Gareth kneaded his throbbing temples, the chaos of his thoughts more painful than the headache he felt brewing. He could not recall the last time he’d fought with Declan—surely back when they were both in short pants—nor could he recall the reason. Not that he knew the reason for this argument. Could the other man really believe he was not an integral part of their mutual success? Had Gareth done or said something to make Declan feel less than valued? He could not think of anything, but, then, dealing with others was not an activity he was comfortable with, even when the person was his best friend.

He wished now that he had told the other man how Declan was the one who held it all together, that without him—his strength of character, wit, charm, and foresight—Gareth and all their bloody enterprises would fly apart, just as Gareth’s thoughts were prone to doing. It was true Gareth saw the potential in the businesses they rescued and resuscitated, but he often lost interest after the endeavor was sleek and healthy, and it was Declan who saw to such matters as selling or operating the resultant businesses. No, Gareth was not the one responsible for their success, they were a team. And without each other? Gareth did not want to travel down that path.

“Bloody hell, Dec, what has happened with us?” Gareth whispered, shaking his head.

But there was no answer.

Gareth filled his lungs with as much air as they would hold and then slowly expelled it. His friend was in trouble—in pain—and for whatever reason, Gareth seemed to be at the heart of it.

Chapter Twelve

Gareth was reading the last of the ledgers when there was a light knock on the door. Actually, he was staring at the pages but seeing Declan’s face again as it had been the night of their argument—the last time he’d spoken to his friend, who’d left without warning early the following morning. Gareth’s concentration—usually as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar—had been non-existent in the days since.

“Come in,” he called.

The door opened a crack. “Mr. Lockheart?”

Gareth removed the spectacles he used in order to read the cramped columns of numbers. “Come in, Oliver.”

The boy entered and closed the door. “I hope I’m not interrupting, sir.”

Gareth closed the ledger. “No, you’re not interrupting anything—at least nothing important. What can I do for you?”

“I wondered—” he broke off, his round cheeks—so like his mother’s—darkening. “Well, sir, I was wondering if you might wish to go fishing.”

Gareth’s eyebrows shot up. “Fishing?”

Oliver seemed not to hear the incredulity in his voice. Instead, he nodded, his face wreathed in eagerness. “Yes, there is a pool just upriver from where you and Mama are making the lake. It is my favorite spot to fish. And to swim, when it is warm enough.” He cast a yearning look out the window, which showed the pale sunshine of a spring day, and a blue sky with scudding clouds. Gareth repressed a shiver.