Sara, who wrote under the pen name Luke Cantrell, was the successful author of two Western thrillers, featuring a Clint Eastwood–type hero named Elliott Starr, with another book currently in the works, according to Eli.

Clearly, she did thorough research.

“Seriously, Sara? That’s your emergency?” He’d sounded irritated, but in actuality he was swamped with relief. The county under Eli’s jurisdiction was a peaceable place, for the most part, with a relatively low crime rate, considering its size, but it definitely had its share of losers and troublemakers.

Just last winter, Eli was taken by surprise in his own backyard, savagely attacked and very nearly killed.

Eli was a friend J.P. couldn’t lose, like Cord Hollister, the third member of the rowdy triad. The three of them had been tight since kindergarten, and the bond between them ran deep, like the roots of an ancient tree tangled with bedrock.

They were more than friends; they were blood brothers.

There was a silence. A very awkward one.

J.P. had looked down at his retired service dog, Trooper, standing beside him in the tall dew-dampened grass between the barn and the house, instantly alert, ready for trouble.

“It’s all right, boy,” he’d told the dog. “At ease.”

For several seconds after that, no one spoke.

Then, sounding chagrined, Sara had murmured, “Oops. I guess my enthusiasm for accuracy got away from me. I’m sorry if I worried you, J.P.”

She knew about his combat injuries, of course, and the subsequent case of PTSD that, though mostly under control, still snuck up on him at times.

As a child, Sara had been a tomboy, and she’d sometimes hung around with Eli and, by extension, J.P. and Cord. She’d garnered a lot of information along the way, having sat around campfires with her brother’s friends, fished in Painted Pony creek with them, raced barefoot down rocky country roads with them, often winning.

For a while, after his honorable discharge from the military, he’d even had a crush on her. Might even have pursued a relationship with her, if she hadn’t fallen for an outsider named Zachary Worth and eventually married him.

“I’m revising my manuscript,” Sara had explained in a burst when J.P. didn’t immediately respond to her apology. “Technically, it was due last week, and I just realized that the scenes where the characters are on horseback don’t ring true at all. I know it sounds crazy, since I’ve already written two books in the same series, but there it is. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“Okay,” he’d muttered, stretching out the word. He could let this go.

He just had to breathe.

And then breathe some more.