Caitlin smiled, warmth spreading through her chest.
Caitlin:We’ll keep the cocoa hot and the porch light on.
Scout:Sylva’s not ready for you yet. Let us recover.
Izzy:Ha. You’ll survive. Tell Rosie I’m thankful for her, too.
Caitlin lowered her gaze. Rosie lifted her head, tail thumping once like she understood.
Burke’s truck rolled to a stop behind the house, headlights sweeping across the frosted glass before fading. A county cruiser idled a block down, windshield fogged in the cold.
Burke climbed out, juggling three coffees and a paper bag that smelled faintly of cinnamon muffins. He nodded toward the deputy in the cruiser — Baker — then rounded the porch, knocking on the kitchen door with the tip of his boot.
“Who’s out there causing trouble this early?” Caitlin called, smiling as she opened it.
“Just me — and breakfast on the brink of disaster,” Burke said, grinning as the cups wobbled dangerously.
Before she could answer, Rosie bounded forward, nails clicking on the floor, tail wagging like a metronome. She bumped his knee, nearly toppling a cup.
“Whoa, easy there, girl!” he laughed, steadying the tray as Caitlin caught the edge to help.
For a heartbeat, their faces were close — the cold air between them — and then they both laughed.
“Teamwork,” she said.
“Best save of the morning,” he said. Then, to Rosie, “You think I’d forget you, Deputy?”
At the crinkle of the bag, Rosie sat instantly, eyes wide. Burke fished a small bone from his jacket and held it up.
“Good girl.”
She snatched it gently, trotting to her bed by the fire to chew in private — as if she suspected he might change his mind.
Burke chuckled. “Smartest deputy I’ve got.”
He set the coffees down. “Be right back. Gotta deliver one to Baker before he freezes solid.”
Caitlin watched through the window as he crossed the yard, breath steaming, then turned back toward the porch.
When he stepped inside again, stamping the cold from his boots, he said, “All right. You ready for the annual Scott Thanksgiving food coma?”
Her laugh came soft, a little nervous. “Ready, yes. But a little terrified.”
“Don’t be. They’ll love you — and besides, Maggie Scott would have my hide if I showed up without you.”
He slid one arm around her waist, voice low and sure. “You’ve already won her over, pie or not.”
“Still bringing the pie,” she said.
“Good,” he murmured. “Then we’re even.”
He brushed a kiss against her temple, the scent of coffee and cinnamon between them.
“Come on, darlin’. Let’s go meet the clan.”
The Scotts’ farm spread wide across rolling pastures outside of town. A white farmhouse gleamed beneath ancient oaks, a swing swaying gently from one branch. Red barns dotted the fields, tin roofs flashing in the late-autumn sun.
Out in the pasture, a tractor rumbled along the fence line — Burton Scott at the wheel, posture straight as if he were still on patrol. The old sheriff lifted one gloved hand in salute before cutting the engine.
