Luke doubted it. Ralph, though no longer a young man, was as spry and healthy as most men ten years younger.

“Why don’t you just give me the boy’s phone number and I’ll call him up?”

“Wait a second.” Luke’s head began to pound. “How about the other way around? I’ll have Katie and Josh, if he’s up to it—call you.”

“Why wouldn’t he be up to it?” Ralph demanded.

“He’s ten, for God’s sake. Give him a break, would ya?”

“I guess you’ve got a point.”

“Good.” Luke wasn’t convinced that the old man was actually listening to reason, but he had no other options. “I’ll let you know how this all turns out.”

“Do. Loretta and I . . . Well, we don’t get along much. Been separated for years. When Dave died we nearly divorced, but we’re hangin’ on by a thread right now, Luke, and that thread is Dave’s son.”

“I’ll call.” Guilt squeezed through Luke’s innards as he replaced the phone. He’d have to talk to Katie again and this time he couldn’t be distracted as he seemed to forever be whenever she was near. Just the thought of her brought a tightness to his groin and a longing that he didn’t want to scrutinize too closely.

“You’re a fool, Gates,” he muttered and grabbed his hat from a hook near the front door. The excavating foreman was scheduled to meet him at the ranch to discuss the addition to the house, and he had just enough time to get there.

He’d deal with Katie, Josh, and Ralph later.

* * *

“Any more information on the Isaac Wells story?”

Pat Johnson, Katie’s editor, asked as he paused at her cubicle and leaned against the edge of her desk. He was all of five feet six inches, but he carried himself as if he were a foot taller. With a shock of white hair, round eyeglasses and small features drawn close together, he was far from Hollywood handsome, but his sharp mind, bright eyes, and quick wit compensated for his lack of pure physical beauty. Everyone loved him. Including Katie.

“I wish,” she said, but shook her head. “I’ve badgered the police and my brother and a few of Isaac’s associates, all to no end. I’ve even tried contacting whoever sent me the letter through the personal ads in the Review, as well as the local paper in California where the last letter was postmarked. So far, nada.”

“Too bad.” Pat removed his glasses and wiped them clean with a handkerchief from his pocket. “I thought it would be this year’s big story.”

“Me, too.” She offered him a smile. “At least I’d hoped.”

“Well, something could still break.” He slipped his spectacles back onto his nose and patted the edge of her cubicle’s thin walls before moving on.