There’s a moment in Last of the Mohicans that has lived inside me for decades. The younger daughter stands on the edge of a cliff, the music rising like a heartbeat. She looks at the man who intends to take her. His hand outstretched. Then back at the chasm behind her. She hesitates. She chooses. She jumps. That scene carved itself into me. That breath‑held, soul‑splitting moment is my benchmark for a great story.

I spent the Fourth of July weekend at my mountain property, soaking in the quiet. We visited the Little Grand Canyon—Utah’s spectacular hidden gem—and I wasted hours lolling around, staring at the sky. It was supposed to be a decompression weekend. Did I decompress? Not really. Because I knew what waited for me when I got home: The final edit of Book Four.