And much the same as an oak tree, his roots ran deep. Tall and lean like his son Wyatt, he possessed a gruff kind of charm that had served him well both on the family ranch and in the courtroom. Despite his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease, Ram remained the family patriarch, a position neither of his sons was eager to assume.

It was early evening in Florida, and the sun was setting behind the distant horizon of the Flying B Ranch. Ram’s two golden retrievers, Butch and Sundance, lounged lazily near his feet. By now most of the hired hands had gone home, leaving only Ram and two others behind. Ram smiled at that thought, for “Aunt Lou” and “Big John” Beauregard meant far more to him than the other hired hands. The Cajun couple were in their late sixties, and for more than forty years they had lived and worked on the ranch like part of the family.

Aunt Lou had virtually raised Wyatt and Morgan after the untimely death of their mother from cancer. Her husband, Big John, served as the Flying B foreman. Under Ram’s and Big John’s care, over the prior four decades the Flying B had been transformed from a sprawling citrus concern into one of the finest American quarter horse ranches in the country. Ram had put Aunt Lou and Big John’s son Peter through college and law school, and Peter had become a respected partner at Blaine & Blaine, LLC.

Today was Ram’s favorite day of the week, in no small part because Aunt Lou always cooked her wonderful fried chicken. Sunday dinner was a tradition at the Flying B, and as Ram waited for Wyatt to come home and for Morgan and his family to arrive from Boca, he could smell Aunt Lou’s marvelous handiwork wafting from the kitchen. Sunday dinner was always at seven o’clock sharp, and any family member not attending needed a damned good excuse.

Rocking back and forth in a white chair on the shaded porch of the magnificent house, Ram lit a cigarette. He then looked across the huge front lawn and toward the old family graveyard that lay near the main barn. The little cemetery’s manicured grounds and mildewed headstones were surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence that was nearly as old as the cemetery itself. Many generations of Blaines had been laid to rest there. Among them was Ram’s late wife, Phoebe, mother to Wyatt and Morgan. Alongside her lay Krista and Danny.

Ram was grateful that he could pay his respects this way, for it was far more appealing than visiting some crowded public cemetery. Moreover, personally keeping the grave sites well tended helped to soften his grief. Late in the day, he would sometimes sit on the porch and whisper softly to Phoebe, telling her the latest family news while the crickets chirped and he nursed his nightly bourbon.

Although he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years before, Ram’s lucid days still outnumbered their darker counterparts. His medication helped, but he hated the idea of having to rely on it. Oddly enough, the forgetting came easily. The difficult part came when he learned that he had lost a day, or part of one. If Ram could not recall the entire preceding day, he insisted on being told about it. Because Wyatt found it too painful, it was usually Aunt Lou who obliged him.

How strange, he thought, as he propped his boots on top of the porch rail and took another sip of the smoky bourbon. To be afflicted with a disease that is most painful only when it’s in remission.

As he stared out at the small graveyard, for the thousandth time he took care to recall his family history. Since learning of his shattering diagnosis, doing so had become important to him. He treasured each instance that he still could, for it meant that he was spending another moment in clarity rather than confusion.

Ram snorted out a laugh as he also remembered his father, Jacob Blaine. During the roaring twenties Jacob had been one of the south’s most notorious moonshiners, and no small share of the family’s enduring wealth had been derived from Jacob’s dubious occupation. Because his father was frequently arrested, Ram had taken an interest in the law and become an attorney. Fifty-some years ago, it was Ram who’d founded the Blaine law firm in the quickly growing burg of Boca Raton.

Since his earliest days, Ram loved anything that smacked of the Old West.