He’d heard the smile in his mother’s tone. “No, honey, he’s fine—I promise. But he is getting older. He needs to slow down a bit.”

  J.P. had thought about the plan he and his dad had hatched to hack away and haul off the brambles covering those old graves over at the homestead cabin, and wondered if he should just go on ahead and do the job himself.

  Trouble was, they’d made an agreement, and circumventing that might chafe the old man’s pride.

  Since he wouldn’t be getting around to that particular task for a while, considering the wild horse/trap problem, he’d have time to think it over.

  He’d been about to thank his mom again, hang up and go take his shower when she’d asked about the body Eli had found.

  The sheriff’s office hadn’t issued a formal statement yet, though the corpse had been identified as a local kid, Randy Becker, recently graduated high school football star and well-known bully. Becker’s parents, vacationing in Europe, had been notified, of course, but otherwise the identity of the dead boy was still being kept on the down-low.

  J.P. had explained patiently that the deceased was a local and his name would be released when the initial investigation was complete.

  “You know and you won’t tell me,” Sylvia had accused but good-naturedly.

  “Yep,” J.P. had confirmed. “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Which just goes to show that we raised you right,” his mother had said.

  J.P. had grinned. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mom,” he’d replied.

  “Nonsense,” came the chipper response. “It gets me everywhere—except with you.”

  He’d laughed. “Goodbye, Mom,” he’d said. “And thanks again.”

  The call had ended on that note, though J.P. knew his mother would have liked to ask more questions, beyond whether or not he’d heard when her granddaughters were expected—Tuesday or Wednesday of the coming week—and whether this evening with Sara was just a casual get-together or the start of something.

  Damned if he knew what would happen after tonight.

  Now J.P. returned to the patio and placed the foil-wrapped spuds on the grill, since they’d take a while to cook through.

  When that was done, he brought out a couple of bottles of wine: a decent red, to be served at room temperature, and a good chardonnay, chilling in a fancy ice bucket that had belonged to his folks. They’d left it behind, along with a lot of other stuff, when they’d moved to the A-frame, where space was obviously limited.

  He’d been going back and forth between the kitchen and the patio for a while by then, and Trooper, who had been keeping pace, finally decided he’d had enough traveling and lay down in a shady spot to keep an eye on the steak and chicken.

  If either one of them tried to make a run for it, Trooper would be there to prevent their escape.

  J.P. brought out wineglasses and splashed some red into one before dropping into a patio chair to check his phone.

  As was his custom, he scanned his portfolio, then read the latest financial news. He took in the pertinent information, but his mind was only half fixed on the numbers.

  He kept thinking about Sara.

  Wondering about her.

  His knowledge of the woman was wide, but it wasn’t deep.

  For instance, he didn’t know how she’d feel about getting married again, since the first go-round had been such a shit show. Practically everyone who’d lived in or near the town of Painted Pony Creek knew Zachary Worth as a spoiled rich kid, a pathological liar and a cheat.

  J.P., Cord and Eli had not been all that well acquainted with Worth, to be fair, because he hadn’t gone to school locally. He’d been a boarding student at an expensive and prestigious institution back East, visiting his divorced and famously reclusive father for part of every summer and quickly proving himself to be a narcissistic prick.

  What Sara Garrett had seen in him, besides his slick good looks and way with words, was anybody’s guess. She’d been a serious student back then, shy but popular, planning to go on to college and get her teaching credentials.

  Instead, after a few heavy dates, the summer after graduation, she’d eloped with Worth.

  Rumors of pregnancy had arisen right away and, as often happens, they proved true, when Sara gave birth to a full-term baby after too few months as a bride.

  Nothing unusual, especially in a small town, where secrets were harder to keep, but that it happened to Sara? That was a surprise to the locals.

  J.P., being a kid himself at the time, hadn’t paid a lot of attention.

  Zachary and Sara had broken up a few years later, when he’d run off with one of the barmaids at Sully’s. At the time, Zachary’d been out of work for a while, and he’d left Sara practically destitute, with two young children to support.

  She’d filed for divorce immediately.

  Presently, things had gone south between Sara’s ex and the waitress, and he’d returned to the Creek, full of sloppy remorse and broke on his ass.

  Rumor had it, Richard Worth, Zachary’s wealthy father, had refused to fund the prodigal.

  No fatted calf for him.

  For a while, Zachary hung around, probably bed surfing between girlfriends, trying to cajole Sara into taking him back, but she’d been adamant.

  As Eli had said at the time, when Sara was through with somebody, she was through. End of story.

  Most people had expected Sara to remarry, once she’d had time to get over Worth’s betrayal. But for all his faults, she’d evidently loved him more than anyone could have guessed.

  He’d broken something in Sara, taught her not to trust.

  Since then, she’d lived quietly, working a low-paying job, mothering her kids, teaching Sunday school. She’d had a tight circle of friends, and according to Eli, she’d tried dating a few times, though nothing much had come of it.

  She’d been burned too badly.

  The thought made J.P.’s jaw harden.

  He’d never understood people who signed up for a relationship and then decided to risk everything—partner, children, home, reputation—for a roll in the hay with somebody else.

  During his hitch in the military, prior to the explosion, he’d seen soldiers of both sexes get breakup letters and emails from people who’d promised to love them forever and to wait for them. That, among other things, had soured his confidence in human nature; maybe it was even one of the reasons he’d never married.

  At seventeen, he’d thought he loved Reba Shannon, Carly’s mother.

  He’d been super pissed off when he’d learned she was playing him, right along with Cord and Eli, but he hadn’t suffered a broken heart or anything like that.

  No way.

  He’d almost lost his two closest friends over Reba, and that was a mistake he’d never made again.

  For a long time, he’d been content to date a lot of different women, with no intention of settling down. But after Cord fell in love with Shallie, and then Eli with Brynne, he’d begun to feel a little restless, at least on the romantic front.

  He’d known happy marriages existed, obviously—his parents had one and so, as far as he knew, did both his sisters, though it seemed things might be a little rocky in Josie’s partnership, given that she was sending her daughters to the ranch for an indefinite visit.

  His folks were older, and his sisters had settled down far from home, so marital bliss had seemed pretty ordinary to J.P.

  Cord and Eli, however, were his age.

  He’d grown up with them. Watched them take up with various women, then move on. Cord, in fact, had been married before; that had been a train wreck.

  J.P. had chalked that up as one more reason to keep playing the field.

  For a long time, he’d loved chasing women, and truth be told, he still had all the opportunities he could use, when it came to hot no-strings sex.

  He’d lost interest, though. Not in hot sex, never that—but in sleeping around the way he used to do. He’d basically played fast and loose with too many women, often forgetting their names after he’d stopped by the florist’s, chosen a bouquet and signed a card.

  The message had been, in so many words, So long, see you around, it was fun, have a nice life.

  He’d been a selfish bastard, plain and simple.

  Albeit a clean and very careful one.

  Some of those women had been, like him, looking for a good time and nothing more, but others, surely, had hoped to find someone to truly love. It didn’t sit right with him now, knowing he’d used them. Never taking the time to get to know them and never allowing them to get close enough to know him.

  All of them were human beings, and they’d deserved better.

  Better treatment.

  Better men.

  Nope, he wasn’t proud of what he’d done, hadn’t been at any time, but he saw no point in beating himself up. He’d faced his shadow side—part of it, at least—and changed his ways, and that was what mattered.

  If there was one thing J.P. had learned, lying in a military hospital bed for months, it was that holding on to the past, ruminating over what could have been, should have been different, was a fool’s game with no winners.

  Naturally, he had some horrible memories, stemming from the roadside bombing in Afghanistan, and he didn’t resist or repress them. He let them come, rode them out and moved on when they’d passed.

  The other side of that coin was that he didn’t dwell on anything he couldn’t actively change.

  Life was too full of good things to sweat the small stuff, or the big stuff, either, for that matter.

  He believed in letting life be life, and so far, the philosophy had served him well.

  He took another sip of wine, savored it.

  Heard a car pull up in front of the house.

  Sara.

  He swallowed, nearly choked.

  With a grin, J.P. got to his feet, set aside his wineglass.

  Time to welcome the woman he very much wanted to know, and know well.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SOMETHING LEAPED INSIDE Sara as she parked her car in front of J.P.’s ranch house and saw him approaching, the dog at his heels.

  She’d been full of nervous excitement all day, deciding what to wear and then changing her mind and deciding on something else, choosing to put on a little extra makeup and then choosing to go with her usual mascara and lip gloss.

  She wanted to look good, not just for J.P. but for her own gratification. She didn’t want to look like somebody she wasn’t, though, or as if she might be trying just a smidge too hard.

  In the end, with Hayley’s largely unnecessary but greatly appreciated assistance, she’d settled on one of the new sundresses—pink with spaghetti straps and a built-in bra. As for the makeup—well, she’d stuck with a minimalist approach.

  Now, wanting the driveway dust to settle on the ground instead of on her, she sat behind the wheel, admiring J.P.’s physique, his sexy stubble, his grin.

  Like many cowboys, he walked with a slow, easy motion, ambling as though his hip sockets had been greased.

  In those moments, Sara felt fiercely feminine and not the least bit wary.

  To put it bluntly, she wanted to eat J.P. McCall right up.

  Yum.

  He reached her side of the car and opened the door. The dust had shimmered its way back to earth, mostly, but he seemed oblivious to the stuff, as though it had never billowed up beneath her tires.

  “Hello, Sara,” he said, and his voice was gruff.

  His eyes took in her face, her hair and what was visible of her dress, and his perusal felt like a full-body caress.

  She shivered, which was weird, because she’d expected to spontaneously combust. Just burst into flames right there on her car seat.

  J.P. held out a hand to her, and Sara remembered to unfasten her seat belt before letting him help her from the car.

  She wasn’t used to her high-heeled Easter shoes, and the driveway was rough, so she stumbled into J.P.’s chest.

  Just the way she had after their dinner date at Bailey’s.

  What if he thought she’d done it on purpose?

  She decided not to go down that particular rabbit hole.

  His arms closed around her, strong. Warm steel covered in flesh.

  “Oops,” she said, feeling the dreaded blush rise into her face. “Sorry.”

  J.P. didn’t release her right away. “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I don’t mind catching you when you start to fall. In fact, I kind of like it.”

  Sara willed her throbbing cheeks to chill out.

  For a long moment, she was incapable of speech. Then, ever the wordsmith, she blurted out, “I brought wine.”

  “Good,” J.P. said. He held her back a little way so he could look at her, and Sara got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t referring to the bottle of Shiraz she’d pulled from her personal collection before leaving the house.

  When Trooper began trying to nose his way between them, J.P. laughed and let go of Sara, only to take her left hand in a loose grip. He started for the side of the house, which was sheltered by tall fruit trees.

  “The wine—” Sara protested weakly.

  “Later,” he replied.

  He led her through the trees and onto a spacious covered patio paved in red brick. There were several tables, with cushioned chairs, and the grill was a huge, shiny thing accompanied by an actual stove, what looked like an ice machine, a small refrigerator and a double sink.

  “Very fancy,” she said. “Do you give a lot of parties?”

  J.P. grinned as though she’d said something funny, and she truly hoped she hadn’t.

  “No,” he replied easily. “Mom and Dad used to entertain a lot when they lived here. I’ve only used it a couple of times.”

  Sara looked around, imagined the tree limbs festooned with fairy lights, or loaded down with colorful Chinese lanterns. “It’s lovely,” she breathed and, once again, felt something quicken inside her.

  “Thanks,” J.P. said. “Wine?”

  “Yes, please,” Sara replied.

  “Red or white?”

  Ridiculously, she looked down at her expensive pink sundress. “Red would be risky, since I’m such a klutz,” she deliberated. Then she smiled. “I’m feeling reckless, though, so I guess I’ll take the pinot noir.”

  J.P. filled a wineglass, held it out to her. “I like reckless,” he told her.

  “Wait,” she said hastily, distracted. “Maybe I should sit down first.”

  The grin returned. “Okay,” he replied, holding the glass in one hand and drawing back a chair at the center table with the other. “Have a seat.”

  Sara obliged. Settled herself.

  Accepted the wine.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  J.P. quirked an eyebrow. “Could we be a little less formal? We’ve known each other for a long time, after all.” He joined her at the table, taking the chair directly across from hers. Took a sip of his own wine.

  “We have,” Sara agreed quietly. “But this is different.”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”

  Suddenly, she couldn’t hold it back any longer, the question she had been dying to ask ever since that unforgettable kiss.

  “J.P., what’s happening here?”

  He reached across the table, took her hand again. “Damned if I know,” he replied, “but I’m all about finding out.”

  She was at a crossroads, and she needed more information. Like was she about to take a wrong turn?

  “You’re not helping,” she pointed out.

  “Is it my imagination, or am I getting the impression that my reputation has preceded me?” J.P. asked mildly, settling back in his chair.

  “Sort of,” Sara admitted. Then she added, “Well, yes.”

  “I’m not especially proud of that part of my life,” he said. “Looking back, I think it might have been some kind of reaction to the explosion. It was as if, on some level, I was afraid to stand still, take stock of myself and the way I was living, and figure out what I really wanted.” J.P. paused and shook his head slightly, as though shaking off memories he didn’t want to face. “That’s no excuse, of course.”

  Sara studied him for a long moment before confessing, “I was pretty good at running away myself. Funny thing is I did it standing still. I was so focused on my children all the time—and I don’t regret that—that I guess I couldn’t see myself in any other role than Hayley and Eric’s mother.”

  She thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Not anger but—sorrow?

  “I don’t pretend to know,” he ventured quietly, “but being a single mother has to be damn difficult.”

  “It is,” Sara confirmed gently. “But I don’t imagine being so seriously injured was a day in the park. Seems as though that would do things to the mind, not just the body.”

  Again, something moved in J.P., this time in his face. It was very subtle, the slightest of shifts, but it was definitely there. “I still want to run away from that sometimes,” he admitted.

  And Sara wanted to weep. To lay all this man’s ghosts to rest.

  Wanted to put her arms around J.P. McCall, big and strong as he was, and tell him everything would be okay and hold him until it was.

  But would things be okay? If she’d learned anything along the rocky way, it was that life didn’t come with a warranty. All a person could really do was suit up, show up and do what they thought was right.

  Fate would decide the rest.

  “I’m sorry about what happened in Afghanistan, J.P.,” she said softly.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me,” he warned, but his tone was easy, gentle. Practiced. “I was one of the lucky ones, after all. I came home. I’ve still got two arms and two legs. Seven of my buddies—and a hell of a lot of other soldiers—drew the short straw and were shipped back in boxes.”