Chapter Forty-Three
The new dining hall is spectacular.
I watched it go up board by board, but seeing it operational for Thanksgiving feels like watching a barn turn into a cathedral.
The high-beamed ceiling glows with soft golden light from the chandeliers, and the long windows reflect the amber candles and the reds and oranges of the fall foliage we’ve woven down the center of the two massive rustic tables.
It feels like it belongs on this ranch. I can envision all the years of rodeo students and faculty sitting right here. Eating and fellowshipping together.
The cookhouse attached to the hall is in full-blown chaos.
Grandma runs it like a general. Priscilla and Imma Jean flank her like trusted lieutenants.
Charli, Harleigh, and I dart in and out, carrying trays, refilling drinks, wiping down counters, grabbing more serving spoons, fielding shouted questions about where the gravy boat wandered off to.
Matty is excused this year.
The smell of roasting meat has her green around the edges, and she’s perched on a stool near the open door, sipping ginger ale, while Caison keeps a steady eye on her. He looks so stupidly happy that it makes my chest ache.
Two extra-long tables run the full length of the dining hall, thick planks of polished wood that still smell faintly of pine.
We’ve covered them with simple runners, pumpkins in every shape and shade, bunches of wheat, dried leaves, and flickering candles in amber glass.
Every place setting is copper and gold, the flatware gleaming, folded napkins tucked just right.
It’s beautiful.
Not fancy. Not pretentious.
Just … perfect.
The buffet table against the far wall looks like something out of a magazine.
Turkeys and a honey-glazed ham rest on wooden boards.
Casseroles bubble in cast-iron dishes. Cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with toasted marshmallows, green beans, rolls, cranberry sauce in three different ways.
Pies line the dessert table—pumpkin, pecan, apple, chocolate cream.
Every holiday food dish you could possibly imagine.
Daddy and Grandpa Earl have hauled the television in from the living room and set it up in the corner so the men can watch football. They’re already clustered around it with Bryce, Royce, Axle, Cabe, and Holland hollering at the screen like they all are gonna owe bookies after the game.
The room echoes with laughter.
Not polite laughter. Not forced laughter.
Real laughter.
I’m carrying a tray of drinks toward the tables when the doors open.
And my heart does that silly little flip I hate.
Waylon walks in with Ruby on his hip. She’s dressed in the prettiest brown-and-orange plaid dress with a big brown bow in her hair, looking like she stepped right out of a fall catalog.
Cheyenne follows behind them in a soft sweater dress and sparkly booties, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
Waylon’s eyes scan the room until they land on me.
And when he finds me, his mouth curves into that smile that makes my knees weak. Stupid knees, acting like a girl.
He walks over, and Ruby waves wildly when she sees Grandma.
“Shelby,” he says softly, like he’s not sure if I’m going to like this, “this is Cheyenne.”
“Hi, Cheyenne,” I say. “Welcome.”
Cheyenne beams. “Thank you so much for inviting me. Seriously. I haven’t had a big family Thanksgiving since my parents passed. You guys are … wow.” She gestures around the room.
I feel something twist in my chest.
“I’m glad you came,” I tell her honestly.
And I am.
Even though she still looks like a Barbie doll in her cute outfit and glossy smile, I can see now that she’s just a girl who lost her parents too soon and needs a family.
That changes things.
Ruby wriggles down and runs straight for Grandma, who scoops her up like she’s been waiting all day for it.
Imma Jean suddenly climbs onto a chair and clanks two pans together. “All right, you beautiful heathens, let’s wrangle you to the tables!”
Laughter ripples through the room as everyone starts finding seats.
Grandpa Earl clears his throat and stands. “Heads down, folks.”
The room quiets.
We bow our heads.
“Lord, we thank you for this food. For the hands that prepared it. For this land and the hands that work it. For the people gathered here, old and new. For family by blood and family by choice. Keep us safe, keep us grateful, and keep us together. Amen.”
“Amen,” we echo.
As we sit down and start passing plates, I look around the table.
Storms.
Ludlows.
Who would have thought?
People who once couldn’t stand each other are now arguing about who gets the last roll.
And I realize something deep in my bones.
We are blessed.
And who the hell would’ve guessed the Storms and the Ludlows would ever share a Thanksgiving table?
Miracles really do happen.