The time has come for him to cowboy up...

He’s spent fifteen years at the rodeo, protecting riders when they hit the dirt. But what exactly is a bullfighter after a bull takes him down in the arena and lands him in a wheelchair? That’s what Luke Cameron’s still struggling to figure out. And if Katie Garrison, in the middle of a controversial divorce, can help him find a new kind of life...well...he’s not one to turn her down! But she’s still a married woman and her husband isn’t going to let her go without a fight. Besides, Luke may never walk again. What kind of life can he give a woman like Katie?

Luke let out a soft wolf whistle.

“Dang, girl! Why do you keep that handsome mane bundled up like an old-maid schoolmarm?”

Katie tried to gather her hair back into some order and finally settled for pulling it to hang through the back of the cap.

“My husband didn’t like me to wear it loose,” she replied. “Too casual, he said. He wanted me to cut it to look more polished.” Reflexively she rubbed the third finger on her left hand.

“Your husband sounds like a damn fool. Sorry, but that’s how it looks to me. I’m glad you stood your ground.”

“Me, too, not that it matters now.”

“Sure it does—it matters to you.” He studied her. “So...you ran away from home?”

Dear Reader,

Thanks for joining me and the Cameron family for the third novel in the Cameron’s Pride series. Luke’s Ride digs deep into the dangers cowboy bullfighters face every time the chute gate swings open and explores the true meaning of “cowboy up” both in and outside the bull-riding arena. I hope you’ll enjoy becoming better acquainted with Luke Cameron and Katie Garrison, cheering them on through their challenges and triumphs. I’d love to hear from you with comments or questions: helen@helendeprima.com.

Enjoy the ride!

Helen DePrima

Luke’s Ride

Helen DePrima

www.millsandboon.co.uk

HELEN DEPRIMA grew up on horseback on her grandfather’s farm near Louisville, Kentucky. After spending a week on a dude ranch in Colorado when she was twelve, Helen fell in love with all things Western.

She spent wonderful weeks on the same ranch during her high school summers. After graduation she headed for the University of Colorado to meet the cowboy of her dreams and live happily ever after in a home on the range. Instead she fell in love with a Jersey boy bound for vet school. She earned her degree in nursing and spent four years as a visiting nurse in northern Colorado while her husband attended Colorado State University.

After her husband graduated, they settled in New Hampshire, where Helen worked first in nursing and then rehabilitating injured and orphaned wildlife. After retirement, she turned again to earlier passions: writing and the West, particularly professional bull riding.

To my husband, for his advice and support.

Acknowledgments

To my endlessly patient and supportive agent Stephany Evans who endures my megrims with good grace.

To Melissa Maupin, my valued First Reader for her encouragement and excellent suggestions.

To Earlene Fowler for her kindness and prayer.

Love you all!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

A HAND TOUCHED his shoulder, a gentle shake at first, then rougher. “Luke, you’re dreaming—wake up!”

He gave a last shuddering gasp and opened his eyes, still seeing the great bulk of the bull hurtling toward him, the dirt slamming up toward his face. He rubbed his eyes with both hands, trying to erase the images.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m awake.”

The hand shifted from his shoulder to his wrist as Betsy Fulton, his favorite night nurse at Hill Country Rehab, stepped from behind him to the side of his bed. Smart gal—he’d been known to strike out in the nightmare’s grip, and from the hips up he was still quick and strong as a mountain lion.

Nights were always bad. All his life, Luke Cameron had worked hard and played harder, able to sleep like a healthy animal. Now he dreaded the hours after the bustle died down in the unit and he dawdled over dessert and coffee—decaf only after 4:00 p.m.—as long as anyone would hang around to gab. Eventually the night staff would chase him to his room, citing the benefits of a normal sleep-wake cycle. Alone in his bed, he fought off sleep with its dreams of running and leaping, laughing with his fellow bullfighters in the face of danger, only to wake pinned to his bed by the weight of his useless legs.

“Damn sirens,” he said, wiping the sweat of terror from his face with a shaking hand. They didn’t freak him out in the daytime, but the banshee wail of any emergency vehicle grabbed him by the throat in his sleep.

He’d been transported by ambulance twice before during his career as a rodeo bullfighter, but he’d been out cold both times, coming to in the ER or the recovery room following surgery. This go-round, he’d been awake and aware every second—the grittiness of arena dirt between his teeth and the explosion of pain in his lower spine, trying to drag himself to safety using his elbows and then Doc Barnett’s voice asking if he could move his legs. Followed by the howl of the siren as the ambulance rushed him to the nearest trauma center.

Betsy sponged his face with a cool cloth. “I thought you might need company—a fire truck just went by. I guess you won’t be hearing sirens much when you get home.”

“Not hardly,” he said. “We’re the last spread on a dead-end road. Somebody gets hurt, we load ’em up and haul them to meet the paramedics. My dad had a heart attack a while back with a blizzard blowing in. My stepmom drove him an hour to the hospital with the roads closing down behind her. He probably wouldn’t have made it if she’d waited for help to reach them.”

Betsy flipped his pillow and filled his cup with ice water from the carafe on his nightstand. “I bet you’ll be glad to get back to the wide-open spaces.”

“You’re right about that, darlin’.” He could have gone from the hospital in Oklahoma City to a rehab facility closer to his family, but the trip from Oklahoma halfway across Texas to Austin, still immobilized in a body cast, had been grueling enough. Hill Country Rehab was Doc Barnett’s home base. Every athlete involved in professional bull riding, cowboy or bullfighter, trusted Doc to deliver the best possible result.

Luke wasn’t at all sure he was ready to leave. Here was security and a hand to hold in the night when the nightmares struck. He would hate showing that kind of weakness to his family except maybe to his father’s wife, Shelby, who rarely put a foot wrong dealing with emotions. But he’d wanted to adjust to his new reality away from his family’s well-meaning concern. He’d healed as much as he was going to, had mastered all the skills the therapists could teach him. Doc had told him bluntly his odds of walking again were slim at best even with the bone fragments teased from his spinal cord and rods stabilizing his lower back. Maybe Doc was right, but Luke had never been one to take much stock in the voice of authority.

* * *

IN SPITE OF his interrupted sleep, Luke was in the solarium at dawn watching, for the last time, as the sun came up across the Texas hills. Tomorrow morning he’d be somewhere in New Mexico and then in Colorado by nightfall the next day. He’d gone home beat up more than once, but always before he’d had a decent expectation of complete recovery.

Betsy’s reflection appeared in the window behind his. “I was all set to bring you breakfast in bed your last morning with us, but you sneaked out again,” she said. “Trying to make me look bad?”

From the time he was six or seven he’d groused about rolling out of bed before daybreak on the ranch; now he took a perverse pleasure in getting himself up and dressed before anyone came to help him.

“Gotta do as much for myself as I can,” he said. “I won’t have you around to baby me after today.”

“I’m sure your folks will take good care of you. Will you be staying with them?”

He shrugged. “For now, till I get my feet on the ground.” He gave a short laugh. “So to speak.”

“Did you have your own place before the accident?”

“Darlin’, it’s a family ranch—we don’t commute to work. I live at the main house, and my brother built a cabin half a mile up the creek when he got married. Maybe that’s what I’ll do once I figure out what kind of modifications I’ll need.”

He dreaded being dependent on his folks. Even more, he hated the thought of being useless—dead weight, like his legs.

He pivoted his wheelchair and headed toward the door. “You can help me pack. If I know Dad, he’ll be ready to roll as soon as I get my final briefing from Doc Barnett.” He propelled his chair down the hall with Betsy following but offering no help.

Sure enough, Jake Cameron, Shelby and Dr. Barnett were waiting for him when he returned from breakfast.

“Vacation’s over,” Doc said, peering at Luke over his gold-rimmed half-glasses. “I’m kicking you out.”

Luke snorted. “Some vacation—I trained harder here than I ever did for dodging bulls.” Images flashed through his mind of himself and his fellow bullfighters performing their split-second choreography to lure away a ton and a half of bucking bull from the cowboy rolling in the dirt. Even with a couple serious injuries, he’d stayed ahead of the game almost fifteen years until the odds finally caught up with him.

“Any last-minute instructions?” Jake asked. “Anything we shouldn’t let him do?”

“He can do whatever he wants,” Doc said. “He’ll take some falls, but he knows how to take care of himself. The bull stepped on his back, not on his head.”

He turned to Luke. “I’ve faxed outpatient orders to the PT department in Durango—you can set up appointments once you get home.”

“A visiting nurse came out to the ranch,” Jake said. “She said Luke should be fine with the changes we made downstairs for Tom that time the bull fell with him.”

Dr. Barnet nodded. “I figured you folks would be able to manage.” He turned to Luke. “I’m sending your records to the University of Colorado School of Medicine. I know Denver’s a haul from your corner of the state, but they’re doing some great research on spinal injuries—I hope you’ll get in touch with them.” He handed him a card. “Here’s the contact number.”

“Maybe.” Luke stuffed the card in his shirt pocket. Or maybe not. He’d had all privacy stripped from him in the hospital; he didn’t much feel like becoming a case number in a research study.

As if he could read minds, Doc said, “I can’t promise you’d get any personal benefit, but you could add to their data, maybe help other patients in the future.”

Luke flushed. “Sure, I get that.”

He switched gears. “Okay if I ride?” If he could get a horse between his knees, he could be of some use on the ranch. After all the years he’d complained about mending fences and clearing irrigation ditches, now he’d give up years of his life to stand knee-deep in icy snowmelt.

“Okay with me—riding would be good for your balance and core strength. But can you?” Doc shrugged. “You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

Luke couldn’t imagine hanging on to his own cutting horse. Jigsaw had great cow sense but was so quick he’d left Luke sitting in the dirt more than once. Old Sadie, maybe, but she stood over sixteen hands and had gaits like a truck with square wheels.

“We’re on it,” Shelby said.

Count on Shelby to put him on horseback. She’d find him the right mount and train the crap out of it.

“Sure you don’t want to go home by plane?” Jake asked. “It’ll be two long days on the road. I can fly with you and let Shelby drive the van home.”

“I can’t,” Luke said. He’d flown all over the US and Canada, to Australia and Brazil as well for bull-riding events, but the thought of being wheeled through the airport made his throat close up in near panic. Even worse would be the ordeal of security screening. Old ladies and kids in wheelchairs got hassled—they’d take a guy his age apart from his bones out. He’d never backed down from a challenge, but he wasn’t ready for this one.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

“I’ll miss you,” Betsy said and planted a kiss on his mouth, something he’d been angling for ever since he landed here three months ago.

“You could come with me,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist.

“I am so tempted, but my husband wouldn’t care for the idea.” She shook hands with Jake and Shelby. “Take care of this boy—he’s one of the good ones.”

Luke grabbed his gear bag off the floor and settled it on his lap. “Let’s hit the trail.”

CHAPTER TWO

KATHRYN GARRISON SHIVERED, chilled to the bone in her navy wool suit, the only outfit in her closet appropriate for a funeral. The calendar might say spring, but the March wind off Long Island Sound still held the bite of winter. She leaned closer to her husband, wishing Brad might think to put his arm around her shoulders, but he was staring toward the mourners amassed on the far side of her mother’s grave.

She dragged her attention back to Reverend Blackburn’s words—no more suffering, gone to a better place, together again someday—breathing past the hollow ache in her chest. She didn’t begrudge a single moment of caring for her mother, but her release from twenty-four-hour nursing duties left her unsteady, as if she had entered a sudden calm after trudging forever against a pitiless gale.

Maybe some sense of normalcy would return tonight when she slept in her own bed instead of napping on the foldout sofa in her mother’s room. She had stayed in her mother’s house two extra nights caring for Blondie, Mama’s old spaniel. Brad didn’t like dogs and Blondie didn’t like Brad, growling every time she saw him. After the funeral Blondie would live out her days with Aunt Joan, who had given Mama the puppy twelve years ago.

Another cold gust buffeted the canopy over the grave. A few more hours and Kathryn could return to her own home where a long, hot soak in the jetted tub would drive the chill from her bones. Maybe Brad would join her and they would lie together in each other’s arms for the first time in months. Tomorrow she would start gathering the threads of her life as it had been before her mother’s diagnosis of advanced ovarian cancer only four months ago.

Brad nudged her and she realized Reverend Blackburn had stopped speaking.

Kathryn stood and took the first yellow rose from the florist’s box to lay on her mother’s casket. After the rest of the roses had been placed by the other mourners, she was free to return to the limousine with its soft seats and comforting warmth.

Later, she would come back alone to bid farewell, although she and Mama had said their goodbyes over the past months. Elizabeth Gabriel had endured the roller coaster of crisis and remission with lupus for nearly twenty years before the cancer had taken her down quickly. Kathryn had loved her mother dearly, but she was glad the ordeal was over for both of them.

One more trial: the obligatory post-funeral luncheon. Brad’s old secretary, recently retired, would have booked a room at a local restaurant, but Brad’s personal assistant had arranged the event at the country club. All Kathryn had to do was nod and smile as friends and relatives shared their memories of her mother.

The limousine pulled up at the canopied entrance of the Tudor-style mansion built by a Connecticut Valley tobacco baron, now home to the Rolling Hills Golf and Tennis Club. Kathryn followed Brad through the carved doors, half expecting to be stopped and ejected as an intruder. She was hopeless at tennis, and if she wanted to hike across rolling hills, she would rather carry binoculars and a camera than trundle a bag of golf clubs behind her. She understood Brad’s explanations that big contracts could be landed on the links and afterward in the bar, but every function she was obliged to attend was an ordeal.

She followed him to a private dining room overlooking the golf course, still drab in its winter brown. A willowy blonde wearing a black pencil skirt with an ivory silk blouse looked up from a clipboard and hurried over to meet them.

“Mrs. Garrison, I’m Britt Cavendish, Mr. Garrison’s personal assistant. Please accept my condolences—Mr. Garrison has told me what a wonderful woman your mother was and how devoted you’ve been, caring for her.”

Kathryn had never met Britt, although she’d spoken to her on the phone a few times.

“Thank you for taking care of the luncheon arrangements, Britt,” she said. They exchanged a few more pleasantries and then Britt excused herself to tell the headwaiter the hot dishes could be brought out to the buffet table.

Kathryn turned to Brad, but he had drifted away and stood in conversation with a couple she recognized from club dinners, although she wasn’t sure of their names—Vera and Charles something, she thought.

At last, it was over. Tomorrow or the next day she would return to her mother’s house to restore the parlor from sickroom to its original function, but tonight she wanted only peace and pampering and uninterrupted sleep.

She was nearly stumbling with fatigue by the time they left the country club. Brad pulled his Mercedes into the garage and unlocked the door leading to the kitchen. All was in perfect order, with gleaming surfaces and quietly purring appliances. Kathryn always kept the house up with no outside help, but Brad had gotten a weekly cleaning service during the months she had been caring for her mother. She had made quick trips home—forty miles each way—to pick up clothes or books she wanted to read during the long nights. Now she stood in the middle of the room as if she were a visitor.

“I guess I’ll have a cup of tea,” she said, mostly to break the silence.

“I’ll make it for you,” Brad said, slipping off his suit jacket and loosening his tie. “You can pour me a Scotch.”

She watched him move around the kitchen with assurance, putting the kettle on the eight-burner Viking range, taking a mug and tea bags from the cabinet. He’d learned to do more for himself while she’d been gone, although she suspected he’d eaten most of his meals out. He looked like he’d spent more hours at the gym, as well. He’d never been soft, but he appeared leaner and more muscular—younger, somehow. Apparently her absence had done him no harm.

She opened the liquor cabinet and found his favorite Scotch behind bottles of cordials and brandies she didn’t remember seeing before, probably gifts from sales reps at Christmas. His phone chimed while she was dropping ice cubes into a glass. He pulled it from his pocket and frowned before answering.

“No,” he said after listening. “I can’t make it tonight. Tell them I’ll meet them tomorrow. It’ll have to wait till then.”

She touched his arm. “Brad, go if you need to—I know the funeral arrangements have taken up a lot of your time the past few days.”

“Hold on,” he said into the phone and turned to her. “You’re sure? This deal has been simmering for weeks. These guys came up from the city with no warning—”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind. I need some time to decompress anyway. You won’t be late, will you?”

“I promise I won’t. I’ll pick up Chinese on the way home.”

He spoke into the phone again. “Tell them I can be at the office in half an hour—we can talk there or maybe go out for drinks, but I promised my wife I’d be home early.”

He picked up his jacket. “You’re sure you’re okay? I can call them back—”

She waved him toward the door. “Just go and take care of business. We can both relax better if your mind isn’t on work.”

He kissed her cheek and left.

The kettle began to whistle. She poured boiling water into a squat iron teapot and added two Earl Grey teabags, leaving it to steep while she made her way through the spacious downstairs rooms. She and Brad had occupied this house only a few years, and like the country club, she wasn’t at ease in the elegant open-concept rooms.

She did like the big soaker tub in the master bathroom. She also loved the kitchen, with its high-end appliances and acres of marble counter space, but would have enjoyed it more if she’d had a big family to cook for. An only child, she had hoped for sons and daughters with Brad’s blond, college-boy good looks or her own chestnut hair and freckles, but it hadn’t happened. Maybe it was time to find out why or why not. And there was always adoption. Thirty-four wasn’t too old to start a family.

She returned to the kitchen and set dishes and candles on the breakfast table before carrying her steaming mug upstairs to place on the edge of the tub. The tensions of the long day dissolved while she sipped her tea and relaxed in the swirling, lavender-scented water.

She had set the timer on the tub jets for twenty minutes so she wouldn’t miss the sound of the garage door opening if Brad returned early. She wanted to greet him in the kitchen, ready to pour his drink. When the bubbles died down, she climbed out and padded to her closet, taking out a silky robe the bronzy green of new willow leaves. Brad had bought it for her two birthdays ago, calling her his Celtic princess. She brushed her hair until it shone and returned to the kitchen just as she heard his car door slam.

When he walked through the door carrying a takeout bag from the China Dragon, she wrapped her arms around his waist under his jacket and gave him the kiss she’d been saving for months.

“Hey!” he said with a laugh when the kiss ended. “Maybe I should have stayed away longer.”

“Not a minute longer.” She set the bag on the counter and peeled his jacket off his shoulders. She sniffed and frowned. “I must have sprayed you with my cologne while I was dressing for the funeral.” She couldn’t recall using it but couldn’t say she hadn’t. Most perfumes were too heavy and gave her a headache, but she ordered this light, woodsy fragrance from a cottage boutique on Cape Cod.

“I’ll take your suit to the cleaner’s tomorrow,” she said and hung the jacket over a chair.

They ate by candlelight almost without speaking, he nursing his Scotch and she sipping a glass of wine, before they climbed to the bedroom with their arms wrapped around each other. Kathryn laid her robe across the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and slipped between the sheets. When he joined her, she slept at last in his arms, cherished and utterly at peace.

CHAPTER THREE

LUKE REVELED IN the first few hours on the road home, almost like returning to his life before his injury. He’d taken this route dozens of times driving to and from bull-riding events, mostly with his brother at the wheel and then alone after Tom retired from competition five years ago.

After a career traveling every weekend to a different city and working on the ranch during the week, almost three months of confinement had been first cousin to a prison sentence. With his wheelchair stowed in the back of the van his dad had rented for the trip, he could lean back in the front seat and enjoy the passing scenery. The Austin suburbs gave way to countryside with armies of white wind turbines marching to the horizon. Farms petered out to rangeland; the terrain became more broken the farther west they drove. Buttes rose in the distance like tables for an extinct race of giants.

Jake was describing this spring’s relatively trouble-free calving season when the muscle spasm hit Luke. He doubled in his seat with a grunt of agony.

Jake swerved the van onto a gravelly ranch road and swiveled in alarm. “What’s happening? What can we do?”

“Gotta straighten my legs,” Luke said through gritted teeth as the agonizing cramp brought tears to his eyes. He got his door open and released his seat belt.

Shelby was beside him in an instant, helping him turn sideways and extending his legs to brace his heels on the door’s armrest. “Tell me where to rub,” she said.

“Back of my thighs.” He fumbled a medicine vial from his shirt pocket and reached a hand behind him. “Water bottle, Pop.”

Jake slapped the bottle in his hand, and Luke swallowed a capsule with one long gulp. Shelby’s strong hands had already begun to loosen the muscles. The medication to relieve the spasm would do the rest once it kicked in.

Jake patted Luke’s shoulder. “This happen often?” His voice shook.

Luke swallowed to steady his voice. “More than I like. My nerve pathways are all screwed up. Sometimes it feels like knives or broken bones, mostly when I don’t move around enough.”

“Would you like to lie down for a while?” Shelby kept rubbing. “I brought along an air mattress—I can fold down one of the rear seats so you can stretch out.”

Luke sighed. “Probably a good idea.” The attacks exhausted him, and the pill would make him drowsy, as well. “Sorry to be a bother.”

Jake’s voice cracked like a whip. “That better be the last time I hear you talk that way. You’re no more bother than your mother was with lupus.”

Luke’s chin dropped on his chest. “Sorry, Pop—it’s still a lot to get used to.”

Shelby settled Luke’s feet on the van’s running board. “I’ll have you set up in a minute. Do you need the wheelchair?”

He had driven himself like a slave during physical therapy to maintain upper-body strength; now with Shelby to guide his legs, he managed to pivot himself into the rear of the van and lie down. Jake pulled back onto the road; soon the steady hum on the tires and the muted twang of country-and-western music on the radio lulled Luke to a drowsy half wakefulness.

Random thoughts rambled through his mind—uppermost was the yearning to be home. Here he was, thirty-six years old and totally screwed—no wife or kids, unsure of his future. Though he was the older son, he’d never shared the same passionate devotion to the ranch, to the whole family tradition, his dad and brother did. Now his heart reached toward Cameron’s Pride like a wounded animal seeking refuge in its den. Maybe he’d walk again, maybe he wouldn’t, but he understood for the first time how generations of Camerons had endured by drawing strength from the green valleys and red-rock ravines.

The van slowed, breaking into his reverie, and gravel grated under the tires. He jacked himself up on his elbows as Jake pulled into the parking lot of a low adobe-front building with a simple sign above the door: Ana’s Kitchen. He knew the place; he and Tom had stopped here for meals.

The side door of the van slid open. “We checked this out on our way to Austin,” Shelby said. “Good food and a wheelchair-accessible restroom.”

Luke’s heart dropped like a shot bird, jerking him to the reality he’d now be planning his life around his disability. He settled his black Stetson on his head and eased into his wheelchair, rolling into the dim interior of the restaurant while his dad held the door open.

A round-faced hostess with black hair in a sleek braid showed them to a table that would accommodate his chair. They all ordered coffee and studied the menu. The food at the rehab center hadn’t been bad, but Luke’s mouth watered at the prospect of good Southwest food with plenty of beef and beans, cheese and green chili. And real fresh-made tortillas—he could see a skinny kid in the kitchen slapping out dough into thin circles.

Luke was trying to decide between pork enchiladas and carne asada when he became aware of a little boy, maybe six, standing beside his chair. He turned with a smile. He liked kids, had been thinking lately about having his own, especially with his younger brother’s two always underfoot at the home ranch. Fat chance of that now. Doc Barnett had said there was no physical reason he couldn’t father a child, but who would want him like this, a broken man?

“Hey, pard,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Danny, sir.” The child held out a tiny paw. “My daddy’s got a chair like yours because he’s a soldier and he got blown up in the war. Did you get blown up, too?”

“No, I got stepped on by a bull,” Luke said, shaking the boy’s hand. “I’m a cowboy.”

Danny’s eyes got big. “A real cowboy?”

“Pretty real.” At least he used to be—who knew what he’d be in the future?

A young blonde woman appeared from the direction of the restrooms and hurried over to the table. “I’m so sorry Danny’s been bothering you,” she said.

“He’s no bother,” Luke said. “Danny, your daddy’s a hero—he’s lucky to have you for his top hand.” He touched his hat brim. “Thank your husband for his service, ma’am, and thank you, too.”

She nodded, tears in her eyes, and led her son to their table.

Jake and Shelby sat in silence during the exchange. Now Jake surprised Luke by reaching across the table to shake his hand. “I reckon you made that little guy’s day.”

Luke shrugged. “Little enough I could say. A lot of veterans have it lots worse than me—it’s just my legs that don’t work.”

He’d tried to keep his relative good fortune in mind through the drudgery of learning new ways to manage daily activities, functions he’d never given a thought to in the past. At least he had full control of his body except for his legs, and he planned to keep fighting against all logic to walk again even if his chances were slim.

* * *

BY LATE AFTERNOON the next day, Luke regretted his decision not to fly. Jake and Shelby had done everything in their power to make the trip comfortable for him, but the hours in the van and the effort of personal care in the motel’s impersonal setting exhausted him more than his rigorous exercises at the rehab center.

“We have to make a quick stop to pick Lucy up,” Jake said as they approached Durango. “She’s going to drive the van back tomorrow.”

“Lucy’s in Colorado? I thought she was acting in a play on Broadway.”

“Off Broadway,” Shelby said. “And the play folded. She’s going to do summer stock in New Hampshire starting in June, but right now she’s home managing the Silver Queen. Marge had double knee replacements last month.”

“Ouch,” Luke said. “Not fun.” He’d had both knees rebuilt after tendon injuries. And Marge Bowman was no spring chicken, although she always seemed ageless. “Lucy’s running the whole show?”

“Pretty much,” Shelby said. “Marge decided they would do just breakfast and lunch, so Lucy moved into the apartment upstairs and opens in the morning. Jo and I have been pitching in for breakfast until the regular waitress shows up to work lunch.”

Jake double-parked across the street from the Victorian storefront with Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium in ornate gold letters across the wide window. He honked the horn; a few minutes later a slim young woman wearing jeans and a leather jacket came out carrying an insulated bag.

Lucy Cameron climbed into the back seat beside Shelby and leaned forward to kiss Luke’s cheek. “Hey, big bro—good to have you back.”

He reached over his shoulder to ruffle her ruddy curls. “Good to see you, too, Red.”

She slapped his hand away, a ritual performed many times. “Don’t call me Red.” She settled in and latched her seat belt. “I brought chicken fricassee and biscuits plus a peach pie, enough for a small army.”

Shelby tapped Jake’s shoulder. “Home, driver.”

Half an hour later they rolled under the Cameron’s Pride ranch sign, and Luke sighed with relief. He would have kissed the ground if he’d been able to get up off his face afterwards.

He noticed at once that modifications had been made for his benefit. A blacktop parking pad had replaced the graveled area by the back door and a ramp sloped up along the side of the house. He swung himself into his chair and wheeled up the ramp and into the spacious kitchen.

By the time Lucy had unpacked the food, Luke heard his brother Tom’s voice outside, answered by his wife, Joanna. The kitchen door slammed and running footsteps clattered on the wood floor. Luke locked the wheels on his chair just as a small red-haired whirlwind flung herself at him.

“Uncle Luke, you’re home! I missed you! I lost a tooth, see?” His seven-year-old niece, Missy, stretched her mouth in a monkey’s grin to demonstrate. “Can I ride in your chair with you?”

“Sure you can, Shortcake.” He pulled her more securely into his lap as her four-year-old brother, JJ, pounded into the kitchen and scrambled up to join her.

Dang, it was good to be home!

CHAPTER FOUR

A HOWLING MARCH wind woke Kathryn during the night. She shivered and snuggled closer to Brad to sleep again.

The morning’s first light revealed at least six inches of fresh snow covering grass that had begun to show hints of green. Flakes still swirled, almost hiding the woods behind the house. Judging from the low hum of the standby generator, power lines must be down.

Brad strode into the kitchen dressed in the clothes he wore to construction sites and pulled boots and a heavy coat from the closet. “No time for breakfast,” he said. “I need to get to the office. We’ve got projects in trouble from Stamford to Providence.” He slammed through the door to the garage and Kathryn heard the roar of the snowblower.

She watched from the front window while he blasted a path down the driveway and then returned to gun his Mercedes out onto the unplowed street.

She sighed and returned to the kitchen. She had scarcely filled her mug with coffee when she heard the garage door opening again. Brad stamped in, running his hand through his hair so that it stood in stiff spikes like an angry cat’s fur.

“There’s a big pine down across the end of the street,” he said. “No telling when the town will get around to moving it.”

“The downside of a secluded country setting,” she said, hoping to defuse his anger and frustration. Theirs was one of only six houses on a cul-de-sac bordering a conservation area. Although Kathryn wasn’t fond of the house, she loved the easy access to the woods and swamp just out their back door.

“At least you’ll have time now for a decent breakfast,” she said. “Pancakes or waffles? And I still have some of that good bacon we got from Vermont.”

He scowled but then took a deep breath. “Waffles, I guess.”

“Waffles coming up.” She took his coat from him, pausing to pat his shoulder as she carried it to the closet. “Being marooned could be kind of fun.”

The scowl returned, with interest. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I used to know, when I was working for you and your dad,” she said, stung by his curt reply. Since Brad’s father had retired and an architect had joined the firm, she didn’t feel welcome in the new glossy chrome-and-glass offices. “Now I’m not so sure.”

He stared at her for a long moment before turning away.

She prepared breakfast in silence. He caught her wrist as she set the plate before him. “Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you. This snow has hit at the worst possible time. We’ll have to wait till the ground dries out before we can start excavating or the heavy equipment will bog down. We’ll be behind before the season even gets underway.”

The spring construction start-up was always stressful, but a mini break like this would be welcome. Kathryn had been working hard to ready her mother’s house for its next occupants. She couldn’t bring herself to put it on the market. Instead she had offered it for the cost of upkeep to her cousin Greg Gabriel, newly out of the Marines—little enough to thank him for his service.

She bent and kissed Brad’s cheek. “We’ve both been under a strain,” she said. “Enjoy your waffles while they’re hot. We’ll hope the snow lets up and they get the road cleared soon.”

The snow persisted most of the day, and they heard no chain saws working on the downed tree. Brad paced laps around the kitchen island, barking instructions into his phone and muttering curses at the end of each call.

Kathryn cooked Brad’s favorite dinner, pot roast from his mother’s recipe. She held him close in the night but lay awake sad and frustrated when she wasn’t able to penetrate his angry preoccupation.

When the town plow finally ground its way up their street late the next day, she was glad to see Brad roar out of the driveway. Once he resolved all the construction crises, maybe she could talk him into a brief getaway, a few days on Cape Cod or at an inn on the Maine coast. She laughed at her fantasy—she wouldn’t be able to pry him loose until construction wound down in late fall.

She saw little of Brad during the next week. He left the house early and returned late, usually eating dinner somewhere between job sites and falling into bed with only a few words to her.

She filled her days with sorting through the contents of her mother’s house. The work might seem a sad occupation, but she rediscovered forgotten memories, taking comfort that her mother’s suffering was over.

Kathryn’s last chore was rearranging the top floor of her grandparents’ Victorian to accommodate any furniture Greg and his wife Allie might want to store there to make room for their own possessions. The attic had always been a magical place for her. When she was very small, she had played with her dolls under the south-facing window while her mother hung bundles of herbs to dry under the rafters. On Kathryn’s sixth birthday, her mother had placed an old bridge lamp and a bookcase beside a shabby wing chair to create a private reading nook. From her aerie, Kathryn could look out into the top of the copper beech in the backyard. Now in early spring the budding branches framed a view of the old carriage house still holding her mother’s gardening tools and where her father had restored a succession of antique autos and refinished secondhand furniture.

She began sorting through the trunks and boxes shoved under the eaves. In a camel-back trunk she found a white tin bread box decorated with red and yellow tulip decals. Inside were letters tied in bundles with the gardener’s twine from long-ago herb swags. Arranged in chronological order beginning nearly twenty years earlier, each bore the letterhead Cameron’s Pride, Hesperus, Colorado and were signed by Annie Cameron.

Kathryn began reading the earliest one.

Dear Elizabeth,

Too bad we met under such sorry circumstances, but I’m glad you felt well enough to travel to the Grand Canyon. Like you, I’m always grateful when the Red Wolf lets me do something I’ve looked forward to. Thanks for letting me know what a great time you and your husband had the rest of your trip.

She laid the letter down. Her parents had taken a driving trip to the Southwest her freshman year in college. Her mother’s lupus had flared up, landing her in the hospital in Albuquerque, but a simple adjustment in medication had solved the problem. She must have met Annie Cameron there. Her mother often spoke of her struggle with lupus erythematosus as “fighting off the Red Wolf.” Had she thought up the expression or adopted it from Annie?

The afternoon sunlight was beginning to fade, so Kathryn switched on the old lamp and continued reading. Annie’s letters carried her into a foreign world of cattle and horses, mountains and desert, introducing her husband, Jake, their young daughter, Lucy, and their sons, Luke and Tom, both involved with the sport of bull riding. Annie hadn’t written much about her illness except in one of the last letters, telling Kathryn’s mother the disease had damaged her kidneys to the point she needed a transplant.

My sons are mad at me because I won’t accept a kidney from either of them. I don’t know whose job is more dangerous, Tom riding bulls or Luke fighting them, but I can’t leave either of them with only one kidney in case they get injured. Luckily my Jake is a good match, so he draws the short straw—he would move heaven and earth to help me.

The sun had almost set by the time Kathryn unfolded the last letter, dated more than ten years ago. Jake Cameron had written a brief note saying his wife had died from complications following the kidney transplant. Tears filled Kathryn’s eyes for Annie, for her own mother’s long decline and for the suffering both women had endured.

Kathryn wondered if Annie’s family would like to have these letters, this wonderful chronicle of their lives, but she didn’t recall seeing the name Cameron in her mother’s address book. Then she remembered she had given her mother a new book five Christmases ago; inactive addresses wouldn’t have been transferred. Maybe she could call the post office in Hesperus, Colorado, for an exact mailing address or check online. She carried the letters downstairs, thinking to show them to Brad.

The attic had been warm enough as heat rose from the lower floors, but the kitchen seemed unnaturally chilly. She turned up the thermostat and heard no answering hum from the cellar. Frowning, she peered down the stairs. She’d had the furnace serviced in the fall, but it was almost twenty years old. A quick inspection showed no flicker of flame from the boiler.

She sighed and dialed the heating contractor’s number.

“Not till tomorrow morning?” she said after describing the problem. “I guess that’s no big deal—the temperature won’t drop enough for the pipes to freeze.”

Next she called Brad. “The furnace just quit,” she said. “Someone’s coming over first thing in the morning. I don’t know how early that might be, so I guess I’ll sleep here. I’m sorry—I had a nice dinner planned.”

“Don’t worry about it. Looks like we might have a thunderstorm, and I know you don’t like to drive in the rain. I’ll grab something to eat and put in a couple more hours at work. You sure you’ll be warm enough?”

“I’ll be fine. I bought an electric heater for Mom’s room.” She’d always felt cold. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

“I may be late,” he said. “The Springfield project has turned into a hairball. I’ll be there all day, maybe into the evening.”

“Just don’t drive too tired,” she said. “I’ll have supper waiting.”

She ended the call and took a can of chili from the pantry. While it heated, she finished the list she’d been compiling for her cousin—whom to call for plumbing and electrical problems, who delivered oil and repaired the furnace, how to jiggle the light switch beside the front door to turn on the porch light. Greg could call her with questions, of course, but she wanted to make his occupancy go as smoothly as possible.

She finished her meal and was peering into the freezer in search of ice cream when a knock sounded at the back door. She switched on the porch light and recognized Frank Dutton, who had serviced the furnace ever since its installation.

“I saw Gabriel on my work order for tomorrow,” he said. “I figured I’d stop on my way home and see if this might be an easy fix—I didn’t want to leave you ladies in the cold overnight.”

“Bless you, Frank,” Kathryn said. “Although there’s just me here—Mom died a few weeks ago.”

His face screwed up in distress. “Say, I didn’t hear about that. I’m sure sorry—she was a nice lady, always sent me off with a piece of her applesauce cake.”

He hefted his tool bag. “Let’s take a look at that furnace. It’s got some years on it, but you’ve always kept it serviced—should be good for a while longer.”

He clumped down the stairs, and soon Kathryn heard clanking and banging. A short time later the whoosh of the burner floated up the stairs. Frank emerged from the cellar wiping his hands on a square of red cloth.

“Good as new,” he said. “It was just a clogged valve. You selling the house?”

“Not any time soon,” Kathryn said. “My cousin just got out of the Marines, so he and his wife are moving in to take care of it. Maybe they’ll want to buy it sometime down the road.”

“Good for you. I’m a Navy man myself, but the jarheads deserve all the perks they can get. Just tell him to ask for me if the furnace gives him any trouble.”

The house was deathly quiet after Frank’s service van rolled down the driveway. Kathryn shivered. She wasn’t afraid to stay in the house alone, but announcing her mother’s death again had brought home its reality, the utter finality, as nothing had done before. She couldn’t bear to be alone tonight. She needed the warmth and comfort of her husband’s arms.

Only eight o’clock—she could be home in less than an hour. She locked the back door and set the box containing Annie Cameron’s letters on the front seat of her Volvo. The air was heavy with the threat of rain, but the first drops held off until she pulled into her own driveway.

A dim light shone through the front window from the kitchen and another from their bedroom—Brad was probably already upstairs, watching TV or getting ready for bed. If she didn’t open the garage door, she could slip in quietly and surprise him.

She stepped out of her shoes in the entryway and padded barefoot into the kitchen. A soft rumble overhead told her the tub jets were running. Brad must be relaxing after a hard day, although he seldom used the big soaker tub without her.

She decided to carry two glasses of wine upstairs and join him. She crossed to the wine keeper and picked up the cork already lying on the counter; he must have taken a bottle up with him. When she reached toward the overhead rack, she saw two glasses were missing. Puzzled, she looked around for the missing glass, and then her heart stopped before beginning again in slow painful rhythm. A woman’s jacket hung on a chair in the breakfast nook. A purse and scarf lay on the table.

She set the cork down like an unexploded bomb precisely where she had found it and lifted the scarf. A whiff of her own cologne struck her like a slap in the face. The name on the cards she found in the purse came almost as an anticlimax: Britt Cavendish.

Moving without conscious volition, she drifted to the stairs. She froze with a foot on the first step when she heard Brad’s laugh answered by a woman’s giggle. The grumble of the tub jets ceased.

Kathryn fled through the kitchen as if pursued by demons; she would never be able to live with the sight awaiting her at the top of the stairs. Into her shoes, out through the rain to her car. She had enough presence of mind to put the gear into Neutral, letting the vehicle roll down to the street before starting the engine.

The downpour lashed at the windshield all the way to her mother’s house while lightning streaked from heaven to earth. Some benevolent angel guided her safely—in her present state, she didn’t care if she lived or died.

She sat in the driveway while raindrops ran down the car windows like endless weeping. Thunder boomed and lightning illuminated the black sky in strobe-like bursts while she sat dry-eyed, wounded too deep for tears.

Brad had been her first and only lover—she had never considered settling for a cheap thrill outside marriage. She might have understood if he’d said he’d been lonely with her gone so much, that he’d fallen to temptation in a single lapse that would never be repeated. Instead his betrayal was deliberate, calculated and ongoing. As the ultimate insult, he had ordered her special perfume for another woman—maybe for many women—to divert suspicion.

By the time the storm moved on, her course was set, her resolve hard as the rocky New England shoreline. She laid her hand on the box containing Annie Cameron’s letters, a testament to faithfulness and courage, before entering her mother’s house. That night she slept as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

CHAPTER FIVE

A HORSE’S NEIGH and the slam of a car door woke Luke before dawn. The bedside clock read five thirty, the usual beginning of a workday on the ranch. Great—now his dad would be on his case for goofing off when he should be halfway to the barn or at least sitting down to breakfast.

He started to swing his legs out of bed before reality flooded back in a bitter wave. He flopped down and considered his options: hole up and feel sorry for himself or get dressed and try to make himself useful.

He pulled on jeans and socks before propping himself up on the edge of the bed, waiting to make sure of his balance before reaching for a shirt. He had just transferred to his wheelchair when he heard a soft knock at his door.

“You up, Luke?” Shelby asked. “Ready for some French toast?”

“Five minutes,” he said and dragged on his boots before heading into the bathroom.

He wheeled into place at the kitchen table and accepted the mug of strong New Orleans coffee Shelby poured for him.

“Man, I’ve missed this,” he said. “Makes other coffee taste kind of sad.”

“I told your dad to stop ordering that for me when the blizzard almost wiped us out,” she said, “but he bought it anyway.”

“You deserve it, lady—you kept us all going through that trouble.”

She waved his words aside. “You feel like working today?”

“You need me to peel potatoes?”

“Later, maybe. You know Cinnamon, that roan filly I started last fall? Something about her trot feels off to me. I’d like you to ride behind me and tell me what you see. You’ve got the best eye in the family.”

Luke snorted. “I doubt I can keep up in my wheelchair.”

“I don’t expect you to. You ready to meet your new legs?”

He plowed through his breakfast in record time and drained his coffee before donning his hat and denim jacket.

“Lead on,” he said. “Time for me to get back in the saddle.”

Out the back door he discovered a narrow blacktop walk now led to the barn. The dirt floor inside had been raked smooth and rolled flat; he could propel his chair almost as easily as on the paved surface. Later he might fret over the extra trouble everyone had taken for his benefit, but now his eagerness to be active overrode all other thoughts.

Getting on a horse would go a long way toward making him feel like more than half a man.

He followed Shelby to the side door opening to the horse pasture and halted beside her as she gave a piercing whistle. Several horses paused in their grazing, but one lifted its head and started toward the barn.

“Whoa! That’s my ride?” A flashy Appaloosa gelding, dark chestnut with dramatic white markings on his rump, halted in front of Shelby and dropping his muzzle into her hand.

“I knew you’d fix me up,” Luke said, “maybe with a nice old bombproof mare, but I didn’t expect anything like this.”

“I got him from a rescue in Utah,” Shelby said. “His owner died and left them a chunk of money if they’d take special care placing his horse. He’s been used for hunting, so he’s not likely to blow up with you.”

“This guy have a name?”

“Luke, meet Duke. Duke, here’s your new person.”

“Duke and Luke—that’s kind of much. How about Dude? He sure is one handsome dude.”

The gelding dipped his head into Luke’s lap, inviting a scratch under his mane.

“Give him this.” Shelby handed Luke a piece of hard candy. “He’s a sucker for butterscotch.”

“Whatever you say, stepmama. Just tell me what to do.” Luke fed Dude the candy and was rewarded with a gentle nudge.

“I’ll tack him up for you this time, but you’ll be able to do it yourself with a little practice.”

She walked into the barn with the horse following like a well-trained dog. He stood in the passageway without hitching while she curried dust and loose grass from his still winter-shaggy coat.

“Here’s how you’ll do it,” she said, and tapped Dude’s foreleg. The horse slowly collapsed, folding all four legs beneath him. She lifted a saddle from a tack chest beside the wall and set it in place, steadying it while Dude stood again to let her fasten the cinch. He ducked his head into the hackamore she held out.

“Dude’s trained to go bridleless,” she said, “but you’ll probably feel more secure with reins until you guys get to know each other.” She tapped the foreleg and the horse lay down again.

“Think you can get aboard?”

“I can sure as heck try,” Luke said, eagerness running through his veins for the first time since his wreck. He pivoted his chair parallel to Dude’s side and locked the wheels. The saddle was almost level with his seat, allowing him to slide on sidesaddle and drag his right leg across the horn.

Dude lay still as a statue except for turning his head to watch.

“Well, all right!” Luke knew he was grinning like a fool, excited as a teenager with his driver’s license. “Where’s his gas pedal?”

“A couple things first,” Shelby said. “I wasn’t sure how steady you’d be, so I’ve added seat belts for your legs.” She pulled straps with Velcro tabs from under the saddle skirts and snugged them across Luke’s thighs. “I doubt you’ll need these once your balance improves, but I don’t want you landing on your head in the meanwhile.”

She fitted his feet into the stirrups and secured them with wide elastic bands. “Now you can tell him, ‘Dude, up.’”

Luke grabbed the saddle horn with both hands to hide their shaking. “Dude, up.”

The horse snorted and scrambled to his feet.

Luke laughed in sheer pleasure: he was riding, actually riding, even if he did have to be tied to his saddle. For the first time since his injury, he felt close to normal.

“Take him out into the pasture while I saddle Cinnamon,” Shelby said, and turned away to lead a strawberry roan filly from a box stall.

Luke guided Dude out the side door, grateful for Shelby’s matter-of-fact lack of hovering. He reined the horse in easy circles, pleased to discover he felt steady in the saddle with no hint of vertigo. He could work—he could ride fence lines, he could check mineral tubs and help move cattle between pastures.

Shelby came out of the barn a few minutes later mounted on the roan filly and they rode side by side to a level track cutting across the pasture.

“I’ll jog ahead so you can watch her gait and see if you can spot any problem. Dude has gaits like glass—he should be an easy ride for you.”

“Shelby, I’d marry you if you weren’t already married to Dad.”

She laughed. “Just help me figure out Cinnamon’s problem.” She rode ahead of him at a slow trot.

Dude followed in a smooth gait no harder to sit than a walk. Luke reveled in the freedom of movement for a moment before concentrating on Shelby’s mount.

“She’s going a little short on the off hind leg,” he called to her.

Shelby reined in to let him catch up. “I knew it was a hind leg,” she said, “but I couldn’t tell right or left. Let me ride past you—maybe you can pinpoint exactly what’s happening.”

Luke halted Dude to the side of the track and watched while Shelby jogged by. “Got it,” he said. “She’s going stiff on the pastern. Just a little, but that’s what you’re feeling.”

Shelby rejoined him. “You just earned your keep for today. We’ll take it easy on the way back.”

Luke’s heart dropped at the prospect of returning to the bondage of his wheelchair. “What’s Dad doing? Maybe we could swing by where he’s working.”

“He rode over to the Bucks’ this morning to help Oscar enlarge his corral.”

“Say, I could ride over and say hi to Auntie Rose.” Not exactly his aunt, but the matriarch of the Ute branch of the Cameron clan. “I’ve sure missed her fry bread.”

“An hour’s ride each way. You think that’s a good idea first time out?”

He sighed. “I guess not. Maybe I could stop by to see Jo and the kids on the way home.” Pretty silly, but he longed to share his progress.

“Jo’s in Durango helping Lucy at the Queen today,” Shelby said. “How about we check the new calves here in the lower pasture before we head back? I don’t think Cinnamon will take any harm from a little exercise.”

Luke got the message. Shelby wasn’t going to lecture him, but she wasn’t going to let him do anything stupid, either. They continued at a leisurely pace through the cow-calf herd to the far edge of the lower pasture.

By the time they turned back toward the barn, he had to admit, at least to himself, maybe he’d overdone it just a little. The muscles in his back and shoulders ached from the simple act of staying in the saddle, something he had done reflexively longer than he could remember. What sensation he had in his lower back registered the presence of titanium rods in his spine; he was hard put not to brace both hands on the horn to ease the ache. The barn, partially hidden by the willows along the creek, looked to be at least a mile distant, and his wheelchair beckoned with its promise of comfort.

He was so focused on surviving his first outing he didn’t notice the yellow pickup parked by the barn until Shelby said, “Looks like we’ve got company.”

Great—earlier he had craved an audience, but now he just wanted to get off Dude with some shred of dignity. At least he wouldn’t have to perform in front of a stranger. The lanky blond cowboy sprawled on the tack trunk was an old friend, practically kin.

“Well, look at you. One day back and already working,” Mike Farley said. “What do you think of your horse?”

“I think Shelby’s done me proud. Have you seen his trick?”

“Just heard about it from Lucy,” Mike said.

“Line him up with your chair,” Shelby said, and handed Luke a light crop. “Just tap his left knee.”

At the signal, Dude folded his legs as he had done earlier and turned his head toward Luke.

“Let me guess—he wants his treat, right?” Luke took the butterscotch from Shelby and fed it to the horse, who snorted with pleasure.

“Think you can get to your chair without help?” she asked.

Luke swallowed. He’d made it into the saddle pretty easily, but now the distance between the horse and the wheelchair looked like the Grand Canyon. He squared his shoulders and grabbed his right jeans cuff to swing his leg over Dude’s withers.

The spasm struck without warning; he doubled up and fell forward. Only Mike’s quick leap kept him from pitching facedown in the dirt. He found himself seated in his chair with Mike steadying his shoulders while Shelby massaged his legs until the cramp eased.

He straightened and took a deep breath. “Thanks, guys,” he said, embarrassed that his voice shook.

Mike squatted on his heels beside the chair. “Man, you scared me—you all right now?”

Luke managed a crooked grin. “Better than a few minutes ago. You looking for Lucy? She’s in Durango.”

“Yeah, I’ve been washing dishes for her at the Queen.” He held up his hands. “Much more of that and I’ll have to build up new calluses. No, I came to see you. I need a favor.”

“Like what?” Luke couldn’t imagine what he could do for Mike. He’d be no use at the Farley ranch five miles up the road, and he knew nothing useful about Mike’s second career as an accountant and sports agent for a handful of bull riders.

“You guys go to the house,” Shelby said. “I’ll take care of Cinnamon and Dude.”

Luke made no objection when Mike pushed his wheelchair. The muscle spasm, which added to his exhaustion, had left him limp as an old rope. Mike wheeled him into the kitchen and set about making coffee, the universal remedy. Once Luke sucked down a full mug and eaten one of Shelby’s homemade beignets, he revived enough to ask what Mike had in mind.

Mike leaned forward with his hands wrapped around his mug. “It’s my busy time with tax prep, and I’m trying to carry my share with calving at our ranch, too.”

“And help Lucy at the Queen,” Luke said. “You treat her way better than she deserves. You want me to smack some sense into her?”

“No way! It’ll all even out someday—I gotta keep believing that. Here’s my problem. The gal who helps me with the preliminary prep is having a rough pregnancy. Her doc says she has to stay flat on her back till she delivers or she’ll lose the baby. One big job she does for me is sorting through expense receipts for allowable deductions. You think you could handle that?”

“I could screw things up royally,” Luke said. “I don’t know squat about tax deductions.”

“Sure you do. You’ve been sending me your receipts for five years—you know what’s legit and what’s not. Just a few clients, all bull riders—kids who’ve never earned more than gas money mowing lawns or bagging groceries. Now they’re getting big checks and have to keep track of all their deductible expenses.”

Luke shook his head. “I don’t know—I could try, I guess. If you really think I could help.”

“Just take a look, okay?” Mike stood. “I’ve got the files in my rig.” He left the kitchen without waiting for an answer and returned carrying a cardboard fruit box containing a dozen or so fat manila envelopes.

Luke pulled one from the box and spilled its contents on the table, a whole year’s worth of hotel statements, airline tickets, car rentals and receipts from gas stations, restaurants and convenience stores.

“Just do your best—help me save these guys some money. Tag anything that doesn’t look kosher and make notes if you think important stuff is missing. Riders’ expenses only, not wives and kids.”

Mike’s plea stirred Luke’s interest. He could probably figure this out—he could be of use to someone.

“I’ll give it my best shot,” he said.

CHAPTER SIX

KATHRYN MOVED THROUGH the last day of her old life like a perfectly programmed robot. She had gone to sleep with a list of must-dos firm in her mind and wrote down the sequence over her morning coffee. First she visited the bank and raided a money market account, withdrawing no more than she figured she deserved for fifteen years of faithful service. Next she stopped at her mother’s bank where she deposited it in a new checking account with a debit card.

At the mall she bought a new cell phone with a prepaid plan and new number before going to the AAA office to pick up maps. She would have GPS, of course, but she had no address to enter other than Hesperus, Colorado. Paper maps would help her choose what route she might decide to follow.

At times the memory of Brad’s laughter and Britt’s answering giggle pushed into her consciousness, but she silenced it with ruthless determination. Time enough for tears when she had accomplished all she needed to do.

In the office of Robert Foster, her mother’s lawyer, she signed numerous documents.

“You’re sure you want to do this, Kathryn?” His kind old face furrowed with distress. “After one incident?”

“Once that I caught him,” she said. “This was too slick to be the first time. All those evenings working late, and the last-minute overnight business trips... I was too dumb to catch on before, but I’m a quick study.” She shoved the papers across his desk. “Hold on to these—I’ll be in touch.”

Brad handed her an unexpected gift midway through the day, a text saying he needed to stay overnight in Springfield. She texted back with appropriate concern, grateful he hadn’t called—she couldn’t have borne the sound of his voice.

On impulse, she called his office. Disguising her voice—she hoped—with a handkerchief over the phone, she asked for Britt.

“Sorry,” the receptionist said with no hint of recognition, “she’s out of the office today.”

Kathryn’s mouth twisted—imagine that.

She steeled herself for her last stop and drove to her own home, reasonably sure she wouldn’t be disturbed. Just in case, she backed up the driveway and opened the trunk before entering the house.

First she went to the small wall safe in Brad’s study, removing the title to her car and a jewelry box. She didn’t care for the showy dinner rings, the diamond earrings and tennis bracelet Brad had given her, but she’d be damned if she would leave them for another woman to enjoy. They were hers, she’d earned them and they were good pieces she’d have no trouble turning into cash.

She started up the stairs and then turned back to the kitchen, looking in the fridge without finding what she sought. The recycling bin held an empty Chablis bottle with a few drops left in the bottom. She grasped it like a trophy and collected a pair of shears from a drawer before continuing upstairs.

Not looking at the bed, she stripped her closet and drawers of all the clothes she cared to take, filling her own luggage and plus a storage bin. The tennis clothes and cocktail dresses she wore for country club functions she left behind—she’d never have to wear them again.

She carried the first load down to her car, peering down the street for any sign of Brad’s Mercedes, and then ran back to the bedroom. Finally, she turned to the bed she had shared with Brad, where she had known such delight in his arms.

She took the silky green robe from the closet, the robe she had worn in innocence to welcome him home when he’d gone to his mistress after her mother’s funeral. With great deliberation, she slashed it to shreds and dropped her cell phone on the mutilated garment along with the wine bottle. Last she poured a nearly full flask of her special cologne on the heap like a sacrificial libation.

Gathering the rest of her possessions, including her laptop, she descended the stairs with her head high, dumped the last load into the trunk and drove away without a backward glance.

After a fast-food supper, she checked into a small motel a few miles from her mother’s house, not sure when Brad might return and find her parting display. Propped against the faux-Colonial headboard in her room, she called her favorite aunt who had taken her mother’s dog.

“Aunt Joan,” she said without preamble, “I’m leaving Brad. I wanted to let you know because he might call looking for me.”

“Good riddance,” her aunt said. “I’ve always thought he’s too pretty to be wholesome. Would you like to come here? You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be traveling. I won’t tell you where so you don’t have to lie for me, but I’ll check in with you. Give Blondie a hug for me.”

The next morning, Kathryn drove her year-old Volvo sedan to a high school classmate’s used car dealership and transferred her possessions to a low-mileage Ford SUV with tinted windows. Cloaked with her new anonymity, she left house keys for her cousin with her mother’s neighbor. She gave her childhood home, sitting quiet and a little aloof in the spring sunshine, one last glance, then steered her new car toward I-84, heading west.

* * *

TEN DAYS LATER she took the exit from I-25 onto Route 160 in southern Colorado. She had zigzagged southwest through New York and Pennsylvania in easy stages, dropping into West Virginia to turn west through the Kentucky Bluegrass, as idyllic as she’d always pictured it. She’d paused in Louisville for a couple days, relishing her first taste of the South and selling her jewelry at an elegant, old-fashioned store with mahogany-framed display cases. Then she drove west to St. Louis and beyond, leaving the shelter of shade trees for the daunting vistas of the Great Plains, where the vault of the sky made her feel insignificant as a bug crawling across a windowpane.

She’d never been on an extended road trip; vacations with her parents had been one-day drives to a family resort in the Adirondacks or visits to relatives in New Jersey. Twice she had gone to the West Coast with Brad and once to Florida for conferences, but his idea of travel was airport to airport. She’d seen no more of strange cities than the taxi rides to and from their hotel.

She reveled in her flight from her past, even with the threat of snow crossing the Alleghenies and a horrendous thunderstorm in southern Illinois that left her driving blind. She didn’t think about her destination except for the box of Annie Cameron’s letters riding beside her like a benevolent familiar and managed to stay one jump ahead of her emotions by focusing on regional accents and changing landscapes, stopping at local inns and dining at small-town cafés.

Brad didn’t have her new cell phone number, but he did email her. At first he expressed remorse and concern, then impatience—“How long before you get over your snit?”—and finally anger. She read the first few messages with detachment, almost with amusement, as if her pain nerves had been severed. When the repetition grew boring, she blocked his emails.

One day short of her goal, Kathryn began to feel a little silly. What a fool’s errand, to drive more than two thousand miles to deliver a box of old letters. Maybe the Camerons wouldn’t even be interested, but remembering Annie’s tales of family closeness, Kathryn was sure the letters and their bearer would be welcome.

At first driving the state highway west from the interstate was a relief. All the way from Connecticut, big trucks had been her nemesis. Giant tractor-trailers just plain scared her, muscling their way along the highways as if lesser vehicles were invisible. She would have left the interstates to escape their bullying but didn’t trust her navigation skills enough to abandon the well-marked routes.

Now on the two-lane road, she found herself stuck behind a hay truck, unable to see around its towering load to pass. The road began to climb between steep canyon walls, and the truck slowed even more. Its right turn signal flickered just as Kathryn resigned herself to following the behemoth all the way to Durango, the nearest town of any size to the Camerons’ ranch. The big rig lurched onto a narrow side road with groaning gears and black exhaust dirtying the mountain air.

Kathryn had been so absorbed in fuming at the delay she hadn’t noticed the morning’s bright sunshine had dimmed. The sky overhead, what she could see between towering cliffs, had turned gray, and inky clouds hid the peaks ahead.

She glanced at her watch. The drive from Walsenburg, where she had spent the night, should have taken only four hours or so, but following the hay truck had delayed her considerably. Still, she should be able to reach Durango by early afternoon.

She passed a sign welcoming her to the San Juan National Forest and then a couple of campgrounds with chains across the entrances. A few desultory snowflakes drifted down.

She slowed as she rounded a steep climbing curve and drove with no warning into a complete whiteout. Mountains, canyon, the road itself disappeared. She hit the brakes reflexively and her car skidded for endless sickening seconds before rocking to a halt against a snowbank. She sat clinging to the wheel, numb with fear, enveloped in a snowy shroud.

Turning back would be impossible; going forward was too terrifying to contemplate.

Gradually she became aware of a grunting sound, a grumble that grew into a roar. An avalanche? She’d passed a sign saying Slide Area. Before she could panic even more, flashing red lights appeared in her rearview mirror. A huge dump truck ground past her, spewing sand behind it, its wide wing plow missing her vehicle by inches. Acting purely on instinct, she gunned her car into its wake and crept through the storm behind the fan-shaped spray of grit covering the icy road.

Twenty minutes later the snow lightened, the mountainsides reappeared, and the roadway turned from packed snow to wet blacktop. The plow truck pulled aside into a wide parking area to turn and head back up the mountain. Below, a broad valley lay in bright sunshine, untouched by the snowstorm still raging over the peaks.

Kathryn made the rest of the descent as if still on ice. The pavement was dry, but the road clung to the mountainside in tortuous curves above a deep canyon. Her hands ached from clutching the steering wheel and sweat soaked the back of her shirt by the time she reached the valley floor. Stopping for lunch in Pagosa Springs just ahead was tempting, but she knew once she got out of her car she wouldn’t want to drive any farther. Durango lay only another hour to the west—better to keep going and then settle in at that night’s destination.

When Kathryn reached the outskirts of Durango, she had recovered enough composure to be awed by the grandeur of the snowy peaks rearing their heads north of the town. Driving down the main street, she passed the Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium, its Victorian storefront like a set from a classic Western movie. She had checked her Colorado guidebook this morning at breakfast; the Silver Queen was rated four stars for classic regional fare. She glanced at her watch—a few minutes before three o’clock. With luck, they would still be serving lunch.

She had her hand on the ornate brass doorknob when someone inside turned the Open sign hanging in the window to Closed. The distress on her face must have been apparent, because the door opened.

A young woman with red-gold curls gathered on top of her head, wearing a white chef’s apron, beckoned her inside. “I was just closing,” she said, “but you look like you needed feeding at least an hour ago. Would soup or a sandwich work for you? I’ve already shut off the grill.”

“That sounds like manna from heaven,” Kathryn said. “I’m starving—I haven’t eaten since I left Walsenburg this morning. I thought I’d get here earlier, but I got stuck behind a hay truck and then it started to snow—”

“You just came across Wolf Creek Pass? Brave lady. I’m surprised the road wasn’t closed—the forecast this morning said heavy snow above eight thousand feet.”

“I wasn’t brave,” Kathryn said, “I was clueless.” She shuddered, reliving the moments of terror in the whiteout. “Luckily I got in behind a snowplow or I’d still be sitting on top of the mountain waiting for spring.”

“You might have had quite a wait,” her savior said. “I’ve seen it snow on that pass in June. What can I get you? I have chicken noodle soup or chili. And coffee? Or tea?”

“Chili sounds wonderful. And coffee, please.”

“Green chili or red with beans?”

“I’ve never heard of green chili,” Kathryn said.

“So you’re not from around here—better stick with red. A bowl of old-fashioned diner chili will hold you till supper time.”

She disappeared into the kitchen. Kathryn heard her tell someone to bring out a cup of coffee. A few moments later a little girl, possibly six, with the same ruddy hair and wearing her own miniature apron, appeared. She carried a mug in one hand and a cream pitcher in the other, setting them on the table with a sigh of relief.

“Your chili will be right out,” she said.

“Thank you,” Kathryn said. “You’re doing a great job helping your mom.”

“That’s not my mom, that’s Aunt Lucy,” the little girl said. She returned to the kitchen, switching on overhead lights that had probably been dimmed for closing.

Kathryn dosed her coffee with cream and sugar, gulping a few swallows before the waitress set the chili and a small salad on her table.

“That should keep body and soul together until you land for the night,” the waitress said. “Do you have much farther to drive?”

“I plan to stay in Durango for the night and then drive on to Hesperus tomorrow.”

“Not much to see in Hesperus. You have family there?”

“Not exactly—it’s a long story.”

“I love a good story. You mind if I join you? I’m ready for my afternoon coffee.” The waitress returned to the kitchen and came back with her own mug and two slices of pie. She slid into the booth opposite Kathryn.

Kathryn took her first good look at her rescuer. “I’ve never been out West before, but I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time on the East Coast. Where do you live?”

“A little town near Hartford,” Kathryn said.

“Do you ever attend local theater?”

“That’s where I saw you, at the Seven Angels Theater in Waterbury. You’re Lucinda Cameron, right? Someone gave my husband tickets for The Seagull.” Could this possibly be Annie Cameron’s daughter, Lucy, who she had described so lovingly?

“Just plain Lucy on my home range. Did you enjoy the play?”

“I hated it,” Kathryn said. “I felt like going home and putting my head in the oven. But you were wonderful.”

“Chekhov can be pretty heavy,” Lucy said with a laugh. “But he wrote great female roles.”

“And now you’re running a restaurant?”

“Temporarily. I started working at the Queen when I was fourteen, right after my mom died. The owner is one of my dearest friends—I’m keeping the doors open while she recuperates from knee surgery.” Lucy added cream to her coffee and leaned back. “So tell me your story.”

Kathryn hadn’t yet rehearsed a coherent narrative. “Actually, I came to see you,” she said. “Your family, that is. My mother had lupus. She met your mother in the hospital in Albuquerque almost twenty years ago and they corresponded right up to the time your mother died. Mom kept all her letters—I thought your family might like to have them.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “I know who you are. I’ve read all of your mother’s letters. Her name was Elizabeth, and you’re Katie.”

A lump lodged in Kathryn’s throat. “I used to be Katie, but no one’s called me that for years.” Brad had decided Katie sounded childish; eventually even her mother began calling her Kathryn.

“Surely you didn’t drive all the way from the East Coast to bring the letters.”

“Surely I did. The only address I had was the letterhead—Cameron’s Pride, Hesperus, Colorado. I could have gotten a mailing address by calling the post office there...” Kathryn flushed. “I know it sounds crazy, but I decided to deliver them in person.”

She started to rise. “I’ve got the box in my car—”

“No, no! You have to bring them to the ranch. We’ve all read those letters. Your mom was so proud of you—she wrote all about you, she sent pictures.”

Lucy whipped her cell phone out of her pocket and hesitated with her finger poised. “You will come, won’t you?”

“If you’re sure it’s no imposition.” In truth, Kathryn had hoped to visit the family and the ranch Annie Cameron had described in such glowing detail.

“Are you kidding? We’ll be insulted if you don’t let us welcome you.”

Lucy touched the screen. “Dad,” she said after a brief wait, “you remember all those letters the lady back East wrote to Mom? You’ll never believe who’s sitting here in the Queen—Elizabeth Gabriel’s daughter, Katie, all the way from Connecticut.”

She listened with a big grin. “Of course I’m bringing her home with me.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

MIKE FARLEY CLOSED the last folder and sat back with a long whistle.

“That bad, huh?” Luke said. “I told you I’d probably mess up.”

“Are you kidding? You’ve done twice the job on these receipts anyone has before—you’ve saved me major time and trouble.” He took a printed sheet from one of the folders. “Plus a list of what’s missing.” He flipped one sheet with his finger. “According to this, Joel Baker never eats while he’s on the road. He’ll have to come up with a reasonable dining history so I can claim deductions for meals.”

Luke breathed in relief. “I separated out the receipts that didn’t seem allowable for each rider—you’ll know if those should be added back in. To tell the truth, I kind of enjoyed it.”

Mike gave him a sharp glance. “You’ve been hiding some smarts behind all your horsing around.”

Luke shrugged. “Tom got the brains in the family.”

“You got your share. How many hours did this take you?”

Luke pondered. “About an hour each, more or less. And then I went back to check out inconsistencies and make notes. So maybe fifteen hours.”

“I’ll send you a check—”

“You don’t have to pay me—I was glad to help. Like I said, it was fun. A challenge.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” Mike said. “You deserve to be paid. You did a great job because you know bull riding. I’ll be able to get these tax returns in on time, but I’ve had to apply for extensions on some others. You interested in doing some more grunt work for me?”

Mike’s praise made Luke sit a little straighter. “Sure, if you really think I can help.” His disability insurance kept him from being a financial drain on his family, but he needed to work, to feel useful.

He’d practiced with Dude the past ten days so he could saddle without asking for help and ride out alone. He could move cattle and check fence lines, but he couldn’t dismount to mend broken wire or doctor a sick cow. It galled him he still fell short of doing a man’s share on the ranch.

A confusion of voices erupted outside the back door. He heard his dad say, “They’ll be here pretty soon. Get in there, woman, and start cooking.”

“Calm down, Jake,” Shelby said. “There’s extra stew in the freezer—”

And then JJ’s piping voice said, “Will we have ice cream and cake?”

Luke frowned. Meeting new people still set him on edge—the pity in their eyes, the questions they were too polite to ask. Maybe he should print up cards like deaf people sometimes handed out to explain their disability: I can’t walk because a bull stomped on my back. I don’t know if I’ll ever walk again.

Mike gathered the folders into their box. “I’d better get going if you guys are expecting company.”

Luke wanted him to stay as a buffer against the unknown, but he knew he needed to cowboy up. He wheeled himself into the kitchen, where Shelby was taking the makings for salad from the fridge for JJ to carry to the table.

“Who’s coming?”

“You remember all those letters your mom got from that lady back East?” Jake said. “Her daughter, Katie, found them after her mom died recently and came all the way from Connecticut to bring them.”

The unexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture sparked his interest. Driving two-thirds of the way across the country took planning and spunk; he wouldn’t mind meeting a woman who would do that. At the same time, the prospect rattled his nerves. He hadn’t spoken with any women not involved with his rehab since his wreck, a special sadness to him. His greatest pleasure, along with pitting his quickness against the bulls, had been the company of the female fans who swarmed bull-riding events.

Luke liked women, genuinely liked them—all ages, shapes and sizes, both in and out of bed. Strong, smart women like Shelby didn’t scare him—neither did sassy, willful ones like his sister. He’d been in and out of love a dozen times but had dodged marriage until finally—probably because he saw his younger brother heading down the bridal path—he’d gotten hitched on impulse in Las Vegas five years ago.

Cherie hadn’t been a bad kid, but she’d bailed after two weeks of wedded bliss when a bull had sent him to the hospital with a broken neck and ruptured spleen. Maybe she would have hung in if they’d had more time to build a relationship. Instead she’d disappeared from his life while he was still on the operating table.

He should have started looking for a real wife the minute the divorce was final, but after Cherie he’d been gun-shy. He’d figured there’d always be plenty of time to find the right girl. Uh-huh.

“You mind putting the salad together?” Shelby asked. “I want to whip up some biscuits to go with the stew.”

“You got it.” He set to work tearing lettuce and slicing cucumbers the way his mom had taught him when she was too ill to cook. He finished chopping the green peppers as he heard one vehicle and then a second rattle across the cattle guard and pull up behind the house. Jitters struck again, but he could always plead fatigue and excuse himself right after dinner.

Doors slammed and a woman’s voice, soft and low, answered his sister’s bright chatter.

Curiosity overcame caution; he wheeled to the big window to check out the newcomer. He couldn’t see her face, but he admired her trim figure in pants and a sweater the color of aspen leaves in autumn. Her glossy russet hair in a neat bun reminded him of his tenth-grade English teacher, on whom he’d had a hopeless crush.

He turned away. The doubts and fears constantly hovering since his injury swooped down like vultures. He saw himself ten, twenty years in the future, a burden first to his dad and Shelby, and later to Tom and Jo.

He spun his chair and headed toward his room, but Missy burst through the door and flung herself into his lap.

“Uncle Luke, I helped Aunt Lucy serve lunch,” she said, hugging him hard. “And Katie said I did a good job.”

“Of course you did, Shortcake. You’ll be working the grill before you know it.” He heard footsteps behind him and pivoted toward the door.

“Dad, Shelby, this is Katie Gabriel,” Lucy said. “Katie, this is my brother Luke.”

With reluctance Luke took the hand Katie extended.

“This is a first for me,” she said. Her gray eyes met his with no hint of pity. “I never met a bullfighter before.”

“Ex-bullfighter,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

JJ erupted from under the table, his favorite place to stash his toys. “We’re having a party, with ice cream and cake.”

“No, with ice cream and peach pie,” Lucy said, setting a pastry box on the counter.

JJ’s face fell.

“I may have some cake in the freezer,” Shelby said, and his face brightened again.

Luke turned loose of Katie’s hand and returned to making the salad.

“I’m going back to Durango after supper,” Lucy said, “but I thought Katie could stay here. She came over Wolf Creek Pass today in that snow squall—she should be done driving for the day. And maybe someone can show her around the ranch tomorrow.”

Like who? Luke wondered. In the past, he’d enjoyed giving visitors, especially female guests, the guided tour, but now he felt self-conscious about the restrictions his injury laid on him. Still, Katie Gabriel might be okay—she had greeted him as if she saw a man, not a man in a wheelchair.

“If you’re sure it’s no imposition,” Katie said, picking up the box she had set on a chair to shake hands with Luke. “Here’s what I came to bring you.”

Lucy took it as if it were a holy relic. “This means so much to us. Mom died when I was just fourteen.” Tears filled her eyes. “I missed her so much I made myself and everyone else miserable.”

“You were entitled, Red.” Jake entered the kitchen. “I wasn’t much help to you back then.”

“You did the best you could, Dad.” She rolled her eyes. “And don’t call me Red.”

He held out his hand to Katie. “Jake Cameron, and mighty glad to meet you. We feel like we know you from your mom’s letters.”

“I don’t suppose...”

“Of course we saved them. I reckon you’ll be happy to have them, just losing her so recent. She sounded like a special lady.”

“She was,” Katie said. “We were more like best friends, especially after my dad died.”

Missy set the table with great concentration while Shelby pulled a pan of biscuits from the oven. Lucy took an enameled pot of beef stew from the stove to put on a trivet made of horseshoes. They all took their seats around the big oak table.

Shelby waited until everyone was settled before bowing her head. “Lord,” she said, “our family’s been through some rough times, but we’ve always come through together. We thank You for Your help and for bringing Katie to join us tonight. Amen.”

“Can I have a biscuit with honey?” JJ said.

“May I have a biscuit,” Lucy said.

“Sure,” JJ said with a giggle, “you can have one, too.”

Missy gave an exasperated big-sister sigh.

Luke ladled stew into JJ’s bowl and cut the meat into smaller pieces. He loved both his brother’s kids, but he felt a special bond with his nephew. He saw a lot of himself in JJ and wished his brother and sister-in-law luck when JJ hit his teens—they would need it.

He kept mostly silent during dinner, speaking only enough not to seem surly, listening to Katie’s account of her solo trip across country. He liked the way she laughed at herself for mistaking a state road number for an interstate in Missouri, driving ten miles behind a manure spreader, and silently applauded her quick thinking in following the snowplow over Wolf Creek Pass. Pretty dang good for a green Eastern driver.

“So where do you go from here?” Jake asked Katie while Shelby served the peach pie à la mode, with chocolate cake for Missy and JJ. “Once we let you go, that is.”

“I really hadn’t thought beyond bringing you the letters,” she said. “I’m kind of at loose ends right now.”

“Back to Connecticut?” Lucy asked.

“No, not there. I’ll have to return eventually to take care of some business, but not soon.” She massaged the faint ridges on her ring finger. “Right now I’m looking for a job.”

“What kind of job?” Shelby asked, cutting a second sliver of cake for JJ.

“I know a little about bookkeeping—I worked for a construction firm for a while.” She flushed. “And I love to cook. I don’t have any formal training, but I did some catering while I was in college.”

Lucy sat straighter. “Did you really?”

Luke could read his sister’s mind.

“Hold on, Luce,” Jake said. “The poor girl just landed—don’t try to draft her before she has time to take a deep breath.”

Lucy closed her mouth, but Luke knew she wouldn’t be able to hold her tongue for long.

Jake looked at his watch. “You’d better head to town if you’re going to open the Queen for the breakfast crowd.” He stood. “I’ll bring Katie’s bag in.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

KATHRYN HAD AWAKENED in so many different rooms since leaving Connecticut she needed a few seconds to orient herself. As driven as she’d been to flee from her husband’s betrayal, she still missed his warmth in the night, the many intimate details of living as a married woman. Longing to return to the comfort of the familiar tugged at her for a moment; she banished it with the memory of Brad’s and Britt Cavendish’s mingled laughter polluting her own private space.

Last night she’d been shown to Luke’s bedroom upstairs, since he now occupied the main floor guest room. Too tired then to notice much beyond the single bed covered with a bright Indian blanket, she now saw the framed museum-quality prints on the walls—Gauguin’s Tahitian women, Van Gogh’s sailboats drawn up on a beach, El Greco’s stormy skies over Toledo. Interesting decor for a cowboy bullfighter.

And here she was—Cameron’s Pride at last. The ranch and the Cameron family had assumed almost mythic qualities in her mind, but she had schooled herself not to expect too much. Finding the setting as idyllic as she had pictured, being welcomed like long-lost kin seemed too good to be real.

Lucy had brought her swiftly up to date before leading her out to the ranch: her father’s remarriage two years after Annie’s death, her brother Tom’s marriage and retirement from bull riding with a new career as a high school history teacher, and Luke’s crippling mishap only a few months ago.

Her thoughts stalled when they reached Luke Cameron, his brown hair and deep tan resembling his stepmother’s Indian-dark skin and black hair more than his father’s and sister’s redhead coloring. Her hand tingled as she recalled an instant of connection when their hands met, quickly broken when she mentioned his career as a bullfighter. Stupid of her—who could blame him for being bitter about his injury?

She lay for a few minutes longer, enjoying the luxury of not facing another day on the road. Later today she would take her leave with the proper thanks for the hospitality and carrying the precious box with her mother’s letters.

Her mind turned to Jake’s question: Where to from here? Her mission to reach Cameron’s Pride had absorbed her until now, but she needed to make plans for her future. Although she’d been frugal with her spending, her reserves wouldn’t last forever. At some point she would finalize the divorce proceedings she had set in motion. She should demand a hefty settlement from Brad, but she wanted nothing from him. For her own sense of self-worth, she needed to prove she could support herself by her own wits.

She could look for work near her mother’s relatives in New Jersey, but she’d never cared for the urban sprawl of the East Coast megalopolis. She might look for work in Maine—she had worked as a nanny on an island one summer in college and loved the open vastness of the ocean. Maybe she would just keep driving until she came to a town that took her fancy, someplace like Durango...

Loud whispers outside her door brought her back to the present.

“Hush, you’ll wake Katie.” The bossy big sister. “Uncle Luke’s gonna be mad.”

Kathryn smiled—apparently Missy and JJ were back. Tom’s wife, Jo, returned from a field trip to an archaeological site with Tom’s high school students, had arrived to pick the kids up after supper the night before. She had dropped her husband off first at their home because he had aggravated an old back injury helping to carry a student who had sprained her ankle.

And Kathryn had been changed back into Katie. Well, why not? Kathryn was Brad’s wife. She was done with him and with the name.

“Katie,” she said, savoring the name on her tongue. A new life, a fresh identify, one truer to her roots.

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