The fight was over. Galen Harper was in irons. Flynn had done everything right.

And then his father laughed.

That's the moment the song came from. Not the battle. Not the heroics. That laugh — the laugh of a man who believed he was untouchable, that the law was a joke, that nothing Flynn had built or chosen or bled for meant anything at all. And Flynn standing there with his Colt drawn, knowing one squeeze ended it. Knowing no one would question it.

I wrote "Not My Father's Son" about the war that happens inside a man before anyone else can see it. The rage that feels like justice. The prayer that comes out ragged because you're not sure God is listening and you're not sure you deserve an answer anyway. The moment when everything you swore you'd never become is standing right in front of you — and you realize the real fight was never with your father. It was always with yourself.

That's a Western story. But it's also every story. Every person who ever stood at the edge of becoming something they swore they wouldn't, with every reason in the world to cross that line and almost nobody watching.

Almost.

Beau was watching.

I don't tell you what Flynn chose. The song doesn't either. But the audiobook does.

Chapter 23 — Excerpt

The Maverick Marshal

Harper's Justice, Book 2

Arizona Territory, 1898

Flynn Harper

Around the railyard, the fight was over. Galen's men lay scattered. Some were dead, wounded, or fled into the desert. But Galen himself stood untouched near the locomotive, his revolvers still holstered. Shane approached him cautiously, shotgun ready, while I kept my Colt trained on his chest.

"Galen Harper," Shane said in his official voice, "you're under arrest for cattle rustling, conspiracy, and too many federal crimes to count."

My father's laugh echoed across the railyard. But instead of defeated rage, his eyes gleamed with malicious amusement.

"Arrest me?" He threw his head back and laughed harder. "You think this changes anything? You think arresting me matters?"

He grinned at me. "Even with you wearing that marshal badge, boy, you couldn't touch me. None of you could."

My vision narrowed until it included only Galen's face. Who'd abandoned all of us to pursue his ambitions. Who'd corrupted everything he touched, including the institutions meant to stop men like him.

And he was laughing.

My finger tightened on the trigger. One squeeze. One bullet. Swift justice, the way Galen himself had taught me.

I could end it right here. No one would question a marshal defending himself against an escaped convict. Clean. Final. Just.

"God, help me," I breathed. The prayer came out ragged, desperate. "Help me choose right."

My hand shook. Sweat ran down my face despite the morning chill. Every fiber of my being screamed to pull the trigger. To watch Galen Harper's blood soak into the Arizona dirt where he'd spilled so much innocent blood himself.

"Flynn." Shane's voice cut through the red haze. Not loud, but carrying absolute authority. "Don't. Be better than him."

I didn't look away from Galen, but Shane's words landed like a fist to my jaw, rattling awake my conscience.

"You pull that trigger, you become what he is," Shane continued, moving closer. "Doesn't matter what badge you wear. Doesn't matter how justified it feels. You kill him in cold blood, and you cross a line you can't uncross."

"He deserves it," I hissed.

"Maybe he does." Shane stepped into my peripheral vision, his presence steady as granite. "But killing him doesn't serve justice. It serves rage. And rage has been Galen's master his whole miserable life. Don't let it be yours."

The Colt trembled in my grip. My finger rested on the trigger, a hairsbreadth from ending everything. One bullet. One choice. One moment that would define who I was for the rest of my life.

Movement caught my eye. Beau, clinging to Lavinia, watching. Those innocent eyes would remember what happened here. Remember what I chose.

Copyright © 2026 R.J. Sloane