Free How to Handle a Cowboy by Joanne Kennedy

a group, creating a city kids versus country kids dynamic that inspired talk of gangs in town. It didn’t help when Isaiah encouraged the other kids to put on exaggerated “gangsta” walks and tell wild lies about big-city life. In return, the country kids teased her boys about their parents—or lack thereof. There was no doubt that hurt and made the situation even worse.
    Sierra had been worried about getting the community to buy into her hometown idea, but it turned out it was the kids who refused to cooperate. Of course, the administration at school wouldn’t cooperate either. The vice principal, who seemed to be the only authority figure willing to meet with her, insisted the kids would work out their differences among themselves, without adult intervention. Sierra disagreed. These weren’t puppies play fighting in the backyard. These were children, and every cruel word poked a hole in their fragile self-esteem.
    The massive old Victorian house felt a little spooky in the absence of the cheerful chatter of the boys. Her footsteps echoed as she headed down the hall to her office, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell buzzed.
    She really needed to get that thing changed.
    The man at the door was dressed in a uniform that somehow managed to be neither brown nor green nor gray, and it wasn’t quite khaki either. He stood militarily erect and weirdly motionless. Her first impression was that he was the most respectable man she’d ever seen. Possibly the best-looking as well, but in a Ken-doll way that just didn’t work for her. Sierra had taken a Sharpie to her own Ken when she was a kid, giving him a mustache and some tattoos. She didn’t like perfect men.
    Maybe that explained the string of failed relationships she’d left behind when she’d moved to Wynott.
    â€œCan I help you?” she asked.
    But she knew who he was and probably what he wanted. She’d seen him pedaling around town on a black Schwinn bicycle, doing his best to look officious. He was the town police—or the sheriff, as Ridge had called him—and he probably wanted one of her kids.
    Shoot. The boys had been out of her sight for five minutes, and there was already a cop at the door.
    What had they done? And how had they done it so fast?
    Could Jeffrey have shimmied out a bus window and taken off running? Could Isaiah have gotten in a fight already? She pictured skinned knees, bruised elbows, irate bus drivers, lawsuits from angry parents.
    She held the door open and the sheriff stepped inside, executed a military turn, and introduced himself.
    â€œSheriff Swaggard, ma’am.”
    ***
    Jim wondered why the woman seemed so horrified at the sight of a lawman at her door. Guilty conscience, probably. Well, he’d figure out why eventually. He was good that way. He knew human behavior like the back of his head.
    He gave the woman his best handshake, manly and firm. Hers was weak, a little cautious. He was willing to bet she had something to hide.
    She was a cutie, though. Tiny little thing, blond hair, pretty green eyes that looked wide and innocent. She looked more like a woman who needed protection than any kind of criminal.
    He pictured himself rescuing her from a burning building. Saving her from bad guys at a bank robbery. He didn’t know how that last one would happen, since Wynott didn’t have a bank, but he could picture it clear as day.
    â€œIs something wrong?” she asked.
    â€œWell, I don’t know.” He arched his eyebrows. “Do you think something’s wrong?”
    That was a sure way to get at the truth—put the suspect on the hot seat.
    Not that she was a suspect. Not yet.
    â€œNothing’s wrong that I know of.” She gave him a cute little Kewpie-doll smile, the kind of smile that made him hope to God she wasn’t guilty of anything. It would be too bad if the first pretty girl to come to Wynott in over ten years