The Nanny's Texas Christmas. Lee Tobin McClain

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 at the floor. He loved Logan more than he’d ever loved anyone, but according to Miss Lana Alvarez, he wasn’t doing a very good job of showing it.

      “The other two families who missed Open House got in touch to find out if there was another way to be involved with the school. I had one mother, who’s a great cook, bring in flan for our Harvest Celebration. The other child’s parents both work in the fields, possibly even longer hours than you work.”

      Was that sarcasm in her voice? He felt too guilty to be sure.

      “But his grandpa, who’s too disabled for farmwork, is helping me tutor the kids who need help in reading, one day a week before school.”

      He looked up at her then, spread his hands. “I’ll talk to Logan about his behavior,” he said. More like, talk at him. He needed to show how much he cared, not just lecture his son. “And I’ll come to...whatever I’m supposed to come to, whatever you recommend, here at the school.”

      “We always need parents to help with holiday parties,” she said, a dimple tugging at her cheek. “Ours is the last hour of the last day before Christmas break. But... I don’t suppose you’d want to help with that. It would be a pretty demanding first activity with the kids.”

      Was she making fun of him or issuing a challenge? He narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?”

      She raised a very pretty eyebrow and shrugged, smiling openly now. “Let’s just say the kids are pretty rowdy then. The parents who help have to plan a lot of activities.”

      Yeah, and he had no idea what kind of activities worked for first-graders, which was a pretty sad statement in itself, since he was the father of one.

      But Lana Alvarez’s amused gaze made him want to rise to the challenge. “You’re on. When is it?”

      “A week from Wednesday. Two o’clock.”

      He pulled out his phone and punched in the date and time, marking it “high priority.”

      “But meanwhile,” she said, “he may need more attention at home than you’re able to give him, with your responsibilities. I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows of a nanny.”

      “No.” Flint shook his head. “If he needs more attention, he can get it from me.”

      “If you’re sure,” she said in a voice that made it clear she had her doubts.

      He really wanted to get out of here, but for Logan’s sake, he forced himself to ask for help. “Is there...” He cleared his throat. “Is there anything I could do now to make it a little better? Show him I’ve at least seen his classroom?”

      She tipped her head to one side. “Hmm. Want to leave a note in his desk for him to find on Monday?”

      Logan would love that. Flint took the paper and felt-tipped pen she pushed toward him, jotted a quick note, and went to put it in Logan’s desk.

      On an impulse, he squeezed himself into the tiny chair connected to the desk and, holding his phone out, took a picture of himself.

      “Logan’s going to love seeing that,” Lana said. “But I’m not sure you’re going to be able to get out of there.”

      Sure enough, he had a hard time unfolding himself out of the cramped little desk.

      When he stood up, she did, too, and he realized that her bag, bulging with papers, was packed and ready to go. He’d kept her at school overtime.

      “Let me help you with that,” he offered, holding out a hand.

      She shook her head. “It’s fine. I’m used to carrying it.”

      “That doesn’t mean you can’t accept a little help.”

      “It’s fine,” she repeated.

      So the lady was independent. Didn’t want help.

      Or maybe she just didn’t want help from him.

      They walked together through the deserted hallways. Outside, the sun was setting in a bank of pink-and-gold clouds. His truck was the only vehicle left in the parking lot. “I’m sorry I kept you late,” he said, “and I appreciate your taking the time to meet with me. Where’s your car?”

      She clapped a hand to her forehead. “In the shop, and I forgot about it. I was going to grab a ride with Rhetta.” She shrugged. “Oh, well, I need the exercise. See you soon, Mr. Rawlings. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions.”

      “You can call me Flint,” he said, “and I’ll give you a ride home. Where do you live?” He remembered someone telling him that Lana had grown up around here, and he wondered if she lived with her folks.

      “Call me Lana, and I’m not going home. I’m going to the church.”

      “On a Friday night?” That surprised him. He would’ve thought someone as pretty as Lana would have her choice of dates. What was wrong with the cowboys around here?

      Seeming to read his line of thought, she blushed. “I’m not much for the roadhouse or the karaoke place. And a lot of my friends are married and home with their families so I...” She trailed off, looking away with a forced laugh. “What can I say? I’ve spent the last three Friday nights helping Marnie Binder sort stuff for the Christmas bazaar.”

      Flint filed that away, trying to ignore the pleasure her words gave him. No reason for him to care what Lana Alvarez did with her evenings. Pretty young women were poison to him.

      But on the other hand, Lana sounded a little lonely. And he’d care about any lonely person; he had that much Christian faith left. “What about your folks? I thought you grew up around here.”

      “They’re gone. Car accident when I was a teenager. It’s just me.”

      “I’m sorry.” Her matter-of-fact tone tugged at his heart. Lana Alvarez was even more alone than he was. And she seemed like a family type. Good with kids. She ought to be happily married, not heading off to church alone.

      “Come on,” he said. “I’ll drive you to the church. I have a few things to drop off for the Christmas bazaar, myself.”

      * * *

      Lana found the ride to the church a little awkward. Partly because this handsome man had discovered that she had no dates and no exciting social life, and he was clearly surprised. He probably found her pitiful.

      He must have found their silence awkward, too, because he flipped on the radio. She was expecting country music, but to her surprise, the sound of a classical violin concerto filled the cab of the truck.

      “Vivaldi?” she asked, recognizing the tune from her music history course in college.

      He glanced over at her and nodded. “Calms me down,” he said a bit sheepishly.

      “Does that, too?” She pointed at the baby picture of Logan that dangled from his key chain.

      He glanced down at it, and his jaw tightened. Which was a weird reaction to a picture of one’s child. Most people gushed about