He slept in his own room that night, for the first time in several days, and of course the very walls seemed to exude memories of himself and Sara, talking, making love or simply lying in each other’s arms, content to be together.

  Restless, he tossed and turned.

  He wanted Sara, and not just sexually. Without her beside him, he felt diminished somehow, less himself than usual.

  He rolled over, punched his pillow into shape—or tried to, anyhow—and then lay staring up at the ceiling for a long time.

  When he finally slept, the first of several nightmares was there to greet him.

  It was a reconnaissance mission, and he was riding in the back of a truck, the third vehicle in a long caravan. He saw dust and palm trees—nothing unusual about that.

  The soldier seated across from him, on the greasy truck bed, was scrolling through pictures on his phone, smiling now and then.

  J.P. had seen those pictures a thousand times, but he never got tired of them. His buddy had a beautiful family. He was due to muster out in two weeks, and much as J.P. liked the guy, he envied him a little, too—because he had a wife and kids, because he was going home.

  J.P. thought about home, about the ranch and his mom and dad, and his friends Eli and Cord. He imagined saddling up a horse, in the cool of a summer morning, riding out through oceans of grass, listening to the bawling of cattle and the song of the creek, the mountains forming a half circle around him, like a protective arm.

  And then it happened.

  The very air vibrated, like silent thunder.

  Then the world split itself like a walnut, and fire rained down all around the trucks.

  There were screams.

  Volleys of gunfire.

  And J.P.’s pal, the one with the family and the ticket home, turned to crimson vapor before his very eyes.

  That was the last thing J.P. remembered about the attack, until weeks afterward.

  He woke himself deliberately, a skill he’d acquired through long and careful practice, and bolted upright in bed.

  Trooper, curled up on the rug nearby, whimpered quizzically.

  J.P., sweating and sick to his stomach, shoved a hand through his moist hair. “I’m okay,” he said for his own benefit as well as the dog’s. “I’m okay.”

  This, he thought, is what I have to offer Sara. My nightmares.

  In that moment, he came as close to weeping as he ever had.

  He read after that, knowing he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep.

  Knowing he didn’t dare.

  He knew he looked like five miles of bad road when he joined his dad in the kitchen about an hour before sunrise.

  Without speaking, the two men left the house, stepping out into the cool stillness of the predawn hour. Trooper followed as always.

  Father and son tended to the horses in companionable silence, their work choreographed by years of practice.

  J.P. had been helping out with ranch chores since kindergarten, and before that he’d fed chickens and gathered eggs, among other simple tasks.

  It was comforting to work with his dad again. J.P. made a point of staying in the moment, feeling the play of his arm and shoulder muscles as he hauled bales of hay down from the stacks in the back of the barn, the give of the shavings under the soles of his boots as he entered and left the stalls, checking on the water supply.

  Later, they led all the horses through the pasture gate, four at a time, each of them leading two.

  Light, the color of pale apricots, rimmed the foothills to the east, and the sky gradually turned periwinkle blue.

  J.P. breathed it all in.

  Assimilated everything.

  His dad stepped up beside him, slapped him lightly on the back. “I’ll throw together some breakfast and we’ll head over to the homestead in my truck. Get some work done.”

  “I’m making breakfast,” J.P. replied with a grin. “I’m a better cook than you are.”

  The old man laughed. “Yep,” he conceded. “You take after your mother that way. I was just trying to get you talking.”

  J.P. frowned as they returned toward the house.

  Dust rose from beneath their boots, and he made a mental note to look into getting a brick or concrete driveway put in.

  “I don’t talk enough to suit you?” he asked his dad.

  “You talk about the cattle, the price of beef, the state of the stock market, and what Cord Hollister and Eli Garrett are up to at any given time,” his father allowed. “But I haven’t heard much about Sara.”

  They’d reached the kitchen door, and J.P. pushed the door open, letting Trooper and his dad go ahead of him.

  “When I have something to say, Dad, I’ll tell you about Sara and me.”

  “Is there some big secret?”

  They were inside now.

  “Not really,” J.P. answered with a sigh. “Things are in a state of flux, that’s all.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  His dad went to the sink to wash up, and J.P. followed suit when he was done.

  “I need time,” J.P. said.

  And that was the end of that line of discussion.

  After a simple breakfast, they tossed some tools into the back of John McCall’s ancient pickup truck, along with a couple of jugs of water, and headed overland, toward the homestead, Trooper perched between them on the tattered bench seat.

  There was no road, just a series of cattle trails, so the journey practically rattled J.P.’s teeth. His dad, who drove that old rust bucket of a truck all over the ranch, in all kinds of weather, didn’t seem bothered.

  When they reached the cabin, J.P. insisted on doing a cursory search of the immediate area, just in case the feds had missed one of the Becker gang’s bear traps.

  Fortunately, nothing turned up, so they let Trooper out of the truck, rolled up their shirtsleeves, grabbed scythes from the back and set to work.

  They’d been working in silence for the better part of an hour when J.P.’s phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. Evidently, they were in a cellular hot spot.

  It might be Sara.

  He pulled it out, saw Eli’s personal number on the screen, thumbed the answer button.

  “McCall,” he said, worried. “Everything okay with Sara and Eric?”

  “They’re fine,” Eli answered. “I’m calling about something else.”

  “What?” J.P. asked, a little impatient.

  “I need you to come to my office, J.P.,” Eli said. “Right now.”

  “What’s this about?” He’d accidentally thumbed the speaker button, so his dad was privy to everything that was said.

  “It’s not an emergency,” Eli relented. “But it is important. Important enough that I don’t want to discuss it over the phone. Just get here, okay?”

  “I’m on my way,” J.P. said.

  “You rob a bank or something?” his dad asked when J.P. had ended the call.

  “Or something,” J.P. muttered, gathering tools and whistling for the dog, who’d been down by the creek, splashing around in the cold water. “Do you want to come along?”

  “I don’t see any other way for you to get there,” came the gruff reply. “Leave the tools. We can come back for them later, after I’ve paid your bail.”

  “Very funny,” J.P. responded.

  They all got back into the truck, Trooper included, and J.P.’s dad drove over rough ground, then across a shallow place in the creek, making for the dirt road that would lead to the highway.

  Stressed, and unwilling to let it show, J.P. clamped his teeth together to keep from biting his tongue when the pickup hit another bump in the landscape.

  “You don’t have any idea what’s going on here?” his father asked when they reached the highway and things smoothed out a little.

  “Not a clue,” J.P. answered. He was racking his brain—had been since he’d spoken to Eli—but nothing came to him.

  At least nothing had happened to Sara or either of her children.

  That gave him solid ground to stand on.

  When they reached the sheriff’s department, about twenty minutes after leaving the cabin, Eli came out to meet them.

  “What the hell?” J.P. half growled.

  “Just come in,” Eli ordered grimly. He acknowledged J.P.’s dad with a nod. “You, too, John. This is a family thing.”

  J.P.’s dad hesitated, went pale. “My daughters? Is this about my daughters?”

  “No,” Eli said, holding the glass door open for both of them. “It’s nothing like that. I think it’ll come as a pretty big surprise, though.”

  They passed through the reception area, where the dispatcher and several deputies watched them solemnly.

  J.P. caught Eli’s eye and frowned. His stomach was doing backflips.

  Eli went ahead of them, pushed open his office door, held it.

  J.P. entered first, and stopped so suddenly that his father bumped into him from behind.

  Mary Collins, a local social worker and good friend of J.P.’s mother’s, sat in a chair near Eli’s desk, holding a toddler in her arms.

  The little boy looked up at J.P. with eyes so like his own that he was stunned.

  “Do you want to explain, Mary?” Eli asked quietly, after closing the door and offering J.P.’s dad a chair, which he took, looking mystified.

  J.P. had never seen the child before, but he knew instantly who he was.

  He might have been looking at a much younger version of himself.

  Mary, a stylish woman in her late fifties, with neatly coiffed silver-gray hair and warm brown eyes, smiled at J.P. “Relax,” she said. “I’m pretty sure this is a good thing.”

  J.P.’s knees buckled, and it was a good thing Eli had had the foresight to shove a chair up behind him, because he might have landed on his ass on the floor otherwise.

  He rested his elbows on his knees, trying to settle back into himself.

  “Hey, there,” he said to the boy, very gently. Very quietly. “What’s your name, buddy?”

  The child regarded him with solemn McCall eyes, one small finger hooked behind his lower lip. His hair was the same pale shade of blond as Becky and Robyn’s—the same color J.P.’s had been until he’d hit adolescence.

  “This is Tyler,” Mary said. “He’s three.”

  As if to verify the woman’s statement, Tyler took his fingers out of his mouth and held up three of them.

  J.P. lifted his gaze to Mary’s face. After managing those few words of greeting, he’d been stricken to silence again.

  “A woman named Ellie Parks brought Tyler to the fire station about a couple of hours ago and, of course, the chief called Eli, who called me,” Mary said. “And here we are.”

  Ellie Parks.

  The name was familiar, but barely so. He’d dated Ms. Parks briefly, about four years back, and they’d agreed, after a few weeks, that the relationship was going nowhere.

  “Where is she now?” J.P. asked.

  Mary glanced at J.P.’s father, who took the hint quickly and got up to hoist the boy into his strong rancher’s arms. His smile was gentle, full of surprise and pleasure and concern.

  “Give us a few minutes, John?” Mary asked. “Please.”

  Tyler, clad in miniature jeans, scuffed boots and a tiny faded T-shirt with a cartoon character on the front, offered no protest as J.P.’s dad carried him out of Eli’s office.

  Eli closed the door quietly behind them.

  “He’s mine,” J.P. said. It wasn’t a question.

  “No judge would ask for a DNA test,” Eli confirmed.

  “Where’s Ellie? Why did she leave him at the fire station?”

  Mary held up one manicured hand. “Slow down, J.P.,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  J.P. waited respectfully, though a part of him wanted to grab this woman by the shoulders and shake the information out of her.

  Not that he’d ever do anything like that, of course.

  He’d never laid a hand on a woman in anger or frustration in his life.

  Mary smoothed her linen skirt, crumpled from holding Tyler. “It seems Ellie is overwhelmed with the responsibilities of motherhood,” she began. “She told Chief Martin that she couldn’t cope and that she was in some trouble, back home, in Oregon. She wouldn’t say what, and she was gone by the time Eli drove over there to talk to her.”

  J.P. nodded, gathering the fragments of what he remembered about Ellie Parks and trying to corral them into a concept that made sense.

  Mary went on. “She left Tyler’s birth certificate, a few of his clothes and a toy horse behind. We only have her word that you are the boy’s father, since your name doesn’t appear on the birth certificate, but Ellie swore up and down that you’d know Tyler belongs to you as soon as you laid eyes on him.”

  Ellie had been right. He’d known instantly.

  “Why didn’t Ellie ever contact me?” J.P. asked. “Tyler is my son. I would have helped raise him, paid child support, made sure both of them had whatever they needed.”

  Mary’s eyes were sympathetic. “According to the chief, she was afraid you would take Tyler away from her.”

  J.P. shoved both hands through his hair and swore. “And yet she’s willing to hand him over now? Just turn around and walk away from her own child?”

  “I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” Mary said in a soothing voice. Clearly, she had a lot of experience pouring oil onto troubled waters. “Ms. Parks is in some kind of trouble, like I said. She wants to grant you permanent custody of the child—on one condition.”

  A mixture of hope and fury flared within J.P. What had been happening to his son all this time?

  “What condition?”

  “That you pay her three years’ child support in one lump sum.”

  “Done,” J.P. said, slapping his palms down on his thighs.

  “Don’t you want to know how much she’s asking for?” Mary inquired. She’d pulled out her phone now, and commenced to scrolling through the notes she must have made while hearing the story from Chief Martin.

  “I don’t care how much she’s asking for,” J.P. replied tersely. “Can I take Tyler home with me? Right now, today?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mary said, “but no. There are procedures, J.P. Ellie has to surrender the child to you legally, and that means an investigation will have to be carried out. Your lawyer will need to contact hers—if she has one—and an agreement will have to be reached. Then there will be a hearing.”

  J.P. stood up so suddenly that Mary jumped, and Eli, who’d been leaning against a credenza with his arms folded, instantly straightened.

  When he didn’t explode, they calmed visibly.

  “You didn’t know that Ellie Parks was carrying your child?” Eli asked, in sheriff-mode now. No doubt he already had some feelers out, learning what he could about Ellie and her situation. “You’re sure she never tried to contact you?”

  J.P. stopped, glared at one of the two men he’d called his best friend since he could walk under a horse’s belly without ducking. “Yeah, Eli, I’m sure,” he bit out. “If I’d known about Tyler, I’d have gone after a fifty-fifty custody agreement—at the very least. And either way, I sure as hell would have provided for him!”

  “Take it easy,” Eli counseled with a conciliatory smile. “It’s part of my job to ask these questions. You know that.”

  J.P. sighed again, heavily. “What’s it been like for Tyler?” he asked. “Did Ellie take good care of him?”

  “Physically, he’s healthy,” Mary assured him. “No signs of abuse or neglect. He’s well nourished and seems to be comfortable around other people. Eli and I took him to the ER for a checkup before we brought him here.”

  “Has he asked for his mother?”

  It killed J.P. to think of that little kid calling in vain for the one person who should never ever have left him.

  The social worker and the sheriff exchanged glances.

  “What?” J.P. demanded.

  “He doesn’t speak,” Mary admitted. “At least, he hasn’t said anything so far.”

  “Maybe he’s scared,” Eli suggested. “He’s pretty little, and there’s a lot to take in.”

  A pause. “Will I be able to see him?” J.P. asked.

  “Yes,” Mary said. “Until things are settled, Tyler will be staying with one of our best foster families—the Sanfords, Bob and Rayleen. You probably know them.”

  J.P. did know the couple. They were good people, the kind others referred to as pillars of the community, and they’d been providing intermittent foster care to younger children for years.

  When babies or toddlers had to be removed from their homes, or simply didn’t have a home, due to abandonment or the death, incarceration or medical problems of their parents, they went to stay with Bob and Rayleen.

  J.P. collapsed back into his chair, dizzied by conflicting emotions.

  He was shocked.

  He was pissed off at Ellie Parks and, at the same time, sad that, for whatever reason, she was willing to give up her child.

  Why hadn’t she contacted him? Asked for help?

  He would have handled this reasonably.

  But then, Ellie hadn’t known that, had she?

  They’d been virtual strangers to each other.

  She’d been afraid to tangle with him, legally or otherwise, as Mary had already stated, because he was wealthy, an established member of one of the Creek’s pioneer families, while she was...?

  He tried to remember but came up dry.

  All he could have said for sure was that she was blonde.

  Probably.

  Until Sara, he’d had a thing for blondes.

  What a selfish, shallow bastard he’d been.

  He was overwhelmed by regret for the things he’d done, and the things he hadn’t.

  And then there was the flood of emotions that came with the totally out-of-the-blue discovery that he was a father, at least in name.