Mitch squinted at his phone in surprise. His dad never left a message. Ever. Something was wrong.

“I’m taking a break, Ralph.” He checked the time as he loped to his truck. Dad had called a couple of hours ago, but it had been a busy morning, and Mitch hadn’t noticed the voicemail notification until now.

He slid into his seat and slammed the door shut as he pressed the callback button, not wanting to waste time listening to the message.

“Pick up, Dad.” He drummed the steering wheel with one hand. “Come on, pick up.”

“Mitch?” Rand’s voice was thin. Tired.

“Hey, what’s going on? I saw you called.”

A muffled thump, then the sound of a door shutting.

“Is it Mom?”

“She’s poorly, son.”

Mitch pressed the phone tightly to his ear. “She was fine last night. Did something happen?”

“I don’t know. When it gets dark, she . . .”

Mitch eyeballed his keys as he waited, wondering if he should head out there. He could take an early lunch and be at his parents’ house in twenty-five minutes.

“She what?”

“She isn’t herself.”

The raw way he said it gave Mitch pause. “Maybe I should—”

“Don’t come by.” His dad read his mind through the phone. “It’ll upset her.”

Mitch’s brow furrowed. Was she mad at him? “Is this about the pies?”

Rand cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “If she hears us talking about going to the doctor, she’ll pitch a fit.”

Mitch rubbed his forehead. They were back to this. It had been years since his mom had seen a doctor, but she appeared to be fit as a fiddle, as she would say. “What kind of doctor?”

Silence. Mitch fought to keep his frustration in check, the suspicion that his father was the one who needed a checkup growing more with every passing minute.

“Dad?”

“A head doctor.”

Mitch sat back. “Like a shrink?”

“No.”

A neurologist? But that would be for . . . Realization struck Mitch like a southwest wind ripping through the canyon. “She isn’t herself.” His father was worried about dementia or something. But his mom was way too young for that. She was only sixty-three.

“Dad.”

“Please.” Rand’s tone leaned over the edge of desperation. “I don’t know what to do.”

Mitch couldn’t ignore the tremble in his father’s voice. Randall Jensen had never been the kind of man to exaggerate. Or see things that weren’t there. Or be afraid. There must be something Mitch was missing. Even if his dad was way off, and Mitch was ninety-nine percent sure he was, it wouldn’t hurt anything to make an appointment so he could put both their minds at ease. He’d need a referral, but Ruth Anne from the clinic would fax one to Ponderosa if he explained the situation.