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anxious to hear news of her sister, and perhaps her parents. Ben had driven off a while back, though, and hadn’t returned. Likely he’d gone into town for a bite to eat.
    Her kitchen didn’t hold much more than eggs and tinned soup and stew, though she was now getting fresh vegetables in the garden Corrie had planted in the spring. The old Sally would have invited Ben for dinner and found a way of preparing a decent meal. But she hadn’t been that woman in a long time.
    She began to muck out stalls. Shortly after that, she heard a vehicle pull in and stop. A minute later, Ben’s voice called, “Sally?”
    â€œIn the barn,” she shouted back. She stepped out of the stall, pitchfork in hand.
    He came through the door to the barn. “Hi. Still working?”
    â€œHi.” She’d seen him off and on all afternoon, and each time it was almost like a flashback to happier days. Normally, she paid little attention to a man’s looks, yet there was something about Ben that had her noticing. Now she found herself staring again. The man was born to wear Western clothing. Without that sling, he could’ve modeled for ads. A five o’clock shadow made his strong jaw even more masculine. Some folks might say his hair was too long, but she’d never thought a cowboy hat looked right on a man with short hair.
    Forcing her gaze away from him, she gestured with her pitchfork. “I need to muck out stalls and clean tack. Why don’t you tell me about Penny while I work?”
    â€œTake a dinner break, then I’ll help you.”
    She deliberated. After Pete died, she had realized how dependent she’d been on him—or how dependent he’d made her—and sworn she’d never rely on anyone again. It was hard accepting assistance, yet Ben had a way about him. Maybe it was a holdover from the rodeo days, when most competitors had helped each other. “I might accept some help, but I don’t need a break.” She was hungry, but she was also used to working late and not having a chance to grab a bite to eat until after eight. “You got dinner in town?”
    â€œBrought back takeout for both of us. You haven’t eaten already, have you?”
    He’d picked up dinner to share? That was thoughtful. Or presumptuous. How was a woman supposed to read a man’s motivation for doing anything? She could lie and say she’d already eaten. That was safer than letting him into her house and sitting down at the kitchen table with him. Her kitchen had been the scene of a lot of . . . unpleasantness.
    A roast of beef that wasn’t rare enough for Pete, hurled across the room to drip blood down the wall . . . Her hand, pressed onto the hot stove when she’d forgotten to put on her flashy engagement ring before he got home . . . His fist—
    â€œMeat loaf.”
    She jumped, and returned to the present. To Ben. “Wh-what?” she stammered.
    His eyebrows pulled together. “I brought meat loaf, with mashed potatoes and coleslaw.” He added in a wheedling, almost seductive tone, “And the prettiest strawberry-rhubarb pie you ever did see.”
    Now he had her full attention. That was more food—delicious-sounding food—than she’d eaten in . . . she couldn’t remember when. “Meat loaf?” Comfort food that always reminded her of her mom, who’d made the best meat loaf in the world. Yes, she not only wanted news of her estranged family, but she did want a real meal. Maybe she even wanted Ben Traynor’s company, and the simple pleasure of looking at a handsome cowboy. They could eat on the deck; she didn’t have to invite him in. It’d only be an hour, tops.
    She rested the pitchfork against the wall and walked toward him. “You persuaded me.”
    He stepped back, letting her precede him out the door. There, she saw a couple of paper bags resting on the ground. She slipped her fingers