“Or a ship.”

The kid grinned. “Or a parrot.”

“Guess I’m not a pirate then.”

Atticus looked crestfallen for half a second before perking back up. “Can I see it?”

“My leg?”

“Yeah.”

Everyone was busy bustling around in the kitchen. Outside came the rhythmic thud of an axe as Sawyer chopped kindling. He’d just gotten in a few minutes ago but looked strained. Something must have happened with the fire.

Atticus waited patiently. He had the look of his mother about him, sweet, kind, and a little wild with all that natural trust. The two of them were so open, always hugging, saying “I love you.”

That wasn’t Grandma Kane’s way. She held court in the kitchen like a dowager queen bee, perched in a chair beside the oven, apparently willing to let Archer take over cooking the turkey but not without her eagle eye supervision, as if her mere presence would keep the meat from getting too dry.

“Time to baste again,” she announced.

Archer had been sneaking up on his fiancée, Edie, who was halfway through frosting a very large, very delicious-looking chocolate cake. “Grandma.” His youngest brother turned with a mock exasperated sigh. “I did that five minutes ago, and five minutes before that.”

“I don’t want a dried-out bird,” she barked.

Archer advanced on her slowly, arms outstretched like a zombie, groaning in the back of his throat.

“What are you doing, boy?” Unwilling amusement creeping into her voice.

“This. Is. My. Turkey.” He did a deep monster voice. “I. Hunted. The. Turkey. I. Am. Cooking. This. Turkey.”

“Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Grandma yelped, warding him off with two hands.

He broke from zombie mode to duck and present his cheek before her puckered expression. “I am waaaaaaiting.”

“For what?”

“Don’t you have a kiss for the cook?”

Grandma laughed, once, short, and sharp before swallowing it back down. But she did give him a quick, frosty peck. “Good lord, I’ve said it once, but I’ll say it a hundred times. Archer James, you could charm the habit off a nun.”

He gave a little bow. “Pity there’s no convent for hundreds of miles.”

“Yeah,” Edie said, giving him a mock-stern expression over one shoulder. “A national tragedy.”

“And what about you, Freckles?” Archer sprang toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Surely that pretty mouth has got a kiss for the cook too?”

“Cook?” Edie stuck her finger in the frosting and swiped a dab on the tip of his nose. “Who’s a cook? You fussed over that bird all morning. Annie and I were the ones who made the salad—”

“Mashed the potatoes,” Annie said, stirring gravy on the stove. “Candied the yams. Cranned the berries.”

“Put together the icky cream-of-mushroom green bean casserole you insisted on.” Edie crinkled her nose. “Fried onions smell gross.”

“Now hold up, ladies. That dish is the best part of Thanksgiving.” Archer hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and puffed out his chest. “Except for my damn fine turkey.”

Edie wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a short but enthusiastic kiss. “You are a damn fine turkey.”

Everyone burst out laughing as he wiped his nose clean.

Grandma caught Wilder’s watchful gaze and allowed a tight-lipped smile.

Something had happened to his family. These antics weren’t what he had known. Somehow while he was gone, laughter and lightness crept in. Even Grandma wasn’t as ornery.

It was as if everyone had moved toward a brighter future. Everyone except for him.

“So can I?” Atticus repeated. “See your leg?”

Shit, he’d forgotten the rug rat was lurking down there.

“It’s not all that interesting but sure.” He reached over and hiked up his 501s to reveal the prosthetic’s smooth plastic.

“Whoa! That’s so cool,” Atticus murmured in admiration. “You’re like half robot.”

More than half, junior. A tin man without a heart.

The door banged open as Kit barreled in with two six-packs of beer. “Happy Turkey Day,” he boomed.

And there she was, Quinn, looking a little shy and clutching a glass pan. She turned in his direction as if by instinct and another shudder of recognition ran through him.

Those big brown eyes, full of kindness and humor. She couldn’t be that long-ago girl—the one who saved him when he was on the brink.

And there he was, sitting in a chair like an invalid, with his fake leg out for the world to see.

The room fell silent except for the Bing Crosby CD warbling from the stereo, the one Annie had insisted on for holiday atmosphere.

“Hey, guys, did you know Uncle Wilder is half robot?” Atticus said, completely missing the awkwardness. “He’s like a super cool superhero.”

Everyone broke into uncertain laughter.

“Yeah, a regular Iron Man,” Archer said, suddenly fiddling with the oven setting.

Sawyer entered the room with his arms loaded with wood. “Figure this should last the night.”

“Good lord,” Annie said, wiping her hands on her calico apron, “that should keep us warm for a week.”

“What can I say, I like my fire hot.” He gave her an eyebrow waggle as she giggled and blushed.

Jesus. Wilder rocked his head against the chair. Somewhere hell was freezing over and Satan was figure skating. Even stoic, sensible Sawyer had guzzled the contentment Kool-Aid. He’d finished rolling down his jeans when a pair of green leather ankle boots came to rest on the edge of his field of vision, boots that capped off a long pair, a hell of a long and lovely pair, of legs.

That connected to a most interesting set of hips.

An hourglass waist.

Leading to . . .

Shit, he stared like an idiot.

Quinn peered over the top of her glasses. The modern frames suited her, bold and colorful. “So I brought your favorite.”

His mouth dried. Her jacket was unzipped and the t-shirt inside said, “Reading Is Awesome.” He couldn’t disagree, but even more awesome was the way the fitted cotton hugged her—

“I’m referring to the Rice Krispies . . .” Her lip quirked in one corner as he went red. “Jeez, you should really see your expression right now.”

He couldn’t believe it, but a damn blush had crept up the back of his neck, marched toward his ears. He scratched the scruff on his jaw, painfully aware his hand had a slight tremble.

“You made these?”

“Just for you. I didn’t bring a spoon for you to lick but hopefully it passes muster.” She waved the pan under his nose. “It was supposed to be easy, recipe.com said. A foolproof recipe. Except apparently I am a fool with a talent for burning butter and scalding marshmallows. But I got there in the end. Barely.”

“Thank you,” he said gruffly. He didn’t know how else to convey how much this simple gesture meant to him. “I haven’t had one of these since . . . well . . . in a long time.”

“I’ll go set them in the kitchen,” she said gently, as if sensing he was fraying down to some sort of invisible breaking point. “Oh, hey, I also forgot my purse at your cabin. I realized when I got home. Can I swing by after dinner? I feel naked without it.”

He gave a nod, watching her walk away. Don’t think about her naked.

Something, or someone, tugged his jeans. The rug rat again.

“She likes you,” Atticus said.

“No one likes me,” he replied. “I’m scary.”

Atticus blinked before shaking his head. “Nah. You’re not scary. Just sad.”

“I WON’T BE able to eat another bite for the rest of the year,” Annie said, nudging the yams toward Quinn. “Can you finish off this last little bit?”

Quinn shook her head with a rueful laugh. “My mouth says yes, but my stomach says, ‘Hey, what about all those pies and cakes over there?’ ” She pushed back her seat. “Let me give you a hand washing up.” The table groaned under the weight of the biggest Thanksgiving meal she’d ever seen.