![]() ![]() ![]() Hugh loved it nearly as much as he did his wife, children, and grandchildren. The MacLeod farm, passed from father to son for more than two hundred years, spread for more than eighty hectares. They happily passed on tromping the fields in their wellies. With fires snapping in stone hearths, the kettle always on the boil, the women chose to cook and bake and fuss over the coming New Year’s Eve party. His wife of thirty-nine years, along with Rob’s and their cousin Hugh’s wives, stayed back, tucked into the charming old farmhouse. With his twin brother, Rob, he’d built-and continued to run-a successful marketing firm based in New York and London. He felt healthy and fit, a man of sixty-four who hit the gym three times a week, and had a passion for golf (reflected in a handicap of nine). On a cold, damp day, the last day of what would be his last year, he hunted with his brother and cousin, walking the crackling, frosted field under skies of washed-out, winter blue. When Ross MacLeod pulled the trigger and brought down the pheasant, he had no way of knowing he’d killed himself. ![]()
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