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“You’re right. Sorry, bud.”

“I’m saving up from all Daddy’s swears to get a Bouvier hockey jersey.” Scout balls his fists and puts them in the air, victorious with the new dollar I’ll put in the jar later.

“Yeah?” Callie says, head tilted. “Who’s Bouvier?”

“You must be joking,” Scout says with a straight face. I wonder where he learned that expression. One more moment when I realize he’s getting older right before my eyes, learning things from other people when I’m not around. It crushes my soul and makes me proud at the same time. While I wrestle with more emotions than I’ve had in a single day, Callie rearranges herself so she’s cross-legged on the ground in front of Scout on my gravel driveway. It can’t be comfortable, but Scout mimics her posture and sits as well.

“I’m afraid I’m a hockey lame-o. Tell me about Bouvier.”

She’s trying so hard to find common ground with him, and right there, the arguments against her babysitting vanish because she’s already doing it, already entertaining my son so well that he seems to have forgotten I’m there.

I shouldn’t trust her. With her promises of mudpies, her love for junk food, and her inability to obey traffic laws, she’s the wrong influence for Scout. But I also know I can’t keep him sealed in a bubble, so I try to get over myself and lay down some ground rules.

“I need your phone number, and your phone has to stay within reach at all times. If I text or call, you answer immediately,” I say.

“Okay, control freak much?” Callie asks. At my glare, she nods. “Sure. Got it, Captain Crankypants.”

I ignore her sarcasm and spout out every overprotective idea I can think of. “No driving. You two stay here. If you make a mess, clean it up with Scout’s help. We pitch in around here. He knows the drill. And no sugary snacks.”

She holds up a hand. “Sorry, Captain. You’re killing me here. No sugary snacks? What if we want to bake cookies?”

“No cooking or baking. No hot appliances. There’s plenty of fruit in the fridge.”

“Daddyyyy, can we please make cookies?”

I fight the urge to blow my top at Callie for suggesting baking in front of Scout without my permission. It takes all my wherewithal to remind myself that baking cookies is a perfectly normal activity. For some people.

Callie reaches for Scout’s hand. He looks at it, then at me. I nod reluctantly, and he puts his small hand in hers.

She crouches down again and talks to him as if they’re on the same team, strategizing the final play to win the game. “Your dad’s right. Let’s stay out of trouble, make him proud, be good. Then…” She looks up at me and winks. “Next time I babysit, maybe he’ll trust us to make cookies.”

I dislike the wink. I dislike her plotting future hijinks with my kid. I really dislike the idea of her as his babysitter, and I can’t help the intruding thought that maybe it’s because I want her for myself. I shove that thought away with all the force I can muster.

“Just try to keep him clean and out of trouble. And if you insist on snacks, only let him have one,” I say.

“One?” She looks astonished. At my glare, she nods. “Okay. One it is.”

I should probably be more grateful for the favor, but somehow I can’t bring myself to thank her when she has that same sneaky sparkle in her eyes that Scout gets when we’re about to play hide-and-seek and he plans to hide somewhere he’s not supposed to go. I’m outnumbered in my own house, and I hate it.

Callie gives me a salute. At least she doesn’t call me Captain Crankypants again, but I feel like it’s implied.

Then Scout practically explodes. “Snacks!” He pumps his fist in the air. Looking at the unbridled glee on his face, I don’t have the heart to tell him not to get used to Callie as babysitter.

I will deal with “next time” next time.

CHAPTER 10

Callie

I’m not sure who’s having more fun. Scout gives me a tour of the animal pens in the yard, showing me how he feeds the pigs, generously dumping slop into a trough using a shovel bigger than his body. When I offer to help him maneuver it, he doesn’t hesitate, allowing me to share the weight of the shovel and showing me how much the pigs needed to eat. I have my doubts because his instructions seem overly generous, but the pigs get to work slurping down their lunch, so I join Scout in watching them, taking mental notes for the future petting zoo at Loveland Ranch.

While Scout chases chickens around their pen, I curl up in a corner with a baby chick in my lap, petting the downy yellow fuzz on top of its head with my thumb. Eventually, Scout seems to run out of energy for chasing the chicken, who shows no willingness to be caught. He plops down next to me and scoops up his own chick.

There’s something magical about this small child who seems so comfortable around the animals he lives with. I babysit my oldest sister Hannah’s son from time to time, but that kid is city all the way. Not even a goldfish in that household. I love seeing how comfortable Scout is outside, running up and down the rows of strawberries growing at the ranch. Despite my city girl roots, it feels like this is what childhood should be like. I feel good about the decision to keep Loveland Ranch in the family rather than sell it.

Meanwhile, we have made an utter and complete mess here, and I have no idea when Luke is due back. In fact, I’m not even sure how long he’s been gone. What I do know is that he’s going to lose his ever-loving mind when he sees the paint now covering Scout’s hands and arms and the crumbs from every type of snack food we found in the cabinet and used to make an “epic snack bowl,” which we’ve been eating nonstop.

Never one to say no to cheesy crackers or salted pretzels or yogurt from a tube, I’ve given Scout a run for his money on who can eat more and still manage to run like the wind through the fields behind the ranch.