Page 37 of 11 Cowboys
They scramble, and my nerves drop down a notch until there’s a soft knock at the door.
“Mind if I help?”
I turn and find Grace in the doorway, complete with a messy bun, a too-big flannel shirt knotted at her waist, and her ridiculously expressive hazel eyes bright despite the early hour. There’s no hesitation in her stance. No awareness that she’s walking into my sanctuary and about to disrupt the order I’ve fought so hard to forge.
I force my expression to be neutral. “You want to help?”
She shrugs. “Figured it would give me a chance to get to know you, and I can wrangle a room of kids with one hand tied behind my back. Thought I’d offer.”
I hesitate. Hard. My whole body resists it. I don’t need a variable, and I don’t need her.
But Conway said to give her access and let her observe and interact, so I exhale through my nose and step aside.
“Fine. You can sit.”
She flashes me a bright smile and plops down on thecarpet, cross-legged, right at the kids’ level. I watch her warily.
Grace doesn’t fit my model. She doesn’t follow the rules. There’s an energy about her I don’t trust. It fizzes at the edges, unpredictable and a little too bright this early in the morning. The breakfast she made was delicious, but who does that? She’s a guest journalist in this house, and she felt comfortable enough to raid our fridge and cupboards to cook a meal. That isn’t normal. We’ve had women come and join our household with a view to staying who’ve been less comfortable with wading into the fray.
Junie immediately scoots over to lean against Grace. Matty grins and flops down next to her with all the subtlety of a small freight train. Even Eli, who barely tolerates me on good days, watches her with cautious interest.
I clear my throat. “We follow a set structure in this room. Reading, then numbers, then independent work.”
“Got it, Professor.”
My brow twitches. “I’m not a professor.”
Grace tilts her head, eyes glinting. “You sure? You’ve got the energy for it. All we need is a chalkboard and some of those dramatic elbow patches. Maybe some sandals over your socks.”
The kids giggle. I do not.
I turn back to the table, pushing my glasses up my nose. “Reading primers first. Let’s begin.”
I hand out books. Grace accepts hers with a playful mock salute, which somehow makes the twins snort and Junie beam like she’s just been handed a tiara.
I steel myself. This is already spiraling.
Yet, as we begin, something odd happens.
Grace doesn’t interrupt. She follows along, gently nudging the kids when they falter, offering soft encouragement that doesn’t derail the rhythm. They stay focused longer than usual. Matty, who normally tries every trick in the book to avoid sight words, actually reads through a full page with her soft “you’ve got this,”murmured in his ear.
I narrow my eyes. She’s throwing off the balance, but not in the way I feared.
The lesson continues as I call out new words and assign worksheets. Junie colors in a big letter J. The twins trace letters to learn penmanship. Matty and Eli work on copying words and sentences while I let Rory play with wooden alphabet blocks. They obey with fewer complaints than usual—even Eli’s pencil scratches dutifully across the page.
I glance toward Grace, who’s humming faintly under her breath as she helps Junie pick out the best pink for her letter.
My jaw tightens. I don’t want to admit it, but this isn’t the disaster I expected.
We’re forty minutes in when Grace, as anticipated, disrupts the flow.
“We should build a story together,” she says brightly after Junie holds up her finished page for the tenth time.
I blink. “That isn’t on the schedule.”
Matty looks up, eyes wide. “A story?”
The twins instantly perk up. Eli stops scribbling and glances sideways, curious. Grace leans back on her palms. “Come on. I’ve done this with my mom’s kids. Everyone adds a sentence to build a crazy adventure. If you get stuck and need some help, someone else can throw in a word for inspiration.”
