“You know, one of Foxworth’s best has that same oversize sense of guilt you’ve got. When he was in the military he saved thousands of lives, but all he could think about were the ones who’d died before he’d been able to hunt down and take out the threat.”

“Sniper?” Adam guessed, not arguing with Quinn’s assessment of the size of his guilt, although he didn’t think it oversize at all.

Quinn nodded. “He ended up with a knee in about the same shape as your elbow.”

“Let me guess, though, he’s tougher than me so he had the replacement done.”

“Actually, no, he hasn’t. I think he wants the reminder.”

The words were was so close to his own frequent thoughts Adam was a bit taken aback.

“That’s what I thought,” Quinn said quietly. “Guilt, especially survivor’s guilt, is a hellish thing. What you do to yourself is far worse than anything anyone else would. For a while there I was afraid he was going to be one of the twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two?”

“The twenty-two veterans who commit suicide every damned day.”

Quinn’s voice had gone suddenly cold, harsh and distant, and Adam realized it was anger. And if that statistic was right—and he had no doubt it was—then it was a righteous anger. Which Foxworth seemed to specialize in.

“And what’s Foxworth doing about that?” he asked.

Quinn seemed to snap back instantly. “What makes you think we’re doing something?”

“What you told me about what Foxworth does. And you don’t seem the type to let something that means that much to you slide.”

Quinn’s gaze narrowed. And then, slowly, he smiled. “No. We’re not. You’ve got potential, Kirk. Don’t let that slide.”

Adam couldn’t think of a thing to say to that except that he was wrong about the potential. He tried to come up with something, anything to say, to divert the way Quinn was looking at him. He didn’t know much about Quinn Foxworth’s personal background, only what he’d guessed from the man’s bearing and demeanor, but he knew enough of the man himself to know he didn’t want to cross him.

“I get the feeling you could have walked that path yourself,” Quinn said quietly, gently.

The easy lie leaped to his lips, but again something about this man made it impossible to say it. So again, he gave him the truth. “I thought about it,” he admitted. “Maybe riding out onto the Palouse and never coming back. Middle of winter, maybe. But that’d endanger a good horse.”

Quinn just looked at him, waiting. He let out a breath and went on.

“My grandmother committed suicide, when I was a kid. It nearly killed my mom, and tore up my dad because he couldn’t help her. I...couldn’t make them go through that again.”