Rafferty Evans looked up from his computer screen to see his father standing in the doorway of the ranch-house study. At seventy-four, Eli Evans had finally agreed to retire. Which meant he had more time on his hands to stick his nose into his son's business. Sensing a talk coming on he'd rather avoid, Rafferty grumbled irritably, "Someone's got to do the books before the fall roundup starts."

Eli settled into a leather club chair. "The last two days of rain has you chomping at the bit."

Actually, Rafferty thought, he felt this way every November. Ignoring the flash of lightning outside, he went back to studying the numbers he'd been working on. "A lot to get done over the next six weeks."

Eli spoke over the deafening rumble of thunder. "Including the job of hiring a new bunkhouse cook."

"The hands chased away the last three with their incessant complaints. They can fend for themselves while I search for another."

"You know none of them can cook worth a darn."

"Then they should be more appreciative of anyone who has even a tiny bit of skill."

Eli thought about pursuing the matter, then evidently decided against it. "About Christmas…" he continued.

Rafferty stiffened. "I told you. I don't celebrate the holidays. Not anymore." Not since the accident.

Eli frowned with the quiet authority befitting a legendary Texas cattleman. "It's been two years."

Rafferty pushed back his chair and stood, hands shoved in the back pockets of his jeans. "I know how long it's been, Dad." He strode to the fireplace, picked up the poker and pushed the burning logs to the back of the grate. Sparks crackled from the embers.

"Life goes on," Eli continued.

"Ho