Tom woke to Mercy’s fussing—not the hungry whimper or the wet‑diaper complaint, but the miserable sound that crawled under his ribs and squeezed. He blinked at the ceiling, orienting himself. Thanksgiving morning. Diego and his family due at noon. The turkey already prepped in the icebox.
Beside him, Ellie slept hard, face pressed into the pillow, one arm flung across the mattress. Exhausted. She’d been up late again, restless and sleepless, and Tom had been asleep well before she came to bed. Guilt prickled as he slid out of bed, careful not to jostle the frame.
Mercy’s cry pitched higher.
Tom grabbed his trousers off the chair and stumbled as silently as he could to the door while also trying to haul them on as he went, skipping the suspenders entirely. He padded barefoot across the hall into the nursery, where Mercy stood gripping the crib rail, tears streaming down her flushed face.
“Hey, sweetheart. Shh, I’ve got you.”
He scooped her up and she buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing. Her skin felt warm—not burning, but definitely warmer than usual. Tom pressed his lips to her forehead. Feverish, maybe. Or just worked up from crying.
“All right, sweet girl, let’s get you something to drink. Quiet now, don’t wake Mama.”
Mercy hiccupped against his neck, one hand fisting his undershirt. Tom rubbed her back and carried her downstairs, moving slow on the steps so they wouldn’t creak. The house felt cool in the pre‑dawn stillness, November finally breaking Florida’s stranglehold on summer.
In the kitchen, he poured water from the pitcher into Mercy’s cup—the one with the little handle she liked—and sat at the table with her in his lap. She took the cup with both hands and drank, sniffling between gulps.
“There we go. Better?”
He took the cup from her when she’d finished, and she leaned into him, thumb finding her mouth. Tom held her close, one hand cupped around the back of her head. Still warm. Not scalding, but enough to worry.
“You feeling poorly, kiddo?”
Mercy made a small, pitiful sound.
Tom exhaled slow. Diego would be here in a few hours. If it was something serious, Diego would catch it. If it wasn’t, no sense dragging his best friend out of his house early in a panic over nothing, which Diego would never let him forget.
Worth it, either way.
He shifted Mercy to his shoulder and stood, pacing the length of the kitchen. Her breathing evened out, the hiccupping sobs tapering into the occasional shudder. Tom rocked her gently, the motion automatic after a year of practice.
Through the window, the sky lightened—pale gray bleeding toward pink. Somewhere out in the yard, a crow and a jay were already squabbling over territory and making it everyone else’s problem. Tom watched the sunrise creep across the floorboards, Mercy’s weight warm and trusting against his chest.
“You should have woken me.”
Tom turned. Ellie looked even more exhausted awake than she had looked asleep. Tom felt that twisting prickle of grief again and he shook his head. “You looked like you could use the rest.”
“Turkey should already be in the oven if it’s going to be ready in time.”
Tom started forward, “Well, let me help.”
“No.”
Tom stopped mid-step. “What?”
“I said no.” Ellie crossed to the icebox, moving stiffly. “I can manage.”
“Ellie—”
“Go sit with Mercy. Keep her calm.” Ellie hefted the turkey onto the counter. “If she’s coming down with something, Diego needs to see her settled, not worked up.”
Tom wanted to argue. Wanted to point out the obvious—that Ellie looked like she’d been dragged behind a wagon, that she’d lost more sleep than he had lately, that her wrist being healed didn’t mean indestructible, and she probably shouldn’t be wrestling a fifteen-pound bird into the oven.
But Mercy whimpered against his shoulder, and Ellie was already reaching for the roasting pan with that set to her jaw that meant the conversation was over.
“All right.” Tom adjusted Mercy’s weight, rubbing her back. “But if you need—”
“I’ll holler.” Ellie didn’t look at him. “Go on.”
Tom carried Mercy into the parlor and settled into the chair by the window, the one with enough room to prop his feet on the ottoman. “Your mama’s worse about taking care of herself than your daddy is, and that is a feat of nature, I must say. Don’t tell her I said that, though.” Mercy curled into his chest, thumb in her mouth, her breathing slow but congested. Her forehead felt warmer now. Definitely warmer.
Through the doorway, he could hear Ellie moving around the kitchen—the scrape of the roasting pan, the quick, steady chop of her kitchen knife, the creak of the oven door. Each sound deliberate, controlled. She’d perfected that skill over the years, the ability to keep moving no matter how tired, how hurt, how hollowed out she felt.
Tom closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to Mercy’s hair.
The baby made a small, miserable sound.
“I know, sweetheart. Diego’ll be here soon.”
Outside, the crow won the argument. The jay retreated with a final screech of indignation.
In the kitchen, something metal hit the floor and didn’t bounce. “Ellie!” Tom lurched to his feet, causing Mercy to cry out in alarm, but he was back in the kitchen and Ellie was—
Fine. Holding her wrist. Her expression unreadable. The roasting pan was on the floor, turkey still safely tucked inside.
“El?”
“Just shut up, Tom.” Ellie shook her head when Mercy started crying and reaching for her. It took her almost five seconds longer than it normally would for her to cross the room and take her from Tom. “Could you just—”
“Yeah, I got it. Go sit.”
Ellie and Mercy left the kitchen and Tom ran both hands through his hair. Cooking a turkey wasn’t hard. Ellie had done the hard part already, cleaned it, trussed it, stuffed it full of the vegetables and aromatics she’d prepared. All he had to do was put it in the oven.
Ellie settled into the parlor chair with Mercy curled against her chest, the baby’s feverish warmth seeping through her dress. Her wrist throbbed—a dull, persistent ache that hadn’t fully left even after Diego removed the splint however many weeks ago now. She adjusted Mercy’s weight, wincing as the motion sent an ache through the stiff joint.
Useless.
The word scraped through her mind like a dull blade. Seven weeks since the miscarriage. Seven weeks of sitting while other people worked.
Tom insisted she rest. He hadn’t stopped treating her like a poorly glued together China plate after it’d been dropped once; strictly decorative with no functional purpose anymore.
Julietta had taken over most of the house cleaning and bringing food when she could, claiming Ellie needed time to recover.
Recover from what? A broken wrist? Or the hollow space where a baby should have been growing?
Diego wouldn’t let her back in the clinic until her wrist healed completely. But even after the plaster cast had come off… then after the splint had come off… then after the daily wrapping to brace it had stopped being necessary… it still wasn’t completely healed. Or at least not complete enough. Some days she wondered if it would ever be. If she would ever be healed enough.
Mercy whimpered and shifted, her small hand clutching Ellie’s collar. Ellie pressed her lips to the baby’s damp forehead. Still too warm. She should be in the kitchen preparing her mother’s favorite Thanksgiving recipes, making sure the turkey cooked evenly, setting the table properly. Instead, Tom was managing it all—Tom, who could barely boil water without burning the pot.
The roasting pan had slipped from her grip like everything else lately. Her wrist wasn’t strong enough yet. Wasn’t healed enough. Wasn’t ready.
Nothing was ready.
Through the doorway, she heard Tom moving around the kitchen—the scrape of the oven door, the clatter of pans. He’d insist everything was fine, that he had it handled, that she should just sit and hold Mercy.
As if sitting was all she was good for now.
Ellie closed her eyes and breathed slow, counting the inhales the way Diego had taught her. Mercy’s fever would break. The turkey would cook. Diego would arrive and tell her what she already knew—that her wrist needed more time, that she needed more time, that patience was a virtue she’d never quite mastered.
Outside, the crow had gone silent. The morning light crept across the floorboards, pale and cold for Florida.
Mercy’s breathing evened out against her shoulder.
Ellie held her daughter and tried not to count all the things she couldn’t do.
Nate appeared in the parlor doorway, still barefoot and sleep-rumpled, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He blinked at Ellie holding Mercy, then glanced toward the kitchen where the clatter of pans continued.
“Everything all right? I heard something fall.”
“Everything’s fine.” Ellie shifted Mercy’s weight, ignoring the dull throb in her wrist. “Your dad’s in the kitchen seeing to everything.”
Nate’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “Dad’s cooking?”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.” But his mouth twitched, fighting a grin. Then his expression sobered as he studied Mercy’s flushed face. “Is she sick?”
“Little fever. Diego’ll look at her when he gets here.”
Nate crossed the room and perched on the arm of the chair, leaning over to examine his sister. Mercy cracked one eye open, saw her brother, and immediately reached for him with a pitiful whimper.
“Hey, little sis.” Nate took her small hand, his voice dropping to the gentle tone he reserved for the baby. “You feeling poorly?”
Mercy’s answer was a miserable hiccup.
From the kitchen came the scrape of the oven door, then Tom’s muttered curse—something about temperature and guesswork that Ellie pretended not to hear.
Nate glanced back toward the kitchen, then at Ellie. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Ellie opened her mouth to say no, that everything was handled, that he should go back upstairs and get dressed properly before guests arrived. But the earnestness in his expression stopped her. Ten years old and already trying to be the man of the house when he thought things were falling apart.
“You could set the table,” she said finally. “Plates, forks, glasses. The good napkins are in the sideboard.”
Nate straightened. “Yes, ma’am.”
He headed for the dining room with the careful importance of a boy given real responsibility. Through the doorway, Ellie watched him open the sideboard and begin counting out plates—one for each Delgado, plus their own family, his lips moving silently as he kept track.
“Don’t forget to set places for Simon and Mr. Darby.”
Mercy’s breathing hitched, then evened out again against Ellie’s shoulder.
In the kitchen, something sizzled, and Tom said a word Nate definitely wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Actually, would you go check on your father?”
Nate put his stack of plates on the table and bounded into the kitchen where he found Tom hunched over the counter, wrestling with a sweet potato and a knife. Tom’s left palm was angry red, the skin shiny where he’d clearly come in contact with something hot. He was trying to hold the potatoes without touching the burn. The resulting pieces looked like they’d been cut by a drunk sailor—uneven chunks scattered across the cutting board, none of them the same size.
“Dad?”
Tom glanced up, sheepish. “Cooking before coffee is hazardous. Forgot the stove was hot.”
“You burned yourself?”
“Just a little.” Tom set the knife down and flexed his fingers, wincing. “Nothing Diego won’t mock me for later.”
Nate crossed to the sink and pumped cold water over a rag, then handed it to Tom. “Here.”
“Thanks, kiddo.” Tom pressed the cloth to his hand, exhaling slow. His gaze drifted toward the parlor doorway. “Your mom doing all right out there?”
“Yes, sir. Mercy’s feverish, but Mom’s got her settled.”
Tom’s shoulders dropped an inch. “Good. That’s good.” He picked up the knife again, studied the mangled sweet potatoes, then set it back down. “I wasn’t trying to kick her out of the kitchen, you know. Just wanted to help.”
“I know.” Nate leaned against the counter. “She just gets sad when she’s not feeling useful.”
Tom’s expression shifted—something complicated crossing his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Frowned at the sweet potatoes like they’d personally offended him. Started to speak again, stopped. Finally, he set the knife down with deliberate care and turned to Nate.
“Come here.”
Nate stepped forward and Tom pulled him into a hug—firm enough to matter, gentle enough not to crush. Nate leaned into the hug, Tom’s shirt filling his nose with smoke, turkey grease, and the citrusy Florida Water that had replaced the Chicago cologne when it’d run out. Nate didn’t like to admit how much he liked it when Tom hugged him. Fortunately he never had to ask. “I just don’t want everyone to be sad on Thanksgiving,” he said.
“I know, kiddo. But listen. I don’t expect you to be a go-between for us, all right? Your mom and I—we’ll figure things out.” Tom’s voice came rough against the top of Nate’s head. “But I love that you’re trying to help. You’re a good kid, Nate.”
Nate nodded against Tom’s shoulder.
Tom released him and moved to the icebox, retrieving the milk bottle. He poured two glasses—one for Nate, one for Ellie—and set them on the counter.
“You want something for breakfast that doesn’t require the oven?”
“I’ll grab an apple in a bit.”
“Smart man.” Tom glanced at the stove, then at the coffee pot sitting cold and empty on the counter. “I’m going to get some coffee started. That’s bound to turn the day around.” He handed Nate the glass meant for Ellie. “Take that milk out to your mom for me?”
Nate took both glasses. “Yes, sir.”
He pushed back through the doorway, leaving Tom alone with the lopsided sweet potatoes and the promise of coffee.
In the parlor, Mercy had fallen back asleep against Ellie’s shoulder, her breathing thick and congested. Ellie looked up when Nate appeared with the milk.
“From Dad.” Nate set one glass on the side table next to her chair. “He’s making coffee.”
“Lord help us all.” But Ellie’s mouth softened as she took the glass with her good hand. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“He’s not bad at cooking, you know.”
Ellie lifted her eyebrows. “Who? Your father?”
Nate nodded. “He’s not as good as you, but he’s not bad when he’s not worrying about it. He’s made breakfast plenty of times and you never complained.”
She stood and carefully maneuvered Mercy into the nearby playpen. Tom had built it shortly after Mercy had nearly fallen down the stairs and Tom had nearly broken his ankle catching her, having decided that keeping something downstairs for naptimes was considerably safer than carrying her up and down all day. It was simply made, a sturdy wooden frame with slatted sides. He had spent the first few days of mandated bed rest sprawled across the bedroom floor assembling it with fierce dedication, referring to it exclusively as the “baby jail.”
“You’re right.” Ellie sighed. “He is good at breakfast.” She smiled crookedly. “He needs help, though, doesn’t he?”
Nate nodded, looking down at his sister, a frown creasing his eyebrows. “He really does. Are you sure she’s alright?”
Ellie brushed her fingers across Mercy’s damp forehead, checking the heat. Still warm, but not worse. “She’s been worse before. Remember when she had those three days of teething fever last month?”
“She screamed so much I thought the windows would crack.”
“Exactly. This is nothing compared to that.” Ellie straightened, squaring her shoulders. “Diego will be here in a few hours. Until then, we keep her comfortable and watch for changes.”
She moved toward the kitchen, Nate following. Tom stood at the stove, pouring water into the coffee pot with exaggerated concentration, his burned hand still wrapped in the damp rag.
“Let me see that hand.”
Tom turned, caught. “It’s fine.”
“Thomas Bracken, if you tell me one more time that something is fine when it clearly isn’t—”
“All right, all right.” Tom held out his hand.
Ellie unwrapped the cloth and examined the reddened skin across the bottom of his palm. Superficial burn, nothing serious, but the base of his thumb had taken the brunt of the heat and might blister if left alone. She pressed the cool rag back against it, her fingers gentle despite the edge in her voice.
“Keep this on while the coffee brews. Then we’ll put some of Simon’s salve on it before Diego gets here and gives us both a lecture about basic kitchen safety.”
Tom’s mouth twitched. “You planning to stick around and help?”
“I love you. I admire you. I know you to be capable of amazing things. I don’t believe that cooking a turkey is one of them.” Ellie glanced at the stove, then at the mangled sweet potatoes on the counter. “And those need to be uniform size or they won’t cook evenly.”
“They’re rustic.”
“They’re a disaster.” But her voice had lost its sharp edge. She picked up the knife and began salvaging what she could from Tom’s attempts, her movements much more coordinated despite favoring her right hand.
Through the window, the morning sun climbed higher, gilding the kitchen in warm light. The coffee began to percolate, filling the room with its rich aroma.
Nate retrieved his glass of milk from the parlor and settled at the kitchen table, watching them work. Tom made the coffee. Ellie cut vegetables. The rhythm between them wasn’t quite smooth yet—still cautious, still careful—but it was there.
Nate drank his milk and tried not to smile at how his parents kept stealing glances at each other when they thought no one was looking.
The knock on the door made Tom smile. “That should be Doc and the cavalry.”
Except it wasn’t.
Simon Finch, terrified for his life but putting on a brave face, stood on the doorstep in his Sunday best.
“Finch?” Tom scanned the nearby street and buildings for danger, but couldn’t see anything. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry, Sheriff, Dr. Delgado has chicken pox and isn’t coming.”
Tom blinked. “Say again?”
“Well, not Dr. Delgado himself, his family… well not Mrs. Delgado either, it’s just the girls, but they have chicken pox and they’re not coming. I mean, of course the girls aren’t coming, but it’s none of them, not just the girls not coming. It wouldn’t make sense if—”
“Finch.”
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“Take a breath. I get the gist. The girls all have chicken pox and Doc and Julietta are staying home to take care of them. That it in a nutshell?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tom nodded. “What about you?”
“What about me, what?”
“Chicken pox. You live in their guest room.”
“Oh, I had it when I was six. Doc says I can’t catch it again.”
Tom huffed a breath through his nose, eyebrows drawing down.
Simon stammered quickly, “Oh, I can’t catch somebody else with it either, I mean, I’m not contagious. Doc says so.”
Tom nodded and opened the door wider. “Well come in, then. Turkey shouldn’t be too much longer.”
Simon stepped into the parlor and froze, his cheerful expression draining like water from a cracked bucket. His gaze fixed on Mercy, her flushed cheeks and restless movements suddenly holding his complete attention.
“Finch?” Tom closed the door. “What’s wrong?”
Simon’s throat worked. “How long has she been sick?”
“Just this morning. Woke up feverish.” Tom moved closer, reading the sudden tension in the apprentice’s shoulders. “Why?”
“This morning? You’re certain?”
“Simon.” Tom’s voice dropped, taking on the edge that made suspects confess. “What did Diego tell you?”
Simon turned, pale and visibly sweating despite the November cool. His hands twisted together. “He said… that is, Dr. Delgado mentioned…” He swallowed hard under Tom’s stare. “He said I should check on Mercy. For symptoms. Since the girls have chicken pox and Mercy was playing with them yesterday afternoon. Well, except it wouldn’t have been yesterday, since it takes a couple weeks from exposure to when the virus can start—”
The words faded behind the rush of blood through his ears. Tom’s jaw tightened. “Chicken pox?”
“Maybe it’s not—I mean, she might just have a regular fever—”
“How long were they sick before you knew?”
“Isabela woke up with spots this morning. Rosita and Carmen started complaining about feeling poorly last night, but Mrs. Delgado thought it was just tiredness until—” Simon’s voice cracked. “Dr. Delgado said that children can be contagious before the rash appears, and Mercy was there playing with all three girls, and he told me to tell you to keep an eye out for symptoms and I should have thought to mention it immediately but I was so focused on delivering the message about Thanksgiving being cancelled that I—”
“Simon.” Tom held up a hand, stopping the flood of words. “Is there treatment?”
“Not really. It has to run its course. Keep her comfortable, prevent scratching when the rash appears, watch for secondary infections.” Simon’s medical knowledge steadied his voice slightly. “Dr. Delgado said to watch for high fever or difficulty breathing.”
Through the doorway, Ellie appeared, her face carefully neutral in the way that meant she’d heard everything.
Ellie crossed to the playpen and laid her hand against Mercy’s forehead, her nurse’s touch automatic and assessing. Still warm. No worse than before. She studied the baby’s flushed cheeks, the restless movements, the congested breathing.
“Chicken pox,” she said finally, more statement than question.
Tom moved to Ellie’s side, his burned hand forgotten. “Should I go get Diego? Bring him here so he can—”
“No.” Ellie cut him off gently but firmly. “Diego needs to stay with his own children. I can handle chicken pox.”
“But if she gets worse—”
“Then we’ll reassess.” Ellie glanced up at him, reading the tension coiling through his shoulders. “Tom, it’s chicken pox. Children get it. It runs its course. Keep her comfortable, watch for complications, and wait it out.”
“What if—”
“If it were smallpox, that would be different. But this?” Ellie brushed her fingers across Mercy’s damp hair. “This is just one of those childhood illnesses every parent deals with. She’ll be miserable for a week, then she’ll be fine.”
Tom’s jaw worked. His gaze stayed locked on Mercy’s flushed face.
“You never had it growing up?” Ellie asked.
The question hung between them. Tom’s expression shuttered, that careful blankness he wore when certain subjects came up. “If I did, I wouldn’t know.”
“Tom—”
“Sisters didn’t usually take time to explain what was happening when sick boys were rounded up and stashed away from the healthy ones.” His voice went flat. “Got locked up like that more than a couple times, so if it’s as common as you say, I probably did. But I wouldn’t know. They wouldn’t have told me if I had it.”
Ellie swallowed, taken aback. “They locked—without even explaining?”
“Probably didn’t see the point. Kids either got better or they didn’t. And there would still be forty others to feed. So what do I need to know about this? How do we keep her less miserable?”
Ellie nodded once, understanding the door he’d just closed. She turned back to Mercy, checking the baby’s temperature again with the back of her hand. “Simon, you said Isabela’s rash appeared this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am. Small red spots across her chest and back.”
“Then Mercy’s likely a day or two behind.” Ellie straightened, her nurse’s mind already cataloging what they’d need. “We’ll watch for the rash. Keep her cool. Plenty of fluids. Simon, you know where the calamine lotion is kept in Diego’s dispensary?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I’ll need you to fetch some before the day’s out.” She glanced at Tom, still rigid beside the playpen. “And you—stop looking like she’s dying. She’s not.”
Tom’s throat worked. “She’s so small.”
“She’s tougher than you think. I promise you, she’ll be fine.” Ellie took his good hand. “And she takes after you, so you’d better get used to worrying, Mr. Bracken. Consider this practice for when she gets older and starts falling out of trees and into ditches.”
“Unkind of you to call me put like that, Mrs. Bracken.”
Simon cleared his throat from where he still stood near the doorway, looking torn between professional duty and social awkwardness. “Should I… that is, would you like me to stay? Or should I fetch the calamine and come back?”
“Stay.” Ellie made the decision without hesitation. “If Mercy’s going to be sick all week, we’ll need the supplies sooner rather than later, but there’s no sense sending you back and forth in the heat. Have some dinner first.”
“But Mrs. Delgado was bringing the rice and beans and the dessert, and I know Mr. Darby was—”
Nate cut in, “Does that mean Mrs. Delgado isn’t bringing the plantains?”
Ellie’s glance at him was full of motherly exasperation. “Her children are sick, Nathaniel,” she chided.
“I know. I feel bad for them.” He looked down at the floor, squirming as he admitted, “I just also feel bad about the plantains.”
“We’ve got plenty of food.” Tom’s voice had steadied, though his gaze stayed fixed on Mercy. “Turkey’s nearly done. Ellie made enough sides to feed half the county.”
“I made enough because Diego’s girls eat like field hands,” Ellie corrected. “But Simon’s right about one thing—we should send word to Mr. Darby before he shows up.”
Nate perked up. “I can run over to the boarding house. Mrs. Wyatt won’t mind me knocking.”
Tom started to protest, then stopped himself. Nate wanted to be useful and Tom knew the feeling well. “Straight there and back. No dawdling.”
“Yes, sir.” Nate grabbed his jacket from the hook and was out the door before Tom could add any additional warnings.
The house felt quieter after he left. Simon shifted his weight, uncertain. “I could help with the dinner preparations? I’m not much of a cook, but I can follow instructions.”
“Kitchen’s through there.” Ellie gestured. “Tom burned his hand on the stove earlier. There’s salve in the cabinet above the sink—blue tin. Make sure he actually uses it.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“Then you heard me.” Ellie bent over the playpen, adjusting the light blanket covering Mercy. The baby stirred, whimpering, then settled again. “Go on. Both of you. I’ll stay with her.”
Tom hesitated, torn between hovering and being useful. Finally, he followed Simon toward the kitchen, casting one last look over his shoulder.
Ellie waited until they were out of sight before releasing the breath she’d been holding. Her wrist ached. Mercy’s fever worried her more than she’d let on. And the thought of a week of sleepless nights caring for a sick baby while Tom spiraled with anxiety—
And somewhere in the middle of it all, Thanksgiving was trying to happen whether they were ready or not.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes.
One thing at a time.
Starting with the knock on the door.
Ellie opened the door to find Darby on the porch, hat in hand, looking uncertain in the way men did when they weren’t sure if they were still invited. Before she could offer a proper greeting, Nate came tearing around the corner of the house, out of breath and red-faced.
“Mr. Darby—wait—”
Darby turned, startled. “Nate?”
The boy skidded to a stop on the bottom step, gulping air. “Have you—had the pox?”
Darby’s eyebrows climbed. He glanced at Ellie, then back at Nate. “I suppose that depends on which pox we’re discussing.”
“Chicken pox,” Ellie clarified, stepping aside so Darby could see into the parlor where Mercy slept fitfully. “Mercy’s come down with it. Or likely will in the next day or two. Nate was supposed to catch you at Mrs. Wyatt’s before you walked all the way over here.”
“Ah.” Darby studied the sleeping baby through the doorway, his expression thoughtful. “In that case, I’m reasonably certain I had it as a boy in Bristol. My sisters brought it home from school and the lot of us were covered in spots for a fortnight.” He met Ellie’s gaze. “Safe enough, I’d wager. And if I’m wrong, well—I’m willing to take my chances.”
Nate turned triumphantly to his mother. “Ma, Mr. Darby’s safe from the pox.”
“So I heard.” Ellie stepped back, holding the door wider. “Come in, then. Tom’s in the kitchen with Simon, attempting to salvage Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Attempting?” Darby’s mouth twitched as he crossed the threshold.
“He burned his hand on the stove and massacred the sweet potatoes.”
“I see.” Darby hung his hat on the hook beside the door. “Should I be concerned for my own safety, or just the meal?”
From the kitchen came the sound of something metal hitting the floor, followed by Tom’s muttered curse.
Ellie sighed. “Both, probably.”
Nate made a frustrated noise and mumbled a few words.
“Say again, son?” Darby leaned closer to hear.
“I said,” Nate spoke louder, “Pa isn’t a bad cook. He just has… expectations to meet.”
Ellie tilted her head.
Darby outright laughed. “Expectations, eh? And what does that mean?”
“Well… when it’s just me and him, he cooks fine. But I don’t expect him to cook badly, so he doesn’t?” Nate frowned, struggling with the memory. “He explained it when Ma was working overnight at the clinic. I don’t remember most of it, but I know he said if folks are gonna have low expectations of you, you get to choose how you go about disappointing them. People get comfortable thinking things and nobody likes being uncomfortable so you don’t always have to make people think different of you even if it’s the truth.”
Nate shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “We weren’t talking about cooking. We were talking about why so many people believed Reverend Ward when he lied about Pa and why Pa wasn’t going around and asking people to apologize.”
Ellie and Darby shared a look, both uncomfortable with the deep turn of the conversation. Finally, Darby cleared his throat. “So your Pa cooks like he does to avoid upsetting folks by challenging their world views. Yeah, that’s squirrely enough to sound like something he’d say.”
Nate looked relieved that one of the adults had understood.
“Mr. Darby, do you want to have a seat while I check on my husband?”
Ellie entered the kitchen where Simon was covered head to toe in flour, making unusual choices about dough kneading, while Tom stood back by the sink. His eyes lit up when he saw her, shoulders dropping some of their weight.
“Lovely.”
“What’s going on here?”
“I’m not making the biscuits.”
Ellie stifled a laugh. “I can see that. Why not?”
“Because I love you.” He moved close so he could pull her against his side and kiss her temple. He gestured at Simon. “And the kid’s into chemistry, right? So baking should be right up his alley. Somebody’s gotta teach him.”
“That somebody shouldn’t be you, Tom.”
“Right! Which is why this is the perfect time for us to switch off.” He kissed her again on the crown of her head. “Good luck. Best wishes.”
Tom retreated before she could stop him, leaving her alone with a hopeful if hapless eighteen-year-old who looked like he went ten rounds with the biscuit dough and lost.
“Alright, Simon. Let’s… start over.”
Tom found Darby in the parlor, standing near the window with his hands clasped behind his back—the old constable stance that meant he was thinking too hard about something. Darby turned when Tom entered, and his expression shifted from thoughtful to concerned in the span of a heartbeat.
“Everything all right?”
“Fine.” The word came out too quick, too sharp. Tom crossed to the playpen and checked Mercy’s forehead again. Still warm. Still restless. Still small and sick and utterly beyond his ability to fix.
“Tom.”
“It’s nothing. She’ll be fine. Ellie said so.”
Darby moved closer, studying Tom with the quiet intensity that had made him a good sergeant back in Chicago. “You look like a man about to crawl out of his own skin.”
Tom’s hands clenched. Unclenched. “I don’t like it when she’s sick. Makes me feel useless.”
“She’s a baby. Babies get sick. It’s not the end of the world.”
“I know that.” Tom turned away from his sleeping daughter, jaw tight. “Knowing it doesn’t help.”
Darby’s expression softened. “My girls both had it. Nelly-Bear covered head to toe in spots, cried for three days straight until Becca sang her hoarse trying to calm her. They lived through it. So will Mercy.”
The mention of Darby’s daughters hung in the air between them. Tom looked at his friend—really looked—and saw the shadow that had been there all morning finally taking shape. First Thanksgiving away from his family. First holiday spent in hiding while Senator Clayborne’s reach stretched across the state.
“How’re they doing?” Tom asked quietly. “Becca and the girls?”
Darby exhaled slow, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Well enough. Your smuggler friend has them set up somewhere comfortable on the other side of the state. Mercer’s not much for details, but he says they’re safe.”
“You’ve heard from them?”
“Telegrams. Slow ones.” Darby’s mouth twisted. “Paranoid bugger has them going through two different relay stations before they reach my family. Figures it keeps Clayborne’s men from tracking the line back.”
Tom nodded. Mercer’s caution made sense even if it complicated everything. “When’s the last time you got word?”
“Two days ago. Short note from Becca saying the girls are settled and asking after me.” Darby’s voice went rough. “I sent my own telegram yesterday. Wished them a good Thanksgiving. Told them I hoped we’d have this whole business sorted by Christmas.”
The weight of it settled over Tom like wet wool. Darby’s family scattered and hiding because Tom had killed Jeffrey Clayborne in a Chicago card parlor. Because Senator Clayborne wanted revenge and Darby had been convenient leverage. Because Tom’s past kept reaching forward to destroy the people around him.
“I’m sorry.” The words felt inadequate. “Darby, I—”
“Don’t.” Darby cut him off, not unkindly. “We’ve been through this.”
“I’ll do my best to get them home by Christmas.” Tom met his friend’s gaze. “I can’t promise it, but I’ll do everything I can.”
Darby was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he glanced at Mercy sleeping in her playpen, small and feverish and utterly unaware of the complicated adult world swirling around her.
“Don’t worry about it,” Darby said finally. “That’s what hope is for.”
Through the window, the November sun climbed higher. From the kitchen came the sound of Ellie’s patient instruction and Simon’s enthusiastic responses. Nate’s footsteps thumped overhead as he went upstairs to change into something more presentable for dinner.
Tom wanted to say more—to promise that he’d fix this, that Darby’s sacrifice wouldn’t be for nothing, that Christmas would—
But the words stuck in his throat, hollow before they could take shape.
Darby seemed to understand. He clapped Tom’s shoulder once, firm and brief. “Don’t worry about it, I said.”
Mercy woke with a wail that cut through the quiet parlor like a knife—high, thin, and utterly miserable. Tom moved before conscious thought caught up, scooping her from the playpen and pulling her against his chest.
“Hey, sweetheart. Shh, I’ve got you.”
But Mercy arched her back, twisting away from him with another cry. Her face flushed darker, tears streaming as she pushed at his shoulder with small, fevered hands.
“I know, baby. I know you don’t feel good.” Tom shifted his hold, tried rocking her the way that usually worked. “Come on now, let’s just—”
Mercy’s cry pitched higher, refusing to be soothed.
Tom’s chest tightened. He tried bouncing gently, humming low, anything to calm her, but she kept wailing, inconsolable and hot against him. His hands felt too big, too clumsy. Nothing he did made any difference.
Ellie appeared in the doorway, flour dusting her skirt. “Here, let me.”
Tom hesitated, hating the relief that flooded through him even as he passed Mercy over. The baby buried her face in Ellie’s neck immediately, her cries softening to hiccupping sobs.
“There we go.” Ellie swayed, one hand rubbing Mercy’s back in slow circles. “Poor thing. You just needed your mama, didn’t you?”
Tom stood there, useless, watching his daughter calm in Ellie’s arms when she’d done nothing but scream in his.
Ellie glanced up, reading his expression too easily. “Tom, go finish up the turkey. I’ve got her.”
He nodded once and retreated to the kitchen, jaw tight.
Darby followed him in silence.
Simon stood at the counter, proudly surveying a tray of golden biscuits that actually looked edible. “Sheriff, these turned out really well! I think I’m getting the hang of—”
Tom yanked open the oven door.
Heat blasted out, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of overcooked meat. The turkey sat in its roasting pan, skin dark and crackling like leather, juices long since evaporated.
“Oh.” Simon’s enthusiasm died. “That’s… that’s not good.”
Tom stared at the disaster. His chest went hollow.
“It’s just a bird,” Darby offered quietly.
“It’s ruined.” Tom’s voice came flat. “The whole damn thing.”
“We’ve got sides. Plenty of—”
“The turkey’s the point.” Tom slammed the oven door shut. “It’s Thanksgiving and I can’t even cook a turkey without turning it into—into—”
“Into what?” Darby’s tone shifted, taking on the edge of challenge. “A minor setback? Come on, Tom. What’d you lot do last year when the holiday meal went wrong?”
Tom blinked, thrown by the question.
“Go on,” Darby pressed. “Tell me it was perfect. Tell me nothing went sideways.”
Tom’s jaw worked as he used towels to wrestle the hot roasting pan out of the oven. “It wasn’t an issue last year. We weren’t struggling around with any of this. Ellie was pregnant, and… Circumstances were different.”
He poked at the ruined turkey with a meat fork, trying to determine if any of it was salvageable when the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck prickled. He looked up.
Ellie stood in the door, Mercy clutched to her chest, the most horrible look of devastation Tom had ever seen on her face. His stomach dropped.
“Ellie—”
“I know what you meant, Tom.” The words were too quiet. “I’m going upstairs to put some lotion on the baby. The rash has started.”
“Ellie, I didn’t—”
She was already moving up the stairs and Tom started after her. Darby’s hand caught his shoulder and stopped him.
“Give her a minute, lad.”
Tom blinked, looking at Darby with confusion. “What? No, I need to—”
“No, what you need is to fix it, Tommy-boy, but you can’t. What your wife needs is some space.”
A small sound of distress escaped him. “I can’t just leave her up there.”
“You’re not leaving her. You’re giving her a minute.”
Tom looked toward the stairs.
“She knows where you are,” Darby said. “Let her come back when she’s ready.”
“But—” Tom looked up the stairs, felt his way through the angles. Maybe Darby was right and him hovering behind her, demanding her attention when Mercy needed her more, making her listen to his apology because he needed to make it… maybe what she needed right now wasn’t him up there making things worse.
Tom swallowed, let the breath out of his lungs as his shoulders dropped. “Well, shit.”
He rubbed a palm down his face and stared at the turkey carcass.
“Sheriff?” Simon ventured.
Tom didn’t answer.
“The biscuits came out all right.”
“That’s great, Simon. Proud of you.”
Nate tugged at Tom’s sleeve until he could squirm under his arm and give him a hug. “We don’t have to have turkey, Pa. You can make us sausages.”
“Turkey’s kind of the point, kiddo.”
“Only kind of,” Nate said. “I still like your sausages.”
Tom smiled in spite of himself and squeezed Nate back. “Alright. You’re right. I’ll see what I can do.” He surveyed the carcass, the pan, the blackened vegetables. “Why don’t you all go sit in the parlor, while I… Hmm. Dinner’s gonna take me a minute.”
Darby ushered the boys out while Tom stood alone in the ruins of the first Thanksgiving dinner he’d ever attempted.
Ellie came downstairs slowly, her eyes red and swollen, cradling her aching wrist against her belly. Mercy had finally fallen asleep upstairs, spots dotting her chest and back, feverish and miserable. But at least she was resting.
Ellie had cried herself out in the nursery—silent, shaking tears she hadn’t wanted Tom to hear. Not because he’d meant to hurt her. She knew he hadn’t. But the words still landed like stones: circumstances were different. As if losing the baby was just another circumstance to navigate around.
She pressed her palm to her eyes, took a steadying breath, and stepped into the parlor.
Darby, Simon, and Nate looked up from their seats. The men rose immediately, uncertain, while Nate’s face creased with worry.
“Ma?”
“I’m all right.” Her voice came rough but steady. “Mercy’s asleep.”
“Good.” Darby gestured toward the empty chair. “Would you like to sit?”
Ellie shook her head. “Where’s Tom?”
“Kitchen,” Nate said. “He’s fixing dinner.”
Of course he was.
Ellie crossed through the parlor and pushed open the kitchen door.
Tom stood at the stove, stirring a large soup pot, his back to her. The ruined turkey had been carved down to bones, the meat salvaged and simmering in broth with vegetables and herbs. The kitchen smelled like rosemary and pepper and something almost comforting.
He looked up when the door creaked, and his face lit—just for a second—before caution tempered it. He kept stirring, didn’t move toward her.
“Hey.” His voice came soft, careful. “Mercy asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s… that’s good.”
Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable. Tom’s hand tightened on the wooden spoon.
“Ellie, I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
“And I’m sorry that—”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
”I know, Tom. I do.” She stepped closer, her wrist throbbing. “I know you didn’t mean it to hurt and I know you’re sorry and I know—Can we just… move away from it for right now?”
Tom exhaled, shoulders dropping. “Okay.”
He set the spoon down, turned to face her fully. His expression was raw, uncertain—like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t know if he should.
Ellie closed the distance and leaned into him, careful of her wrist. Tom’s arms came around her immediately, holding her like she might break.
She hated that he thought she would break. “Thank you for giving me space.”
“I love you,” he murmured against her hair. “Circumstances or not.”
She didn’t know why she didn’t say it back. Maybe it was because part of her still felt jagged. A broken plate glued back together wasn’t an object that people loved; it was an obligation to fix what had been broken.
Instead, Ellie pressed her face into his shoulder and let herself be held. After a moment, she pulled back and glanced at the pot. “What did you do with the turkey?”
“Salvaged what I could. Boiled it. Turned it into soup.” Tom rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Figured it was better than nothing.”
“Soup for Thanksgiving.” A smile tugged at her mouth despite everything. “That’s certainly unconventional.”
“Yeah, well.” Tom’s expression softened. “We roll with the punches and swing back harder in this family, don’t we?”
Through the doorway came the sound of Simon explaining something to Nate in earnest tones—probably pharmaceutical theory or some new soda phosphate discovery. Darby’s low chuckle followed.
Ellie moved to the stove and lifted the lid, breathing in the steam. The broth smelled rich, the vegetables tender. Tom had added thyme and bay leaves. She wondered when he’d learned to do that.
“It smells good,” she said. “Really.”
“It’s not turkey.”
“No.” She replaced the lid. “But it’s what we have.”
Tom studied her, reading the exhaustion in her face, the way she cradled her wrist. “You should sit down. Let me finish up.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ellie—”
“I said I’m fine.” But the snap in her voice faded almost immediately. She closed her eyes. “I just… I need to be useful, Tom. Please.”
Understanding crossed his face. He nodded once, then gestured to the counter where Simon’s biscuits sat cooling. “All right. You want to butter those while I dish up the soup?”
“Yes.”
They worked in silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. Tom ladled soup into bowls while Ellie split biscuits and slathered them with butter. Simple tasks. Manageable.
Through the window, the November sun had passed its peak, casting warm light across the kitchen floor. Somewhere upstairs, Mercy slept fitfully. In the parlor, their makeshift family waited. Some of them. Not all. But some.
Not the Thanksgiving Ellie had planned. Not perfect.
But what they had.
Tom carried the first two bowls toward the dining room, pausing in the doorway. “Hey.”
Ellie looked up.
“We’ll get through this. All of it.”
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that the hollow space inside her would eventually fill, that her wrist would heal completely, that Mercy’s fever would break and everything would settle back into place.
Instead, she just nodded.
Tom held her gaze a moment longer, then disappeared into the parlor.
Ellie picked up two more bowls and followed.
The dining room felt smaller with only five of them seated around the table Tom had built last spring. Diego’s boisterous family should have filled the empty chairs. Carmen’s teenage chatter, Isabela’s curiosity, Rosita’s endless questions—all absent. The silence pressed down like a physical weight.
Tom ladled soup into bowls while Darby passed them around. Simon accepted his with both hands, staring at the golden broth like it might contain answers to unspoken questions. Nate sat closest to the kitchen door, positioned where he could bolt upstairs if Mercy cried.
“Well.” Tom lifted his water glass. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
The words fell flat. Nobody reached for their glasses.
Ellie’s throat tightened. She looked at the soup, at the salvaged biscuits, at Tom’s bruised knuckles and burnt palm, at Simon’s flour-dusted collar and Darby’s careful emptiness. At Nate watching all of them with those too-observant eyes that saw everything adults tried to hide.
This wasn’t what she’d wanted. Wasn’t what any of them had wanted.
“We should say grace.” The words came out sharper than intended. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
Tom set his glass down. “You want to—”
“No.” Ellie’s wrist throbbed. “You do it.”
A beat of silence. Tom’s jaw worked. He glanced at Darby, then at the boys, then back at Ellie. Finally, he bowed his head.
“Benedic, Domine, nos et haec tua dona… Shit. No. Christ. Umm. Lord… we’re grateful for this food. For the hands that made it. For the people around this table.” His voice roughened. “For the ones who aren’t here but should be. Diego’s girls. Darby’s family. All the folks we miss.” He paused, breathing slow. “We ask that you keep them safe. Heal the sick. Comfort the grieving. And help us get through whatever comes next. Amen.”
“Amen,” Darby echoed.
Simon and Nate murmured their agreement.
Ellie kept her head bowed a moment longer, blinking hard. When she looked up, Tom was watching her with that expression—the one that said he’d take all her pain if she’d let him, even though they both knew he couldn’t.
“Eat your soup,” she said.
Tom’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Gotta say, Bracken… Never heard a grace start with ‘shit no Christ um’ before. That a new kind of Latin you Paddies invented to keep us sensible folk on our toes?”
“Your opinion is noted and rejected, Mr. Darcy. You English toffers aren’t much better.” But Tom smiled and shook his head. He picked up his spoon, hesitated. Set it back down. “Well. This is… different.”
“It’s nice,” Nate offered.
“It’s soup, kiddo.”
“Good soup though.” Nate grabbed a biscuit and tore it in half, butter dripping onto his plate.
Silence settled again, broken only by the clink of spoons against bowls. Tom watched Ellie pick at her biscuit, noticed the way she kept cradling her wrist, the exhaustion carved into the lines around her eyes.
He should say something. Should fill the quiet with some quip about ruined turkeys or salvaged meals or—
“I’m grateful we’re all here,” Nate said suddenly. “Even if dinner’s different. Even if Mercy’s sick and the Delgados couldn’t come.” He looked around the table, his young face earnest. “I’m just glad we’re together.”
Tom’s throat tightened.
Darby lifted his water glass. “To being together.”
“To family,” Ellie added quietly, meeting Tom’s gaze across the table.
Simon smiled sheepishly. “To the science of biscuit baking.”
Nate raised his glass too, beaming. “To soup!”
Tom huffed a laugh despite himself and lifted his own glass. “To soup.”
They clinked glasses, all finally enjoying the faint absurdity of the moment.
Tom met Ellie’s eyes. “We’ll try again next week when everyone’s feeling better. No rule I know of says we can only be grateful for each other one day of the year.”
“Hear, hear.”
She reached over and squeezed his hand.
Spoons clinked against bowls. Simon complimented the broth. Nate asked if there were more biscuits. Darby told a story about a disastrous Thanksgiving in Chicago’s 12th precinct involving a goose and a constable’s helmet.
The conversation limped along, fragile but present.
Outside, the November sun dipped lower. Upstairs, Mercy slept. Around the table, their imperfect, cobbled-together family ate soup and biscuits and held onto the belief that being together was enough.