Except . . . she really didn’t have to do any of that shit if they were in Alaska. And wasn’t she happy there? She loved to fish and check traps. She loved to carry small logs of wood to the woodpile. She loved the outdoors. Loved being at his side constantly. It was just the whole ranching thing that made things difficult. A four-year-old couldn’t be at his side constantly when he was moving the cattle into a different pen, or fixing fences, or on horseback. It’d be fine when she was older, but right now she was little and fearless.

When it came time for him to go, he gave Becca a quick kiss and sprinted out the door, practically tearing through Painted Barrel’s quiet streets to return to the school. He could hear a child crying as he entered the school, the sound a loud, shrill wail of utter misery—and he knew it was his daughter.

Hank burst into the pre-K classroom, startling the parents and the teacher, who was kneeling next to his miserable daughter. Libby’s face was bright red from crying, her hair a mess of wild tendrils. She was crying so hard that hiccups shook her, and when she saw him, she reached her arms into the air just like she had when she was a baby.

And his heart hurt even worse than before.

“Mr. Watson, it’s good to see you,” Miss Mckinney began as he shoved past her to scoop up his daughter. “Libby had a challenging first day—”

“No,” he said firmly.

“No?”

“Last day,” he told her. He wasn’t doing this shit to his daughter again. He put a hand to Libby’s head and held her close as he turned to scowl at the teacher. “She doesn’t need this shit. She’s not coming back.”

“Mr. Watson,” the teacher began again, her brows furrowed. The smile remained on her face. “I promise you, it’ll be all right. Lots of children—”

“No,” he said firmly again, and turned his back on her. Protectively hugging his daughter against him, he stormed out to his car. “I’ve got you, Libby. You don’t ever have to go back to that awful place.”

She shuddered and hiccuped, snuggling against him, and he was filled with a protective urge to just get in his damn car and drive her all the way back to Alaska, back to the remote cabin where no visitors ever came by and his kid didn’t have to worry about “socializing” or any of that crap. She didn’t have to change a damn thing about who she was.

She was perfect, and he was going to lose his shit on the first person that suggested otherwise.