Or, assuming she was, if he’d be the right man for her.

He’d almost been a father once, though.

Nearly three years ago, on the proverbial dark and stormy night, he’d been engaged in a poker game with Eli and Cord, in the back room of Sully’s Bar and Grill, when the door had burst inward and a skinny drowned rat of a girl had appeared out of nowhere.

She’d looked so much like Reba Shannon, the wild child who had nearly wrecked the trio of friends for good seventeen years before, that J.P. had thought, for a fraction of a second, that he was seeing an actual ghost.

Her name was Carly, she’d just hitchhiked halfway across country, and she’d landed in their lives like a hand grenade with the pin pulled and announced, once the shock of her arrival had subsided a little, that one of the three of them—he, Eli or Cord—was her biological dad.

That long ago summer of Carly’s conception, when he and both his friends had fallen for Reba, each one believing, with the hormonal hubris of a seventeen-year-old boy, that they were her one and only, had almost faded from their combined memories by the time the girl showed up.

Said girl had grown up and come looking, not so much for a father, but for explanations.

A series of events, some fortunate and some not, had ensued, and when the fat lady sang, so to speak, it turned out that Cord had been the one to sire this spirited little spitfire.

Like Eli’s, J.P.’s reaction to the news had been mixed—he’d been relieved, naturally. But he’d also been disappointed.

Rock-solid man that he was, Cord had stepped up, taken responsibility, worked at getting to know his daughter. He’d married his wife, Shallie, and the three of them had created a family.

Now, they had another child, Cord and Shallie, and they were beyond happy together.

J.P. didn’t envy his friends. He was glad for them, but he wanted what they had, for sure. A wife and kids of his own. A family.

“Where did you go just now, J.P. McCall?” Sara asked as the two of them dismounted. “You seem awfully distracted this morning.”

It wasn’t a criticism, only a comment. He knew that by her expression and her tone of voice.

He grinned, took Misty’s reins from Sara and led both animals into the cool hay-scented shade of the barn, where he proceeded to remove their saddles and bridles.

Sara, obviously a little saddle sore, limped alongside him, ready to help.

Instead of offering a belated answer to Sara’s inquiry, J.P. countered with, “What about you, Sara? You’ve been divorced for a long time. Your kids are growing up. Don’t you ever get lonely?”