The table was set for supper, and the food was ready to be put into bowls by the time they got back from the barn. Lily remembered a few times when her father had brought a calf into the utility room to warm it up and then took it out to put it on a cow that had just given birth. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. If it didn’t, then they had to bottle-feed the little critter until it was big enough to eat feed. She crossed her fingers that didn’t happen. Holly would not like getting up thirty minutes early every morning to go feed Star, or traipsing out to the barn every evening, whether it was snowing or raining, to take care of the goat again.

What will be, will be, Lily remembered her mother saying, and everything happens for the best.

Braden came through the door first. “Guess what, Mama? One of the nannies took Star right in and let her eat, and she’s a prize-winning mama goat, and her own baby is a boy, and Mack says he can be my goat to show next year at the livestock show!” He stopped long enough to draw in a long breath. “And I named him War Lord.”

“So does that mean you don’t want to go back to Austin?” Lily dipped the mashed potatoes out of a pan and into a bowl.

“Hell—I mean, heck, yes.” Braden grinned. “Why would I want to leave War Lord? He’d miss me awful bad.”

Lily could hardly believe his answer. A month ago, he’d been so against the move that she feared he’d never forgive her. She glanced over at Holly and raised an eyebrow.

“The jury is still out,” Holly said. “I’ve got to go wash up.”

“Me, too.” Braden rushed out of the kitchen ahead of her. “I bet I beat you to the bathroom.”

“Don’t you dare lock the door,” Holly yelled.

“If these old walls could talk, I wonder how many stories they could tell.” Mack stopped at the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “Kids running through the place, first kisses on the porch swing, tears and giggles.”

Lily thought of the journal in her bedroom. Life going past at lightning speed. Happiness. Wars. Changing times. Like the house, the old journal had its stories to tell, but unlike the silent walls, the book told its tales, even if they weren’t long.

“What would the walls tell me about your life here the past five years?” she asked Mack.

He raised one shoulder in half a shrug. “It could be written on a postage stamp. Work, home, old movies, more work. I’m a boring fellow for the most part.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.” Lily lifted the hot rolls out into a basket.