They could always be counted on. Generations of those who shared blood had lived and loved and prospered and died on MacKenzie land. And still the bond was strong, even after more than a hundred years had passed. It didn’t matter how far those who shared the blood strayed from home—how long they wandered or where life might lead them. Like a beacon, family always called them home. So on Thanksgiving Day, the MacKenzies young and old gathered around the large oak table. Built by Cooper’s grandfather when the family started to expand exponentially, it was scarred and stained beneath the neatly pressed tablecloth. Heads were bowed, eyes were closed, and hands were held. “—And continue to bless this family,” James MacKenzie prayed. “Amen.” “Amen,” everyone repeated. As patriarch of the family, James took his role seriously. He’d raised five children, and all of them had made it to adulthood to become respectable citizens of the community.
