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 family.”

“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, in the Army fighting insurgents.

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.”

“McDaniel? He caught some shrapnel in the chest,” he replied, indicating a form under a blanket. “Poor guy.”

Cort’s lips made a thin line. “Where’s his rifle?”

The soldier found it and handed it to Cort.

“That’s going to be a hard shot,” the man told him solemnly. “He’s got the high ground and he’s got plenty of cover.” He indicated the position, where movement could just barely be seen among some trees in the dim light of dusk.

Cort loaded the high-powered rifle. “No problem.”

He stole around the side of their position, going very slowly, making no sound. He was a hunter. Every fall, he brought home at least two deer for the dinner table. He loved venison stew. Nobody made it like Chiquita, nicknamed Chaca, who’d cooked for the men since Cort had been a little boy.

When he found a place that gave him a good view of the mortar and its operator, he hunkered down and rested the stock of the rifle on the broken wall that ran around the perimeter of the bombed-out blockhouse where he and the other soldiers had set up camp.