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banker” since long before a worried banking industry had invented the term. When she had been promoted and moved from the downtown branch to Warren, Harold’s accounts and business had followed her, even though, from a geographical standpoint, the bank in Old Bisbee was seven miles closer to the Rocking P which should have made it more convenient. But the uptown branch didn’t have Sandy.
    Sandy’s heart went out to Harold as soon as she saw him. Despite his advancing years, he had always stood ramrod straight. Now, though, his shoulders drooped, as if the weight he carried onthem was more than even his tough old spine could bear. And his step, while certainly not faltering, seemed somewhat slower, more hesitant.
    Sandy rose to greet him. “Good morning, Mr. Patterson. How are you today?”
    â€œFair to middling,” he answered. “Can’t complain.”
    Although he could have complained, Sandy thought, and probably should have.
    She and Holly Patterson would have graduated from high school the same year—if Holly had stayed around long enough to bother, that is. During their junior year, Holly had eloped with some high-flying, fast-talking real-estate developer from California. The marriage hadn’t lasted more than three months, but when it was over, Holly Patterson didn’t come home to what she had often called “backward Bisbee.” Sandy Henning had always considered Holly’s abrupt departure a case of good riddance. A week after Holly’s much-publicized return, a single glance at Harold Patterson’s haggard face did nothing to change the banker’s mind.
    â€œWhat can I do for you today, Mr. Patterson?” she asked.
    He fumbled in his pocket for a key ring and removed a small key. “I’d like to take a look at my box,” he said. “There are some items in there that I need to go over.”
    Settling himself at a partially screened table, he removed his glasses and rubbed his bleary eyes while he waited for Sandy to bring his safety deposit box from the vault.
    Holly’s demands were so outrageous that they should have been laughable. She wanted a full public confession of Harold Patterson’s alleged misdeeds. In addition, she demanded as damages title to half the Rocking P. That was what bothered him most, rumors that with this so-called therapist as a partner, Holly expected to build a recovery center, a place for people who realized late in life that they too had been abused by members of their own families.
    Those were the terms of settlement. If the case went to trial, her lawyer had told Burton that he intended to go for blood—for everything they could get, for title to the whole shooting match if they could get it.
    That wouldn’t happen because the case wasn’t going to trial. Because Harold Patterson himself was going to see to it.
    It was easy for Ivy and Burton Kimball to tell him what to do. They weren’t caught between a rock and a hard place, and they didn’t know the whole story. In addition, they didn’t have Harold’s two prime pieces of motivation, either. For one, he wanted to live long enough to see his daughters together and reconciled for once in their lives.
    And the other? With one major exception, he had lived his whole life as an honest, upright, law-abiding man. Before Norm Higgins planted him down in Evergreen Cemetery, Harold Patterson wanted his reputation back.
    He had weighed all the risks. If he fought Holly in court and lost, he risked losing everything. If he settled, he handed over half the ranch to Holly—tothe prodigal daughter who had turned her back on all of them for thirty-some-odd years—while dispossessing Ivy, the nonprodigal daughter, who had stayed home to help him with the ranch, who had cared for her invalid mother through years of steady decline that led inevitably into helpless insanity, who had always put other people’s needs and