Santa's Sweetheart (The Christmas Tree Ranch #4)(8)

“Come on, Daddy.” Grabbing his big hand with her small one, she tugged him through the doors, toward the far end of the hall. “Miss Chapman’s waiting. I told her you’d be coming.”

They stopped in front of a numbered door with a printed sign that said, MISS CHAPMAN, GRADE 1. Below the sign was a taped-on cutout of a smiley face.

Great. She’ll probably pull it down and rip it up when she hears about her car.

The door was open a few inches, but Sam couldn’t see into the room. “Should I knock?” he asked his daughter.

“It’s all right. She said we could just come in.” Maggie stepped ahead of him and pushed the door open.

The woman who rose from behind the desk was younger than he’d expected, of medium height, and slim as a willow. Her delicate features and dark eyes, slightly magnified by round, wire-framed glasses, lent her a doelike quality that Sam found strangely attractive. But never mind that. Right now his only concern was Maggie.

“Thank you for coming, Sheriff Delaney.” Her low voice was strong and confident, a teacher’s voice. The handshake she offered was brief and as businesslike as the tweed sweater and gabardine slacks she wore.

“Maggie,” she said, glancing down at his daughter, “you can wait outside on the bench while we visit. Do you have your book?”

“Uh-huh.” She held up the book, looking as self-satisfied as a kitten with cream on its face. “Take all the time you need.”

“Fine. Close the door on your way out,” Miss Chapman said. “Please have a seat, Sheriff.”

Sam seated himself on the adult-sized wooden chair she’d placed next to the desk. She swiveled her own chair to face him.

“I’m hoping we can resolve this right here,” he said. “It’s not like Maggie to misbehave in school—or anywhere else.”

“You’re right, it isn’t like her. She’s usually a model student, and she’s extremely bright, as I’m sure you’re aware. She’s already reading at a fourth grade level.”

“Maggie’s mother taught her to read before she started school, and she just took off from there.” Sam hadn’t meant to mention Bethany, but the words had just come.

Miss Chapman leaned toward him, her voice softening. “I understand that Maggie lost her mother last year. That must’ve been terribly hard on her.”

“It was hard on both of us. It still is, especially with Christmas coming.” Damn, he hadn’t meant to get personal.

“I understand.” She leaned back in the chair, crossing her slender legs. Her feet were clad in low-heeled gray suede boots. “I was wondering if that loss might’ve had some bearing on yesterday’s behavior.”

Sam shook his head. “I had a feeling you might say that. Maggie went through some hard months after her mother died. But this year she’s been happy. She’s excited about Christmas, keeps asking me when we’re going to get a tree.”

“So, it’s just the two of you at home? How do you manage?” She appeared to be studying him, her eyes soft and knowing behind the rims of her John Lennon glasses.

Sam forced a chuckle. “I’m a lousy cook, and I work a lot. But we’re a team. We manage all right.”

“What does she do while you’re at work?”

“I’ve arranged for her to stay with the retired couple next door.” Sam felt a prickle of annoyance. The woman was beginning to sound like somebody from Child Protective Services. “Listen, I don’t know why she went on strike yesterday. I was hoping you might have some idea.”

“Well . . .” A slight crown creased her forehead. “If Maggie’s as happy as you say she is, and if there’s nothing amiss at home, we might want to consider Maggie’s stated reason for going on strike—that she hates going to phys ed.”

“She really does hate it,” Sam said, “especially if there’s any competition involved.”

“Oh, I believe her. Maggie’s good at everything she does in the classroom. She’s the best reader, one of the best artists, does fine at math, but . . .” Her gaze took Sam’s measure. “Something tells me you didn’t hate phys ed in school. Am I right?”

Sam’s face felt warm. “I played college football. Might’ve gone pro if I hadn’t blown my knee. And no, I didn’t hate it. I loved it.”

“Because you were good at it. But Maggie isn’t good at sports. In fact, she probably sees herself as the worst one in the class, and she hates that, because she wants to be best at everything. But that doesn’t excuse her from taking part.”

“I didn’t come here to argue,” Sam said. “I agree with you. In fact, I told Maggie that, until her attitude changes, we’re not getting a Christmas tree.” Sam couldn’t help wondering whether she approved of that tactic. Her approval shouldn’t matter, he reminded himself. But somehow it did.

“And what did Maggie say to that?” she asked.

“Not much. She just dug in her heels.”

“I see.” Miss Chapman rose from her chair with a flowing motion. Grace. The name seemed a perfect fit. “Let’s see what Maggie has to say about this.” She strode to the door and opened it. “Come on in, Maggie.”

Maggie walked in, holding her book and looking like a scolded puppy. She was the picture of contrition. But Sam knew his daughter, and he knew an act when he saw one. The instant her gaze met Sam’s, he suddenly realized what the little schemer had in mind.