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conversation reduce him from grown man to a sixteen-year-old kid teaching the judge’s daughter to ride the horse she’d gotten for her birthday? Way out of your league must have been the statement that took him back.
    â€œNo, Dad, I’m not in love with Willow Michaels. She needs help, and I need a job.”
    â€œI need to take a nap, and you need to find out why Jenna didn’t come home on the bus. She hasn’t even fed the chickens.”
    â€œOkay, Dad, I’ll go check on her.” Clint stood, towering over his dad’s frail body. Before he left, he leaned and hugged the old man who had hurt them all so much.
    Forgiving had been taken care of. Forgetting was getting easier.
    Now he had to go home, to the foreman’s house and get it ready for the boys. He tried not to think about that house not being his, or about the home he’d grown up in not being a fit place for two boys.
    As he climbed into his truck, he tried, but couldn’t quite block the thoughts returning, thoughts of Jenna leaving the boys. He tried not to think about her being gone for a year, and what could happen in that time. And he tried not to think about living a dirt trail away from Willow Michaels— who was way out of his league.
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    Six in the morning, Willow was barely awake, and as she glanced out the kitchen window she saw two little boys run across the lawn, heading toward the barn. Two days ago Clint had asked her if she would be okay with the twins living on the farm, and now they were here. She hadn’t thought about them being here so soon.
    The bigger problem now was that the boys were running for the pen that held her big old bull, Dolly. She set her glass of waterdown on the counter and hurried for the front door. Janie, sitting in the living room, looked up from her Bible, brows raised over the top of her reading glasses.
    â€œIs there a fire?”
    â€œNo, but there are two little boys heading for Dolly’s pen.”
    Dolly was her first bull. At bull-riding events they called him Skewer, because it was easier on a cowboy’s ego to get thrown from a “Skewer” than a “Dolly.” Gentle or not, she didn’t want the two little boys in that pen.
    As she ran across the lawn, she glanced toward the foreman’s house. A small sedan was parked out front, the same one she’d seen easing down the driveway yesterday. No one was outside. The boys, silvery-blond hair glinting in the sun, weren’t slowing down. They obviously had a plan they wanted to carry out before the adults realized they’d escaped.
    Willow hurried after them, rocks biting into her bare feet. If she didn’t catch them in time…She shook off that thought, that image. She would get to them in time.
    â€œDon’t go in there,” she shouted, cupping her mouth with her hands, hoping the words would carry and not get swept away on the early morning breeze.
    The boys stopped, turning sun-browned faces in her direction, sweet faces with matching Kool-Aid mustaches. They were armed with paper airplanes and toy soldiers.
    Willow’s heart ka-thumped against her ribs. Fear and remnants of loss got tangled inside her. She had to stop, take a deep breath, and move forward. The way she’d been moving forward for the last five years, one step at a time. Rebuilding her life.
    The boys were watching her, waiting.
    She reached them and they stared up at her. Their eyes were wide and gray, familiar because up close they looked a lot like Clint Cameron.
    Their gazes shot past her. She turned as Clint and a youngwoman walked out of the foreman’s house. The two, brother and sister, paused on the front porch and then headed in her direction.
    â€œUh-oh,” one of the boys mumbled and his thumb went to his mouth.
    â€œDon’t suck your thumb,” the other shoved him with his elbow, pushing him hard enough to knock the slighter-built of the two off-balance.
    â€œYou