Page 59 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“You didn’t?”
“Nope. My father didn’t think women needed to go to a fancy college. He wouldn’t pay for it.”
“Are you serious?”
Her lips purse in a wry grin as she nods. “Yeah, you could say my dad is a bit of a throwback. He said he’dallowme to go to community college and get my teaching or nursing degree.”
Knowing from our conversation just minutes ago that these memories aren’t as lighthearted as she’s making them, my hands curl into fists. But Jules just winks at the kid.
“I answered him by accepting a full scholarship to Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, a college he didn’t even know I’d applied to.”
“Wow.”
She pulls the kid in for a brief side hug before pushing him away, playfully messing with his hair. The small gesture of comfort tells me the kid’s question got to her more than she’s letting on.
If today has taught me anything, it’s that there is a lot more to this woman than what you see.
“You may not have money, but you’ve each got a brain.” Jules looks each kid in the face, her expression more serious than before. “Use it.”
And they all nod solemnly. These kids who constantly get told they’re no good, that they won’t amount to much, whose home lives are broken and neighborhoods unsafe, they all nod at her command. Some of them probably have an urge to salute and aren’t sure why.
I won’t be surprised if next week they start pulling in better grades at school.
All the poles baited and handed out, Jules brushes off her hands on her jeans. Hands that managed not to get worm guts on them during the entire process. “Now.” She puts her hands on her hips, looking over her new crew. “Who’s gonna catch the biggest fish?”
Everyone’s hand goes up. Including mine.
* * *
Jules
Holt’s beenquiet since our feelings talk. I’m not sure if he’s annoyed that I’ve commandeered his motley crew of pre-adolescents or if he’s mulling over what we talked about.
Though, quiet or talkative, the man still looks fine. I never thought much of cowboys looking prim and proper, but the way Holt tucks in his shirts, buckles his belt and stands with perfect posture, he’s like the Pollyanna of cowboys.
Rowdy Yates, indeed.
“Holt, my line is stuck!” An older kid pulls back on his pole, making it bend.
Holt makes his way over to where the kid is standing and patiently helps him untangle the line.
He’s good with these kids. Really good. And it’s obvious they respect the hell out of him.
The program he created has sign-up sheets for kids who want to take a trip to the West Ranch. The kids learn how to ride, how to fish and how to enjoy a day without having to worry about getting bullied at school, beat up at home, or drug dealers pushing them out of their local parks. Holt pays for the bus and gas. Serves them all lunch. All the kids have to do is show up.
“Ms. Starr, look at this one!”
A small fish, no bigger than the palm of my hand, dangles from TJ’s pole. The kid isn’t much bigger than it either. I was shocked as shit when he said he was ten. Kid needs some protein shakes.
“That’s a beaut, TJ. Way to go. I think that puts you in the running for biggest fish.”
“Cool!” He jumps, the toes of his bare feet sinking into the wet sand at the edge of the pond.
And I wasn’t lying. That would put him in the running. I haven’t seen such small fish since I watchedFinding Nemoon some rare off-time during my last stint on the International Space Station.
What? Don’t mock me—Finding Nemois legit awesome.
A shadow falls over me. Tilting my head back, I look up to see Holt standing there, sunlight creating a halo around him, hands on his mighty fine hips.
