DAKOTA JONES PULLED right up to the barn that was now a house, and parked beside his brother’s truck. He left his duffel in the Jeep SUV and went to the door. He stood in indecision for a moment—they had a six-month-old baby. He knocked rather than ring the bell, just in case the child was sleeping. A few moments later, he knocked again. And a third time. Finally the door opened.

“Dakota!” Cal said with a grin. “What are you doing here?”

“I came by way of Australia. It’s a long story—”

“I can’t wait to hear what that’s about,” Cal said. “Want to come in or stand out there awhile longer?”

“I don’t want to wake the baby,” Dakota said.

“The baby is in Denver with Maggie. They’ll be back tonight.”

“That sounds like an interesting arrangement,” Dakota said.

“Like a tug-of-war, my friend. Something to drink?” Cal offered. “Food?”

“A cold beer would be nice.” He looked around. The place was beautiful, but that came as no surprise. Cal’s house with his first wife had been a showplace. Given the way the Jones siblings had grown up, something like a good, solid house that a person was proud to come home to would fill a need that had been neglected when they were kids. Cal put a beer in Dakota’s hand. “The place looks great,” Dakota said.

But Cal didn’t respond to that. Instead, he said, “What were you doing in Australia?”

“I’d never been there,” he said. “I wanted to walkabout. That’s when—”

Cal cut him off with a laugh. “I know what a walkabout is.” He tilted his beer toward Dakota in a toast. “I’ve never seen you with that much hair. On your face and everything.”

Dakota stroked his beard. “I could probably use a trim.”

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