Always Dakota. Debbie Macomber

      The elevator arrived and the doors glided smoothly open. Heath maneuvered her chair inside and pushed the button for the lobby.

      She twisted around and stared up at him. “Do you seriously think some restaurant is going to fix a turkey the way I remember it?” she barked.

      “Thanksgiving is about more than turkey and pumpkin pie.”

      “Are you lecturing me, Heath Quantrill?”

      “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said again, his voice light with amusement.

      “There was a day you wouldn’t dare laugh at me.”

      “I’m not laughing,” he assured her. The doors opened and he stationed her by the entrance while he went to the parking lot to bring the car around. When he returned, an attendant had helped her don her coat and wheeled her outside to meet him.

      He didn’t realize how thin and frail she was until he lifted her into the passenger seat. Then the attendant folded her wheelchair and loaded it in the trunk.

      “I can’t imagine why you wanted to take me out to dinner,” she muttered for at least the third time.

      “Grandma,” he told her, “there are women all over town who’d jump at the chance to have dinner with me.”

      “Well, I’m not one of them.”

      He glanced over and saw her lips quiver in a half smile.

      “Have you been seeing Kate lately?” she demanded.

      “No.” Earlier in the year, Heath had gone out with a female bank executive a couple of times. The problem was, he’d already fallen in love with Rachel Fischer, but at that point her attitude had been completely and totally unreasonable.

      “I’ve decided I don’t like her,” Lily informed him.

      Heath chuckled. “Few women pass muster with you, do they?”

      “Rachel did,” she snapped, “but you tried to rush her into bed. It’s no wonder the woman won’t have anything to do with you.” She glowered with disapproval. “What is it with you young people these days? You’d think God gave us Ten Suggestions instead of Ten Commandments.”

      “Yes, Grandma.”

      She grumbled something else he couldn’t hear. Then, for the first time, she noticed that he wasn’t driving in the direction of any restaurants. Instead, they were in a residential neighborhood.

      “Where are you taking me?” she demanded again. “And don’t give me that story about going to dinner. I want to know exactly where we’re headed.”

      “You’ll know soon enough,” he promised.

      Lily studied the landscape. “This is close to your parents’ house, isn’t it?”

      “It is.”

      “You’re living there, if I remember correctly.”

      “I am, and you do.”

      She appeared to relax with that. “How nice. We’re having dinner at your home. I always did love that house.” She paused. “Haven’t been there since I got stuck in this blasted chair.”

      “I love the house, too.” It was the reason he’d moved into it when he returned from Europe. His brother’s death had hit him hard and he felt the need to surround himself with what was familiar. The house had been in their family for thirty years. Even now, when it involved a long commute into Buffalo Valley three days a week, he’d chosen to live in the family home.

      He pulled into the driveway and paused, watching Lily. She stared at the house and her sharp features softened.

      Transferring her from car to wheelchair went smoothly. Earlier he’d rigged a platform to get her up the stairs.

      When they reached the porch, the front door opened, and Rachel’s son, Mark, stood waiting. The scents of turkey and sage dressing and pumpkin pie were instantly recognizable. Rachel was one fine cook, and dinner promised to be everything he remembered from his childhood.

      “Who are you?” Lily demanded of the boy.

      Heath admired Mark for not flinching in the face of his grandmother’s brusque manner.

      “Mark Fischer,” Mark returned politely.

      “My son,” Rachel said, coming to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders.

      Lily turned to look at Heath. “What’s going on here?” she asked, but the question was hopeful, quite unlike her previous demands.