you keep moving on. And it seems there are a number of years when you haven’t taught at all.”
“A number of years?” He raised an eyebrow at her, unable to resist the urge to tease, though he suspected he might pay for it later.
But she wasn’t about to banter with him. “You graduated from A & M, getting an education degree with distinction when you were twenty-one,” the principal said. “In the fifteen years since then, it appears to me that you’ve worked about eight school terms, or slightly more than half the time. What do you do when you’re not teaching, Mr. Whitley?”
Jim couldn’t keep from staring at those soft curving lips…
“What do you do when you’re not being a principal, Ms. Osborne?”
Again that enchanting shadow of color touched her cheeks, as soft and lovely as the bloom on a wild rose, or the first colors of dawn painting the eastern sky.
“I’m not the one applying for employment,” she said stiffly. “So I hardly need to—”
“You’re right.” Jim repented again when he saw how uncomfortable he was making her. “You’re absolutely right. And I’ll answer your question, ma’am. What I do when I’m not teaching is travel the rodeo circuit.”
“Rodeo?” she repeated blankly, as if he’d said he was an elephant trainer. “A schoolteacher who travels to rodeos?”
“It’s not as rare as you’d think.” Jim gave her a sunny smile, wishing she could relax and smile back at him. “There are a lot of guys like me who love teaching, but also love the rodeo. Teaching is certainly a more secure way to make a living. Plus, if a guy ever makes the huge error of getting married and tied down,” he added, his smile broadening, “at least he’s got the whole summer free to take in some local rodeos here and there.”
“I see. But you seem to take more than the summers.”
“I’ve never been tied down,” he said casually, “though I came close a few times, back in my wild and careless youth. What I like to do is take a year off now and then to hit the road full-time. I travel the western states and up into Canada and collect enough points to qualify for the national finals in Las Vegas. Years when I’m feeling lazy, or when I’m packing some kind of injury, I just settle down somewhere and teach school for a couple of semesters.”
“It sounds like a very pleasant life,” she said.
Jim examined the woman’s face closely. There was something at the back of her eyes…
“What’s wrong?” he asked abruptly, forgetting the purpose of the interview.
“I…don’t know what you mean.”
“You look like you’ve been crying,” he said, “or at least trying hard not to. Is there something bothering you?”
“Nothing that’s any concern of yours.” Her face was remote again, devoid of expression, and she riffled briskly through the papers on her desk. “Now, about this job application…”
He got up, holding his hat. “Ms. Osborne,” he said gently.
She looked up at him in surprise.
“You know, and I know,” Jim said, “that I’m the best applicant you’re going to get. We both know I can handle those kids, and give you the kind of results you need. So let’s just dispense with all the preliminaries and get me on the payroll. Then I can start helping you with this class, and also move into some kind of permanent residence.”
He thought she’d fire up at that and object to being pushed around, but she didn’t. She just nodded thoughtfully and looked at the papers under her hands.
“Where are you living now?” she asked.
“I’m staying out at J. T. McKinney’s ranch, in the guest house. Cal