Patrick followed his gaze. The grave was situated in a tiny meadow at the top of what Michael had always called the hump back, a high bumpy cliff hanging out over the river. From here the ranch was visible, spreading out across the valley floor, and more important really, the mountains swooped down to the ridge, inviting a person to climb higher, deeper, into their waiting purple majesty. His father had always been drawn to the mountains. "He spent a good part of his life in these mountains, made and lost a fortune here. I thought it only right he be buried here." Patrick looked at the grave marker, his voice filled with sorrow and a trace of bitterness. "He was a good man, and he wouldn't want you to waste time grieving." Patrick shrugged. "It's hard, especially when Amos Striker seems to believe that my brother murdered my father for the plunder from some non-existent silver strike." "Now, Patrick, you have to admit that from Amos' point of view the facts fit. He's just doing his job." Owen's words were meant to be comforting, but Patrick didn't feel a bit better.
