“Does your father know?” he asked.

Wyatt smiled sadly. “I’ve told him,” he answered. “But these days, we can’t be sure of anything that he really knows. Sometimes his clarity’s as fickle as the wind.”

“Why did you quit?” Jacobson asked. “This is a big surprise.”

Wyatt crossed one long leg over the other and leaned his head back against the wall. “You know that I was never happy practicing law,” he answered. “Besides, Morgan and the other partners will still be there, working their tails off. Blaine and Blaine won’t vanish just because I’m gone. And as a partner, I’ll still be paid my weekly salary. It’s what Krista would have wanted.”

Jacobson understood, and he nodded his approval. He had known the Blaine family for many years. They had long been among St. Andrew’s strongest financial and spiritual supporters.

Of the two Blaine brothers, Wyatt was clearly the handsomest, and by all accounts the most enigmatic. Named by their rather eccentric father after the fabled Earp bothers, Wyatt and Morgan had grown up on the Flying B, the Blaine family horse ranch. Because Wyatt was as comfortable in ranch clothes as he was in a tailored suit, Jacobson had often wondered which lifestyle Wyatt preferred. If the reverend were a betting man, he would put his money on the former. But just now, Jacobson thought Wyatt looked every bit the polished Boca lawyer and highly eligible widower that most people took him for.

Standing just over six feet tall, Wyatt was lean and agile. His impeccable dark blue suit matched his penetrating eyes. The Rolex surrounding his left wrist was solid gold, as was the wedding ring that he had steadfastly refused to remove since Krista’s sudden death. When he’d turned forty years of age last summer, Wyatt had joked about the subtle gray appearing at his dark temples.

But as the reverend looked closer, Wyatt did not look like someone who spent most of his time indoors. His skin was tan and crow’s-feet etched the corners of his eyes, courtesy of his many days beneath the harsh Florida sun. His strong hands looked like they belonged to some manual laborer rather than to an accomplished counselor-at-law.

“I wish you well in this project,” Jacobson said. “If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”

When Wyatt stood, the reverend followed suit. Wyatt took Jacobson’s hand into his and shook it firmly.

“Thanks, James,” Wyatt said. “Please just start spreading the word.” For the first time today, Wyatt’s piratical smile surfaced. “That’s what you were put on this earth for, right? To spread the word?”

Jacobson smiled back. “That’s the rumor,” he answered.

“Good-bye, then,” Wyatt said.

“Good-bye, my son,” Jacobson said. “And thank you.”

While Wyatt walked away, Jacobson sat back down on the stone bench to fully absorb his friend’s unexpected news. This is truly a gift, he thought. His mind automatically assembled a list of parents who might wish to enroll their teenagers in Wyatt’s revived program.

Then he suddenly thought of Gabby and Trevor, and he caught his breath.

THREE

ALTHOUGH HE WAS seventy-seven, Ramsey Blaine, or “Ram,” as he was known to his friends and family, was still a resolute man, as strong as an old oak tree and nearly as gnarled.