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“She’s been telling me that since I was old enough to carry a bucket.”
“Then you have had plenty of time to learn.”
Before he could answer, a baby protested from the front room with a cry that rose above the voices of the gathered family.
“That’s Emily’s little one,” Jesse said.
“How can you tell?”
“Loud. Certain of being heard.”
“Like Bass?”
“Exactly like Bass.”
Eden nudged him toward the door. “Go rescue your brother. Or the baby. Whichever needs it more.”
He gave her one last kiss and went.
By the time Eden carried the last dish to the dining room, the big ranch house had filled with the smell of roast meat, fresh bread, and oranges saved for Christmas. Evergreen branches hung above the windows, and someone had tied red yarn around the lamp brackets. Aunt Cleo’s work, without question. She disapproved of useless fuss and still made the room beautiful. Emily sat near the hearth with her baby on her knee while Bass crouched before them, holding out a wooden ring. His child seized it, promptly lost interest, and reached instead for Bass’s beard.
“There’s your reward for buying toys,” Simon said.
Simon stood beside Georgia, who held their own little one against her shoulder. She swayed gently as she talked, the motion so practiced Eden doubted she even knew she was doing it. Georgia’s baby was drowsy and content, one small fist hooked in the lace at her collar.
Carolina was settling her own little one into a cradle near the hearth while Nate finished setting chairs at the long table. Their baby had fallen asleep despite the commotion; one tiny hand curled beside a rosy cheek. Eden had watched Nate examine grown men twice his size without so much as blinking, yet he still softened whenever he bent over that cradle.
Three children, each with a temperament all their own. Enough noise and wonder to make the old ranch feel new again.
Adaya had brought a jar of preserves, and Beau had been enlisted to move the heavier serving dishes. No one seemed to mind being put to work. At the Pickett Ranch, a person who arrived for supper found a task before finding a seat.
Eden paused at the doorway. A year ago, she’d been a newcomer from Missouri, uncertain whether she had any place among these people. Today Carolina had handed her the kitchen and gone about her business without a second thought.
That small trust warmed her more than the stove.
“Mrs. Pickett,” Aunt Cleo called from the table, “if you’re finished admiring everybody, bring those potatoes before your husband eats the rolls.”
“Which Mrs. Pickett?” Georgia called.
“The one whose husband is eyeing a third roll.”
Every head turned toward Jesse.
He set down the bread, looking wounded. “I was checking whether it was fresh.”
“It’s fresh,” Eden said. “I baked it.”
“Then I ought to check another.”
Bass laughed, and Aunt Cleo pointed him into his chair before the argument could grow.
When everyone had settled, Jesse remained standing at the end of the table. He rested his left hand on the chair back. The old injury made him careful after a long day, but he had not needed his cane inside the house for months.
Aunt Cleo bowed her head. The others followed, even the babies going briefly quiet.
“Lord,” Jesse said, “a year ago I didn’t know if I’d walk again. I didn’t know if Eden would stay long enough for me to tell her I loved her.”
His gaze found hers for an instant, and she felt her throat tighten.
