Pancreatic cancer.

Those two words filled Abby’s world with an ache so deep, she couldn’t form a coherent thought.

The EMTs allowed her in the ambulance for the ninety-minute ride to Billings. The driver’s name was Fred Cavanaugh, and the one who sat in the back with her and her uncle was Tom Jenkins. Tom worked with a quiet efficiency, placing an IV into her uncle’s hand and taping it securely in place. He hung fluids, took vitals, and scratched on a flowsheet.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a prolonged silence. “You didn’t know?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t tell me.”

Tom flicked his sandy blond bangs back from his freckled face and blew out a deep breath. “Well, it’s not common knowledge. I don’t think anyone really knows.”

“You knew,” she said.

“Well, he had to tell us.”

“How long?” How long had her uncle been dying? That was the question she wanted to ask. “When was he diagnosed?”

Tom crinkled his nose, his brows pinching together. “A month or two at most. Maybe he was waiting to tell you in person?”

“Maybe.”

Would it have changed things? If she’d known, would she have agreed to take over his practice one year out of residency? She’d planned on years, learning by his side. She wasn’t ready to practice alone.

The only reason she’d agreed was because she had needed an excuse to leave Redlands. It had been too easy to slip into an unhealthy relationship, and even harder to leave it behind. Her Uncle had given her the perfect out because she sure as hell hadn’t been able to walk away on her own.

She’d wasted a year trying to establish herself as a new graduate, failing more often than not alongside a man who felt with his fists more than his heart.

Her Uncle’s call had saved her life, and the idea of working beside him filled her with pride. Never in a million years had she envisioned she’d be a small-town doc, but he loved his job, and she’d been excited to return to the town which had filled her summers with love and cherished childhood memories.

Now?

Pancreatic cancer?

All cancers were bad, but none swept into a person’s life with the same speed and devastation as pancreatic cancer. There was palliative treatment, but no cure, and once diagnosed, the relentless course of the disease could rarely be slowed. Some people lived a few years, but most died within months. If she understood what Tom had said, her uncle had found out a couple of months ago.

They didn’t have enough time.

The ambulance raced down the small highway and soon pulled up outside St. Vincent’s emergency department in Billings.

“Thank you.” She said her goodbyes to Tom and Fred.

“Our pleasure,” Tom said. “Listen, if you need anything, give us a call.” He handed her a business card. “I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. Doc Bateman has said nothing but good things about you. I look forward to working with you.”

Fred shook her hand. “Seriously, anything you need, you call us.”

Abby gave a nod, the lump in her throat was the only thing holding back a flood of tears. These were men she would soon be working with, and she didn’t want them to see her break down. Perhaps they understood because they didn’t pressure her for more conversation. They jumped inside the ambulance and waved goodbye.

The staff of St. Vincent’s placed her uncle on the cancer ward for observation overnight. The doctors told her he was dehydrated and attributed his fall and subsequent disorientation to that, but they were thorough and examined him for any injury to his head from the fall. They fully expected a short stay, and had hopes he might be released in the morning.

Visiting hours ended and she made reservations at a local motel. As she snuggled under the scratchy covers, her thoughts turned to the soft flannel of Bert’s twin bed and to the magnanimous stranger who’d saved her life and kissed her senseless.

* * *

When she arrived at the hospital the next morning, Uncle Pete sat in bed, picking at the food on his breakfast tray.

“Uncle Pete!” Abby raced through the door and gave him a hug.

He reached up, returning a much weaker hug. “Abigail! Honey, it’s so good to see you.”

Leaning back, she looked him over, unsure what to say. Her eyes brimmed with tears and her heart ached. “I was so scared.”

He bit at his lower lip. “They told me what happened.” His shaky fingers brushed back a lock of hair and his eyes pinched. “I’m sorry, hun. I’d wanted to tell you myself. I didn’t expect…”

“Tom told me.”

Uncle Pete nodded. “He’s a smart kid and dedicated.” He pulled in a deep breath and blew it out in a rush.

“How advanced is it?”

He pursed his lips. “Advanced enough.”

“Tom mentioned hospice?”

“We’re not quite there yet, but I expect it’ll be soon.”

She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I just thought we’d have time.”

“I’m okay,” he said. “I’ve found my peace, and Martha’s been waiting long enough for me to join her.”

He missed his wife. Abby couldn’t fault him for that. Nearly eight years after her parents’ deaths, the pain of their loss hit hard most days. He’d lost his wife, his soulmate, and maybe living without her hurt more than dying. At least he didn’t look scared confronting his death. Perhaps he truly was at peace with it, and if he was, then she would be too. Even if it made her heart break.

“How was your drive?” he asked. “I thought you were supposed to get in last night?”

“I was.”

“I worried about you on the roads, and figured you’d stopped for the night.”

She laughed. “Oh, Uncle Pete, do I have a story to tell you.”

He scooted over, and she snuggled beside him. Telling him about her late-night adventures didn’t sound as scary in the comfort of his arms. He gasped when she told him about the moose and driving into the ditch. He barely believed her about the wolves or the overland hike. She didn’t get to tell him much about Drake because his team of doctors came in for rounds.

“Good news,” Doctor Blount said. “We’re cutting you loose.”

“Oh, good,” her uncle said. “I’m ready to go.”

“We just have a bit of paperwork to take care of, and then you’re cleared to go home.”

When the team left, Abby kissed her uncle on the cheek. “Hey, I need to figure out how we’re getting home.” Her Jeep was still sitting outside his house.

Briefly, she considered calling Tom, but he was probably working. Drake or Bert would’ve been good choices, except she didn’t have either of their numbers. She thumbed on her phone and searched local car rentals. Hopefully, this wouldn’t hold up getting home.

After a bit of internet searching, she rented a car from a local rental agency. They made it easy and picked her up at the hospital. By the time she'd completed the required paperwork, her uncle had been discharged. She met him in his room and then walked with him down to the hospital lobby. The whole way, she paid close attention to his balance, his stamina, everything really.

During the hour drive back, they talked about his wishes, both for end-of-life care and his funeral. The sobering discussion wasn't easy, but he had thought about all the details. All she would have to do was take care of a few loose ends.

"There's something else," he said.

"What's that?"

"It has to do with your inheritance."

"Oh, I don't need anything."

"I appreciate that, but this comes from your Aunt Martha’s side of the family, and in many ways from your mother as well."

"Really?"

An odd turn in the conversation, but she listened. She'd received a healthy inheritance from her parents. She’d invested most of the money in stocks, but the rest had paid for medical school. Abby wasn't rich, but she had comfortable reserves stashed away. It had never occurred to her to presume an inheritance from her aunt and uncle. It was one of those delicate topics not easily addressed.

"You're the last daughter in a long line of remarkable women."

She knew a little of her family's legacy. One of her ancestors had immigrated from Ireland during the potato blight, and after a few years moved out west. Abby had grown up with the stories about the women in her family making a home for themselves in the Wild West.

While he talked, she stole a glance at the odometer and tried to gauge where she'd had her accident. She estimated she'd been five miles or less from town when she’d run off the road. Drake said she'd walked away from town. It had felt well over an hour's worth of walking, which meant she'd covered a few miles. But as they closed in on Peace Springs, there was no evidence of skid marks. It was almost as if her accident had never happened.

Somewhere out there, a few miles from the road, Bert's llama farm spread across the land. Her mind drifted to the tall stranger and his passionate kiss. Was there a chance for more? Or, had that been merely the precursor to a one-night stand?

Her uncle coughed. "There's a trust which has passed from generation to generation. To avoid splitting the homestead, it has passed through the firstborn daughters. Since Martha and I never had children, she intended for you to inherit the trust. On your thirtieth birthday, you’ll gain control. And we need to talk about a few things.”

“What are you talking about? What homestead?”

He tugged on the shoulder strap of his seat belt and shifted to a more comfortable position. “You’ve been there. Martha and your mom took you there when you came to visit.”

She remembered trips out of town. Long drives and even longer days playing in the eddies of a slow-moving river, learning to skip stones, and fly fish. It had never occurred to her to ask about who owned the land.

“We had fun. I remember hot summer days, swimming and hiking. Mom would build a fire, and Aunt Martha brought stuff to make s’mores. We’d stay past dark and watch shooting stars.” Those were some of her fondest memories.

“That’s the place.”

“It would be fun to go back and explore.”

He coughed again. “There’s a lot to explore.”

“Do you think there’s enough place to build?” Her childhood memories included a longish ride in the back of the car, but she couldn’t remember how far from town the land might be.

“Abby,” he said, his voice turning serious. “I don’t think you understand.”

“Understand what?”

“It’s more than a place to plop a house on.”

“Well, a few acres will be harder to maintain, but I’m sure I can handle it.”

He laughed. “Honey, the parcel is over ten thousand acres. You’re a landowner now, and there are things you need to know about that land.”

“Excuse me?”