The Nanny's Texas Christmas. Lee McClain Tobin

a hand through messy blond hair. “Sorry I’m late.” His well-worn boots, plaid shirt and jeans proclaimed he’d come straight from the ranch.

      Rhetta raised an eyebrow at Lana. “On second thought, you may not need that website after all,” she murmured, and headed over toward her things. She waved at Flint as she walked out the door.

      Lana crossed the room to greet Flint, hoping he hadn’t heard that Cowboy Singles remark. “Come in, Mr. Rawlings.” She led the way back through the classroom to the teacher’s desk up front.

      Although she’d already put an adult-sized metal folding chair beside her desk, anticipating Flint’s visit, it didn’t seem large enough for the rugged rancher. Maybe it was the fact that she was used to males of the first-grade variety, but Flint Rawlings seemed to overwhelm the room by his very presence.

      “Thank you for—”

      “I’m sorry about—”

      They both stopped. “Go ahead,” Lana said, gesturing for Flint to finish.

      He shook his head. “Nothing important. It’s just, we had a little episode up at the ranch. That’s why I’m late. If you need to reschedule, it’s fine.”

      It sounded like he wanted her to reschedule. Really? Wasn’t he concerned about his son? “I think the situation is important enough that we’d better discuss it now.”

      “That’s fine, then. What’s going on?” He propped a booted foot on one knee and then set it down again. Like he was trying to get comfortable, or...

      He wiped a bandanna across his forehead, and understanding struck Lana. He was nervous! The manly Flint Rawlings was sweating bullets in the classroom of his son’s first-grade teacher.

      It was a phenomenon she’d seen in her previous job, too. Lots of parents had anxiety around teachers, usually a result of bad childhood experiences or just excessive worry about their children. Whatever was the case with Flint, the realization siphoned off some of her annoyance.

      She crossed her legs, folded her hands and faced him. “So, we had some trouble with Logan yesterday.”

      “What sort of trouble?” He raised his eyes from the floor—or had he been looking at her legs?—and frowned. “If it was disrespect—”

      “Not exactly. Hear me out.” She picked up a pencil and tapped it on the table, end over end, eraser and then point. “During our one-on-one reading time, he refused to read. Just clamped his mouth shut and wouldn’t say anything.”

      “That’s funny.” Flint looked puzzled. “He likes to look through picture books at home, and he’s always pointing out words he recognizes on signs and such.”

      “I’m glad you have books for him at home. That’s so important.” She smiled at the man, wanting to put him at ease. “He usually enjoys reading here, too. He’s definitely ahead of the curve in the subject. But yesterday, nothing.”

      “I’ll talk to him.” Flint scooted his chair back as if the conference was over.

      She folded her arms. “There’s more.”

      “What else?” he asked, visibly forcing himself to sit still and focus.

      “After reading time, he knocked over a bucket of erasers.” She nodded over to them, now neatly atop a stand beside the chalkboard. “He refused to pick them up. Just crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. I thought about sending him to the principal, but—”

      “What?” Flint half rose from the chair. “The principal? Why am I only now hearing about this?”

      “I called yesterday,” Lana reminded him, “and offered you a choice of conference times. This was the earliest one that worked for you.” She emphasized the last word slightly.

      “Right. Go on.”

      “After I kept Logan in at recess and talked to him, I decided I should get in touch with you before bringing the principal into the picture. Didn’t Logan tell you about any of this?”

      Flint shook his head slowly. “Not a word. Is that all?” He looked at her and sank back into the chair. “That’s not all, is it.” It was a statement, not a question.

      “If that were all, I wouldn’t have called you.” This was the hardest part, but it needed to be said. “During our conversation at recess, he refused to apologize. I asked some questions, tried to figure out what was going on with him—because this behavior was pretty unusual for Logan—but he wouldn’t answer. Until...” She paused.

      Flint’s blue eyes were on her. For better or worse, she had his attention now.

      “He wanted to know if he was in enough trouble to be sent to live with the other boys at the main ranch house.”

      Flint closed his eyes for a minute and then opened them.

      “When I said no, of course not, he burst into tears. He kept asking, ‘What do I have to do to get to live there?’”

      * * *

      Flint stared at Lana, trying to conceal the emotions that were churning in his gut. Not only did he feel like a failure as a father, but he ached for his son.

      What Logan really wanted was a mother, a family, company his own age instead of an elderly nanny who tried to get him to sit still and watch TV with her. He wanted attention, not constant scolding from his dad as he followed him around the barn, getting in the way and causing trouble.

      Flint wanted those things for Logan, too.

      But unfortunately for both of them, none of what Logan wanted was in the cards for him. Not now, and not in the foreseeable future. “I’ll talk to him,” Flint said as soon as he could control his voice.

      “That’s great, but I’m not sure it’s enough,” Lana said gently. “I might be able to help, if you can let me in on some of the things Logan’s struggling with.”

      The sympathy on her face just made him feel worse. He hardened his voice. Toughened up his heart. “Bottom line,” he said, “Logan’s struggling with not having a mother. That can’t be helped. And since his nanny quit, he needs something more after school.”

      Lana nodded, looking a little skeptical.

      “I’m trying to find him some better playmates,” Flint defended himself. “And I’ve put out feelers about another nanny.”

      “I wonder if what he might need,” she said, still sounding gentle, “is more attention from you.”

      That, on top of how stressed-out he already felt, made him mad. “I have a demanding job. I don’t get off at three thirty like a teacher does!”

      She looked pointedly up at the clock, now creeping toward five. “A teacher’s work doesn’t end when the students go home, but that’s not the issue.” She leaned back and looked at him narrowly, tapping a pencil on the desk. “May I be honest, Mr. Rawlings?”

      “Doesn’t seem like you have a problem with that.”

      “When it’s called for. Mr. Rawlings, there were three children whose parents didn’t come to Open House. Two were from migrant families who were trying to get here when their truck broke down on the road outside town. The other was Logan.” She paused, letting that sink in good and deep, and then spoke again. “All three of them cried the next day when the other children were sharing about their families’ reactions to Open House.”

      Flint just looked at her, absorbing the criticism in her words and her expression. Yep, a failure as a father.

      “Now, I happen to know the ranch went on lockdown that night. I know there were problems with the boys, and you probably had to help. Logan knows that, too,” she said. “In his mind, at least. But maybe not in his heart.”

      Flint let his head drop into his hands and stared down