Abby must have stayed up most of the night working. More so than at any time since his mother had died. And there wasn’t a single dirty dish in sight. When the hell had she made them? He picked one up in puzzlement. Homemade ones, with slices of bacon in the middle. Next to it was a plate containing four cellophane-wrapped biscuits. There was already a full pot simmering under the coffeemaker. He dropped his boots in the kitchen, ready to make a pot of coffee to take with him, then stopped. And he’d spent Sunday mornings fishing for so many years now that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to break the habit even if he wanted to. Early mornings, before the world started stirring, were his favorite time. Daylight was still several hours away, but he didn’t mind. Tate pulled his clothes on quietly, then slipped from his room, carrying his boots in one hand.
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