Chapter Five

THEY MADE THE FORTY-minute trip to Krista's apartment in Sam's late-model Range Rover, which was sprung a whole lot better than his POS truck. She was smarter than to tell him that in such colorful terms, however.

"This is a smooth ride, even over potholes."

"I took a different road this time."

"Oh. It's still a nice ride, and your consideration of my, uh...well...it's appreciated."

"You're welcome, darlin'. Are you warm enough?"

She sighed and snuggled deeper into the plush leather seat fully equipped with bun warmers. Afraid the direct heat would be too much, she'd been pleasantly surprised when, instead of burning her already tender skin, the warmth seeped into her work-sore muscles and eased the ache.

"It's perfect." Her unintentionally elongated er made it sound like an actual purr and drew an amused glance from him.

After they'd exited the toll bridge, she gave him general directions to the south side of town. When she saw her exit coming up, the lassitude she felt from being ensconced in luxury evaporated. She sat up straight, nails digging into her palms, dreading that Sam would soon see the dump where she lived.

"Take the next exit and turn right."

As soon as they left the off-ramp from the interstate, the steel cages over the store windows and the streets lined with old clunkers and rust buckets made it obvious this wasn't one of the city's elite neighborhoods. Once he'd made the turn, she pointed out her shabby apartment building.

"The entrance is just past that red sign up ahead on the left."

He put on his signal and pulled into the turn lane, and, while they paused for traffic, she saw him turn his head and study her building. Krista stared at where she'd called home for the past three years, ever since Nana moved to an independent living center for seniors, and saw it through his eyes. A vine from last summer clung to the front, brown and ugly. The concrete walkway leading to the front door had large cracks, one section was broken into chunks, and a gutter near the roof should have been replaced a decade ago hung askew. When it rained hard, water poured down in sheets. The outside made it look like a tenement. It wasn't, but didn't miss the mark by much.

Built over 170 years ago, the building was a registered historical landmark, having survived several battles during the Civil War. The sign out by the road told the story in full detail. With wonderful high ceilings and beautiful architectural details, it was only a shadow of its former glory. She knew this to be true from the turn-of-the-century photographs in the lobby, if you could call the 6'x6' cramped space with slanting floors and missing parquet tiles such a thing.

The building smelled musty, had no elevator, and she lived on the third floor. There were no sprinklers, but the landlord had upgraded the smoke alarms and fire extinguishers a few months back. Not because it was needed, but by order of the fire marshal, though she doubted the sorry sack would ever check the batteries or inspect anything unless made to. She'd move in a heartbeat, but it was all she could afford.

"If you pull into a space out front, I'll run in and get my stuff. I'm sure you don't want to leave your vehicle unattended in this neighborhood."

He didn't turn when he asked, "What makes you think I want to leave you unattended in this neighborhood?"

"It's not that bad," she hedged, although only a moment ago she had alluded that it was.

"Is that a homeless person sleeping on your front stoop?"

"Yeah, that's Old Carl. He's harmless."

His head swung her way. "I'm going in with you, darlin'. End of discussion."

"Okay," she whispered, feeling both embarrassed by his presence and glad for it.

He didn't say more until he'd turned into the lot and found a spot big enough for his SUV. Not an easy job with the tight-spaced parking. In fact, he had to pull up halfway onto the curb to leave enough room for her to open her door.

"Wait," he ordered before she hopped down.

Looking over her shoulder, she couldn't quite meet his gaze.

"Krista?" He paused, letting the seconds drag by until she at last raised her eyes to meet his. Then he raised his hand to cup her cheek. "Do you think I hold your bank account balance, the make of your car, or your address against you?"

"I don't have a car."

"There's no shame in that. You don't spend your days sitting on the couch eating bonbons, watching daytime talk shows, and waiting for a handout, do you?"

"No, I work six nights a week. Seven, if I can get it."

"And other than the other night when you succumbed to temptation—"

"I was putting it back, I swear." She threw her hands up in frustration. "Why won't anyone believe me?"

"Krista, I'm making a point. You're not a hardened criminal. Despite the stint in rehab for a loser boyfriend who stashed drugs on you, your record is clean. If anything, you're impulsive and a very bad judge of character. But that doesn't make you a bad person, and you won't be if you curb your impulsivity. And where you have to live because of your circumstances doesn't make you bad either."

"No, but my arrest record does. I didn't want to risk another charge, which is the reason you and I are sitting here. Why does it have to stay on your record forever?"

"A judge could give you a clean slate."

"Judges mean court, and court means lawyers. They cost."

"Good thing you know somebody."

She frowned in confusion.

"Judge Peterson," he supplied. "George took a liking to you, straight off. He'd be happy to help."

"Why? I was caught stealing in his home."

"He wouldn't have offered you the deal if he didn't think you were worth it, baby."

"It still doesn't make sense."

"He likes to give back when he can. He didn't always have privilege and power. Very few of us have wealth dumped in our laps without blinking an eyelash or working a single day. Most of us have to work for it."

"Not to belittle his accomplishments, but surely he had someone helping along the way."

"Which is what he would be doing for you. Giving back. Call it the whims of fate, if you want, but we have to play the hand we're dealt. Sure, we can whine about it if we don't get a royal flush, or throw our cards in and fold, but where does that get us? You wait tables, which we already established isn't easy, nor is it going to make you rich. Still, you plug away hoping for a better future."

"I'm doing my darnedest, but sometimes I feel like I'm getting in my own way. Like on Saturday night."

"Or, maybe that was fate dealing you a winning hand. You won't know until all the cards are played. I'll talk to George about expunging your record."

"Thank you."

"I want to help you, too, darlin'."

As she gazed into his handsome face, feeling the warmth of his hand on her cheek and absorbing the wisdom of his words, she realized his surly demeanor was a fa?ade. He was a kind man, who could also be very sweet. Why someone hadn't scooped him up was beyond her.

"I really need to introduce you to my grandmother."

One dark brow quirked in silent question.

"The poker analogy?"

Chuckling, he slid his thumb over her bottom lip. "We'll have to make that happen, soon. Maybe have a game." He pulled her across the console for a hard-and-fast kiss. "Wait here, I'm coming around."

***

SAM HELD HIS TONGUEas they climbed the stairs, but good god! The inside was worse than he'd expected.

Security was nonexistent. The lock on the front door was broken, and the wood was so swollen it didn't shut all the way. The lighting in the hallways was so dim they might as well not have any, and the stairs were worse. It was dangerous for a woman alone. Someone could easily get in, hide in a dark corner, and wait for her to come home.

No matter his speech about hard work and plugging way for a better future, this was unacceptable. As far as he was concerned, she'd spent her last night in this shithole.

Trying to control his rage that this young, beautiful, down-on-her-luck woman was a sitting duck for a predator, he stood rigid beside her while she used her key on the double locks.

"Why do you have a dead bolt, but the front door does not?"

"I had it installed myself."

"Good girl," he muttered. When the door swung inward, he put out his arm, blocking her entry. "Let me take a look first."

As soon as he stepped in, he was greeted with the high-pitched hiss of one pissed-off feline.

"I told you he doesn't like being alone," Krista said from the doorway.

"He can wait another minute."

As he searched the small main room and the even smaller bedroom and adjacent bath, he heard Krista trying to soothe Morris out of his snit.

"Come here, sweet boy, and give Mama a snuggle. I've missed you."

A sharp rawrr was his reply.

"All clear," he called on his way back to her.

"I know it's not much to look at, but I've really had no trouble."

"Yet." Standing with his hands on his hips in the middle of the living room/dining room/kitchen combo, he noticed she'd succeeded in making it a little brighter than the common areas. She had lamps and must have painted because the walls were a pale yellow instead of the drab olive green in the hallways. The penny pincher must have gotten the stuff on clearance at the Army surplus store in five-gallon buckets.

"I'll just feed him and then go pack."

"Tell me where it is, and I'll do it."

"The cupboard next to the sink. I was going to give him a can of wet food as a peace offering. Are you sure you don't mind?"

"He'll be in my house, so he might as well start getting used to me." The orange tabby in her arms had murder in his green eyes as he stared at him, however. A month might not be long enough.

"Okay," she replied as she set him down. "I won't be long."

As he made his way to the kitchen, which took all of four strides, Sam looked around with a detective's eye. It was neat as a pin, except for the dirt surrounding the wilted potted plant on the counter. When Morris leaped up and sat next to it, his green-eyed stare taking in his proximity to his food cupboard, and his fluffy tail whipped slowly back and forth, scattering the dirt and proving him the culprit.

He'd never been a plant kind of guy and made a mental note to donate the six he had at home that Lucinda tediously cared for every week.

After dumping smelly chunks of canned beef and gravy in the bowl, he filled the other dish with fresh water. With his face in his food, Morris didn't seem to care if a stranger's hand ran down his back and all the way to the tip of his tail.

"Bon appetite, cat. You're going for a ride after this, which I'm sure will make your day."

He took a look around her place while he waited, which didn't take long. Glaringly obvious was the lack of whatnots and knickknacks and throw pillows out the wazoo that women usually decorated with. There was a giant plastic Coke bottle bank tucked unobtrusively in the corner beside the couch. It contained maybe two inches of coins. The only art on the wall was a seaside landscape, and the only photograph was a small 4"x 6" framed snapshot.

He moved to the end table and picked it up to examine it closer

A young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, sat on a man's lap. Both stared into the camera with identical beaming smiles. Standing behind him was a pretty blonde a few years older than Krista was now. He had no doubt these were her parents, and the older couple flanking her mother, also grinning, were most likely her grandparents.

What had happened to this happy family, and why didn't she want to talk about it?

Setting the silver frame back on the table, he turned to survey the space from a different angle. A thirty-two-inch TV sat on a small stand. His computer monitor at work was bigger. Worse, he didn't see a cable box or a DVD player, only one of those free converter boxes.

"How barbaric," he exclaimed quietly.

He didn't see music or magazines or even an old newspaper. And without movies or a decent TV—because anything less than sixty inches...well, what was the point—Sam wondered what she did in her downtime.

The kitchen was as orderly as the rest of the room, and as void of personality. Even the dish towel hanging from the oven handle was a bland off-white. From what he'd seen, or rather, what he hadn't, he couldn't deduce her likes, or if she had hobbies, or friends, not even her favorite color.

She didn't have a kitchen table, the room being too small for one, but she could have tucked one into the opposite corner, which was empty, so he assumed it too was beyond her budget.

Looking down at the coffee table in front of him, covered with a tablecloth—neutral beige, what else?—he determined it must be in the same shape, or worse, than the other two. With no other place to do so, he figured it was where she ate her meals. On top of it sat a laptop, two dogeared paperbacks—the newest edition of the MLA, and the other titled, College Essay Essentials—and a neatly stacked pile of opened mail. The books only left him with more unanswered questions.

Having no qualms about investigating the girl who would be living in his home for the foreseeable future, Sam promptly picked up her mail and thumbed through it. He found a past due notice from the power company, a phone bill coming due in a week, and a lot of junk mail he wasn't sure why she kept. The piece on the bottom was the most interesting item of all, with the return address the bursar's office at the university. When he opened the tri-fold letter, his frown deepened. There was a four-digit balance due with the deadline for payment 4:00 p.m. that day.

He understood her succumbing to temptation the other night, but something wasn't right. Why would a girl working six days a week, and going to school during the day to make a better future for herself risk it all?

Sam looked around for other clues, but short of rifling through her cabinets and drawers, or storming into her bedroom and beginning a search, there weren't many clues to be had in the orderly room. Out of curiosity—natural for a detective—he stepped on the trash can lever beside the L of the counter and peeked inside.

Bingo.

Like he'd learned back in college, in Crime Solving 101, a person's garbage could be a wealth of information.

He bent and retrieved the six-inch white teddy bear holding a red heart. He recognized the $5.99 cheap-as-crap bear because it was as ubiquitous as a belly button, and marked down to 50 percent off at every convenience store and gas station after Valentine's day.

Beneath it was a crumpled piece of paper.

Written in bold print across the top in a discernably shaky hand were the letters—IOU. A short note in an almost illegible scrawl followed.

Thanks for helping Mama out, baby girl. Pay you back next time I come through.

It didn't add up. She lived meagerly, worked hard, but turned to stealing after a visit from her mom in which she loaned her money? Krista had spoken like she had no contact with her mother. In fact, she'd said her grandmother was all she had left.

His eyes shot to the nearly empty bank, and the pieces began to fall into place.

Krista walked out of her bedroom just then, rolling a small suitcase, a loaded duffel bag hooked over her shoulder, with a jacket slung over the opposite arm, and carrying two pairs of shoes.

Without preliminaries, he held up the crumpled note and asked, "What's this about?"

She glanced up, saw what he was holding, and paled. "You went through my trash?"

"That's not relevant, nor does it answer my question."

She dropped everything and crossed her arms.

"I think it's relevant when a guest in my home snoops through my stuff. You got mad at me for asking for coffee!"

"You cursed at me, called me a warden in a snotty tone, and demanded coffee. The two are in no way the same, especially since we have an agreement."

She didn't reply, only scowled at him through narrowed eyes.

"It was garbage, Krista, destined for the public landfill, available for anyone to peruse, not precious mementos. And don't tell me you didn't do some snooping of your own at my place. Maybe a peek inside the medicine cabinet or through the drawers in your room."

Twin flags of color appeared on her cheeks, telling him she'd done exactly that, but she remained silent. Since he was batting one thousand with his theories, he continued.

"Let me take a stab at this and see how close I come. Your mother is in and out of your life. She's got a drug problem, which is undoubtedly the reason your grandparents had custody of you. Not long ago, Mama popped in for a surprise visit. She came bearing gifts"—he held up the bear—"because she didn't want to arrive empty handed while begging you for money." He paused, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. "Something you don't have much of to begin with. You said no, which I'm sure was hard to do when she's in your face pleading, but good for you, darlin'. Then, while you were at work or at school, she robbed you of the tips you've been saving probably for six months"—he held up the tuition bill—"to pay this."

He didn't have to ask about his accuracy; her slack-jawed expression told him he was dead on. It wasn't often he was sorry when his hunches proved true, but knowing it meant she'd been screwed over by her own mother made him wish he'd been wrong. When tears pooled in her eyes, he wanted to go out and find her so-called mother, cuff her, and haul her to jail.

"I'm sorry, darlin'."

His sympathy spurred more tears.

Cursing under his breath, he dropped the bear back in the trash and strode toward her. She looked up at him, a mixture of misery and desperation in her watery blue eyes. Catching her wrist, he towed her to the couch where he sat and pulled her down into his lap. With his arms encircling her hips, he asked, "Ready to talk now?"

Her shaky response was, "No," but her story spewed forth like a damn bursting. "I'm so mad at her I could spit. I'm a waitress. She knows that, but does she care? After rent, utilities, and groceries, I don't have a lot left from my paycheck. Add school expenses on top of that, and there are weeks I barely scrape by. I live on ramen noodles and half-off the cheapest item on the menu on the nights I work."

She gestured to the nearly empty bank.

"That used to be full. At least $500. It took me eight months to save that much. Do you know how hard it is going to class all day and waiting tables in the evenings? The only time I get to study is on breaks or when I come home at midnight. On the weekends, I usually pull doubles because the money is so much better. It means sixteen hours on my feet and more time away from studying, but the tuition and books and everything else is so high, what choice do I have? Any change I got, I dumped in that bank. I scrimped and cut corners wherever I could. I even gave up my morning coffees at the Hut, and you know how much I need morning coffee. But like that"—she snapped her fingers—"my future was exchanged for a fifth of bourbon poured down her throat or an 8-ball of coke snorted up her nose. Damn her," she finished in a whisper. "I don't want to live like this the rest of my life, but without a degree, it's my destiny."

His hands slid up her back, one moving up to curl around the nape of her neck as he peered up at her. "That's a crappy thing for a mom to do to her kid, but if she's an addict, she'd sell her soul for her drug of choice. I'm betting you know that."

Grim faced, she nodded. "This isn't the first time she's burned me."

"Yet you left her alone in your apartment?"

"I didn't. She jimmied the lock. Thus, the deadbolt."

"Darlin'," he drawled, his fingers giving her a little squeeze. "How many second chances have you given her?"

"Too many. But she looks me in the eye and tells me this time is different." Her voice broke when she added, "It never is." The tight rein she'd had on her tears did as well.

Sam pulled her into his chest and held her close as she cried.

She didn't allow it for long and took a deep, hitching breath. "I'm sorry for blubbering all over you."

He leaned forward, taking her with him, and pulled several tissues from a box on the coffee table. "That's another good thing about daddies, darlin'. We're blubber proof." He caught her chin and tipped it up, mopping away her tears, Kleenex doing a much better job than her fingers. "I hate to hear you're working yourself to the bone this way. Don't you qualify for low income grants or scholarships?"

"I did, but eighteen-year-olds should not go to college," she declared, a bite of anger in her tone. "They're too young and stupid. Given a taste of freedom, too many go off the rails. I skipped class more than I should have, didn't study nearly enough. I passed my classes—barely—but lost my scholarship in the process, along with almost two-thirds of my class. A mandatory gap year, or four, is what kids need out of high school. For work, though, not play, so they can see how hard it is to live on minimum wage or on tips."

"It sounds like you learned that lesson the hard way, darlin', but it doesn't answer my question. Didn't you receive any financial aid?"

"I'm an idiot."

"Krista."

"I missed the deadlines for the paperwork last year, and won't be eligible again until fall semester. I've already turned all of that in." She sounded so miserable, her voice trembling and, with the sniffles, she broke his heart. "Maybe it's best I wait until fall, except..."

"Sit up, baby," he urged. He'd be lying if he said she didn't look adorable with tearstained cheeks and eyes framed by spiky wet lashes. "Now, tell me about except."

"I'm behind in my general studies classes and have one more prerequisite before I can apply and be accepted into the program I want. That's the class I planned to take this semester. The cohort group for fall will be finalized in May, which means if I don't pay that bill, today, I'll have to wait another full year to begin." Her body slumped in dejection. "At this rate, I'll be fifty before I graduate."

"When did she steal the money?"

"I noticed it gone Saturday morning, and her along with it."

"And later that same night, after dear mom put you in a bind, opportunity presented itself."

"When that money clip fell on the floor, it was a powerful draw," she admitted, her tone filled with misery. "I didn't think a twenty here or there would be missed. Then I came across the diamond pendant. I'd never seen anything so beautiful, or that expensive. I had a moment of clarity and realized what I was doing. I don't want to be like my mother, but there I was acting just like her. My dad is probably spinning in his grave."

He paused to absorb that. "You answered my next question, which was what happened to your father?"

"He was a good man. As honest as the day is long. He'd be ashamed of me," she whispered tearfully. "Like you are."

"I'm not ashamed of you, Krista, and your dad wouldn't be either."

"Yes, he would," she shot back. "He'd be appalled to know I even thought of stealing, but he'd be pissed at Mom more for giving up and checking out on me."

He caught her chin and tipped it up. "Take a deep breath, little bit, and explain—from the beginning."

"I grew up in Texas but moved here with my grandparents."

"I usually recognize a fellow Texan when I hear one. How old were you?"

"Twelve. I'm from Sweetwater. A town not too far from—"

"Abilene. I know of it."

"You do?"

"My father was an Air Force pilot. When I was young, he was transferred, a lot. That got old for my mother, always leaving one home for another, not putting down roots, never developing a network of friends to help her through when he was away, and she worried about me changing schools so much. Dad applied for and was assigned as a trainer at Laughlin Air Force Base."

"In Del Rio," she filled in with a small smile. "That's in West Texas, my neck of the woods."

He grinned. "And mine, about a decade before your time."

"How did you get from there to the Carolinas? Were you in the Air Force, too?" She eyed him a moment. "With those shoulders you look more like a Marine, or one of those special forces badasses." Her hand flew to cover her mouth. "Oops. Does that count as cussin', Daddy?"

"I'll let it slide 'cause it's true. But I didn't serve, at least not in the military. After I got my criminal justice degree, I gave by protecting and serving here at home."

"Home being Texas?"

"No, here on Wanaker Landing. Though my folks are still in Texas." He gazed at her shrewdly. "You did it again. Weren't we talking about you? Are you avoiding something in your past?"

She shrugged. "You already know about my junky mother and my deadbeat boyfriend, the rest all just folds into the struggle that has been my life since Dad got killed in action."

"Tell me about him." His request was voiced softly, to encourage, but it was a command nevertheless. One way of the other, he planned to get the whole sordid story.

"Like yours, my dad was in the service, but he was an Army man. He served two tours in the Middle East while I was little, then was called up for a third when I was ten. That ended up being his last deployment because he was killed in action in Afghanistan."

"Your mom had a harder time grieving than most, I'm guessing."

"Hard doesn't begin to describe it. She went off the deep end when she got the news. He was the love of her life, and her profound grief turned into chronic depression, which turned to prescription drug abuse, mostly Xanax and Valium. When those didn't numb her brain to the point of oblivion anymore, she started drinking—heavily. She's been in rehab at least six times that I know of. It never took."

He could tell by the trembling in her voice she was struggling with tears again. Sam ran his hand up and down her back offering what comfort he could. She responded as he'd hoped and went on, proving she had some steel in her spine.

"My grandparents tried everything, but she burned them out quickly. They sued to have her declared unfit and won guardianship of me. About that time, Gramps had an opportunity for a promotion with his company; it meant a move to the East Coast. They thought it would be a good break for me. I've never returned."

"That's a lot for an adult to cope with, let alone a young girl who hasn't even hit her teens yet."

"Yeah, but you grow up fast watching your mother drown her sorrows in a bottle every night. Then pop nerve pills for the shakes every morning. Even faster when you come home from school to an empty apartment because your mom's off on a three-day drunk or passed out somewhere."

"Where is she now?"

Krista shrugged. "After we left, and with no other family in Texas and the only friends she had users, she followed us here. I had hoped a change would help her get sober, but it didn't. It's been fourteen years, and she's still a mess."

"That's tough, darlin'."

She nodded. "My dad was awesome. He taught me to ride."

"You didn't say you could."

"It was a long time ago. He loved horses. If joining the cavalry was still an option, he would have signed up in a blink." A soft light entered her eyes, and there was pride in her voice while she talked of her father. "And he was a marksman. He won trophies from the time he was twelve. He had just started my lessons when he had to leave. Mom always complained he was treating me like a boy. He'd reply, ‘Look at her. She's so damn beautiful, she'll draw boys like bees to honey and will need more than a stout stick to beat them back.' That hasn't been the case, but it was sweet of him to say, and I won't forget it."

"You have some good memories of him."

She wiped a single tear from her check. "All my memories of him are good."

"You should feel comfortable on the ranch."

"Not gonna lie," she replied wistfully. "I love horses, too, but it's been over a decade. We never did any of the tending, as you could probably tell this morning. As for riding, I've probably forgotten all he taught me."

"That can't be true. And if it is, you know what they say."

"No, what?"

"You dust yourself off and get right back up again."

Her brows drew together. "I think that's if you fall."

"Oh, that's right. Then it must be the one that goes, it's like riding a bike, only without wheels and no brakes."

Her eyes brightened, and a hint of a smile played around her lips, which was what he was going for. "Who says that?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"No one that I know," she shot back.

"And, ancient as you are," he teased, "you must surely know everybody."

"No, that would be you. I'll have to bow to your much greater wisdom and take your word for it."

"That was a crack about my age. You're sassin' me, aren't you?"

"Who me? No, sir... I mean Sam. I mean Daddy!"

After the heavy discussion, she surprised him by laughing. It started out as a giggle, which she tried to muffle with her hand, but it grew into light gentle laughter that rippled through the air. It was captivating, but also infectious, and after a minute of soaking it in he found himself joining her.

Caught unaware, she looked at him, a smile gracing her lovely face as he turned his comment from yesterday back on him. "That's a wonderful, deep, rich laugh you have, Daddy. You should do it more often."

"Scamp," he exclaimed while planting kisses on her cheeks then her neck, which had her giggling harder, then he caught her cheeks between his hands and gave her one right on her mouth. He would have taken it further if a harsh meow hadn't made them both jump. Beside them on the couch sat Morris, giving the man who was smooching on his girl a narrow-eyed glare.

"He's jealous."

"No, he probably wants more to eat."

"I don't think so. I'm a male, and I recognize the sound of another male protecting what he thinks is his."

She reached over, picked up the ball of fur, and nuzzled his neck similar to the way he'd just done hers while scratching him behind the ear. The feline began purring loudly at the attention.

"I think I have a rival for your affections."

"You want me to nuzzle and scratch you, too, Daddy?"

"You better believe it, but first things first." He set them both down next to him and leaned to the side, pulling out his phone. Then he picked up the discarded tuition statement.

"What are you doing?"

"Paying your bill. You're not putting of school another year; you've waited long enough."

"No." She nudged the cat off her lap and turned to him, laying her hand on his forearm. "I can't let you do that, Sam. I'm supposed to be working off a debt, not incurring more."

"You'll learn soon enough, darlin', that daddies don't like to hear the words no and can't."

"I'm serious."

"As am I, Krista."

"What about working on the ranch?"

"What's your schedule?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays from nine o'clock until one."

"Not a problem. If I can't take you, one of the men will. On the other days, you'll work for me, with built-in study time, naturally." He looked up from his phone. "Be warned, I'm a stickler for good study habits and won't accept anything less than a B."

"Let me guess, you got straight As."

He had, but only said, "Anything worth doing is worth doing right, darlin'."

"Wow. That's not happening with me."

"Why not? You can do it, too, if you apply yourself. I'll make sure you do and help you establish good study habits, which is half the battle. What classes are you taking?"

"Microbiology and sociology."

"That's an odd mix."

She shrugged. "I thought so, too, but what can I say? It's on the curriculum. But only one is a prerequisite. I thought I'd conquer two while I had the money, but I don't need to take both now. I can wait until for the other until fall."

"Will both help keep you on track?"

"Yes."

"Then you need to take both."

His tone said discussion closed, and she got the message, sitting quietly while his fingers flew across his keypad as he brought up the college website, discussion closed.

"Thank you."

His eyes rose to hers, and one brow arched. "Give me just a little bit more, darlin'."

"Thank you, Daddy."

"Sweet music to my ears." He leaned in and kissed her cheek then her nose before passing her the phone to enter her login and password.