“No way.” Annie held up a hand, looking surprisingly intimidating for a tiny, blond-haired woman. “Kit Kane is the dish dog. He lost a bet and this is his punishment.”

“Woof,” Kit said good-humoredly, rising to collect the dirty plates.

“You’re gambling? Looks like we Kanes are rubbing off on you yet, Annie Carson,” Archer said, sliding his arm over the back of Edie’s chair and giving his flat stomach a contented pat.

“If Kit is so foolish as to stake dozens of dirty dishes on a taste test and lose, far be it from me to stop him.” Annie shot back.

“What’s this all about?” Edie asked with a giggle.

“You’ll read about it next week. It’s part of an article I wrote for the Brightwater Bugle comparing vegetarian meat products to the real thing. Kit volunteered as my tough-talking taste tester. He assured me he’d pick the “real” meat dish every time. Bet Thanksgiving-dinner dishes on the outcome. Let’s just say he failed. Miserably.”

Kit threw up his hands. “Turns out I like Fakin’ Bacon.”

Archer mock gagged as Annie smugly set her hands on her hips. “Looks like Carson won this round, Cowboy.”

Good-natured banter flew around the table except in one corner, down at the end where Grandma (Quinn tried to call her Mrs. Kane but that went down like a lead balloon. The older woman frostily claimed that she’d earned the title along with her grey hair.) and Wilder watched in silence. Quinn’s heart gave a little pang. They both had the air of people who wanted to join in, to laugh and joke around, but didn’t quite know how to start. And what was going on between them?

Quinn dabbed her mouth and resmoothed Annie’s sweet hand-embroidered napkin back across her lap. This was a far cry from her earlier meal. The one at Mountain View Village where Dad barely touched his plate. He had been less responsive than usual, probably tired and out of sorts from yesterday’s misadventure. She’d had a few lukewarm invites to go around to dinner at different Higsby homes tonight, but this was better, even with the strangeness that existed between her and Wilder.

Her relatives would be full of questions about Dad, about his prognosis and whether or not she’d take that test.

Somehow it leaked that Dad’s condition was genetic, traced from his mother’s side. Grandma married into the Higsby clan but had died too young, in her early fifties. People muttered that she’d been acting strangely before she had the car accident. Testing had confirmed the genetic Alzheimer’s.

Now Quinn had a choice—to test or not. The trouble was, she didn’t know which was worse . . . confirming that a terrible fate awaited you, or not knowing and hoping for the best.

It was a fifty-fifty chance. Maybe the gene was heads and she was tails.

But she didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

Annie and Edie couldn’t convince her to stay seated when it came time to serve dessert. Annie had baked a pumpkin pie from an heirloom Sugar Pie variety that grew in her garden, plus oatmeal cookies. Edie made pecan pie, the chocolate cherry cake, and a snickerdoodle cobbler that made Quinn’s eyes bug out of her head. Her own Rice Krispies Treats looked elementary in comparison.

“Oh, great choice. So classic,” Edie said with an encouraging smile.

“I . . .” Quinn wasn’t sure what to say. It seemed strange to say Wilder mentioned them.

“Your ma used to make those,” Grandma said, her voice unreadable.

Everyone paused for a moment.

“Did she?” Archer said, midway to snagging a cookie. “I can’t remember.”

“I do,” Wilder said shortly.

“Well, I just want to take the opportunity to thank everyone for making me feel so welcome.” Quinn finished cutting a Rice Krispies Treat, set it on a plate, and walked it down to Wilder.

“Can I get you one?” she asked Grandma.

“Not me.” Grandma sniffed. “Too sweet for my taste.”

“You’re full of sugar is why,” Archer said, breaking the tension, and everyone returned to the serious business of eating dessert.

Edie’s snickerdoodle cobbler was absolutely delicious but it was hard to chew under Sawyer’s continued scrutiny. He kept watching her. But why? It was like she’d done something illegal. Having lusty thoughts about his big brother wasn’t a crime, right?

Right?

“Fire get sorted out?” Wilder asked abruptly, wiping his mouth.

“Fire?” Grandma’s fork clattered next to the pumpkin pie.

“Yes,” Sawyer said, speaking carefully. “One of the volunteer firemen was nearby, saw the flames early and called it in. House is pretty damn well destroyed. They had to put lots of wet stuff on the red stuff. Looks like it started in the garage, which is strange because it was empty. The owners hadn’t moved in yet. Must have been electrical.”

Wilder frowned, eyes narrowed. “But it’s a new house, right?”

“Yep.” Sawyer nodded. “Just finished the permitting process. Electrician is going to have a lot to answer for.”

“Nothing was recovered?” Wilder pressed.

“Only part of a dirty old sock.” Sawyer shrugged. “Probably left by one of the builders.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well,” Grandma interjected with uncharacteristic shakiness.

“That’s right,” Edie said. “And I just want to say how happy I am to spend this Thanksgiving with all of you. I’ve dreamt of having a holiday like this for a long time. I am so thankful you are making my dreams come true.” She wiped her bright shining eyes and turned to beam at Archer.

“Aw, hell,” Archer said softly. “I’m thankful for each of those freckles.”

“Get a room, you two,” Kit hollered from the sink. “I’m thankful for the game tonight. Enough of all this hugging and kissing.”

“We like hugs and kisses,” Atticus piped up. “I’m thankful for my puppy, Orion. And for my mom. And Sawyer.”

“Oh, honey, me too.” Annie pressed a hand over her heart.

“I’m thankful for both of you,” Sawyer said, rumpling Atticus’s hair with one hand while tightening his grip on Annie’s hand with the other. “My life is better with you in it.”

“What about you, Grandma?” Atticus asked. “What are you thankful for?”

“Well . . . I’m, let’s see now . . .” She fiddled with her dessert plate.

“How about having your three handsome and most favorite grandsons back together under one roof?” Archer’s smile was easy but his eyes seemed to ask for something.

“Yes,” she muttered. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“What about you, Wilder?” Quinn asked right when it looked like conversation would resume. How was it that they were all so frightened of him? It was as if they hosted a wild bear in the corner and no one wanted to poke it with a stick.

His head snapped up and he stared at her impassively. “Books. I’m thankful for books.”

“Good answer.” She smiled. “I hope from now on you come down each week and place your order with me directly.”

“What’s that all about? You’ve been reading, brother?” Sawyer asked curiously, glancing between them.

“Yep.” Wilder’s one word answer hung across the table for a moment.

“He’s one of the most well-read people I’ve come across,” Quinn said.

Kit burst out laughing at the sink. “Now that’s a surprise.”

“Why?” Quinn asked.

“You weren’t exactly valedictorian material in school, were you, cuz?”

“Nope.” Wilder responded, not looking at anyone.

“What sort of material were you?” Quinn asked, determined to keep him engaged in the conversation. “Athlete?”

“That was Sawyer.” Wilder’s lips turned into an uneven smile.

“Oh. It must have been all that charm. Prom King for sure.”

Archer covered up a laugh with a mock cough.

“That would have been Archer,” Wilder said tightly.

“What was your skill then?” she asked.

“Suspensions,” Grandma snapped. “He was gifted in getting kicked out of school.”

“Kicked out of school.” Atticus’s eyes grew wide. “By the principal? For what?”