Brynne slanted a glance in J.P.’s direction, realizing only after the fact that she was checking his reaction. Unlike Cord, J.P. was still single, and he and Marisol had dated for the first year after he was discharged from the armed forces.

Injured in combat, J.P. had been at Walter Reed for six weeks, then returned to the Creek, with Trooper, his service dog, a constant companion.

“We can all be grateful,” Marisol said, “that Eli Garrett has one of the hardest heads in the state of Montana. His skull is fractured, but we think it will mend, given time. The swelling in his brain is definitely going down.” She paused, consulted the tablet she carried, went on. “He’ll have to stay with us for a week or so, but unless he has a setback, we’ll be moving him out of the ICU tomorrow or the next day and into a regular room.”

Sara, who had been a bulwark of strength since she’d arrived at the hospital, shortly after Eli was brought in, crumpled with relief and began to cry.

Brynne crossed the room, sat down beside her friend and took her into her arms.

Sara pressed her face into Brynne’s shoulder and wept without shame.

Neither Cord nor J.P. spoke, though they looked almost as worn-out as Eli had when Brynne kissed him goodbye and left his room.

Marisol swept them all up in her golden gaze. “I think you should all go home and get some rest,” she said. “Especially you, Sara. Eli will almost certainly be his old self in six to eight weeks, but it’s going to be a long, difficult haul in the meantime, and he’ll need his family and friends to be in tip-top shape.”

“What about Gretchen Lansing?” J.P. asked, and his tone indicated that he wasn’t inquiring about her prognosis for a full recovery. “Is she ambulatory? How do we know she won’t find Eli’s room somehow and finish the job?”

Brynne felt Sara stiffen in her arms, then straighten and pull away.

She stared at Marisol, waiting for an answer.

Marisol gave J.P. a look that might have been described as wry, in another context. “Mrs. Lansing is recovering on another floor, and there’s a security guard outside her door at all times. And she’s handcuffed to the rail of her bed, so it’s safe to say she won’t be going anywhere until it’s decided whether or not she’s fit to stand trial.”

“Fit to stand trial?” The question came from Cord, but any one of them would have responded the same way, if he hadn’t asked first. “Are you saying that woman might get away with this?”

“Cord,” Marisol pointed out, gently but firmly. “I’m a doctor, not a judge or a member of the grand jury. I don’t decide these things.”