Andrew Newhall barked. A rude snort and a rustling sound of paper being scrunched in a ball followed his rhetorical question. In the six hours that Harley had spent in his father’s company, bits and pieces of memory had begun to filter through the screen of his amnesia. He’d caught a glimpse of an iron-willed workaholic who’d never seemed to have time for his son, but there was also an image of the same man—an older version this time—playing hide-and-seek with his young daughters. “The Ledger’s the only game in town,” Harley said. Newspapers seemed like a neutral topic. Safer than any other subject. “The editor is an opinionated ass,” his father complained. “Who the hell is this Glory woman and why does anyone care what she thinks?” Harley turned from his sentry position at the window. His father had insisted on getting a room at the motel after they’d driven to the Rocking M to pick up Harley’s things. It hadn’t seemed to matter what Harley’s wishes were.
