Ideas. Boy, oh boy. “You can’t eat ideas, Jeremy.” That might’ve been too stern.

Jeremy’s eyes flashed. “I’m aware of that, Mr. Jensen.”

Mitch pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to lay into the kid. He really didn’t. Jeremy was respectful and kind, and Mitch actually liked him. He clearly loved Bea. But that didn’t mean Mitch was okay with him marrying his daughter at such a young age and allowing her to drop out of college. She’d been on her way to earning the first college degree in his family until this guy came along.

He took a deep breath. There were a lot of things he hadn’t gotten to say before the wedding. Bea hadn’t given him the chance. But maybe it was time to have it out with his son-in-law. Lay it all on the table.

His mother called from the kitchen. “Time to eat.”

Mitch glanced down the hall and saw Bea sitting at the table, watching him.

Then again, maybe not.

Mitch chewed his bite of apple pie—and chewed and chewed. Much like the one he’d brought home Monday, this pie was chock-full of undercooked, tart apples. He glanced around the table as his mother handed plates to everyone else, wondering if they were going to notice. Maybe they wouldn’t. With enough vanilla ice cream on top, it wasn’t so bad. But what had gone wrong with the recipe? His mother’s pies were usually cooked to perfection.

June finished passing out the dessert and put her hands on her knees to look under the table. “And don’t think I forgot about you, kitty.” She plopped a small scoop of ice cream onto a spoon and set it on the floor. “There you go.”

Mitch gaped. His parents had always been adamant about three things: you go to church every Sunday, you respect the mountain, and you don’t let animals in the house. Animals were meant to serve a purpose. Dogs were for herding cattle and guarding the house. Cats were for keeping down the mice population in the barn. They were not pets, they were fellow workers, and no amount of begging as a child had persuaded his parents to change their minds about that.

Now here she was, feeding ice cream to Steve? And what kind of name was that, anyway? If he had a cat, he’d name it Buckshot.

Bea bent to watch the creature. “He’s not supposed to eat people food, Grandma.”

“Bah.” June waved a hand in the air. “It’s just a little ice cream.”

His mother had always had a soft spot for Bea, letting her have her way more often than Mitch would’ve liked over the years, but this unexpected pet tolerance didn’t seem to be for Bea’s benefit. What had gotten into her?