Page 38 of Stuff My Turkey
Knox followed with a more subdued greeting, though even he had made an effort with a festive red sweater. The four of us settled into an easy rhythm—Bitsy chattering about wedding plans, Knox describing his latest luxury property sale, Honey interjecting with dry humor that made everyone laugh. They'd developed an unlikely friendship, Honey and Bitsy, bound together by their mutual exasperation with Knox's self-absorption.
Dinner was simple but special—prime rib (with a vegetarian wellington for Honey), roasted potatoes, and all the traditional sides. I'd made sure to include both canned and homemade cranberry sauce, which prompted Honey to squeeze my knee under the table.
"To new traditions," Knox proposed a toast, raising his glass.
"And old ones worth keeping," I added, my eyes meeting Honey's across the table.
Later, we gathered around the tree for gifts. Bitsy squealed over the monogrammed luggage Knox bought her. Knox admired the Italian leather briefcase from Bitsy. I opened thoughtful gifts from both—a book on conservation I’d been wanting to read from Bitsy and a new saddle from Knox.
Honey received a spa package from Bitsy ("For when dealing with a man gets to be too much") and artisanal coffee beans from Knox. Finally, only two gifts remained—the one from Honey to me, and mine to her.
"You first," she insisted, handing me a carefully wrapped package.
Inside was a custom leather-bound journal, the cover embossed with the McGraw Heritage Ranch logo. But it was what lay inside that took my breath away—detailed sketches and photographs of every breeding tom and hen in my program, with handwritten notes on their characteristics, lineage, and offspring.
"How did you—" I began, flipping through pages of meticulously documented information.
"Buck helped," she admitted. "And Jake and Miguel. I know how much preserving their bloodlines means to you."
I had to clear my throat before I could speak. "This is incredible, Honey. Thank you."
"There's more," she said, pointing to the back pages. "Plans for the new propagation facility. I had an architect friend draw them up."
The detailed blueprints showed everything I'd dreamed of building with the Vickery investment—expanded pens, state-of-the-art incubation facilities, research space.
"Now you'll be organized enough that even I can help without messing things up," she teased, though her eyes were serious.
"My turn," I said, setting the precious book aside. I handed her a small wrapped box—not the ring, not yet—and watched as she opened it.
Inside was a key, attached to a silver keychain shaped like a turkey feather.
"Another key to the house?" she asked, confused. "I already have one."
"Not to the house," I said, standing and offering her my hand. "Come on. I need to show you something."
Knox and Bitsy exchanged knowing glances as I led Honey to the front porch and helped her into my truck.
"Where are we going?" she asked as we drove down the long driveway.
"Not far," I promised.
At the edge of the pecan grove, I turned onto a narrow path that wound through the trees. The headlights caught on a small structure ahead—the old foreman's cabin that had stood empty since before my time. Except now it didn't look empty at all. Warm light glowed from windows framed by fresh paint, and a small wreath hung on the newly restored door.
"Heath?" Honey's voice held a question.
I parked and came around to open her door, taking her hand as she stepped down.
"It was my grandfather's wedding gift to my grandmother," I explained, leading her up the path. "A place of her own on the family property. He knew she needed her independence, even while being part of the McGraw legacy."
Honey's fingers tightened around mine as understanding dawned in her eyes.
I unlocked the door, revealing the freshly renovated interior—modern appliances in the small kitchen, comfortable furniture in the living area, a desk by the window overlooking the property.
"It's perfect for a satellite office," I said quietly. "Or whenever you want to be here but need your own space."
She moved slowly through the cabin, trailing her fingers over the surfaces, taking in the details I'd obsessed over for weeks—the bookshelves built to match the ones in her Austin apartment, the espresso machine like the one she couldn't function without, the reading nook with soft throw pillows in colors I knew she loved.
"Heath," she whispered, turning to face me with eyes bright. "I don't know what to say."
