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"Yes."

His answer came without hesitation. He shifted the DRIVE box closer.

"Drive first. Posts every twenty feet. We start at the cattle guard and work toward the house."

"Why that direction?"

"Dad said you light the way home first."

My throat tightened.

Boone continued. "Porch last. Tree goes in the front room. Wyatt checks every strand because one bad bulb offends him personally. Cash tangles three more while pretending to help."

"That sounds accurate."

"Food starts at four. Doors open at six."

"To who?"

"Everybody."

The word filled the loft.

"Whole valley," he said. "Christmas Eve."

I could see it. Cars along the drive beneath lights. Snow tracked across the main-house floor. Marnie's pies on the table. Doc complaining about the coffee. Cash talking over music. Wyatt pretending not to watch the door for each new arrival. Children underfoot. Biscuit older and grayer, stationed beneath the food. Boone in a doorway no one avoided.

And me.

The promise was larger than Christmas.

This year assumed the drive still belonged to Carrow Creek.

It assumed the house remained standing around Calloway boots.

It assumed there would be a tree, a table, work to divide, and lights to untangle.

It assumed Boone beside me.

Me beside Boone.

Not a guest.

Not a temporary hire.

Not a woman keeping one bag ready.

Family.

I leaned my head against his shoulder.

"All right," I said. "But I supervise the tree."

"Wyatt does."

"Wyatt can file a complaint."

"He will."