he red glow from a space heater touched the creases and folds of Henry Shaw’s face, while the nicker of his beloved Appaloosas called to him on the warm spring breeze. He plugged an old eight-track cassette into its player, and the deep, whiskey-rough voice of Johnny Cash filled the small tack shed. Before Johnny had found religion, he’d been one kick-ass carouser. A man’s man, and Henry liked that. Then Johnny had found Jesus and June and his career had gone to hell in a hand basket. Life didn’t always go according to plan. God and women and disease had a way of interfering. Henry hated anything that interfered with his plans.

He hated not being in control.

He poured himself a bourbon and looked out the small window above his work bench. The setting sun hung just above Shaw Mountain, named after Henry’s ancestors who’d settled the rich valley below. Sharp gray shadows sliced across the valley toward Lake Mary, named for Henry’s great-great-grandmother, Mary Shaw.

More than Henry hated God and disease and not being in control, he hated friggin‘ doctors. They poked and prodded until they found something wrong, and none of them had ever said a damn thing he’d wanted to hear. Each time he’d tried to prove them wrong, but in the end he never had.

Henry splashed linseed oil on some old cotton rags and set them in a cardboard box. He’d always planned to have a passel of grandchildren by now, but he didn’t have a one. He was the last Shaw. The last in a long line of an old and respected family. The Shaws were nearly extinct, and it ate a hole in his gut. There was no one to carry his blood after he was gone... no one except Nick.

He sat down in an old office chair and raised the bourbon to his lips. He would be the first to admit he’d wronged that boy. For several years now, he’d tried to make it up to his son. But Nick was a stubborn, unforgiving man. Just as he’d been a defiant unlovable boy.

If Henry had more time, he was sure he and his son could have come to some sort of understanding. But he didn’t have time, and Nick didn’t make it easy. In fact, Nick made it damn hard to even like him.

He remembered the day Nick’s mother, Benita Allegrezza, had pounded on his front door, claiming Henry had fathered the black-haired baby in her arms. Henry had turned his attention from Benita’s dark gaze to the big blue eyes of his wife, Ruth, who had stood beside him.

He’d denied it like hell. Of course, there had been a real good chance that what Benita claimed was true, but he’d denied even the possibility. Even if Henry hadn’t been married, he never would have chosen to have a child with a Basque woman. Those people were too dark, too volatile, and too religious for his taste. He’d wanted white, blond-haired babies. He didn’t want his kids confused for wet-backs. Oh, he knew Basques weren’t Mexicans, but they all looked alike to him.

If it hadn’t been for Benita’s brother, Josu, no one would have known about his affair with the young widow. But that sheep-loving bastard had tried to blackmail him into recognizing Nick as his son. He’d thought Josu had been bluffing when the man had come to him and threatened to tell everyone in town that Henry had taken advantage of his grieving sister and had knocked her up. He’d ignored the threat, but Josu hadn’t been bluffing. Again Henry had denied paternity.

But by the time Nick was five, he looked enough like a Shaw that no one believed Henry anymore. Not even Ruth. She’d divorced him and taken half his money.

But back then, he’d still had time. He’d been in his late thirties. Still a young man.

Henry picked up a.357 and slipped six bullets into the cylinder. After Ruth, he’d found his second wife, Gwen. Even though Gwen had been a poor unwed mother of questionable parentage, he’d married her for several reasons. She obviously wasn’t barren, as he’d suspected of Ruth, and she was so beautiful she made him ache. She and her daughter had been so grateful to him, and so easy to mold into what he wanted. But in the end, his stepdaughter had disappointed him bitterly, and the one thing he wanted most from Gwen, she had failed to give him. After years of marriage, she hadn’t given him a legitimate heir.

Henry spun the cylinder then looked down at the revolver in his hand. With the barrel of the pistol, he pushed the box of linseed rags closer to the space heater. He didn’t want anyone to clean up the mess after he was gone. The song he’d been waiting to hear crackled through the speakers, and he cranked up the eight-track player as Johnny sang about falling into a burning ring of fire.

His eyes got a little misty when he thought of his life and the people he would leave behind. It was a damn shame he wouldn’t be around to see the looks on their faces when they discovered what he’d done.