“I see. Well, it’s your business.”
“It is that.”
“And I don’t care for sweets,” Ann called defensively as he turned away and began to trudge toward the newly installed feed bin, plucking his sunglasses from his shirt pocket.
“It shows,” he drawled, and not just in her trim figure. Her attitude could use some sweetening, in his opinion, but he couldn’t fault her shape.
Telling himself to put her out of mind as he had so often done before, he strode to the feed bin, climbed the attached metal ladder and began releasing the chains with which he had hoisted the heavy, white-painted steel bin into place. Tomorrow he would begin harvesting the oats that would be stored in this particular bin.
The second bin—this one painted green—was even larger and would contain the sorghum crop. This, too, Dean would harvest, but only after the oats were in, as much more heat would strip the oats of their protein content. After that, a blending plant would be built.
Rex and Wes Billings had decided to take the ranch onto an organic pathway. Wes had started the process months ago when he’d allowed Dean to plant and oversee the two forage crops without any pesticides. To Dean’s surprise, Rex had even given up his law practice in Tulsa to permanently move home to the Straight Arrow Ranch and oversee the transition, while his dad received treatment for his cancer. Wes imagined that Rex’s wife, Callie, had something to do with that decision.
If Rex was happy living on the Straight Arrow and practicing law in War Bonnet, the tiny Oklahoma town where he, Ann and their younger sister, Meredith, had all gone to school, then Dean wished him well, but he couldn’t imagine that Ann would follow suit. She had long ago let her disdain be known for this community and everyone in it, himself included, not that she’d ever seemed to know he was alive until now.
So why, Dean wondered, did he feel particularly slighted? Why had Ann Billings always had the power to wound him?
* * *
Ann marched across the pasture to the road. Red-orange dust settled on the toes of her buttery, pale leather flats as she crossed the hard-packed dirt road that ran between the big sagging red barn and the house. She told herself that Dean Pryor’s disdain meant nothing to her. Why should it? He was just another local yokel. She’d barely noticed him in high school—and yet now that she thought about it, he’d always been there on the periphery during what she thought of as her jock phase.
Memories of that time in her life made Ann mentally cringe. She hadn’t stopped to think back then that being able to compete with her brother, out-swinging half the guys on the baseball team and generally acting like a tomboyish hoyden would mark her as less than feminine. Her middle name, which she shared with her mother and grandmother, had been a source of pride for her, even when the coach who’d given her extra batting practice with the boys’ baseball team had shortened Jollett to “Jolly” and the nickname had stuck. It hadn’t occurred to her that being seen as “one of the guys” would literally mean being seen as one of the guys. Even now, though, all these years later, she couldn’t seem to outlive either the nickname or the impression.
Around War Bonnet and the Straight Arrow, she was Jolly Billings, the mannish, unfeminine daughter of Wes Billings, and nothing she could do would change that. No matter that she rose every morning at daylight and ran for miles to keep her figure. Never mind that she spent hours every day on her makeup and hair or wore the finest Manolo Blahnik shoes and Escada suits, not that the clodhoppers around here even knew the difference.
No, she didn’t belong here, could never again belong here. Suddenly she longed for the anonymous, frenetic energy of Dallas and the quiet, reserved presence of her fiancé, Jordan Teel. At 41, Jordan was thirteen years her senior, but then Ann had always been mature for her age. That, she told herself, was why she had forgotten Dean Pryor, the younger batboy for the softball team.
She heard the phone ringing before she got back to the house and hurried inside to find her brother calling. Pushing aside thoughts of Dean Pryor, she took notes as Rex advised her of the contractors who would soon be journeying from Ardmore and Duncan to bid on building a garage behind the house and remodeling the master bedroom for him and Callie. Ann promised to take the bids, scan them and email them to him.
As they talked, she heard Donovan’s high-pitched voice outside, speaking to his dog, Digger. Before long, Ann mused, her little niece, Bodie Jane, would be running around the place much like Donovan did now. That was what she and Rex had done. They’d run wild, practically living on horseback and knocking out every step their dad had taken around the place until school had intruded.
Being the youngest, Meredith had spent more time with their mom, Gloria, but Ann had desperately wanted to do everything that Rex and Wes had done. That, no doubt, had been her downfall.
Unbidden, other words ran through Ann’s mind.
You sure are pretty. And you got red hair like me.
At least Donovan thought she was pretty, and it seemed to matter that she had red hair like him.
Not that she cared one way or another what the Pryors thought.
She yanked off the ball cap and touched a hand to her long, stiffly waving locks, wondering when its shade had ever before been a plus for her. She wished Callie had told her that she’d given the kid free run of the house before she’d taken off to Tulsa with Rex and Bodie. Maybe then she wouldn’t have come off so...tough. Maybe she’d have had a chance to appear soft and womanly.
On the other hand, Dean Pryor had known her a lot longer than she’d realized. She’d probably never be able to overcome the image of her hard-slugging, hard-driving, super-competitive past with him.
Not that it mattered. Actually, it didn’t matter one whit what he or anyone else around War Bonnet thought of her.
Jolly.
She shook her head. It had been a long time since anyone had called her that.
Not long enough.
“Watch it, Dean!”
“Sorry.”
So much for not thinking of Ann Billings. Dean Paul pulled his attention back to the job at hand, getting the lift chains on the feed bin released without braining any of his help or injuring himself. A man could easily lose a finger if he didn’t focus. Besides, what did it matter? He’d never been anything but an underclassman to her, and he was still obviously underclass in her estimation.
He could live with her low opinion of him, but it burned him up that she’d thought his son had been stealing cookies. Dean had learned to swallow his anger and focus on his joy a long time ago. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help wanting to give her a piece of his mind where his boy was concerned. He listened as he worked and caught the sound of his son talking to his dog in the distance. The exact words escaped him, but the tone of Donovan’s voice assured Dean that all was well. His five-year-old son, born Christmas Day, was the gift of a lifetime, in Dean’s opinion.
Smiling, he released the last heavy link and let the chain fall, calling, “Heads up!” He tossed the heavy, locking S hook to the ground and descended the ladder.
When Rex had told him that Ann would be here to oversee and help with the build-out and harvest, Dean had felt a secret thrill of anticipation, but apparently nothing had changed in the last decade. She still obviously thought she was too good for the likes of him. And maybe she was. God knew that he’d made more than his fair share of mistakes in this life already.
Being a father to his son was not one of them, however. Being Donovan’s dad had shown Dean that he could do anything that he had to do. It had also given him more joy than he had known the world could contain. That was all he needed, more than he’d ever expected, enough to keep him thanking