Emotions steamrolled Mac. They hit him hard and fast and in such great variety he couldn’t distinguish disappointment from sorrow from relief. He backed out of the room. What did it matter? He hadn’t been here very often for the Colonel during his two-year stay at the nursing home.

Grant followed him into the hallway. “We’ll give you some privacy if you want to say good-bye.”

“No point now, is there?”

“Mac, don’t beat yourself up,” Grant said. “He’s been unconscious for days. He didn’t know who was here and who wasn’t.”

“But I do.”

“Just go in and see him. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”

Mac knew his brother was right. He nodded.

Grant herded him into the room and cleared everyone else out.

Hannah gave him a quick hug on her way to the door. Her blond cap of hair was longer and softer-looking than he remembered. A stray lock fell across her eye, and she shook it off her forehead. “We’ll be in the hall if you need us.” Before she left the room, Brody had an arm around her shoulders. Ellie held Grant’s hand.

And Mac stood alone.

He gathered his courage and approached the bed. His father didn’t even look like the Colonel he remembered. His face was gaunt and gray, his body withered. Mac had no memories of his father before he’d been paralyzed, but mental images from his childhood still evoked strength. At his core, the Colonel was a warrior. When his legs had failed him, he’d specially rigged an ATV into a four-wheeled warhorse to charge through the woods with his kids. Nothing could stop the Colonel from battling his way through, over, or around the obstacles in his path. But Fate had battered him with relentless determination. The bitch hadn’t been satisfied until she’d shattered not just his body but his soul.

Mac reached out to touch his father’s hand. The physical contact felt alien. Nerve damage had left the Colonel in constant pain, a cruel irony considering his paralyzed state. Even if he’d been a demonstrative person, which he hadn’t, physical displays of affection had been impossible.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Mac whispered, his eyes traveling over his father’s sunken face and body. The Colonel would have hated people seeing him like this. Mac had no doubt that the Colonel would have preferred the roadside bomb had blown him to the grave in Operation Desert Storm rather than left him in bits and pieces. But it hadn’t been in his nature to quit, no matter how much misery he’d had to endure.

“I never quite measured up, did I? Maybe someday . . .” Mac’s next breath sliced his lungs like shards of glass. Ripping them to shreds from the inside out.