Yet that didn’t make Mitch feel any better. He remembered well the feeling of helplessness—the temptation to assume the worst—when Caroline had first fallen ill. The doctors had said the same things: “It’s too soon to tell.” “Don’t jump to any conclusions.”

He’d tried. For his wife’s sake, he’d worked hard to think positively and convince himself he was overreacting. He’d nearly succeeded, too . . . just in time to find out she had three months to live.

“We’ll figure it out, Dad.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, the same words he’d spoken with confidence three years ago. “We’ll talk again soon.”

He hung up and marched to the front door where he’d left his boots. He shoved his feet into them, wet sock and all, and grabbed his truck keys. As much as it galled him, there was only one person he could talk to about this stuff. Sure, he’d burned that bridge, but he was a decent swimmer. He’d find a way across. He was already wet anyway.

The Take Your Best Shot guns-and-ammo store was not located on the same strip as the rest of Moose Creek’s small businesses. It sat a little apart from town on the road leading to the gun range, and it had the rugged look of a log cabin. Inside, it was well-stocked with all the latest in hunting gear and technology, as well as the old, classic favorites.

Mitch was not surprised by all the vehicles parked in front of the store. Open season was only two weeks away. He pulled into one of the last empty spots but left the truck running as he stared at the store. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Frank might not be too thrilled to see him after the way they’d left things the last time they spoke. But Mitch didn’t know where else to turn, and he was starting to feel a mite desperate.

A loud quack sounded as he opened the door to the store. That had been his idea, to replace the chime on the door with a duck call, way back when Frank first started working here to supplement his meager pastor’s salary two decades ago. Mitch had suggested it as a joke, but Frank had taken him seriously. That’s kind of what Frank did. He took things seriously.

Several men greeted him with a nod as he worked his way around the store looking for Frank. He found him deep in conversation with Jeff Bates, one hand on Jeff’s shoulder as he nodded empathetically along with whatever Jeff was saying. It was a familiar pose. Frank’s pastor pose.

Mitch hung back until Frank’s conversation with Jeff ended, then he approached, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the Carhartt vest Caroline had given him the Christmas before she died.

“Hey,” Mitch said.