Rosie tore across the yard, tail high, while Caitlin stepped from the truck with the pie dish in hand. Her heart lifted as the screen door banged open.
“Burke!” Maggie Scott’s voice rang out — warm, commanding. She bustled onto the porch in a flour-dusted apron, silver threaded through her auburn hair. “And this must be Caitlin.”
She hurried down the steps, arms open. “Darlin’, it’s about time we got to meet you.”
Caitlin nearly fumbled the pie, but Maggie steadied her with a hug and a wink. “You brought something? I knew I’d like you.”
By the time Caitlin looked back toward the field, Burton had joined them, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag. The lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled.
“So this is the woman who finally got Burke to take a day off.”
Burke grinned. “Don’t start, old man.”
Burton chuckled. “Just saying, it’s good to see him bring someone home.”
From the barn, a tall man with sun-streaked hair stepped out, grin easy.
“Grant Scott. The better-looking brother.”
Burke snorted. “Better at running your mouth, maybe.”
“Boys,” Maggie warned, eyes twinkling.
The banter felt natural — like Caitlin was stepping into a rhythm that had been there long before her.
By late afternoon, the house smelled of roast turkey, sage stuffing, and fresh rolls. The big oak table sagged under platters — mashed potatoes, green beans, sweet potatoes with marshmallows.
Her chocolate chess pie sat at the center, glossy and rich. Burton carved a slice and took a bite. His weathered face broke into a grin.
“Well, I’ll be. Maggie, you’re off pie duty. This one’s got us beat.”
Grant nodded. “Amen. Never cared much for pumpkin anyway.”
Maggie swatted his arm. “After thirty years, now you tell me?”
Caitlin traced the pie plate with her thumb, nerves prickling beneath her skin. Old habits whispered that she’d be on the outskirts — barely noticed, too awkward, too new.
But Maggie’s arms had wrapped around her with a mother’s warmth, and when Burton grinned, all the judgment she’d braced for simply wasn’t there. She felt the knot in her stomach loosen by degrees, surprise blooming into something softer.
Grant winked across the table, and Rosie pressed her head to Caitlin’s heel — as if reminding her she was right where she belonged.
“New tradition, honey,” Maggie said, smiling. “They’re sick of my pumpkin pie.”
Laughter filled the kitchen, and Caitlin’s cheeks warmed, her chest loosening in a way she hadn’t known she needed.
Stories rolled on — dirt bikes, Aunt Emma, the sheriff’s boys who never stayed clean. Maggie only shook her head.
“They nearly gave me gray hair before my time. But they turned out all right.”
Caitlin smiled, picturing two wild boys tearing across the pasture, dust flying.
When the table was cleared, the sun slipped behind the hills, casting the pastures in lavender haze.
Burke led Caitlin to the porch swing. Rosie curled on her blanket at Caitlin’s boots.
The screen door creaked again. Maggie pressed a handwritten recipe card and a jar of dark apple butter into Caitlin’s hand.
“The card’s my mama’s recipe. The jar’s mine — for your toast tomorrow.”
