Dutch's recovery stretched into a slow, ordinary Ashford Hollow winter — physical therapy three days a week, a diet Marlene enforced with the ruthless efficiency of a woman who'd apparently appointed herself his personal nutritionist, and a gradual, grudging acceptance from Dutch that he'd need to lean on Cruz for club leadership considerably more than his pride preferred.
"I want to talk to you about something," Dutch said one January afternoon, settling carefully into a chair in the barn's main room, still moving with the careful deliberation of a man whose body hadn't fully forgiven him for the surgery. "About succession."
Cruz went still across the table. "Dutch, you're recovering. We don't need to—"
"We do need to, actually." Dutch's expression carried the particular firmness of a
