The Cowboy's Lesson In Love

He’d raised his voice, but she wasn’t about to be intimidated. “A pretty straightforward one as far as I can see.”

His dark blue eyes narrowed. “Then maybe you have blinders on.”

Wynona didn’t take the bait, didn’t get sidetracked by the hostility in his voice and she didn’t get caught up in an argument. Instead, in a very calm voice, she told him, “I would still like an answer to my question.”

His face darkened like storm clouds over the prairie. “Yes, I’m interested in my son.”

She gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Then why didn’t you return any of my phone calls?” she asked, her hands still fisted at her sides. “I told you I was concerned about Ryan’s behavior.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Was he fighting?” Clint asked.

Responding to his tone, she raised her chin defensively. “No, but—”

“Was he failing finger-painting?” Clint asked her sarcastically.

Was he belittling education, or just her? In either case, she could feel her temper rising. “I don’t teach finger-painting,” she informed him.

The expression on his face was smug, as if he had just won his argument. “I figured that. Maybe you should.”

What was that supposed to mean? Wynona wondered. In any case, she wanted answers out of him. She wanted him to verbalize what was going on in his head. “What did you figure?”

The smug look on his face didn’t abate. “That you were just making lady noises.”

“What?” She stared at him incredulously. “Lady noises?” Wynona repeated. What the hell was that—aside from denigrating?

Despite her best efforts, she could feel herself really losing her temper. Something about Clint Washburn made her want to double up her fists and punch him hard, knocking some sense into that thick head of his.

His attitude reminded her of a few men she had encountered as a student and growing up in two different communities: the reservation near Forever and Houston. More than one of her friends’ fathers were painfully distant from their children, concerned only with their own needs. They never once realized the effect that their behavior had on their offspring. She herself never knew her own father.

She hadn’t known that there was any other way to behave until Shania’s family had taken her in and she saw what a real father was really like. Dan Stewart had been kind and caring, taking care of her the same way he took care of Shania. Though she had known him only for a short time, the man had made all the difference in the world to her.

That was what she wanted for Ryan—before it was too late.

“Yeah. Lady noises,” Clint repeated. “You come in, take one look around, unleash your emotions and think you’ve got the solution to everything. Well, you don’t,” he told her. “So, are we done here because I’ve got a ranch to run.”

He was about to turn away but she caught his arm and made him turn back to face her.

“No, we are not done here,” she informed him tersely. “Your son is starved for your attention,” she said angrily.

He’d been surprised at the strength of her grip when she’d grabbed his arm. She was obviously not as delicate as she appeared. But that still didn’t change the fact that she had no business telling him how to raise his son and he told her as much.

“I’m not going to coddle the kid.”

“No one’s telling you to coddle him,” she retorted, her eyes all but flashing. “I’m just asking you to give him some of your time.”

“In case you weren’t listening,” he informed her, getting to the end of his patience, “I’ve got a ranch to run.”

“Then have him help you,” she countered. She knew of a lot of kids who helped their fathers out on the ranch. Why was he being so stubborn about it? “And talk to him while he’s helping.”

Clint was getting really tired of having this woman tell him what she thought he should be doing with his son. “Look—”

She anticipated his protest. “Mr. Washburn, I’m not asking you to read bedtime stories to Ryan, although you might give that some thought—” Wynona couldn’t help adding.

“You’re kidding,” he cried, stunned by her suggestion. Nobody read to him when he was a kid. That kind of thing wasn’t important in his book.

“No, I’m not ‘kidding,’” she told him. “But the point I’m trying to get across to you is that you need to take an interest, a real interest, in Ryan. Treat him like a person. Like he matters. Talk to him, ask him how he’s doing in school, tell him about the things you did when you were his age—”

Clint cut her off. He didn’t have time for this. “I don’t remember,” he snapped.

Wynona’s eyes narrowed again as her frustration with this jackass of a man increased. It was obvious that he was stubbornly fighting her on this but she wasn’t about to let him win.

“Then make it up!” she cried angrily. Catching herself, she got control of her temper. “The point is communication. Because right now, every day, this boy is slipping further and further away and if you don’t try to stop that, to make him feel as if you care about him, he’s not only going to wind up being lost to you, he’s going to be lost to himself, too.”

That sounded like a bunch of garbage to him. “That’s your opinion.”

“It would be yours, too,” she informed him, “if you just stopped and assessed the situation more closely like a father.” She had almost said “like someone with a brain” but had stopped herself in time.

Clint waved her away and turned on his heel toward where Jake and Roy were waiting. “I don’t have time for any of this psychobabble,” he said as he walked away from her.

“It’s not psychobabble,” she insisted, calling after him. “It’s common sense.”

“Ha!” Clint countered, but he kept on walking.

He knew if he turned around to say anything more, she’d just drag him back into another argument and he had already wasted enough time on this woman and her crazy theory.

Clint kept walking until he got back to where Jake and his brother were working. Ryan was with them as well and the boy looked up at him the moment he drew closer. Before his son could say anything to him or ask any questions, Clint said, “Go into the house and do your homework.”

“I already finished my homework, sir,” Ryan told him quietly.

“Then go do something else,” Clint ordered, turning back to what he’d been doing before that woman disrupted his day.

To his surprise, Ryan stood his ground.

“Can I help you?” he asked in the same small, hopeful voice he’d used the morning when he had asked the same question.

The word no hovered on Clint’s tongue and he’d almost said it. But then he heard that teacher’s vehicle as she apparently started it up and then began to drive away.

Good. The woman was really going back into town, Clint thought.

But what the woman had said annoyingly refused to drive away with her. It seemed to linger in the air like a solid entity.

Clint frowned as he turned to look at his son.

“Yeah,” Clint finally said, reluctantly relenting. “You can help—as long as you promise not to get in the way.”

Stunned that his father had actually said he could help, Ryan looked at him, a wide smile spreading out over his small, angular face.

“I promise! Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it, Dad,” Ryan proclaimed eagerly. “Just tell me,” he repeated.