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“Wise woman.”

“Laurel has seen worse than a nick on my chin.”

“Yes. She has seen your socks.”

“Cruel thing to say to a groom on the eve of his wedding.”

Eden handed him the shoes.

“I may have packed the wrong pair.”

“You packed one boot, two hymnals, lemon drops, and a fishing lure.”

“I wondered where that went.”

“You’re getting married tomorrow, not going fishing.”

“A man can do both if he rises early.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

He laughed. Eden had spent many nights praying she would hear that sound again.

Josiah reached for the chair to stand, and her hand moved toward him before she caught herself. He planted his good foot, pushed upright, and waited for his weaker leg to bear its share. His jaw tightened, but he managed.

“There.”

“There,” she echoed.

“You didn’t help.”

“It was difficult.”

“For me or you?”

She raised an eyebrow.

He tucked the shoes into the valise. “I’m not breakable, Edie.”

“I know.”

“You say it quickly.”

“Because I mean it.”

“You know it up here.” He tapped his temple. “Your hands haven’t received the message.”

Eden gripped the edge of her skirt.

Josiah patted the seat beside him. “Come over here before you sort my socks by moral failing.”

“I already did. They failed.”

“Every pair?”

“Every pair.”

She sat. Beyond the open window came the hammering of Laurel’s younger brothers, who had promised to decorate the wedding arbor, and might yet knock it down. In the kitchen, Mama opened another cupboard for no apparent reason.