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“Warn them, really.” Jo smiled. “I was a last-minute addition.”
“That was real nice of you, Jo.” He hoped he wasn’t imagining the flush on her cheeks.
“You two ready?” The high school principal, James Klein, asked. “We’ve got you both in the barn. Sorry, Miss Stephens, George Worley was a farrier, after all. Not the normal setup for an author, I guess. But it’s a pretty impressive barn, you’ll see.”
Hunter tried not to smile at Jo’s sigh. She knew all about the high school’s barn. It was the place he’d kissed her until they were both dizzy. It had been a very good day. He glanced at her, unable to resist teasing her. “You ever been in the ag barn here, Miss Stephens?”
Her gray eyes went round, then narrowed. “Hmm, I don’t think so. Nothing springs to mind.”
He pretended to grab his chest. “Ouch.”
She nudged him. He nudged her back.
“You started it,” she murmured as they entered the barn. “You know that expression—if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.”
“I like the heat, Jo.” He winked at her. He missed the heat, her heat. He just didn’t know if she’d want to know that. Or if she’d care.
“Dad.” Eli sprinted up, his open smile and enthusiasm stamped out as he saw Jo. There was no denying the anger that tightened his jaw. “Miss Stephens,” he all but snapped. Hunter didn’t know whether his son needed a firm talking to or a long, strong hug.
Hunter watched Jo’s startled blink, the effort it took to make her “Hi, Eli” somewhat cheery. It killed him. To see Eli fuming. To see Jo so hurt. He didn’t know how to make it better, for either of them.
“Well—” Jo’s voice wavered a bit, making him press his hands against his sides so he wouldn’t reach out to her. “I guess I’ll go see where I’m supposed to be.” She stepped away from them.
“Follow me.” Mr. Klein led her to the other side of the barn.
“What’s she doing here?” Eli asked, his tone a little too sharp, too hostile.
“She’s keeping Tyler Worley from failing algebra, Eli.” He looked at the boy. “Watch your tone, son.”
Eli frowned at his father, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Eli.” Hunter sighed.
“They set your table up over here.” Eli walked away, kicking at bits of straw and dirt as he went.
“Hunter.” Mr. Klein hurried up to him. “Would you mind sharing the space with Miss Stephens? There’s a draft over there, something fierce.”
“She’s got a coat.” Eli’s grumble was too low for Mr. Klein to hear it, but Hunter did.
“I don’t mind at all. Eli, go see if Miss Stephens needs help with anything.” The look he gave his son left little room for misinterpretation. This might not be the time to discipline Eli, but the two of them were going to have a serious talk before the night was through. He wasn’t about to let his son treat Jo with anything other than respect.
Eli’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Five minutes later, he and Jo were introduced to a group of twenty or so kids by the principal. Hunter sat on the edge of the table, letting her go first. It was the polite thing to do and he wanted a few m
ore minutes to just look at her.
“Hi. As Mr. Klein said, I’m Joselyn Stephens. I’m an artist and an author. Art has always been an outlet for me.” Jo’s voice was soothing. “I used to finger-paint the walls in my parents’ house. As you can imagine, that didn’t go over well.”
He smiled, envisioning a little Jo—all curls and smiles—joyfully smearing colors around the house.
“My parents hid the paint for a few years.” The kids laughed. “Once I’d learned that walls weren’t the best place to practice, my dad bought me my first art set. He was about to be deployed overseas. He told me to paint him pictures of home. So, instead of letters, I sent him pictures. He was the one who told me my pictures told stories. In time, other stories sort of popped up.”
A girls hand shot up and Jo pointed at her.
“Are your stories really about here? Stonewall Crossing?”
Jo shrugged. “Yes.” She glanced at Hunter then. “Some of the stories started right here, in this barn.” She waved her hand at the empty arenas. “I wasn’t very good at the whole animal-raising thing.”
