Jeremy leaned close so only she could hear. “There are five tables full of baked goods out there. How’d he know you’d want that one?”

She tried not to look at him like he was crazy. What else did she love more than chocolate cake? Did Jeremy know her at all?

“It’s my favorite. Just . . .”

“What?”

Just like my mom. The words stuck in her throat. Mom had come to every single one of her volleyball games. Had sat up here in this same spot and cheered for Bea no matter how long she sat on the bench or how many mistakes she made. And if she were here right now, she’d stop at nothing to win that chocolate cake.

“Never mind.”

The first set of the match ended with Moose Creek on top 25 to 18. As the teams switched sides, fans chatted and stretched and moved around the gym.

Jeremy pointed with his chin. “Look. There’s another one.”

A second mullet strolled by, and Bea laughed. “If it helps us make the play-offs, I’m all for it.”

Jeremy stood. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay. Check to make sure Dad still has the highest bid on that cake.” She winced as he walked stiffly down the bleacher steps. Hopefully, harvest would go quickly this year. Everyone was scrambling to get their crops in before the first hard freeze, which could come any day.

She turned to her dad. “How did the appointment go?”

He’d mentioned this morning that he and Grandpa Rand were taking Grandma to an appointment in Ponderosa today. At the time, her mind had been preoccupied by her own appointment, which she had finally scheduled and was a mere four days away. Plus, she’d felt like she was going to die and had been trying to act normal so he wouldn’t notice the cold sweat on her forehead or how nauseated she was. But now she wanted to know more.

Dad hesitated. “It was fine.”

“Is Grandma okay? What was it for?”

Bea couldn’t even picture Grandma June in a doctor’s office. She’d given birth at home. Set her own broken finger with a switch from a lodgepole pine. Stitched Grandpa Rand’s leg with sewing thread and whiskey after a run-in with some barbwire. She was the kind of woman who believed in taking care of herself. And yes, her finger was still crooked, as was Grandpa Rand’s scar, but you didn’t live your whole life in rural Montana if you weren’t willing to remove an errant fishhook from your own neck.

She glanced over at Dad when he didn’t answer right away. “Is she okay?”

“They need to do more tests.”

Bea’s stomach clenched. She’d heard those words before. “Is it . . . ?”

“No.” Dad put a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, B.B., I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not cancer.”