HANK TRAVIS SLUMPED in a chair near the fireplace. His old bones felt cold most of the time, but simply watching the licking flames seemed to warm him some. There had been a time when he would have been outside in his shirtsleeves in this kind of weather, but sadly those days were gone forever. A couple of decades ago when he was in his seventies…
His thoughts halted. It often pained him to realize that his years on earth were approaching the century mark, but then he would remind himself that being so old wasn’t too bad when he considered the alternative. He sure couldn’t complain. He’d lived a long life blessedly free of ailments, and it was his rock-solid belief that he had lived during the absolute best time in the history of civilization. The things he had seen, the changes that had come along!
He doubted his grandson or great-grandchildren could imagine the wonder a young man felt when he saw his first telephone or his first automobile. Hank could remember when the sound of an airplane brought people scurrying outdoors to stare up at the sky, awestruck. Would there ever again be another time like the twentieth century?
He squinted through his wire-rimmed glasses at his grandson, J.T. McKinney, and J.T.’s wife, Cynthia. They were seated on the sofa across the room, holding hands like a couple of lovebirds. Cynthia, now in the final month of her pregnancy, looked prettier than ever to Hank’s notion. She’d lost some of that cool, gaunt Boston blueblood air and looked…well, matronly and sweet.
His gaze shifted to J.T. Hank thought his grandson looked pretty hale and hearty, not at all like a man who had suffered a heart attack during the past year. The old man had often wondered if the attack had been prompted by cavorting with a pretty wife twenty years younger than he was. Course, when I was fifty-six, I was pretty frisky with the ladies, and it never hurt me none. What about that little gal in Ozona who’d had the hots for me when I was almost sixty?
The fire had warmed him and made him drowsy. A curious feeling of well-being came over him. Hank’s eyes drooped, and his chin fell forward on his chest. Within seconds, he had slid into sleep.
Across the room, Cynthia McKinney watched him with concern. It seemed to her that Hank was slipping badly, though no one ever talked about it. J.T. didn’t. Tyler, Cal and Lynn, J.T.’s adult children, didn’t. Neither did Virginia Parks, the housekeeper, nor Lettie Mae Reese, the cook. But Cynthia was certain they all had noticed the gauntness, the increased grumpiness that came across as a sort of bravado, and these frequent catnaps. She sighed inaudibly. She was beginning to relax about J.T.’s health. All outward signs pointed to a complete recovery, and Dr. Purdy had assured her over and over that such was the case. But Hank wasn’t going to recover; he would only get worse.
How strange that she had become rather fond of the old goat. A year ago she wouldn’t have thought it possible. Cynthia smiled secretively. Oh, what a time he had given her! Hank had hated his grandson’s choice for a wife. She was too young, too snooty, too Boston to suit him, and he hadn’t made any bones about it, either.
Now she liked to think his attitude toward her had changed, that maybe he even liked her, but she was certain she would never hear such an admission from the lips of Hank Travis.
Suddenly Hank’s eyes flew open. He shook his head as if trying to clear it, then looked around, seemingly disoriented. Beside Cynthia, J.T. straightened, his attention arrested.
“Something wrong, Grandpa?” he asked.
Hank frowned and said nothing for a few seconds. Then he asked, “When was the last time you talked to Carolyn?”
J.T. and Cynthia exchanged puzzled glances. Carolyn was J.T.’s late wife’s sister. She owned the Circle T, the ranch adjoining J.T.’s Double C, and she had remained a much-loved member of the family. “Oh, I don’t know,” J.T. said. “I usually talk to her a couple of times a week at least. Why?”
Hank scratched the stubble on his chin. “I must’a dozed off for a minute ’cause I had a dream. Somethin’s about to happen to her.”
Cynthia stiffened. Hank’s dreams or visions or whatever they could be called were legendary in the McKinney clan. When she had first come to the Double C, she had laughed at them, unable to believe anyone actually put any faith in such nonsense. But she no longer laughed because Hank had just been right too often. Now, Cynthia was willing to accept that Hank really did “see” things no one else did. “Is she in some kind of danger?” she asked fearfully.
“Nope. It’s more like somebody’s got a hand in her till, is stealin’ from her. You ought’a tell her to keep her eyes open.”
“But Lori takes care of Carolyn’s money, Grandpa,” J.T. said. “Lori would never let anything happen to a dime of it.”
“I’m jus’ tellin’ you what I saw, goddammit!” Hank barked. “Somebody’s stealin’ from her, and I think you ought’a tell her.”
Cynthia pondered that and glanced at her watch. It was after nine o’clock on Sunday night, and Carolyn was an early-to-bed type. Was it too late to call?
No, she decided, not for something this important. Maybe she was being foolish, but if Hank felt it was important, it probably was. She struggled to her feet. “I think I’m going to do just that right now.”
J.T. put a restraining hand on her arm. “Sit down, hon. I’ll call her in the morning. You should stay off your feet.”
“Dr. Purdy says I can do anything I feel like doing, and right now I feel like calling Carolyn,” Cynthia said as she headed for the telephone in J.T.’s office.