“Quiet,” Cort said, but with a smile. “She’s gentle and supportive and a wonderful mother to their son. She almost died having him,” he added softly. “She had a bad heart valve and didn’t tell anybody, least of all Garon. He went almost crazy when he found out. They married because she was pregnant, but Cash said he had to get Garon drunk enough to pass out while Grace was in surgery, and then in ICU. They didn’t know if she’d come out of the operation at all. The pregnancy was a big complication, and Garon had just saved her from a serial killer who had a knife at her throat.” He shook his head. “Garon said he paid for sins he hadn’t even committed during those hours at the hospital.”

Bart grimaced. “Poor guy.”

“Our dad’s still a rounder,” Cort told him. “Well, he was. He was in Pensacola a few months ago, chasing a widow who liked motorcycles, when a former newspaper reporter tripped over him and knocked him down. Apparently he was instantly over his head. He married her two weeks later and they moved to Vermont, to be near her sisters.”

“Well!”

“Parker says he’s not getting married for years and years. He’s got two girlfriends. He’s hoping they’ll never meet,” he added on a chuckle.

“What about you?” Bart probed.

Cort drew in a long breath and finished his coffee. “I don’t know,” he said after a minute. “I’ve had my pick of beautiful, rich women. They all had one thing in common.”

“They couldn’t bear the thought of life on an isolated, smelly cattle ranch, no matter how rich its owner was,” Bart guessed, and sighed. “That’s been my luck, too. Not that I’m that rich; I’m just comfortable. But women who come out here don’t ever come back.” He frowned. “Well, that’s not quite true. One did. But she’s like the sister I lost when I was a boy,” he added with a sad smile. “There’s no spark, no romance. She’s just nice, and I like her.”

“Maybe that’s what I need,” Cort said sardonically. “Someone to be my friend and listen to my complaints when estimated taxes come due.”

“Miracles happen every single day.”

“So they say.”

Cort dreamed that night. He was dodging rockets, covered with dust, flat on his belly in it behind a wall, his heartbeat shaking him as he waited to see if he was going to die or not. He was back in Iraq, thirteen years ago, fighting insurgents in the Army.

Beside him, a younger soldier was praying. Nearby, another was cursing as every shell hit.

“I hate rockets!” the cursing soldier burst out.

“Not too fond of them myself,” Cort replied. “Where’s our sniper? We need to take out that position.”