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winding driveway in Snowflake Canyon with the thirty-year-old John Deere he had fixed up. While he went through the painstaking effort of chopping wood for the fireplace one-handed and carried it into the house—also one-handed. While he was sitting by said fire with a book on his lap and Tucker curled up at his feet.
    Monday morning his cell phone rang early, yanking him out of a vaguely disturbing but undeniably heated dream of her wearing a demure, lacy veil that rippled down to a naughty porn-star version of a wedding gown made out of see-through lace.
    His phone rang a second time while he was trying to clear that vaguely disturbing image out of his head.
    “Yeah?” he growled.
    “Cheerful this morning, aren’t we?” His father’s Ireland-sprinkled accent greeted him. “I suppose I might be a mite cranky, too, if I had spent my weekend on the wrong side of the law.”
    Dermot made it sound as if his youngest son had been riding the range holding up trains and robbing banks. Dylan imagined his father viewed the transgressions the same.
    “Not the whole weekend,” he answered, sitting up in bed and rubbing a little at the phantom pains in his arm. His now-narrowed world slowly came into focus. “Only Friday night. I spent the rest of the time shoveling snow. How about you?”
    “You didn’t come to dinner last night.”
    Dermot threw a grand Sunday dinner each week for any of Dylan’s six siblings who could make it and their families. The combined force of all those busybodies was more than he could usually stand.
    “I came to dinner on Thanksgiving, didn’t I? I figured that would be sufficient. Anyway, it took me a couple hours to clear the snow and by then I figured you’d be eating dessert.”
    “Nothing wrong with coming just for the dessert. It was a delicious one. Erin brought that candy-bar cake you like so much and we had leftover pie from Thanksgiving.”
    His stomach rumbled at the mention of the signature recipe Andrew’s wife made. “Sorry I missed that.” “She left a piece especially for you as she knows how you favor it. You can stop by the house when you’re in town next.”
That was an order, not really a suggestion, and Dylan made a face he was quite glad his pop couldn’t see. “I’m to give you an important message from your brother.”
“Which one? I have a fair few.”
“Andrew. He tried to call you earlier but couldn’t get through. He said the call went straight to your voice mail, and he left orders for me to try again.”
    Dylan hadn’t heard his phone but sometimes the celltower coverage up here could be sketchy. He checked his call log and saw he had three voice-mail messages, no doubt from Andrew.
    “What’s the message?”
    “You’re to meet him at the district attorney’s office at noon. Don’t be late and wear a tie if you can find one.”
    Now, that sounded ominous. He had always hated dressing up, something Pop and all five of his brothers knew. A lifelong healthy dislike had become infinitely more intense over the past year.
    “A tie.” Another of his many nemeses. He defied anybody to knot a damn Windsor one-handed.
    “Do you have one?” Dermot asked when he didn’t respond. “If you don’t, I can run one of mine up to you.” “I can find one. You don’t need to drive all the way up here.” He didn’t know whether to be touched or guilty that his father was willing to leave the Center of Hope Café during the breakfast rush to bring his helpless son a necktie.
“Did Andrew tell you why I’m supposed to meet him wearing a tie?”
“Nary a word. All I know is he was heading into court and ordered me to make sure I personally delivered the message. If you didn’t answer your phone this morning, I was under orders to drive up Snowflake Canyon to drag you down. You’ll be there, right?”
    “I’m not five years old, Pop. I’ll be there.”
    A guy might have thought multiple tours in Afghanistan would be enough to convince his family he