Cynthia Reese: For the Sake of the Children

She jerked up and saw Patrick leaning down, peering into the car, a frown on his face.

She inched the glass down just enough. “Don’t you have a meeting to finish?” she snapped.

Patrick’s expression dissolved into surprise. He opened his mouth to say something—an excuse, maybe? She didn’t know, didn’t care. But whatever he was going to say, he bit it back and looked away.

“I’m sorry.” He jammed his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. Dana wished she didn’t notice how well those jeans fitted. “I know you were hoping for a better outcome from the school board meeting.”

“I was hoping…Oh, never mind.”

“Can—this is ridiculous. Can you get out of the car? I only have a minute or so, and this is giving me a crick in my neck.”

“Good, because you’ve been a total pain in my neck. Why did you completely waste my time?” She clenched her hands around the steering wheel.

“Come on. Two minutes—that’s all I have and all I’m asking for.” Patrick cocked his head to one side. “Please?”

What could he say in two minutes that would change anything? But what was the harm in wasting another two minutes? “Oh, okay.” Dana reached for the door handle, hating to give in.

She’d have to watch herself around Patrick Connor.

Dear Reader,

As a former teacher, I feel at home in most any part of a school—except when it comes to the school clinic. Beyond handing out a bandage and a hug, I would be at a loss if called upon to do the quick two-step most school nurses are asked to do on a daily basis.

In this day and age of shrinking school budgets, these ladies (and gentlemen) are called upon to be resourceful and caring—and to have a sense of humor about mishaps and mistakes. What better sort of woman could I choose for my heroine?

In fact, it was seeing the deft juggling act of my local elementary-school nurse that inspired me. Her story isn’t Dana’s story, and the school in this book isn’t patterned after any one school, but I hope I got enough of the flavor right so that readers can see how a school nurse has more to do than hand out those aforementioned bandages and hugs, especially when love enters the picture!

I hope you enjoy Dana and Patrick’s story. Let me know via my Web site, www.cynthiareese.net.

Sincerely,

Cynthia Reese

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Cynthia Reese lives with her husband and their daughter in south Georgia, along with their two dogs, three cats and however many strays show up for morning muster. She has been scribbling since she was knee-high to a grasshopper and reading even before that. A former journalist, teacher and college English instructor, she also enjoys cooking, traveling and photography when she gets the chance. For the Sake of the Children is her fourth book.

In memory of Mama Clyde,

whom I miss most fiercely.

I owe so much in the way of guidance, ideas and vision to my editor Victoria Curran, to Wanda Ottewell and to Megan Long. They had ideas about this project that gave it an entirely new direction and made me grow as a writer. I’d also like to thank my sister, Donna, for helping me through the rough patches, and my critique partners, Tawna Fenske, Cindy Miles, Stephanie Bose and Nelsa Roberto.

Thanks also to fabulous real school nurse Laura White and her nurse friends who helped me along—all errors are mine!

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T HE CRANKY SCHOOL BUS GEARS ground out a protest as Patrick Connor pedaled the clutch and tried to coax the transmission into shifting.

I had to be out of my ever-lovin’ mind—

“Fight! Fight!”

The words any school-bus driver dreads hearing ricocheted off the curved ceiling of the bus. Patrick’s gaze shot to the wide rearview mirror to confirm his worst fear.

Yep. There it was, the telltale circle of excited onlookers, forming a protective fence around the combatants.

Patrick groaned and pulled the bus next to the curb.

On his first day—and last, if he had any say in it—of driving a school bus, he indeed had a fight on his hands.

At the next board meeting I’m voting for a raise for these bus drivers . With that in mind, he swung himself out of the seat and marched through the pack of students.

The kids reluctantly gave way then drifted back to their seats. Patrick shoved aside the remaining stragglers between him and the combatants to see two boys, their fists flying.

“Take it back!” one boy screamed at the other as he pummeled him. “Take it back! ”

Patrick remembered what it was like to be ten and have your honor on the line. He remembered how fast and hot the adrenaline coursed through your veins, how you either stood up and declared your manhood—well, prepubescent boyhood—or were assigned the status of wuss.

Still, such pressure didn’t change the fact that the bus was already ten minutes behind schedule. Making the situation even worse was that the school was in sight. Five more minutes, and those kids would have been somebody else’s problem.

“Okay, fellas. Break it up.” He yanked the two boys apart and stood between them. A quick check told him that one would be sporting a shiner and the other would have the honor of a split lip and a nosebleed all over his shirt.

What do I do now?

Both the boys were panting like Thoroughbreds at the starting gate. If he stepped from between them in order to make that five-minute trip to school, they’d be at each other’s throats again.

But, dang it, he was ten minutes late already.

“Royce started it, Mr. Connor,” a kid sitting in a nearby seat told him.

The comment initiated a volley of protests from all sides. Patrick came to a decision and guided the boys to the front of the bus, when he evicted the small fry currently occupying the seats.

“You—there.” He indicated that Royce should assume one of the seats. “And you,” he said to the other kid, who looked like a Holmes boy. “Over there. We have five minutes— five minutes —to get us parked and y’all into school. I don’t want to hear a peep from anybody.”

Patrick more or less held his breath for much of the five minutes left of the bus ride.

He drew up to a stop in front of the old school that pretty much appeared as it had back when he’d attended. The air brakes whooshed as he set them, and he sat for a moment longer, not daring to remove his hands from the wheel for fear that the students would notice his fingers trembling.