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“Tell me something, cowboy,” Bonnie Ulrich said, sitting up in bed and shyly wrapping a sheet around her body. “You are creeping up on seventy years of age. You ever give any thought to retirement?” Helmut pulled on his jeans and considered the question. “I don’t know what else I’d do with my time,” he said at last, buttoning his shirt and brushing back what was left of his hair with his rough fingernails. “I don’t hunt or fish, I don’t play golf. And you’re in your shop all day, tiptoeing through the tulips. What else would I . .