“The rhythm is one, two, three. One, two, three. Got it?”

  “Sure thing.” Wyatt guided his partner around the room, watching his feet and muttering, “One, two, three. One, two, three.”

  He’d barely found the rhythm when he was passed off to the next student.

  One, two, three. One, two, three.

  This time, he made an entire circuit of the room before someone yelled, “Are you done with the boy yet?”

  The question came from a member of the tracksuit set. The women in the long, sparkly dresses were immensely more polite.

  One, two, three.

  The music finally, mercifully, stopped. Wyatt all but ran for door.

  Mavis blocked his exit. “You’re a natural, Sheriff.”

  “You’re just saying that to restore my pride.”

  “Not at all. You’re a very quick study.” She patted his arm in a grandmotherly gesture that belied the wily look in her eyes. “Next week we’ll attempt the foxtrot.”

  “Next week?” he choked out. “Nope. I’m busy next week.”

  Mavis countered his objection with two succinct words. “Public. Servant.”

  Wyatt groaned.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Almost as soon as Remy turned onto her property, the clear skies gave way to dark, ominous clouds rolling in off the mountains. “We better conquer our chores before the rain starts,” she said to Samson.

  “What about Roscoe?”

  Remy checked on the puppy currently asleep in the crate she’d buckled onto the back seat. “He’s not going anywhere.” She lowered the back windows to half-mast. “We’ll bring him inside with us once we’re finished feeding the animals.”

  “Do you think Uncle Wyatt will let me keep him?”

  Remy knew better than to ask. “We agreed that Roscoe would live on the ranch with me.”

  “But he’s mine, right?”

  The boy had posed this same question a dozen times on the ride from Casey’s airstrip to McCoy’s art studio. He’d brought it up again while McCoy showed Remy how to paint a Spider-Man mask. “Roscoe is definitely your dog. But remember, Samson. As we discussed when we left my brother’s house, your uncle is too busy to help you take care of him.”

  “I remember,” Samson said. “Roscoe stays on the ranch for now. Maybe forever if that’s what Uncle Wyatt wants.”

  The boy had been listening. “Exactly.”

  “Okay. I’ll get to my chores now.” Samson was out the door several seconds ahead of Remy. It was nice no longer having to tell the boy what to do or where to start. She left him with King Henry while she fed the rest of the animals in the outdoor pens.

  She reentered the barn to the sound of Samson’s solemn voice. “You know, King Henry, you don’t have to let the bigger kids ride you.”

  The pony responded with an impatient snort.

  “I could be your only rider. I’m not too big. And I promise not to hurt you.”

  Smiling, Remy popped her head into the stall and simply watched the little boy smooth his hand down the pony’s spine. “Sometimes grown-ups don’t listen to me, either. But Miss Remy says if I keep telling them what I need, they’ll eventually hear me.”

  Remy didn’t remember saying that.

  “Anyway.” Samson fell silent a moment, then began chattering again. “You’re under my care now. I’ll make sure you’re safe. Like Uncle Wyatt makes sure I’m safe.”

  Remy’s eyes filled with unshed tears. Samson was such a sweet little boy. It was clear he loved his uncle. She wiped at her eyes. The movement must have given her away. Samson’s shoulders stiffened.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said conversationally.

  Samson stepped away from the pony, his little cheeks turning a bright red. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  “No, you weren’t. You were talking to King Henry like you would a good friend.”

  “Yeah, so?” He lifted his chin at a defiant angle. “Lots of people talk to animals.”

  “Yes, they do.” Very gently tilting the little boy’s face upward, she looked past the face paint, straight into a pair of worried eyes. “But very few understand their replies. That makes you special, Samson. Never forget that.” She dropped her hands. “You finished in here?”

  He nodded.

  “Let’s wake up Roscoe and go inside the house.” Remy walked Samson through feeding the puppy. Then she filled Farrell’s bowl with kitten food high in meat protein. Scooby got his dinner last.

  While the animals ate, she and Samson settled at the kitchen table, him with his blueprints. Her with her laptop. “Before you get too involved, I have something for you.”

  “Gummy bears?” he asked, eyes wide and hopeful.

  She laughed. “Not candy, no.”

  The boy gave her a grin reminiscent of his uncle. “Never hurts to ask.”

  “Never does. Hang tight. I’ll be right back.” Two minutes later, she placed the gift on the table next to Samson’s backpack.

  He eyed the tube with suspicion. “What is it?”

  “It’s a storage tube like the ones architects use for their blueprints. It’s waterproof.”

  Samson touched the plastic cylinder. “I really like the color.”

  Remy did, too. The electric blue matched the blue in the boy’s Spider-Man face paint. “The end cap is removable. Here, let me show you how it works.” She twisted off the lid, pulled it away from the tube, then screwed it back on. “The strap is adjustable. Let’s see if it fits.”

  It didn’t.

  She made a few adjustments and tried again. “Perfect. Now, let’s see if your blueprints fit inside the tube.” Taking great care, Remy rolled the ever-growing stack of papers, then slid them inside the tube. “Another perfect fit.”

  Samson grinned. “I love it. Thanks, Miss Remy.”

  “You’re very welcome. Ready to get to work?”

  Her suggestion was met with an approving nod. They were barely ten minutes into their individual projects when her phone dinged with an incoming text from Reno. Take a look at this. You will not regret it. You’re welcome.

  Remy frowned. That wasn’t cryptic at all.

  Seriously, take a look. Reno added a few laughing emojis before going silent.

  Not sure what to expect, she pressed on the link Reno had provided. The screen immediately filled with an amateur video taken on someone’s cell phone.

  “What in the world?” Remy squinted at the screen. She felt her heart jolt as she realized the video was of Wyatt dressed in his sheriff’s uniform, surrounded by a bunch of little old ladies, including Reno’s grandmother Mavis. The crowd separated, and then...

  Wyatt was spinning one of the ladies around the room. There was some sort of old-fashioned song playing in the background and...no. Was he actually counting out loud? Remy closed her eyes and listened. He was. Wyatt was counting. “One, two, three,” he said, putting emphasis on the one. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”

  Wyatt was passed off to another partner. And then another. At one point there was a minor scuffle, before yet another lady claimed her turn. He should have looked ridiculous, waltzing around the room, counting in time with the music, his face scrunched in concentration. He didn’t look ridiculous at all. He looked adorable. And sweet, and if she wasn’t already fond of the man, she would have been a goner right then and there.

  “Samson. Come over here. You gotta see this.”

  The little boy leaned over the phone. “What is Uncle Wyatt doing?”

  “He’s waltzing.”

  “What’s waltzing?”

  A new voice entered the conversation. “It’s a type of dance between two people.” Wyatt stepped into the kitchen, Farrell wrapped around his neck. “I knocked. You didn’t answer so I let myself in.” His eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you’re watching a video of puppies frolicking in a field of flowers.”

  A surge of warmth and happiness and so much affection caused the back of her eyes to sting. “It’s much sweeter than puppies.”

  “Maybe I should be the judge of that.” He took the phone and, with a perplexed frown, glared at the screen. “Someone actually took a video of my complete and utter humiliation?”

  “It’s not humiliating, Wyatt. It’s sweet.”

  His expression darkened. Handing Remy the phone, he reached up and rubbed the space between his eyebrows. “Can’t a man have any secrets in this town?”

  “Not if he’s a sheriff with a heart of gold.” She set the phone on the table and without thinking too hard about what she was doing, lifted onto her toes and kissed his cheek.

  Samson made a gagging sound. “Gross. You kissed my uncle.”

  “On the cheek,” she clarified, gaze hooked with Wyatt’s.

  “Why did you do that?” Both man and boy asked the question in unison and with identical expressions of masculine bafflement.

  Smiling now, Remy divided a look between the two. “The kiss was a thank-you for being so nice to the ladies at the senior center.”

  Again, man and boy spoke at the same time. “Oh.”

  “Seriously, Wyatt, that was a really sweet thing to do.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. I was tricked into cooperating. It started with a call to dispatch and went downhill from there.” By the time he explained the entire story, Remy was laughing.

  Samson, too.

  Wyatt still didn’t seem to see the humor in the situation. He would, Remy decided, once the humiliation wore off. “What I don’t understand is how you found a video of the whole sordid affair so quickly. I left the senior center less than thirty minutes ago.”

  “Reno sent me a link.”

  “Reno. Of course. What a guy.” Wyatt shook his head. He seemed to think for a long moment before adding, “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure he was behind this disaster.”

  “The video or the dance class?”

  “Both.”

  He glanced around the room, did a double take at the animal currently climbing on top of Scooby’s head. “Remy, don’t know how to tell you this, but your dog has sprouted a puppy from his ear.”

  “That’s Roscoe,” Samson said, rushing to pick up the animal. “He’s mine. But he has to live here on the ranch because you’re too busy for a puppy right now.”

  “I can explain,” Remy said, but Wyatt was already shaking his head.

  “I think I get the picture.”

  Then why wasn’t he reading her her rights? As if he could hear her thoughts, he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and spun to address Samson instead. “What is that on your face? No, don’t tell me. It’s McCoy’s handiwork.”

  “Actually, it’s mine,” Remy said. “McCoy walked me through the steps. But I did the actual painting.”

  Wyatt studied Samson’s face with an unreadable expression. Then, he smiled and said, “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  Remy basked in the compliment, for three full seconds.

  “Wait a minute. Just hold up.” She gave Wyatt a quick once-over much like the one Mavis had given him on the video. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend Wyatt?”

  “Oh, I’m the same man.” He unwrapped Farrell from around his neck and passed the ferret into her waiting arms. “I’m just seeing the world in a whole new light these days.”

  Remy wasn’t buying it. Something had changed. As soon as the thought came to her, she had her answer. Wyatt wasn’t seeing the world in a whole new light. He was seeing her in a whole new light.

  Pain rocketed from her head to the pit of her stomach. She had to cover her mouth to keep from sobbing. Oh, Wyatt, not you, too. Remy had warned him this would happen. She’d known he would think less of her once he knew her secret.

  Regret moved through her. Bone-deep sorrow came next. She’d not been expecting this. She’d honestly thought she and Wyatt had something special. But he was no different from any other man she’d told about her endometriosis. First Matt with his rejection. Then Reno with his pity. And now Wyatt with his seeing the world in a whole new light.

  “Remy? What’s wrong?”

  She looked down at the ferret in her arms, feeling weird and light-headed. Her vision was tinged a light gray, as though her eyes couldn’t quite focus. “Nothing’s wrong,” she lied, clutching Farrell closer. “Samson, why don’t you show your uncle your new blueprint holder.”

  She was disproportionately relieved the boy took his cue and that Wyatt let the moment pass. She held it together until they left. Only then, when she was completely alone with her beloved animals, did she sink to the ground and let the tears come.

  * * *

  Wyatt stood in Samson’s bathroom, contemplating the Spider-Man mask with genuine puzzlement. He couldn’t deny Remy had wielded her paintbrush with remarkable skill. He was impressed every time he got a good look at Samson’s face. He’d been prepared to send her a text reiterating how much he admired her artwork. But then he’d discovered the paint didn’t come off with soap and water. Adding drama to the already tense situation, Samson decided he hated getting his face wet. News to Wyatt. The boy never had a problem before.

  Time to call in the big guns. Wyatt dug out his phone and scrolled through his list of contacts. Deciding to go to the source, he called McCoy. The other man’s response was quick and to the point. “Apply cold cream.”

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  McCoy explained, sort of. The man’s words only confused Wyatt further. “Where am I supposed to get a jar of that at this hour?”

  “Try a drugstore.”

  Easier said than done. It was after nine and Walgreens didn’t deliver. Short of wrapping Samson up and driving back into town, Wyatt was stuck until morning.

  McCoy told him that the paint was nontoxic. A few more hours wouldn’t do any harm. “Have a good night, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt was pretty sure he heard laughter in McCoy’s voice. He pocketed the phone and shook his head. Artists, he thought, were a strange bunch.

  Refusing to give up, he turned the water back on in the sink, tested the temperature, then wet the washcloth again. Samson darted for the door. Wyatt blocked his exit. After another round of “you’re not leaving this bathroom,” and Samson’s pleas to “let me go,” Wyatt applied the washcloth to the boy’s face.

  Shaking his head back and forth, Samson picked a new battle to wage. And at exactly the wrong time. “I want Roscoe to live with us.”

  “He’s fine living at Remy’s.”

  “I want Roscoe to live with us. Did you hear me, Uncle Wyatt?”

  “I heard you.” He was pretty sure the neighbors in a four-block radius heard the boy.

  “We aren’t having this discussion right now.”

  “I. Want. Roscoe.”

  Wyatt remained firm and continued working on the face paint. With zero success. The tears came next. And then, the gut punch. “You’re hurting me.”

  He let the boy go. He’d buy the cold cream in the morning. Or maybe throw himself on Remy’s mercy and beg her to remove what she so brilliantly applied in the first place.

  The next morning presented Wyatt with another series of complications. Samson was up an hour before his usual time. Wyatt heard the boy stirring and prayed he’d fall back to sleep. Wyatt was attempting to fit in another half hour himself when Samson ran into his bedroom wearing his Spider-Man T-shirt and a pair of filthy blue jeans. Both had been relegated to the dirty clothes hamper for good reason.

  “Uncle Wyatt, Uncle Wyatt, Uncle Wyatt! Is now a good time to talk about Roscoe?”

  “Not until after I’ve had my coffee.” He hauled himself out of bed. “Go play with your Legos while I shower.”

  “Okay.” Samson bounced out of the room.

  Wyatt showered and managed a quick shave before feeding Samson a breakfast of cereal and buttered toast. A staple these days and certainly more nutritious than the gooey cinnamon rolls his mother used to serve the boy. Although he consumed the food entirely too fast, Samson ate every bite without a single argument.

  Lulled into a sense of confidence, Wyatt hustled him upstairs for a quick change followed by teeth brushing and hair combing. That’s when things fell apart. Samson refused to wear anything but the T-shirt he had on now, arguing, “It matches my face.”

  “It won’t once we wash off the paint.”

  “But I don’t want to wash off the paint.”

  “But you can’t spend the rest of your life wearing a Spider-Man mask,” Wyatt informed him.

  “Why not?”

  Wyatt knew better than to list the many reasons, especially the ones that supported proper hygiene. He’d learned a few things in the months since becoming the boy’s guardian. “How about you wear the mask today and then we’ll decide next steps tonight?”

  It was a terrible idea. He was setting himself up for this exact same argument in twelve hours. Samson was not one to let something go once he got it into his head, a trait he’d inherited straight from his mother. Chip off the old block. Wyatt tried not to sigh.

  The next hitch in their regular schedule came after Samson brushed his teeth. This time, the boy expressed his unhappiness with Wyatt’s parenting skills during the wetting and brushing of his hair. He howled—actually howled—every time the hairbrush caught in a knot, which happened to be often. Wyatt tried to be gentle, but the boy was a restless sleeper. Tangles were a foregone conclusion from the constant tossing and turning. Short of buzz-cutting the hair, they would both have to endure the torture.

  At last, he had Samson loaded in his truck. It wasn’t until Wyatt was halfway between his house and Remy’s animal clinic that he realized he’d left the boy’s lunch on the kitchen counter. Right next to his wallet.