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“You’ve brought us through a hard season and given us a good one. Thank You for the children at this table, for the folks who watched over us, and for this home. We know these blessings didn’t come from our own strength. Thank You most of all for giving Eden and me another chance—a chance to love one another and make something good of the days You’ve given us. Help us remember when the days aren’t so easy. As Christmas comes and a new year begins, show us how to be a blessing to somebody else. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Amen,” Eden whispered with everyone else.

Across the table, Emily dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her napkin. Bass reached for her hand beneath the table. Jesse sat, and Eden touched his sleeve as he did.

She would remember that prayer longer than any anniversary gift.

Supper lasted well beyond the first empty plates. Bass told a story about Buck escaping his stall, and Jesse disputed nearly every detail. Simon tried to calculate how much grain the horse had eaten before being caught. Georgia told him to put away his arithmetic for one evening. At the hearth, Emily’s baby fell asleep against Bass’s shoulder, looking so comfortable that Bass refused to move when someone offered to take the child.

After the dishes had been cleared, Eden found Aunt Cleo still on her feet, carrying a bowl of leftover potatoes toward the kitchen.

“Sit a spell,” Doc Mueller said, taking the bowl from her hands.

“I’ve been sitting half the evening.”

“You’ve eaten a biscuit and three bites of supper.”

Aunt Cleo fixed him with a hard stare. “Have you taken to counting my bites?”

“Only when you forget them.”

He drew out a chair. She considered it, then sat as if accepting the seat had been her idea from the start. Doc placed a plate before her, and without asking, passed the salt.

Eden caught Jesse watching from the doorway.

“Does he come often?” she whispered.

“More than any woman ought to need a doctor.”

“Jesse.”

“That’s what she says when I ask.”

At the table, Aunt Cleo broke her last biscuit in half and pushed the larger piece toward Doc.

“Poor man,” Jesse murmured. “He’s in deeper than he knows.”

Eden squeezed his hand. Whatever was growing between those two belonged to them, and the family had the good sense—most days—not to interfere.

Aunt Cleo finished her supper and beckoned to Eden. A worn leather bag lay on the chair beside her, half hidden beneath her shawl.

“Found this while I was looking for the Christmas table linens,” she said. “Thought you and Jesse ought to have a look.”

Eden recognized the old mailbag before she touched it. So many Pickett marriages had begun with the letters once carried inside.

“I thought all the letters had been sorted,” she said.

“So did I, but there’s a narrow lining inside that flap. Came loose when I picked the bag up.” Aunt Cleo pulled the leather aside. “See?”

Several envelopes rested in the hidden fold. Their edges had yellowed, and the writing on some was nearly faded away. None bore a Pickett name.

Jesse bent beside Eden and carefully drew out the top envelope. He turned it toward the light.

“I knew a man by that name,” he said.

“Here in Flat River?” Eden asked.

“Years back. Haven’t heard where he ended up.”