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struck him that he could’ve called Lucy to give her a heads-up and get one himself. The woman wasn’t just a housekeeper, she was a saint.
    He knew she was still tending to Wallace three days a week, even though she was getting on in years. She’d been hired a month before Matt was born, had witnessed more than a few of Wallace’s tirades and had been a champ through his mother’s illness.
    Yep, he probably should’ve called Lucy. Hell.
    Too late now.
    They were officially on Gunderson land, the place he’d sworn he’d never come back to.

3
    W ALLACE WAS DRUNK . Passed out on the old rawhide couch in his office, his jaw slack, his graying hair poking out every which way. Half a bottle of Jim Beam sat on the wood floor an inch from where his arm dangled off to the side.
    Staring at him in disgust, Matt was glad he’d left Nikki in the truck. She didn’t need to see this; no one did. Matt breathed in deep, wondering how many times his mother had to walk in to find her worthless husband sprawled out, spittle dried at the corners of his mouth. Wallace hadn’t been this bad the first time Matt had put Blackfoot Falls in his rearview mirror.
    Even so, a couple times he’d walked in when his mother had just shaken out a blanket over the old man. She’d tucked it around him and kissed his forehead, then went to bed by herself. It killed Matt that she was so patient and tolerant. He hadn’t understood then, and never would get why she’d stayed in the marriage. He’d begged her to leave Wallace. But she’d always just smiled, said she loved him and maybe someday he’d change.
    Then Matt found out about Wallace’s affair with Rosa Flores. From his own mother. She’d known for over fifteen years, even that a child was involved. And still she’d stayed. Now she was gone, and Matt missed her, missed their secret phone calls. He missed the garbled texts she’d sent him from the smartphone he’d bought her so they could communicate without Wallace knowing.
    He smiled, thinking about how she’d never gotten the hang of texting or sending emails. She’d sure liked getting his, though, and quickly figured out how to read them.
    There were still days when Matt struggled against his anger. At her. Sometimes at himself. Always at Wallace. No one could convince Matt the stress of living with the bastard hadn’t shortened her life.
    She’d claimed she loved Wallace. Love. What the hell did that word mean? It was supposed to be something good. Something that made you happy, stronger, passionate...even country songs touted its virtue. But obviously love could also make you stupid.
    Matt ran his gaze over his father’s frail form. He seemed shorter, narrower, definitely not the same big man who’d doggedly bullied Matt over schoolwork, how he rode a horse or mucked the stables. Sometimes Wallace had scared the crap out of him.
    Funny, he thought, watching the drool slip from a corner of Wallace’s open mouth, he’d been worried his hatred of the man would seep out like venom in front of Nikki. But Matt actually felt pity seeing him lie there, his life nothing but a wasteland. The letter Matt had received from his mother’s friend about Wallace being sick hadn’t mentioned the diagnosis. Matt assumed it was either cancer or cirrhosis, but he didn’t know.
    Hell, maybe the booze helped dull the pain.
    Cursing at himself, Matt scooped the fallen magazines off the floor and tossed them onto the oak coffee table. What the hell was he doing making excuses for the old drunk? That logic didn’t wash anyway. He’d been a drinker since Matt was a small kid.
    He glanced around at the used glasses and opened mail that littered the desk and table. Obviously it was Lucy’s day off or the place would’ve been tidier. He was kind of glad since he would’ve hurt her feelings by not calling ahead. No sense in him cleaning up. He wouldn’t bring Nikki in here, not with Wallace passed out like this. Matt wanted the man sober,