Chapter Six
Dragging the wide push broom down the center aisle, the rhythmic swish of stiff bristles against concrete offered a mindless, repetitive calm.
The barn smelled predictably of horse, hay, and something distinctly country.
Best of all, it was quiet. Hanson stopped at the halfway mark, leaning the heavy broom handle against his hip to stretch a kink out of his shoulder.
He liked sweeping. It was linear. Predictable.
It didn’t require him to hold multiple steps in his head at once.
It was something he could do without finding himself standing in a state of confusion, battling for clarity.
The crunch of tires on the gravel driveway broke the silence.
Curiosity would have to take a back seat to practical.
If he’d learned anything since the explosion that had sent him hurtling through the air all those months ago, it was that stopping mid task only made his life more challenging.
He closed his eyes for a second, fighting down the familiar, tight spike of frustration in his chest. Keeping the rhythm, he reached the end of the aisle and carefully set the broom handle against the wall and stood in the doorway, looking out at the silver pickup parked beside the main house.
Thinking back on all the vehicles that came and went from the Sweet ranch, he felt his teeth clamp down hard.
There was no way he could place the silver truck, but he did know, whoever it was, to have come along the side and not parked in front, had to be family or business.
Most of the ranch hands had come back to life after a few days of fluids and rest. He could go see if Alice or someone needed help. Especially since he didn’t really know what else to do now that he’d finished sweeping the aisle.
Sarah Sue, Preston Sweet’s wife, came out of the kitchen door with Alice on her heel. Opening the tailgate, she reached forward and released the crate door. The two women stood back, quietly, no movement, just watching the back of the truck.
Crossing the yard, taking careful steps not to make too much noise, he slowed as he realized what was going on.
The women were giving a gorgeous black and tan German Shepherd time to sniff the air and acclimate a little bit.
By the time Hanson was only a few feet away, Sarah Sue moved her hand, signaling for the dog to come out.
A second signal and the animal hopped off the back and came to a sit at Sarah Sue’s feet.
The animal was well trained. No surprise for a military K9.
A little surprising considering the dog had a problem.
Looking around, he tried to remember what that problem was.
Nothing was coming to mind. At least he remembered that the Sweets worked with troubled K9s.
That was something. Coming up to Alice’s side, the dog was even more striking up close. “He’s a beauty.”
All heads turned in his direction, including the dog’s.
The Shepherd’s ears shifted, one then the other, his posture alert without being tense.
The animal studied him with the kind of focused intelligence that made most men feel as if they were the ones being evaluated.
Hanson knew that look. He’d seen it on working dogs before; the assessment, the calculation, the wait for a reason to trust or dismiss.
“Easy, boy,” Sarah Sue said softly.
The dog’s gaze barely flicked in her direction before settling back on Hanson.
Alice tipped her head. “Well now.”
The way Sarah Sue’s gaze darted from animal to man, it was a safe guess she’d notice the dog’s reaction to him as well. She made another gesture and the dog quickly stood and pranced to heel at her side. “Good boy.” She pet the top of his head, but the animal didn’t react.
What Hanson didn’t know was if that was due to his training or problems. “Remind me what his issues are?”
Again, the dog tilted his head in Hanson’s direction.
“Hearing loss,” Sarah answered. “That’s why I’m doing more hand signals than verbal commands.”
The animal’s gaze remained fixed on Hanson.
“You checking me out, huh?” Hanson lowered his chin slightly, keeping his movements slow.
The Shepherd’s ears gave another small, inquisitive twitch. He took a single, measured step away from Sarah Sue’s leg, leaning a fraction of his weight toward Hanson.
The loud smack of the kitchen’s screen door shattered the quiet.
“A dog! Mom, look, it’s the new dog!” Mason practically vibrated as he bounded from the porch, his high, excited voice carrying across the yard. His mom was right behind him, grabbing the collar of his t-shirt before the boy could launch himself down the steps.
The Shepherd’s reaction was instantaneous.
He flinched, his body going rigid, but his head didn’t snap toward the porch.
Instead, he spun toward the open driveway, his dark eyes scanning the empty space frantically, his tail tucked tight against his hindquarters.
He was picking up the chaotic vibration of the boy’s arrival, but the high, breathless pitch of Mason’s voice didn’t seem to register as a directional sound. The dog was completely disoriented.
Sarah Sue immediately stepped into the dog’s line of sight, blocking out the yard, and threw a sharp, flat-palmed hand signal. Sit.
The Shepherd dropped his hindquarters to the dirt, but he was panting now, his previous calm entirely fractured.
“Hold your horses, buddy,” Jess scolded gently, keeping a firm grip on her son. “You know the rules. We don’t rush working dogs.”
“But he’s right there,” Mason whined, his voice peaking into a register that made Hanson’s own temples throb in sympathy.
“He’s getting acclimated,” Alice reminded her grandson, her tone mild but firm. “Do you have any chores to do before Kat gets here?”
Disappointment shining in the boy’s eyes, he dug a toe into the dirt and shoulders sagging, softly muttered, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you’d best get to it. Ms. Kat will be here shortly.”
That made Hanson stand a little straighter and battle a sudden urge to grin like a fool.
“I’ll let you all get to it.” Hanson took a deliberate step back.
He couldn’t help noticing the way the dog, now a bit more settled at Sarah Sue’s side, kept his gaze on Hanson.
He wouldn’t have expected the dog, despite his training, to want to play with the enthusiastic boy.
Then again, if anyone understood how feeling out of step with your surroundings could unsettle a person, he could.
Shaking his head, he took another step aside. “I should go get cleaned up.”
Everyone nodded, but Alice shared a knowing grin that took him slightly aback. There was something unnerving about a woman who seemed to know more about him than he did. And yet, it was somewhat reassuring at the same time. How was that even possible?
“You are doing a great job!” Kat stacked the tile cards into their case and clicked it shut.
Mason had nailed every silent E word she threw at him and by the end he’d been practically bouncing off the kitchen chair, which was either enthusiasm or the three shortbread cookies Alice had slipped him when she thought Kat wasn’t looking.
Either way, the energy in the room had been considerably higher than an afternoon of tutoring warranted.
“Do we get to play with the tiles again next time?” Mason had both elbows on the table, chin in his hands, his expression almost as delighted as a kid anticipating a visit with Santa.
“Absolutely.” Nothing could make Kat happier than to see one of her kiddos not only learning to master reading, but having fun along the way. She loved that he considered learning, playing—at least for now.
The boy flashed a gap-toothed grin and was off the chair and out the back door before she’d finished zipping the bag, the screen door announcing his exit with its characteristic smack.
Emerging from the pantry, Alice smiled at her. “Things seem to be going well.”
She nodded.
“There’s lemonade on the porch if you’re not in a hurry.”
She should be in a hurry. She had plenty of work to do, but when she opened her mouth, “That sounds nice,” came out instead maybe another time.
Leaving her bag on the table and walking onto the back porch, the setting looked suitable for a Norman Rockwell painting.
A large pitcher of what was most likely fresh squeezed not powdered lemonade was on a round wicker table, a stack of clear plastic glasses beside it for anyone so inclined to quench their thirst. In the far corner, in a large open door crate, the new K9 to the ranch rested with his head on his front paws.
The dog’s gaze darted everywhere, his ears twitched to match the flaring of his nostrils.
Poor boy was probably trying to orient himself with other sensations than sound.
Hanson came around the side of the house with Mason attached to his elbow, the boy chattering at a velocity that suggested the shortbread had definitely been a factor in the kiddos enthusiasm levels.
“Mason,” his grandmother called from inside the kitchen. “I have your snack ready.” The way Mason bolted past everyone and ran inside, someone might think Santa was in the house as well.
“How is he doing?” Remaining on the ground below, Hanson tipped his head in the direction Mason had just run past and settled one booted foot on the step above.
The simple easy gesture almost had her catching her breath.
Sin on a stick rushed to the forefront of her thoughts before she managed to shake the words aside and return the question at hand.
“Not bad, actually. Until now, reading has been excruciating for Mason. It’s even harder when you can’t understand something that all your friends are excelling at.
” Kat took a slow sip. “Think of dyslexia as a big umbrella. There are multiple issues under that umbrella and not all kids have everyone. For Mason one thing he struggles with is directionality, so what makes sense on the blackboard in class may not when he looks down to the paper on his desk. This is also a processing issue. He might happily tell you Austin is the capital of Texas, but if you turn that around and ask the Texas state capital is where? He could stare at you for days and not find the answer.”
His gaze was steady on her, intent, almost as if listening took great effort.
“Part of that is the lack of a retrieval system.”
Now Hanson frowned, his head tilting slightly to one side as if that would make comprehension easier.
“Think of his brain as a filing cabinet. The average person receives a sheet of paper with information and files it in a cabinet. They find the proper alphabet divider, then they seek out the appropriate subfolder and file it away to be retrieved easily when needed.”
“Makes sense,” he nodded.
“Only for Mason, imagine he’s filed the information away, but when he goes to retrieve it, someone has removed all the alphabetic dividers and to make matters worse, they’ve also removed all the file folders.
So, now he has a drawer full of papers and has to dig through each one to find the information he needs. ”
“If he can find it at all.” Hanson went perfectly still. His gaze stayed fixed on her, but there was no missing the rigid set of his jaw. The silence stretched for a few seconds. “So what do you do when the frustration hits?”
“We stop. Reset. Use different tools. That’s what my job is. To teach him all the tools at his disposal to help him get through. Hitting a brick wall over and over doesn’t break the wall, it just gives you a headache.”
“What if there are no tools?”
Her heart tightened. No doubt he was just now finding the parallels with Mason and his own life.
Different problems, no magic pill answer for either.
“There are always tools. In Mason’s case he’s learning alphabetic phonics now.
When he learns the rules of how words work, then he’ll eventually be able to tackle any word that was not sight recognizable before.
Then there is an extensive list of organizing tools.
We’ll eventually start using folders and color coding to keep track of all his work and assignments, and he’ll probably have to do that all through his academic and eventually professional career. ”
“So there’s no fix?”
She shook her head. “There isn’t a fix for diabetes either, but with proper management, a diabetic can live a long and full life.”
The way he stared down at his boots, she thought for a long minute that she might have upset or offended him. Even though it was never her intention to offend anyone, this time the thought bothered her a great deal.
His head lifted and whatever had weighed on his mind seemed to have slid away. “You’re good at what you do.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. I caught a glimpse of you with Mason earlier. You’re patient and kind and according to what you just told me, you know your stuff.”
“I try.”
“I suspect you do more than that.” He shifted his weight. “I should get inside and get cleaned up before supper.”
“Yeah. I need to head home.”
Extending an arm, he gestured for her to enter the house ahead of him. In the kitchen, she reached for her bag and before she could grab hold of the handles, he slid his hands under the straps and hefted it onto his shoulder. “I’ll walk you out.”
He carried her bag the rest of the way to her car.
A slow, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
It changed the entire landscape of his face, erasing the hard edges and leaving behind a quiet, staggering warmth.
Waiting while she unlocked the trunk before setting the heavy tote inside.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t hover. He simply stepped back, giving her space to close the lid.
This was another side of the man who almost ran her down in the café parking lot, and right now, she really wanted to see all the sides of Mr. Sin on a Stick.