Raynetta Hunter mothered her daughter Becca. “Oh, Mama! You worry too much,” Becca said. She smiled as she carefully took the turkey from the oven to baste it. Angelina Maddox stood in the doorway of the parlor watching Becca and her mother work on the turkey. Angelina had brought the pies, rolls, and potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner. She was glad her dinner preparations were finished, for now she could stand back and watch the two women she loved most in the world bustling around in the kitchen—listen to the low, masculine voices of the men she loved most as they sat talking in the parlor. “What you boys thinkin’ you’ll have to pay to start your herd come spring?” she heard her father ask. “Too much!” Ryder chuckled. “Dang right,” Feller agreed. “I ain’t leavin’ though. ’Til Becca’s had the baby, I ain’t goin’ for cattle.” “Me neither.
