I sigh and walk to the table, setting my boots by the door before taking a seat.
“Well, good morning to you two,” Evelyn says as Shelby sinks into the seat beside me.
“Morning,” we both reply.
Within minutes, the house starts waking up. Harleigh wanders in first, hair piled on her head, yawning. Cabe follows, then Albert, then Earl. Matty comes down slowly, one hand on her stomach. Charli wanders in the back door, Bryce trailing like a shadow.
They all take their places like nothing is unusual.
Like I’m not sitting right here.
Evelyn brings out biscuits and a big pan of sausage gravy. Albert gets his own plate of fruit and eggs, though he still swipes a biscuit from Earl’s plate when he thinks she’s not looking.
The table fills with chatter—plans for the day, everyone’s job from cooking to place settings to cleanup afterward, arguments about who’s gonna win the Thanksgiving football game. No one even acknowledges the fact that I was apparently just sneaking out of Shelby’s bedroom.
It’s surreal.
I catch Shelby’s eye. Her cheeks are pink, her hair still a mess from sleep. She looks … beautiful.
Then Harleigh meets my gaze across the table.
She grins.
And winks.
The new dining hall is spectacular.
I watched it go up board by board, but seeing it operational for Thanksgiving feels like watching a barn turn into a cathedral. The high-beamed ceiling glows with soft golden light from the chandeliers, and the long windows reflect the amber candles and the reds and oranges of the fall foliage we’ve woven down the center of the two massive rustic tables.
It feels like it belongs on this ranch. I can envision all the years of rodeo students and faculty sitting right here. Eating and fellowshipping together.
The cookhouse attached to the hall is in full-blown chaos. Grandma runs it like a general. Priscilla and Imma Jean flank her like trusted lieutenants. Charli, Harleigh, and I dart inand out, carrying trays, refilling drinks, wiping down counters, grabbing more serving spoons, fielding shouted questions about where the gravy boat wandered off to.
Matty is excused this year.
The smell of roasting meat has her green around the edges, and she’s perched on a stool near the open door, sipping ginger ale, while Caison keeps a steady eye on her. He looks so stupidly happy that it makes my chest ache.
Two extra-long tables run the full length of the dining hall, thick planks of polished wood that still smell faintly of pine. We’ve covered them with simple runners, pumpkins in every shape and shade, bunches of wheat, dried leaves, and flickering candles in amber glass. Every place setting is copper and gold, the flatware gleaming, folded napkins tucked just right.
It’s beautiful.
Not fancy. Not pretentious.
Just … perfect.
The buffet table against the far wall looks like something out of a magazine. Turkeys and a honey-glazed ham rest on wooden boards. Casseroles bubble in cast-iron dishes. Cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with toasted marshmallows, green beans, rolls, cranberry sauce in three different ways. Pies line the dessert table—pumpkin, pecan, apple, chocolate cream.
Every holiday food dish you could possibly imagine.
Daddy and Grandpa Earl have hauled the television in from the living room and set it up in the corner so the men can watch football. They’re already clustered around it with Bryce, Royce, Axle, Cabe, and Holland hollering at the screen like they all are gonna owe bookies after the game.
The room echoes with laughter.
Not polite laughter. Not forced laughter.
Real laughter.
I’m carrying a tray of drinks toward the tables when the doors open.
