“I need flowers,” he told her. “Can you fix me up?”

  “Flowers?” Sylvia echoed, grinning impishly. “For a lady, I presume?”

  “Yes,” J.P. answered, well aware that the one-word answer would nettle his mom, she of the romantic heart.

  Sylvia’s eyes twinkled. “And that lady’s name?” she inquired.

  He sighed, shoved a hand through his hair. There was no point in trying to throw his mother off the trail. She’d find out he was getting serious about Sara sooner rather than later all on her own.

  “Sara,” he said simply.

  “Sara Garrett?” Sylvia asked, face alight.

  “She’s Sara Worth now, but yeah. She’s the one.”

  “You go and visit with your dad,” Sylvia urged, giving her son a light nudge with one elbow. “Let me handle the flowers.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me, Mrs. McCall,” J.P. replied.

  He turned and headed toward his father, who was standing on the grass at the foot of the deck steps, greeting Trooper.

  “Get me a vase before you settle down to swap tall tales,” Sylvia called after him. “A big one. I keep them in that cabinet in the laundry room above the folding table. Wash it out in the kitchen sink, too, while you’re at it.”

  J.P. looked back at her over one shoulder, grinning. “Anything else I should take care of while I’m in there? Maybe mop and wax the kitchen floor or paint the living room?”

  “Oh, shush,” Sylvia said with a dismissive wave of one hand. She was already heading for the flower beds, clippers in hand.

  J.P. went inside, found a suitable vase, dutifully sloshed it around in some warm soapy water and went outside again. Gave it to his mom, who had already gathered an armload of pink and white roses and was now adding a variety of other blossoms to the mix.

  “It’s empty,” she said with a slight frown.

  J.P. went over to the spigot on the back wall of the house and filled the vase.

  Tried again.

  “That’s better,” Sylvia said.

  J.P. only chuckled and shook his head. “Now can I hang out with Dad for a while?”

  She swatted at his arm and missed.

  John was seated on the deck again, Trooper lying at his feet.

  J.P. pulled up a chair and sat down across from him.

  “When are we going to clear out those blackberry bushes over at the cabin?” his father asked. “The ones you said were covering those old graves?”

  “Soon,” J.P. replied. “Right now, it probably isn’t safe.”

  “They still haven’t caught those thugs? Found all the booby traps?”

  “No,” J.P. answered, “but I think Eli has an idea who the culprits are, at least. You know we found a body out there, right?”

  “Everybody’s talking about it, at the feed store and everywhere else in town,” John McCall answered. “Rumor is it’s the Becker boy.”

  “The rumor is right,” J.P. admitted. “But don’t spread it around, okay?”

  “What do you take me for?” his dad retorted, feigning indignation. “I’m not some blathering fool, you know. I can keep a secret.”

  “Don’t get your boxers in a twist, Dad. Eli asked me not to say anything and, until now, I haven’t.”

  “When that boy’s folks get back from wherever they are, all hell’s going to break loose.” John paused, shook his head sadly. “Never much cared for those people—the Beckers, that is. Too high and mighty for my taste—but I wouldn’t have wished this on anybody. No, indeed. Worst thing that can happen to somebody, losing a child. Especially like that.”

  “Yeah,” J.P. agreed.

  “Eli figures it was an accident? Something just spooked a bunch of those mustangs and they stampeded right over the kid?”

  J.P. remembered the steel trap found near the body, winced. “Sometimes,” he said, more to himself than to his father, “stupidity is fatal.”

  “You can say that again.”

  J.P. sighed. “In any case, we can’t ride out to the homestead and walk around in the tall grass until there’s some kind of resolution where the traps are concerned.”

  “You didn’t find any on our place?”

  “No,” J.P. said. He’d be taking up the search again in the morning, checking messages periodically to see if the girls were arriving that day. Their mother was the type to book last-minute flights. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not out there, so stick close to the house. No long walks across the prairies.”

  “Give me a little credit, son,” his dad urged, though without the flare of annoyance this time. “I didn’t just fall off a hay truck.”

  J.P. chuckled. “I know, I know. I don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”

  It was then that the shriek of a siren splintered the calm summer morning, blaring along the inter-ranch road that snaked between the McCalls’ place and the Hollisters’.

  “What the hell?” John muttered, half rising from his chair, then sitting down again, hard.

  More sirens ripped wide gashes in the peace.

  J.P. stood up. “Keep Trooper here, Dad. Don’t let him try to follow me, whatever you do.”

  “Maybe you ought to stay right here, too, son. Let Eli and his people do their jobs.”

  “No possible way,” J.P. replied. With that, he put an anxious Trooper inside the house, closed the screen door tightly and told the dog to stay, his voice stern. “This is our land, Dad. We need to know what’s going on.”

  His mom was coming toward them, carrying the vase in both hands, frowning over the glorious bouquet she’d picked and arranged for Sara.

  “Not more trouble,” she said, sounding forlorn.

  “I’ll be back for the flowers,” J.P. told her, heading for his truck.

  When he spotted the cluster of vehicles—Eli’s SUV, an ambulance and two of the town’s outdated Crown Vics—J.P. parked on the side of the road and deliberated on what to do.

  He wanted to know exactly what was going on, but he knew better than to get in the way.

  A couple of the volunteers who’d been out searching the ground for traps saw him and walked in his direction, following a path of trampled grass.

  J.P. got out of his truck.

  He recognized the pair—Jim and Dottie Fillmont, a young couple working a nearby farm. The small place had been in Jim’s family for generations.

  Jim put out his hand and J.P. shook it.

  “What happened?” J.P. asked.

  “A kid from town stumbled across a trap and sprung it. He’s in a bad way.”

  J.P. swore, and then swore again. Apologized to Dottie, who was pale under her bright pink sunburn.

  “Don’t be sorry, J.P.,” she replied. “I feel the same way. That poor boy is going to be lucky if he doesn’t lose his leg.”

  “You found him?”

  Jim nodded. “Heard him screaming and came as quick as we could. Dottie hurried over to the road, where the cell service is better, and called for help while I stayed with the kid. He passed out right about the time we reached him, which is a good thing, because that thing bit into him like a grizzly.”

  J.P. winced. In the distance, he could see the paramedics loading a stretcher into the back of the ambulance.

  “You know the kid’s name?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Dottie answered this time, hugging herself as though she felt cold, even though it must have been eighty degrees out, at least. “It’s Eric Worth—the sheriff’s nephew. He wasn’t on the volunteer schedule, so he must have shown up anyway, to own—to help with the search? We didn’t see him this morning, when Deputy Canfield briefed us all at the town hall.”

  Eric Worth. Eli’s nephew.

  Sara’s son.

  J.P. swore again, silently this time.

  “It’s bad,” Dottie added, albeit unnecessarily. “Sheriff Garrett is fit to be tied.”

  “I need to talk to him,” J.P. said, thinking aloud more than addressing Dottie and Jim.

  He followed the pathway, his strides long.

  Eli, speaking to one of his deputies, noticed his approach and turned to walk toward J.P. He was sheet white, Eli was.

  J.P. figured his friend would either puke or pass out in another second or two.

  “What the hell?” he asked when he and Eli were facing each other, a few feet apart.

  “Eric—” Eli began. And then his voice fell away.

  “Does Sara know?” J.P. rasped.

  Eli looked even sicker than he had a moment before. “She knows he’s hurt—I didn’t give her the details. Brynne’s picking her up, driving her to the hospital. I’ll meet them there.”

  “I’m coming along,” J.P. informed his friend.

  Eli moved to load a bicycle—Eric’s, of course—into the back of the SUV.

  “Good,” he replied, his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion.

  A few minutes later, J.P. was in the passenger seat of Eli’s SUV, and they were bumping and jostling overland to the dirt road and then speeding toward the highway beyond the western fence line of the McCall property.

  Eli’s knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel. “Sara’s going to take this hard,” he said. “She thought he was going to a movie with Carly. What the hell was he doing out here?”

  “Trying to help?” J.P. wondered aloud.

  “Dottie and Jim thought so. I just hope to God they weren’t wrong. If he’s involved, that will half kill Sara.”

  J.P. figured Sara was going to be shattered either way.

  And he wanted to be there for her.

  “Any reason to think he is?” J.P. asked moderately.

  Some of the tension in Eli’s shoulders released. Up ahead on the highway, the ambulance siren screamed for right of way.

  He shook his head. “No,” he said gruffly. “But some of the townspeople might have a different opinion, given his history.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about that right now. You’ve got a big enough load to carry as it is.”

  Eli sighed, nodded.

  “Any new developments since Randy Becker was identified?”

  “Yes,” Eli replied after a few moments. “We’re pretty sure Becker was part of the gang. Some of his former classmates claim he’s been hanging out with thugs. Guys they didn’t know.”

  “You’re bringing them in?”

  “We need warrants. Those are in the works—should be ready this afternoon.” Eli steered the rig onto the main road, practically on two wheels. “They’re lying low, these pals of Becker’s, but we’ll root them out in no time. It’s hard to hide yourself in or around a place like the Creek, especially if you’re a stranger.”

  J.P. pondered that, but only superficially. His mind was still fixed on Sara.

  He wanted to find those bastards himself, beat a confession out of them.

  “You’re going to be busy today,” J.P. told his friend. “Tell Sara what happened—she needs to hear it from you—and I’ll take it from there. Look after her as much as she’ll allow.”

  Eli gave him a distracted glance. His jawline was tight, and it glowed red. “That would be good,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” J.P. replied, then realized how damned glib that sounded, given the situation, and wished he could take the words back. Swallow them or something.

  Eli flipped on the lights and siren, driving at top speed. “So,” he said without looking at J.P. “It’s true.”

  “What’s true?”

  “You and Sara.”

  “Yes,” J.P. answered, because he’d never lied to Eli or Cord, or pretty much anybody else, in his life. “Me and Sara.”

  It took ten minutes to reach the hospital in Painted Pony Creek. J.P. used part of the interval to call his folks and fill them in on what had happened.

  Naturally, they were horrified.

  And they agreed to look after Trooper for as long as necessary.

  The ambulance stood, rear doors open wide, in the special bay allotted to such vehicles when they arrived, tires screeching on the asphalt of the parking lot, but there was no sign of Eric.

  He was inside by now, probably being rushed upstairs for emergency surgery.

  Silently, J.P. prayed the kid would make it.

  Come out of this ordeal with two legs instead of one.

  Eli shoved open his door and jumped out of the SUV just as Sara’s compact car sped into the lot, driven by a pale-faced Brynne.

  Sara sat trembling in the passenger seat while her daughter, Hayley, leaped from the back, ran to Eli, sobbing, and flung her arms around him.

  He spoke soothingly to her, then released her and approached the car.

  Sara and Brynne got out, Brynne moving to embrace Hayley, who was still falling apart, Sara standing woodenly on the hot pavement, looking as though she’d fallen into a trance.

  Eli gripped her shoulders as J.P. drew near, took up a position a few feet behind Sara. Waiting to be needed.

  “Eli,” Sara whispered, agonized. “What happened to Eric? What in God’s name happened to my son?”

  Without Eli’s hands holding her up, J.P. knew Sara would have collapsed.

  “One of the traps—” Eli began gravely, his voice hoarse.

  Sara’s scream of anguished protest sundered J.P.’s soul. “Nooooo!”

  And with that, she shook free of her brother’s hold, tried to go around him, meaning to rush inside the hospital and find her son.

  “Sara,” Eli murmured, stopping her. Restraining her.

  She struggled in his arms, emitting a piercing wail, shaking her head.

  Eli caught J.P.’s gaze.

  J.P. got the message. He moved closer to Sara and wrapped one arm loosely around her waist, ready to catch her if she fell.

  “Go,” he said in response.

  Eli went, passing Brynne, who was already steering a still-sobbing Hayley inside.

  Sara tried to follow her, but J.P. tightened his hold on her.

  “Easy,” he whispered, a raspy sound like a file scraping the edge of a horse’s hoof. “Everything’s going to be all right, Sara. For Eric’s sake, you need to get hold of yourself. The staff will help him.”

  Sara whirled in J.P.’s arms, tried to slug him. “Let me go!”

  “I will,” J.P. replied with gentle reason. “As soon as I’m sure you’re not going to take two steps and then fall flat on your face.”

  He felt her trembling against him. Thought how different this was from the last time he’d held her close.

  “Breathe,” he instructed her quietly.

  A shudder went through her, but she seemed a little calmer.

  “The trap—” she managed “—did someone take it off? My God, is that horrible thing still—”

  J.P. closed his eyes for a moment, seeing the same horrific, bloody image in his mind that was probably playing out in Sara’s.

  “It’s off,” he said. The word was scraped from his throat, and it left him raw. “Eric was unconscious when the ambulance arrived. The paramedics freed his leg and applied a tourniquet to slow the bleeding.”

  “I need to go inside, J.P.,” Sara whispered, almost pleading now. “Please.”

  J.P. spoke into the soft ebony of her hair, which smelled of sunlight and shampoo. “I know. Let’s do this together, okay?”

  The reply was a soft sob and, “Okay.”

  With that, J.P. escorted Sara across the ambulance bay, around the rig—its lights were still flashing, though blessedly the siren had gone silent—and into the waiting room serving the ER.

  There was a trail of blood on the floor, leading toward one of the exam rooms in the back, and a janitor was in the process of mopping it up, his expression suitably morose, while various future patients watched in horror from the plastic chairs lining the walls.

  Brynne and Hayley came out of the women’s restroom, Brynne supporting the girl with one arm around her waist, the same as J.P. was doing with Sara.

  Brynne seated Hayley in one of the chairs and crossed the room to meet Sara.

  Her gaze linked with J.P.’s for a moment, then shifted back to Sara’s face.

  “Marisol is with Eric, Sara,” she told her sister-in-law tenderly, taking Sara’s hands in hers. Squeezing. “He’s on his way up to the OR right now, and you know as well as I do that he couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Dr. Marisol Stone, the daughter of the county coroner, was a skilled surgeon and chief of staff at Painted Pony Creek General Hospital.

  Between them, Brynne and J.P. squired Sara to a chair next to Hayley’s.

  Sara rallied enough to wrap an arm around her daughter’s trembling shoulders.

  J.P. stood back a little, to give them space, and so did Brynne.

  Brynne handed Sara and Hayley a box of tissues, taken from a nearby table, and J.P. crossed to the watercooler and filled two paper cups, brought them back.

  Sara and her daughter accepted them gratefully.

  “Is Eric going to die?” Hayley asked plaintively, the cup shaking in her hand as she raised it to her mouth.

  “No,” answered a feminine voice.

  It was Marisol, dressed in scrubs. Eli stood beside her, looking as though he could use a stiff shot of whiskey.

  “How bad is it?” Sara asked, almost pleading for an answer she could endure.

  “It’s not good,” Marisol responded in her kind but direct way. “But I’m very sure Eric will recover. We’re stabilizing him now, treating him for shock, and he’s had pain medication. Dr. Reynolds, a colleague of mine, is flying in from Helena as we speak. He’s one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the country, and if your son’s leg can be saved, Sara, he’ll save it.”

  “If?” Sara echoed, holding her free arm close to her middle and rocking slightly in her chair. “Eric could lose his leg?”

  “It’s possible,” Marisol replied, “but let’s focus on what we’re dealing with right now, at this moment. An amputation is the worst-case scenario, and it probably won’t happen.” She paused, sighed, though her brown eyes held Sara’s without flinching. “Eric is going to require several more surgeries in the coming months,” she went on. “And, of course, he’ll need a lot of physical therapy, too. There’s a rough road ahead, Sara, but Eric’s alive, and that’s what counts.”