He had wondered why she’d come to him with the problem, instead of Cord, for instance. Cord was literally world-renowned for his methods of training both horses and riders. And then there was Emma Grant, Cord’s wife Shallie’s best friend, who ran a therapeutic riding academy and could therefore provide whatever instruction Sara needed.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sara had rattled on. “I could have gotten a few quick lessons from Cord, or from Emma. Trouble is, the Hollisters are away, visiting Shallie’s mom in Florida, and Emma has back-to-back classes booked, which leaves her with zero free time.”

“All right,” J.P. had finally capitulated. “Come on out to the ranch and we’ll saddle up and ride.”

Now, an hour later, here she was, standing in front of J.P.’s barn, clad in jeans, an old sweatshirt and boots that looked a little too new. Her dark hair, plaited into a single braid that reached almost to her slender waist, gleamed in the sunlight, and her silver-gray eyes were bright with eager determination.

With considerable help from J.P., she’d saddled Misty, a bay mare so tame that J.P.’s citified nieces, Becky and Robyn, rode her bareback whenever they visited the ranch.

His favorite gelding, Shiloh, was tacked up as well and ready to ride. Nickering and sidestepping with impatience.

“I insist on paying for your time, J.P.,” Sara said, setting her jaw. “Don’t even bother to argue the point—this is research and, as such, it’s tax-deductible.”

J.P. managed not to roll his eyes. “I’m not exactly short on money, Sara,” he pointed out, with the slightest twitch of a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

He’d received a modest settlement from the government after being badly injured in Afghanistan, back in the day, and during the long months he’d spent recovering, he’d studied the stock market in depth and found that he had an uncanny knack for picking winners. Between that and his one-third stake in the family ranch, which he managed well, he was a wealthy man.

She was about to mount Misty, one booted foot already in the stirrup, both hands gripping the saddle horn, when she turned her head to look back at him over one shoulder. She smiled and something shifted inside J.P., sweet and poignant, soft as the brush of a moth’s wing.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” she warned cheerfully. “I know you’re bullheaded, J.P. McCall, but I’m a Garrett, remember. We’re notoriously single-minded, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

J.P. gave a rumbling chuckle, but he was still shaken. He wasn’t a fanciful man, and this new element, whatever it was, left him off-balance, inwardly anyway.