“They don’t make women like her anymore.”

He was wrong. They do. Whitney Gable is a woman just like that, and I will cherish her every day that we have together. My grandfather may not be a saint, but I could do worse than to follow his example in many ways.

One of the doctors sputters a response to Commodore’s question. “Well, no. Sir, you know that we tried everything we could to make that happen, but—”

Commodore waves him off. “Then there’s no reason I need to have surgery if it’s not going to work any miracles.”

“We would still suggest, in the interest of ruling out any possible complications from the gunshot wound—”

“No. You said the bullet went through. My knee is already busted. No point in wasting time or resources if it’s not gonna fix the damn thing.”

I cross the room to stand at my grandfather’s bedside. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ll discuss this. I’m sure you have plenty of other patients to see, as long as my grandfather is stable for now.”

The three doctors look at me, and I read relief on all their faces. One speaks up, taking the role of team leader.

“Yes, sir. But surgery would still be his best option to rule out any possible complications. Gunshot wounds in that area can be very difficult. Although, he’s right . . . surgery isn’t going to enhance his mobility at all.”

“Thank you for the information. We’ll discuss it and get back to you shortly.”

They nod and leave the room. As soon as the door closes behind them, I sit in the chair next to my grandfather’s bedside.

“What the fuck happened?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Magnus says from the corner.

Commodore’s gaze, a little glassy from the painkillers he’s no doubt been given, meets mine. “I always knew that entitled little prick would finally snap. Now the whole goddamn town’s at risk because he threw a temper tantrum. I gotta buy Magnus a bottle of his favorite Scotch to thank him for stopping the little asshole from shooting me.”

“Damn right, you do. I’ll take some Glenlivet. The fifty-year-old single malt.”

Commodore grunts out a laugh. “You’ll get your Scotch, old man. As soon as I’m not doped up on whatever the hell they gave me. Now, give us some goddamn privacy so I can talk to my grandson.”

Magnus harrumphs from the corner. “I’m gonna find out all of it anyway, but I’ll go find you some tar they pass off as coffee in this place.”

“Black. None of that Equal shit you like to put in yours.”

“Like I don’t know how you take your coffee, Riscoff. You want anything, kid?” Magnus asks me.

I shake my head, not only to say no, because it’s clear these two have been friends for longer than I could have guessed. “Thank you, Magnus.”

As the most senior Gable walks out of the treatment room, I look at my grandfather. There are a hundred questions I want to ask him right now, but I start with the one that’s confusing me the most.