by Holly Bush
Matt dragged a second chair to the small table, thinking the food smells were appetizing now, more than the aroma of coffee or the stench of the booze on his clothes. He ate in small bites and chewed slowly, not trusting his stomach to manage a large or quick meal. The food and coffee cleared his head, leaving him to wonder what the ranch manager was doing here. He looked up from his plate now, searching the face of the man staring at him with an unrelenting gaze. A shiver trailed down his arms, a ghost or a memory, flitting over him and leaving him with the sure knowledge that there was bad news coming.
Matt wiped his mouth with his napkin and laid it on the table. “What is it? What has happened?”
“Your father’s dead. Almost a month now.”
