Jenna looked away from the pale blue eyes of the man towering over her. She’d get a crick in her neck if she kept looking up at the six-and-a-half-foot giant, whom she knew well from watching football with the guys in her unit. His face was all smooth planes beneath a sandy-brown goatee, and when he smiled, there was something about it that changed his eyes, making her think a light was hiding inside his heart. It was a kind of shy smile, almost humble, but powerful.

      Maybe it wasn’t real. It could be a part of his lady-killer image. As an optimist she liked to think that it was something else. It was the real person hiding inside the public image, hidden by tabloid stories of models and actresses.

      She’d like to know the real Big Mac Mackenzie.

      But of course, she wouldn’t. Getting to know a man wasn’t on her five-year plan. Or her fifteen-year plan. She would get her boys and walk back up the drive to her house, away from the temptation to ask him questions about his life and why he was here now.

      He had finished checking out the wrecked car and walked back to her, shaking his head.

      “Is it bad?” She was mentally calculating what a car like that would cost, and how much the repairs would cost her.

      “No, I don’t think so. Two tires are blown, and there’s a good dent in the driver’s side door.”

      “Do you want the number for the garage?”

      “I guess I have to.” He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket.

      “Sorry, you’ll have to come up to the house for the number.” Jenna gathered the boys and looked back over her shoulder.

      He was standing in the road, looking unsure, like this was all some malicious trap on her part. He looked like a giant, but he looked lost and a little vulnerable. She shook off the thought that compared him with David, her smallest twin, after he’d had a bad dream.

      Big Mac Mackenzie wasn’t a lost child. He was a grown man standing in the road wearing faded jeans, a loose white shirt with the top three buttons undone and a black cowboy hat firmly in place.

      “Are you coming?” She waited. “I’ll get you a Band-Aid for the cut on your head.”

      He finally nodded, let out a sigh and took long-legged strides that soon put him next to them. And then he walked slower, keeping pace with them as they made their way up the drive to the house.

      Horses whinnied from the barn, reminding Jenna that it was feeding time. She glanced in that direction, thinking of work that needed to be done, and how she’d rather be sitting on the front porch with her leg up and a glass of iced tea on the table next to her.

      She loved her front porch with the ivy and clematis vines climbing the posts, drawing in bees and butterflies. She loved the scent of wild roses in the spring. Like now, caught on the breeze, the scent was sweet and brought back memories.

      Some good, some bad.

      “What are your names?” Adam Mackenzie asked the boys, his deep voice a little scary. Jenna gave a light squeeze to their hands to encourage them.

      “Timmy.” The bigger of her two boys, always a little more curious, a little more brave, spoke first. “And we don’t talk to strangers.”

      He also liked to mimic.

      “Timmy, mind your manners,” Jenna warned, smiling down at him.

      “Of course you don’t, and that’s good.” Adam Mackenzie turned his attention to the smaller of her two boys. “And what about you, cowboy?”

      “I’m David.” He didn’t suck his thumb. Instead he pulled his left hand free from hers and shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked up at the tall, giant of a man walking next to him. “And we have a big uncle named Clint.”

      A baritone chuckle and Adam made eye contact with Jenna. She smiled, because that light was in his eyes. It hadn’t been a trick of the camera, or her imagination. She had to explain what David had meant to be a threatening comment about her brother. Leave it to the boys to think they all needed to be protected from a stranger.

      “My brother lives down the road a piece.”

      “Clint Cameron?” Adam’s gaze drifted away from her to the ramp at the side of the porch. Her brother had put the ramp in before she came home from the hospital last fall.

      “Yes, Clint Cameron. You know him?”

      “We played against each other back in high school. What’s he doing now?”

      “Raising bucking bulls with his wife. They travel a lot.”

      Jenna grabbed the handrail and walked up the steps, her boys and Adam Mackenzie a few steps behind, watching her. The boys knew the reason for her slow, cautious climb. She imagined Adam wondering at her odd approach to steps. In the six months since she’d been home, she’d grown used to people wondering and to questioning looks. Now it was more about her, and about raising the boys. She was too busy with life to worry about what other people were thinking about her.

      It hadn’t always been that way. Times past, she worried a lot about what people thought.

      She opened the front door, and he reached and pushed it back, holding it for them to enter. She slid past him, the boys in front of her.

      “Do you want tea?” She glanced over her shoulder as she crossed the living room, seeing all of the things that could make him ask questions about her life. If he looked.

      He stood inside her tiny living room in the house she’d grown up in. A house that used to have more bad memories than good. For her boys the bad memories would be replaced with those of a happy childhood with a mom who loved them.

      There wouldn’t be memories of a dad. She wasn’t sorry about that, but then again, sometimes she was.

      The walls of the house were no longer paneled. Clint had hung drywall, they’d painted the room pale shell and the woodwork was white now, not the dark brown of her childhood. The old furniture was gone, replaced by something summery and plaid. Gauzy white curtains covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, fluttering in the summer breeze that drifted through the house.

      Everything old, everything that held a bad memory, had been taken out, replaced. And yet the memories still returned, of her father drunk,