Cowboy Santa
Autore
Melinda Curtis
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CHAPTER ONE
THERE WAS NOTHING Chandler Cochran liked less than to be called into the principal’s office.
Didn’t matter that he was thirty-six. Didn’t matter that Chandler had done nothing wrong or that his seven-year-old son had never been in trouble before, either. Chandler sat slumped in a chair in the lobby of the Clementine Elementary School office, knee bouncing, uncertain.
Just like the old days.
Chandler never knew what awaited him in the principal’s office. A cop? A social worker? One of his parents? Whoever it was, it meant the same thing. Change. Uprooting. Uncertainty.
But that’s not what’s happening here.
Right.
Chandler stared at his hands while chattering kids came through the door and went back out again, while parents poked their heads in to wish the school secretaries merry Christmas, while holiday music played from a small speaker on the counter and gobs of tinsel shimmered on a small tree. No one entered from the sheriff’s office or county services.
History isn’t repeating itself.
Sam was a good kid. Chandler was a good father and an upstanding citizen. He hadn’t been called to the principal’s office in decades.
But still, his knee bounced.
“What are you in here for, mister?” A stout lad of about seven or eight sat on Chandler’s right. He pushed back the brim of his small, brown cowboy hat as he looked Chandler up and down. “I’m here because I wouldn’t stop dancing during choir practice.”
That gave Chandler pause. “I thought kids in choir did a little dancing nowadays.”
The boy nodded, getting to his feet. “We were practicing our moves like this.” He rocked his arms back and forth with a good bit of rhythm. “And then I did this...” He lifted his hands toward the ceiling and shimmied his entire body as if he was trying not to topple in the midst of an earthquake. “And then I was sent to the office.” His arms fell to his sides, his shoulders slumped and he plunked back into his seat. “Our music teacher, Miz Cornwall, told me, ‘Pete, you’re too much. Go see Principal Crowder.’ So, here I am.” Pete shrugged.
“Maybe you should try to tone it down,” Chandler said carefully, not wanting to offend.
“Is it my fault that when I hear music I feel like dancin’?” Pete sighed, a dramatic, full-body action.
Chandler refrained from pointing out there was music playing from a small speaker on the counter and Pete wasn’t dancing to the “Carol of the Bells.”
“I gotta do what I gotta do,” Pete continued. “That’s what my grandpa says. And it works for me.”
And there it was. The reason for Pete’s behavior. In Chandler’s experience, there was always a cause kids acted out or behaved the way they did—divorce, a death in the family, a bad influence in school or at home. As a foster kid, Chandler had seen it all, not to mention been an example of that axiom himself, reacting negatively when the status quo was challenged.
Before Chandler could respond to Pete, the boy on his left poked Chandler’s arm repeatedly. Poke-poke-poke.
“Are you here because you parked in the principal’s parking spot?” Without waiting for an answer, the boy shook his head slowly. “You shouldn’t do that. My ma did it once. Spent thirty minutes with the principal.”
“That’s not it, Matty. Look at how his knee is jumping up-and-down.” Pete leaned around Chandler to look Matty in the eye. “I bet he’s the one who jumped his place in the pickup line. You drove on the sidewalk, didn’t you, mister?”
“No,” Chandler blurted, shocked. The line moved slower than an old nag in the hot summer sun but he’d never do something like that.
Before Chandler could ask for more details, the main office door swung open, and a reindeer pranced in—jingling all the way.
Oh, it wasn’t a reindeer of the animal kingdom. It was a woman wearing brown cowboy boots, brown jeans, a brown sweater with Rudolph on the front—complete with blinking nose—and a headband with a large pair of brown antlers sprinkled with tiny, tinkling bells.
Antlers wobbling, Isobel Adams hustled into the school office like she was late delivering Chandler’s feed order. Izzy was a wisp of a woman, short with white-blond hair and big blue eyes. She worked at Clementine Feed and was quiet, unassuming and efficient. So much so that Chandler never gave her more than a passing thought.
But today...
He’d never seen Izzy so bubbly. So...so alive.
Chandler couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had a pair of tan leather gloves hanging from the back pocket of her jeans and red Christmas bulb earrings swinging from her ears. Her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes sparkled.
She reminds me of Mom, full of holiday spirit and not afraid to show it.
His foster mother, that is. Who knew how his biological mother felt about Christmas nowadays.
Reindeer Izzy trotted toward the row of chairs where Chandler waited, an out-of-character big smile gracing her fine features.
“Ho-ho-ho!” Izzy greeted the boys sitting with Chandler before seemingly registering there was an adult in their midst. Her eyes widened. And then she removed her antlers and turned toward the office desk with much less joviality. “Hey, Ronnie. Am I late?”
“Nope.” Ronnie, one of the school secretaries, grinned at her friend from the other side of the desk. She hadn’t grinned at Chandler like that when he’d arrived and she was married to Wade, one of his foster brothers. “What’s seven minutes when the principal is running behind?”
Chandler refrained from rolling his eyes. He’d already been waiting more than seven minutes to see Principal Crowder. As ranch foreman at the Done Roamin’ Ranch, Chandler could pay several ranch bills online in seven minutes, plus return a phone call and adjust the work schedule.
“I bet she’s the one who jumped the pickup line,” Pete whispered, nodding toward Izzy.
Chandler shook his head. Rudolph channeling aside, Izzy was rule-abiding and reliable.
“I was stringing lights at April Forester’s place,” Izzy told Ronnie, rubbing the back of the hand that held the jingling antler headband. “Got stuck in her rosebush. Took some time to free myself and the lights.”
Chandler took note of a long scratch on Izzy’s hand and the thinness of the leather gloves in her back pocket. He managed forty cowboys at the Done Roamin’ Ranch, give or take, and hundreds of heads of stock. If Izzy worked for him, he’d make sure she had a decent pair of leather gloves. For whatever reason, it was easier thinking about Izzy and work than Izzy as the walking, talking embodiment of Santa’s lead reindeer, perhaps because his foster mother was recovering from two intense rounds of chemotherapy this holiday season and, consequently, the Christmas spirit had been lacking at the Done Roamin’ Ranch.
Yeah, that’s it. The cause of Izzy’s suddenly magnetic effect on me.
“How is the Christmas decorating business?” Ronnie was still making small talk with Izzy, unaware of Chandler’s growing tension. “That’s a cool side hustle, by the way.”
“It’s busy.” Izzy reached over to the little Christmas tree in the corner and plucked off a paper star with a child’s name and a toy request printed on it, sending a piece of tinsel drifting to the ground. She tucked the star gingerly in her front jeans pocket. Then she took two candy canes from a bowl on the counter and handed them to Pete and Matty without looking at Chandler. “I’ve found I have a knack for tangling strings of lights without meaning to. I’ll either survive this gig victoriously with the best Christmas present for Della-Mae or Christmas will become my least favorite holiday.” Izzy took a candy cane for herself, shifting from side to side while she unwrapped her sugary treat.
Reindeer Izzy was as fidgety as a bull in a rodeo chute waiting for the gate to open.
“How is Principal Crowder today?” Izzy asked.
“Ugh. Don’t ask.” Ronnie scrunched her nose. “He’s been swamped. Too many students have a case of holiday fever. Which reminds me... He needs to move things along.” She walked away from the counter, knocked on the principal’s closed door and then opened it a crack, saying something Chandler didn’t catch.
Probably because Chandler wasn’t happy to hear the principal was in a bad mood, his knee bounced more violently. He placed a hand on it.
Humming along to “Jingle Bells,” Izzy turned toward the trio of chairs where Chandler was sitting, shaking those antler bells like a tambourine. “Pete, did you get into trouble for dancing in choir again?”
“Yup.” The stout boy nodded glumly.
“Matty, did you get into trouble for sneaking candy during reading time again?” she asked the boy on the other side of Chandler.
“Yup,” he echoed.
“And...” Izzy’s gaze landed on Chandler with unexpected impact.
His heart pounded and his boot heel planted on the gray linoleum, as if his entire being needed to freeze and pay attention. To Izzy.
To Izzy?
Chandler couldn’t believe it.
Izzy blinked, as if she, too, had felt something unusual in that moment.
“He’s here cuz he parked in Principal Crowder’s spot,” Matty explained to Izzy.
Pete shook his head. “Nope. He cut in the pickup line.”
“Chandler? Izzy?” Ronnie gestured them to come forward as a somber Vonda Jackson exited the principal’s office and shepherded her little boy toward the exit. “Principal Crowder will see you now.”
“Together?” Izzy looked as shocked as Chandler felt.
“IT’S BEEN A long day, so I’ll get right to the point,” Principal Crowder told Izzy and Chandler once they were seated across from him in his office. “It’s got to stop.”
Clueless as to what needed stopping, Izzy nodded anyway. She never wanted to be a bother. She slid a sidelong glance toward Chandler, who didn’t look as if he knew what was going on, either. His eyes darted around the room and his knee bounced.
Izzy cleared her throat, wishing she hadn’t taken the candy cane she now held awkwardly in one hand. “Can you...uh...be more specific?”
“Your kids, Della-Mae Adams and Sam Cochran, need to tone it down,” Principal Crowder said crisply.
Mae, what have you done?
Izzy rarely used her daughter’s full name, being more likely to call her Mae. Mae was a second grader and on the shy side, like her mother. Usually... Until recently anyway. Izzy was on a journey to be less of a wallflower.
The principal selected two file folders from the corner of his desk. “Samuel Cochran and Della-Mae Adams.” He flipped open both files and laid them side by side, frowning while he studied the papers on top. He was approaching middle age and the eyes Izzy had previously considered kind seemed sharp and accusing today.
Ronnie did mention an outbreak of holiday fever.
And here Izzy had been under the assumption that Principal Crowder had called her in because he wanted to hire Izzy to decorate his house for Christmas. She’d left a flyer on his front door earlier in the week.
Izzy turned toward Chandler, meeting his gaze this time. His confused gaze. He’d looked at her like that in the lobby a few minutes earlier after she’d greeted the kids of some of her feed store regulars. He’d stared at her as if he’d never seen her before and didn’t know what to make of her.
Well, she’d seen him before. And Izzy knew what she saw when she looked at Chandler Cochran. She saw an attractive cowboy a few years older than she was. A man with light brown hair, light brown eyes and a smile that rarely ventured past polite. He was tall and wiry, a man of few words, as if he’d learned long ago that speaking too many syllables would get him into trouble—a distinct possibility since he was a former foster cowboy raised on the Done Roamin’ Ranch.
“Your kids have had quite a week.” The principal’s voice pierced Izzy’s thoughts.
Years of working the checkout counter at Clementine Feed had Izzy facing uncertainty head-on with a neutral smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Yep,” Chandler said in that deep voice of his as the first line of “White Christmas” drifted into the office from the radio on Ronnie’s desk.
I bet Chandler has a lovely singing voice.
Izzy blinked, shifting in her seat, making her antlers jingle softly. Where had that thought come from?
She didn’t have time to ponder.
Because Principal Crowder sighed the way Izzy did when needing to explain what she assumed was common knowledge. “Every day since the Thanksgiving break, one or both of your children have been sent to the office. My office.”
Chandler rubbed his hands down the tops of his jean-clad thighs, halting that knee bounce. “This is the fifth day back from the long weekend. I haven’t heard anything about this.”
“Me, either.” Izzy tossed her candy cane in the small trash can to the side of the principal’s sturdy oak desk. This wasn’t the time for sweet moments of holiday cheer.
Chandler leaned closer to the principal’s desk. “It’s my ex-wife’s week with Sam. She’s picked him up every day after school.”
“Same as my ex-husband.” And Izzy would bet anything her ex and her daughter had agreed that this would be their little secret. Mike always treated Mae more like a friend than a child he needed to discipline and set boundaries for.
Not that Mae had ever needed much discipline before.
“We sent notices through the school’s electronic messaging system,” Principal Crowder repeated in a tone that implied they should be up to speed. “All parents should have received them, regardless.”
“I’ve never been able to log in to the new app,” Izzy admitted sheepishly.
“Me, either,” Chandler echoed. “I tried so many times that I was locked out. Same for my ex.”
Izzy doubted Mike had even tried.
“That’s what everyone has been saying.” With what sounded like a growl of frustration, the principal scribbled a note on a notepad: Norma, resend parents instructions for messaging system.
“Principal Crowder...” Izzy used her most appeasing tone of voice. “What did our kids do?”
Setting his pen aside, the principal took a moment to glance at the handwritten forms in each child’s folder. “On Monday, Della-Mae and Sam convinced everyone in the lunchroom to contribute their food for a Thanksgiving feast, buffet style.”
“That sounds lovely.” Izzy infused her words with positivity.
The principal winced. “Yes, well, it might have been if several kids with food allergies hadn’t sampled items they shouldn’t have. Parents were called and the nurse was busy all afternoon.”
“Oh.” Deflated, Izzy slunk down in her chair.
“That was Monday.” Chandler nodded slowly, turning that cool brown gaze Izzy’s way just as Bing Crosby sang the closing notes of “White Christmas.”
He should frown less and sing more.
Izzy wanted to roll her eyes or shake her head.
This is not the time for overactive imaginations.
“What about the rest of the week?” Chandler asked, shifting his gaze back to Principal Crowder.
“On Tuesday...” The principal flipped a page over in each file. “Their teacher—Mrs. Stodimeyer—had an...incident.”
“Her water broke in the classroom.” Izzy had heard about this through customers in the feed store. “She had a healthy baby boy at the hospital.” Izzy made a mental note to add a baby item to Mrs. Stodimeyer’s teacher gift this Christmas.
“She panicked when her water broke, hyperventilated and fainted,” Principal Crowder clarified in that high-and-mighty voice of his. “And when she came to, Sam had put on the plastic gloves she kept in the first aid kit, sat next to her on the floor and was telling everyone that he knew what to do.”
Izzy gasped, turning to stare at Chandler. “Sam knows how to deliver a baby?”
“He watched a cow deliver a calf last spring,” Chandler said flatly. “You can’t fault Sam for trying to help.”
“Nor can I completely fault Della-Mae,” Principal Crowder allowed. “She ran to the office to report the emergency. Although her exact words were, ‘Sam’s delivering Teacher’s baby.’”
“Makes a good story for the teachers lounge,” Izzy said, trying to make light of the episode. “Anything else?”
That earned her a critical glance from Chandler, whose large hands still rested on his knees. “He’s only on Tuesday.”
“Right.” Of course there was more. Five days, the principal had said.
Principal Crowder flipped more pages and bent over the next set of forms. “On Wednesday, during the Kazoo and Kitchen Pan Band practice, the substitute teacher had to escort two other students to the office for having a scuffle. While she was gone, Della-Mae and Sam organized the class into a marching band. They proceeded through school hallways, banging on pans, playing kazoos and disrupting classes.”
“I got nothin’.” Chandler glanced toward Izzy expectantly.
Oops. “I can give that context, I think. Last weekend, we watched the Thanksgiving Day Parade in town and then the one on TV in New York.” On repeat. Izzy bit her lip. “Are you sure it was our kids who sent them marching?” Izzy was familiar with Sam since he’d been in Mae’s class the past two years. But neither one seemed like the type to stir up trouble. In fact, they were opposites and Izzy couldn’t imagine them working together at all.
“He’s sure,” Chandler said, not a bit defensively. In fact, Chandler sounded...like he wanted to move things along. “What about yesterday?”
The principal turned two more pages. “While making cutout reindeer and sleighs to decorate the classroom windows, Sam encouraged everyone to draw anatomically correct reindeer. He was adamant about it, going so far as to sketch things on the classroom’s whiteboard.”
The antlers tinkled softly in Izzy’s lap. She’d let Chandler handle this one.
“You can’t fault Sam with that.” Chandler cleared his throat, perhaps having second thoughts about voicing that statement. “He’s a ranch kid. And we’re a ranching community.”
“And then today,” Principal Crowder continued in a tone that indicated he did find fault with what Sam had done, “Della-Mae brought a rotten egg in for show-and-tell.”
“No.” Izzy shook her head. “I’m sure that’s not true. We have chickens but I’d notice if she was saving a rotten egg.”
But would Mike?
“It’s a fact.” Principal Crowder’s gaze was unyielding. “Your daughter cracked the egg, intending to show the class that there was a chick inside. There wasn’t, by the way. The contents were spoiled. We had to evacuate the classroom for an hour because the smell was unbearable.”
Eew. Izzy nodded slowly, and in silence. This put a damper on her excitement over earning extra money for the holiday season. “What do you need us to do?”
“Have a talk with your children.” Principal Crowder closed the files and placed them on a stack in his outbox. “Impress upon them the proper behavior at school. Praise them for their creativity, their understanding of the world and their leadership abilities. But caution them to think before they act. They’ve become as thick as thieves since the Thanksgiving break and...” He paused, as if reconsidering what he’d been about to say. “I was going to end this conversation with an option to move one of them to a different class—”
Chandler nodded.
“—but Mrs. Stodimeyer is one of our best disciplinarians,” the principal finished.
“She’s on maternity leave,” Chandler said in a cool voice.
“Until mid-to-late January.” The principal nodded. “During which time there are two weeks’ vacation. I think it’s better that the children remain where they are for the moment, if only because their actions were well-meaning. We wouldn’t want to send the wrong message.” He leaned forward, pointing at Izzy and Chandler in turn. “But in the meantime, you both need to learn how to log in to our online messaging system.”
They both promised to do their best on that score.
