“Gramps has a pacemaker?” Molly cried. “When did this happen?” She raised her hand to the cameo hanging from a gold chain around her neck and clenched it hard. It was the most precious piece of jewelry she owned. Gramps had given it to her the day they buried her grandmother nine years before.
“More than six months ago. First I’d heard of it, too.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?” Molly asked, although she realized Sam Dakota couldn’t possibly know. She wished—not for the first time—that San Francisco was closer to Montana. Right now, Sweetgrass seemed a million miles away.
“I can’t answer that. I thought you should know Walt’s probably not going to live much longer. If you want to see him, I suggest you plan a visit out here soon.”
“What exactly is wrong with his heart?” It might have sounded as if she was avoiding the real issue, but she needed to understand Gramps’s condition before she could even begin to think about anything else. Like her finances. And how she could possibly afford a trip to Montana now.
“Do you know anything about pacemakers?”
“A little.” Just enough to understand that they emit an electronic beep, which assists the heart in beating at a steady pace.
“Well, as I said earlier, the walls of your grandfather’s heart are brittle and it’s difficult to get the pacemaker to function properly. Doc Shaver worked on him a couple of hours, but he couldn’t make any guarantees. Said there’s nothing more he can do. It’s only a matter of time before his heart gives out completely.”
Molly clamped her teeth over her lower lip while she tried to take in what this man was telling her. “I … I appreciate the call. Thank you.” With each word, she felt herself more overwhelmed by emotion. Not Gramps, please dear God, not Gramps. Not yet.
“Sorry to call with such bad news.”
“How … how is he now?” She glanced toward the living room and discovered Tom and Clay standing in the doorway, studying her intently. A smile would have reassured them, but even that was beyond her.
“Better. Will you be coming, then?” the foreman asked.
“I’m not sure.” Molly didn’t see how she could manage it. With the child-support payments cut off and the financial adjustments they’d already been forced to make in the past year, she couldn’t imagine squeezing one more expense into her already stretched budget. Even a short trip would require at least a week away from her job—a contract position without paid holidays. Plus, she’d have the cost of airfare or, more likely, gas and lodging for the drive. She’d have to take the boys; Gramps would want to see them, and they deserved to see him.
“When will you know whether you’re coming?”
It might have been her imagination, but she detected a note of censure. This man knew nothing about her—knew nothing about her circumstances or her life. How dared he stand as judge and jury over her decisions?
“If I knew that, I’d have said something sooner!” Leaning the back of her head against the kitchen wall, Molly tried to think clearly, desperate to find a way, a solution—anything that would lighten the burden of her fears. Never one to weep openly, particularly with strangers, she fought the growing constriction in her throat.
“Then I won’t keep you any longer,” Sam said gruffly.
Molly wanted to shout that he should wait, that she had other questions, but he’d already answered the important ones. What she wanted even more was to hear this stranger tell her Gramps was on the mend.
But he wasn’t going to say that.
“Thank you for phoning,” she said, feeling guilty about the sharp retort she’d made a moment ago. No one enjoyed delivering bad news, and it was kind of Sam Dakota to make sure she learned of her grandfather’s condition. “I’ll let you know if we’re coming for a visit,” she felt obliged to add.
“Fine. Your grandfather should be home in a day or two. I’d consider it a favor if you didn’t mention I called.”
“I won’t. And thank you.” Standing up, she replaced the telephone receiver and looked at her sons. Both had their father’s deep-set dark brown eyes—and both had been born with the ability to look straight through her. At fourteen Tom was growing by leaps and bounds, a gangly youth with feet too big for his body. He hadn’t grown into his height, and had become painfully self-conscious. This was an awkward stage filled with frustrations and raging hormones. They’d once been close, but that had all changed in the past few months. Tom barely talked to her now, no longer sharing confidences the way he used to. Often he was sullen and angry for no apparent reason. His attitude worried Molly; she sensed he was keeping something from her. She tried not to think about it, but every now and then the fear that he was experimenting with drugs or running with the wrong crowd would enter her mind and refuse to go away.
Clay, at eleven, was a younger version of his brother. Neither boy had inherited her auburn hair or clear blue eyes. Both resembled their father’s side of the family—dark-haired and dark-eyed. Not that Daniel’s family had revealed much interest in her sons. But then, neither had Daniel.
“That was about Dad, wasn’t it?” Tom asked, his eyes locked on hers. His shoulders stiffened as though he was bracing himself for her response. The situation with Daniel hadn’t been easy on any of them. They’d seen his name in the newspapers and on television night after night for weeks, that whole time the trial was taking place.
“The call wasn’t about your father,” Molly answered carefully. The kids had been through enough because of Daniel. He’d never been a good father, any more than he’d been a good husband; he had, in fact, left her for another woman. But she’d say one thing for him: until a year ago he’d faithfully paid child support. The payments had stopped when Daniel’s troubles had begun. His legal problems had eventually led to financial problems for her and the boys.
“What did Dad do this time?” Tom demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. It was a look Molly recognized, a look that said Tom, with his newly developed teenage cynicism, wasn’t about to believe any adult. Especially his mother …
“I told you this has nothing to do with your father!” It bothered Molly that her son would assume she’d lie to him. There was nothing she abhorred more than lying. Daniel had taught her and their children more than enough on that subject. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Then what’s wrong?” Clay moved into the kitchen and Molly held out her arms to her youngest son. Clay didn’t object to an occasional hug, but Tom had let it be known he was much too old for that sort of thing—and much too cool to display affection toward his mother. She respected his wishes, and at the same time longed for the times when they could share a simple hug.
“It’s Gramps,” she said. Her throat started to close and she couldn’t say more.
Clay wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and pressed his head to her shoulder. Molly sighed deeply.
“Is Gramps sick?” Tom asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. He paced restlessly, back and forth across the kitchen floor. It’d become a habit of his lately, a particularly irritating one. Oh, yes, Molly thought, sighing again. The last twelve months had been hard on all of them. Tom seemed to be having the toughest time coping with everything—the public humiliation of his father’s trial for fraud, the lack of any extra money and then the move from a spacious three-bedroom house to a cramped two-bedroom apartment. But this place was the best she could do, and his dissatisfaction underscored her own feelings of inadequacy.
“Gramps’s heart is giving him trouble,” Molly finally answered. She spoke in a low toneless voice.
“Are we going to go see him?”
Molly brushed the