LITMIR.BIZ

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muttered.

      “Didn’t you wonder why the younger kids had scores and the older ones didn’t?” Bertie asked the group.

      “I just assumed that the upper grades weren’t tested. You know how they’ve messed with the tests lately, changing dates and grade levels…” Deirdre said.

      “We have copies in your children’s files,” Bertie said, with a frustrated sigh. “We’ll need some time to locate and duplicate them, but you’ll get the scores before Friday.”

      The meeting was adjourned shortly thereafter, and Claire went into her room to collect her jacket and purse. She had no new novel sets, no math manipulatives—just parents who didn’t think she was up to the job of teaching their children. Parents who hadn’t been aware of how far behind their kids were.

      And even though she didn’t need the point hammered home that the parents weren’t supporting her, it had been hammered home.

      “What really fries me,” one parent said as she passed by Clare’s open door on the way to the exit, “is that the school district must know we have low scores, but they send out the most inexperienced teacher they can find.”

      “Well, she certainly isn’t engaging Lexi,” her companion responded. “It looks like all she’s doing is drawing lines in the sand and daring the kids to step across. That’s not teaching.”

      Claire swallowed hard and turned off the lights. She and Bertie stepped out of their rooms and into the hall at the same moment. Bertie signaled for her to wait a minute as the two parents made their way to the exit.

      As soon as the door swung shut, Bertie said, “Try not to—”

      “Take it personally?” Claire shook her head. “It’s kind of hard not to.”

      “These kids haven’t had a real teacher since Regan left, and the parents are getting frustrated.”

      “Well, I can’t blame them, but I hate being prejudged.”

      “That’s a tendency here,” Bertie said. “You’re newly graduated, which is a strike against you. And the kids are complaining, which is another strike. Plus…” She hesitated, then said, “You dress kind of…fancy. Which might put some parents off.”

      “They don’t like the way I dress?” Claire was wearing a knee-length chiffon skirt in a bright floral pattern, a silky peach T-shirt and a chunky necklace. Normal fare for her. But she remembered Elena saying they’d never had a teacher that looked like her.

      “Well…” Bertie looked down at her own clothing, which consisted of brown corduroy pants, a white cotton T-shirt and well-worn athletic shoes. “I think it’s been awhile since they’ve seen anyone wear hosiery to school.”

      “I’m not buying a new wardrobe to fit in,” Claire muttered. “I like my clothes.” She and Bertie walked down the hall together, exiting the school into the inky darkness of a cloudy night.

      “I like your clothes, too. I wish I had the energy to dress better, but I don’t.” Bertie stuck her key in the lock and abruptly changed the subject as she twisted her hand. “This test thing really annoys me. It’s good that Nelson got out of teaching, because I think the parents have cause for legal action.”

      “Would they do that?”

      “Barlow Ridge parents are not passive parents.” She smiled grimly before asking Claire, “Where’s your car?”

      “I walked.”

      “It’s going to storm. Do you want a ride home?”

      She shook her head. “Thanks, anyway.”

      “Coming to quilting club on Wednesday?”

      “Will it be friendlier than the PTO?”

      Bertie smiled ruefully. “There’s some crossover—Deirdre, Willa, Mary Ann. I think they’re already betting you won’t show.”

      Claire smiled humorlessly. “In that case, I’ll show.” She couldn’t sew a stitch, but she figured she could either be there, trying to do her part for the quilt auction, or sitting home alone with her ears ringing as the other women discussed her.

      PHIL’S HORSES AND MULES arrived while Brett was in the middle of his online class. Horses he understood. Reacquainting himself with math was going to take some time. He was making headway, but he was glad to give himself a break in order to drive over to the ranch, less than a mile away, and take delivery.

      He went to meet the shipper, who opened the door of a trailer to reveal a handsome black mule. Beyond that Brett could see two broad chestnut-colored backs, but the dividers kept him from seeing the horses’ heads.

      “They’re tall,” he commented to the driver.

      “Yeah. And Numb Nuts, up front, doesn’t have any manners.”

      “Good to hear.”

      Brett stepped in and ran a hand over the mule’s neck. The big animal gave him a get-me-out-of-here look. Brett complied, leading the big guy out of the trailer and over to one of the many individual corrals adjacent to the barn. When he released it, the mule circled the pen once and then went to the water trough for a long drink.

      “Where’re you from?” Brett asked, suddenly realizing that he had no idea where these animals were being shipped from.

      “San Diego. I left them in the trailer last night, because I didn’t know if I could get the stud back in.”

      Phil wouldn’t like that, Brett thought. Phil couldn’t tell a good animal from a bad one without help, but he insisted that all of his animals be treated right. It was the one thing that helped Brett overlook his boss’s other foibles, which included a healthy dose of arrogance coupled with ignorance about matters he wanted to look like an expert in. Such as horses.

      Brett stepped back into the trailer to unload a very nice quarter horse. The mare followed him placidly to her pen, and then she, too, went straight for the water.

      And now for Numb Nuts.

      He had a feeling from the way the trailer was rocking, now that the stallion was alone and wondering where his mare had gone, that his nuts were actually not all that numb.

      Brett opened the divider and the horse rolled an eye at him, showing white. And then the animal screamed. Brett untied him, taking a firm hold on the rope close to the snap, and started to lead him to his pen. The stud danced and rolled his eyes again, but he respected the lead rope, and Brett got him shifted safely. As soon as the stallion had drank his fill, however, he started pacing the fence, back and forth, back forth, punctuating every turn with a fierce whinny.

      The driver smiled and headed for his truck, obviously glad to be on his way.

      Brett decided to let the horse settle in for a day or two before he attempted to tune him up. And as soon as he could, he was going to suggest to Phil that unless he wanted to make a complete spectacle of himself, perhaps he might want to find a calmer animal to show.

      When Brett pulled into his driveway, he saw Claire walking across the field toward his house. What now? She met him at his truck.

      “I need a favor.”

      “So do I,” Brett said wearily, pushing his hat back.

      “What do you need?”

      “I need someone to tactfully tell my boss that he’s in over his head.”

      Claire frowned. “Who’s your boss?”

      “See that ranch over there?”

      She nodded.

      “It’s one of many around here owned by the Ryker family. They have a land company and they lease ranches—including the one that I’m living on. Phil Ryker decided to become a cowboy a few years back, and took over that ranch as his personal hobby. I take care of it

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