With Ryan’s help, Abbey had hauled herself into the back seat again, her leg stretched out before her. Her position hadn’t been achieved without cost. From the hip down, her leg was starting to ache as it had before the morphine, a dull, rhythmic throb.

‘Don’t you know?’ She shifted and winced.

‘I didn’t even know he had a heart problem.’ Ryan swore savagely. ‘So tell me!’

Ryan didn’t know? Abbey shook her head in concern. How much didn’t he know?

‘Well, Sam’s like Janet,’ Abbey said slowly, ‘only it’s more drastic. He desperately needs by-pass surgery but he won’t have it’

‘Why not?’

Abbey shrugged. ‘He says it’s because he doesn’t want to leave the farm. Myself, I think it’s more than that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean he’s a lonely old man with no family,’ Abbey said gently. ‘He’s fond of Janet and Jack and me, but we’re all he has and we’re not enough. I don’t think he wants to live to a ripe old age.’

‘But that’s…’ Ryan shook his head. ‘That’s…’

‘Nonsense?’ Abbey shrugged. ‘Well, I guess you’d know better than I do. You’re his son, after all. But, then, you’re his son and you didn’t even know he had a heart condition.’

‘I write.’ Ryan said explosively. ‘I write every week.’

Abbey screwed up her nose. She knew about those letters. ‘Yes, you do,’ she said gently. ‘I’m sure your concern does you credit.’

‘Abbey…’

‘Why has he had a heart attack now?’ Abbey asked, staring into the middle distance over Ryan’s shoulder. ‘Has he been stressed?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘There you are, then.’

‘Damn it, Abbey… ’

Abbey ignored his mounting anger. Someone had to lay the truth before Ryan Henry. A letter once a week… Sam had shown her a few. Proudly. And Abbey had felt sick inside when she’d seen them.

They were formal, punctilious letters, describing Ryan’s career, the weather, the news wherever Ryan happened to be in the world. Always a polite enquiry after his father’s health at the end.