Chapter Three

      The smoke detector was beeping loudly. Dot was screaming and Rowdy was trying to help find the broom. Poppy stood on the stool, waving packing paper at the smoke detector, hoping the beeping—and the screaming—would stop. The old stove had started smoking as soon as she turned it on. She’d opened the windows and turned on the Vent-A-Hood, but the smoke had still triggered the smoke detector.

      “Got it.” Rowdy held the broom up to her.

      “Thanks.” She stood on tiptoe, trying to press the reset button with the tiny hook on the end of the broom handle. But the ceiling was high and Poppy’s five feet two inches could stretch only so far. She leaned forward, teetered on the stool and fell.

      “Gotcha.” Toben’s arms caught her, preventing her from crashing to the wood floor. “Need a hand?”

      He smelled like heaven, even in a smoky kitchen. And his arms, solid and thick, held her as if she weighed nothing. His blue eyes crashed into hers, making her breathless, weightless...and an idiot. As soon as her feet hit the floor, she shrugged out of his arms and stepped back. “Um...” He was handsome—big deal. She wasn’t some young, needy thing—not anymore.

      “She can’t reach the reset button,” Rowdy volunteered loudly.

      Toben nodded at Rowdy, grinned and took the broom from Poppy. He tapped the button and the room—the kids—fell silent. The cooking element made an ominous sizzle-pop sound, making Poppy suspect the stove might just take precedence over the squeaky floors.

      “My ears are ringing,” Dot whined. “It hurts.”

      “You’re such a baby,” Otis snapped. “Get over it.”

      “You two can set the table.” She spoke calmly, ignoring the exchange.

      Dot’s response came quickly. “Why do we have to—”

      “Because I asked you to,” she said, her tone never fluctuating. “Thank you. Rowdy, can you see what our guest would like to drink?”

      She saw her son’s quick glance at Toben, the bright red patches coloring his cheeks. Her boy was nervous. She looked Toben’s way, hoping he’d see his son’s discomfort. But...Toben looked exactly the same as Rowdy. Red cheeked, nervous, uncertain.

      “Sure,” Rowdy said. “Want something to drink?”

      “Iced tea?” Toben asked.

      “Sweet or unsweet?” Rowdy nodded. “There’s only one right answer.”

      She laughed. So did Toben.

      “Sweet,” Toben said.

      Rowdy nodded. “Yep.”

      Toben looked at her, his smile fading, to be replaced by something else. Anger? Sadness? She didn’t know. She didn’t know how to read this man. Not that it mattered. They were going to have to figure this out—together.

      “Dinner is edible,” she assured him. “Must have been something on the cooking element and the place started smoking.”

      “I brought dessert,” he said, pointing at a pie in the center of the table.

      “You cook?” Rowdy asked.

      “You made this?” Otis asked. “I’m not eating it. Who are you?”

      “Why is he here, Aunt Poppy?” Dot asked.

      “Mr. Boone is a friend of mine,” Poppy said. “We used to rodeo together.”

      “And he’s my dad,” Rowdy said. The smile he shot Toben made Poppy’s heart melt. Pure, honest, sweet and so full of love.

      Toben was equally affected. He nodded at Rowdy. “I am.”

      “Huh,” Otis said. “You do look like him. Wow. You look just like him.”

      “You’ve got Aunt Poppy’s hair color. And her brown eyes,” Dot argued. “But yeah, other than that.”

      “Good thing I’m a good-looking guy,” Toben said, winking at Rowdy.

      Rowdy’s laugh filled the room.

      “So you two weren’t married?” Dot asked. “That’s wrong.”

      “Mom and Dad say you’re not supposed to do...that...until after you’re married,” Otis offered, poking the pie with a fork as he set the table.

      “And they’re right,” Poppy agreed, tension mounting.

      “So you were married?” Otis pushed.

      “Did you make fried chicken?” Toben asked. “It smells like fried chicken.”

      “She did.” Rowdy nodded. “It’s my favorite.”

      “Mine, too,” Toben agreed, his blue eyes never leaving Rowdy.

      Dinner went well. She and Toben did their best to keep conversation from getting too awkward. Which meant preventing Dot and Otis from saying too much. Her niece was almost twelve and Otis was ten, and they knew just enough to make things awkward fairly often. But once dinner was over and she was loading plates into the rickety dishwasher, Rowdy asked, “Can we go for a walk? Just me and...my dad?”

      “You...” She broke off. “Where?”

      “The barn and back?” Rowdy suggested. “I can show him where Cheeto and Stormy will live.”

      She wiped her hands on the dish towel, hoping it hid her shaking. “Sure.”

      “We can have pie when we get back?” Rowdy asked, looking up at Toben.

      “Toben might have to go. Work starts early on a ranch—”

      “Pie after sounds good,” Toben interrupted, not looking at her.

      “I want ice cream,” Otis chimed in.

      Poppy stared at her sister’s children, disappointed in their lack of manners. “Ice cream, sure. Feel like playing a board game?”

      They looked at her like she was the crazy one.

      “No?” she asked. “Okay.”

      “I’ll play when we get back, Mom,” Rowdy said, walking out of the kitchen.

      Poppy served Dot and Otis ice cream, washed the dinner dishes and half-heartedly unpacked a box—her gaze drifting out the window again and again to see Toben and Rowdy side by side. Plaid shirts, straw cowboy hats, well-worn leather cowboy boots and polished belt buckles. But it was more than their matching getups. Her boy was the mirror image of the man.

      And she didn’t know how she felt about that.

      Then her attention wandered to Toben Boone’s delectable rear. Those jeans. That butt.