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myself.
    Having a pretty face also tends to draw some scary people.   People like Travis.
    It’s been six months since he’s bothered me, but I have no doubt those flowers that were in the garbage were from him.
    That’s part of the reason why I like my men four legged.   They don’t care what you look like.   They care how kind you are, how firm you can handle them, how much you feed them.   They know when you love them, and they love you back.   Simple as that.

 
    The rain is steady and heavy by the time we make the turn off toward our house.   A small river is flowing down the ditch on the side of our driveway.   I open the garage door and slide the truck in.   Mom darts into the house while I make sure the back side door is locked.   It has a tendency to get blown open during storms.   Last time that happened, we had to chase out a family of raccoons who’d decided to make a home under Dad’s Shelby.
    I’m just about to run for the back door of the house when movement out by the barn catches my eye.
    Lake is hammering a sheet of plywood in place over the lean-to chicken coop off the side of the barn.   His long sleeved T-shirt is soaked completely through and his hair plastered to his head.   Rain drips into his eyes and runs off his nose.
    He doesn’t look up at me.   His concentration is on that nail he’s hammering into the old roof that I am assuming started leaking.
    They’re just chickens.   They could step out of the drips if they didn’t want to get wet.
    I didn’t ask him to fix the leak.   I didn’t even know it was there.
    But Lake went ahead and started repairing it.   Without being asked to do so.   During a downpour.
    The muscles flex and stiffen under his soaked shirt.   He really is a beast.   Not someone I’d ever want to go up against.   His hands work sure and confident.   But there’s a softness to his face.   He looks at ease.   The line that I’ve realized is always between his brows isn’t there.
    Suddenly Lake’s eyes flicker to me for just a moment, and he does a little double take before holding my eyes.
    We look at each other for five long seconds.
    Who is Lake McCain, and how did he come to be in my life?
    I’m the first to look away.   I close the door behind me and walk for the house, the rain pelting down on me.
    My heart rate has picked up by the time I reach the door and step inside.   My eyes slide closed for a moment, but they keep replaying that scene of Lake standing in the rain behind my lids.
    “I’ll have dinner done by five,” Mom says as she steps out of her room, changed into a pair of jeans and a casual shirt.   “Make sure you let Lake know what time we’re eating, after you get changed.”
    “’K,” I say, grateful she doesn’t notice how I’m slightly out of breath and functioning about as well as a drunk turkey.  
    I walk across the kitchen and head up the stairs.
    I change into jeans and an oversized knit sweater.   My hair, which has been laying straight down the middle of my back, gets twisted into a knot at the back of my head.   The same hairstyle I wear most every day.
    The sound of rain lessens, and I cross to my window and look out toward the barn.  
    Lake seems to have finished his job of temporarily fixing the roof of the coop.   He crosses to the garage and stays in there for a few minutes.   I assume he’s putting tools away.   A bit later, he walks back outside, crossing to the stairs of his apartment.   He heads inside just as the rain stops.
    I sink into the chair.   My feet prop up on the same desk I’ve had since we moved into the house when I was fifteen.   I chew on my lip and slowly swivel myself side to side.
    I grab Cal’s picture that sits on my desk in its simple white frame.
    He’s wearing a full battle uniform, smiling at the camera.   He holds an assault rifle in one hand and standing next to him are three Iraqi children.   The picture was taken on his second tour.   The