Gena Dalton - Long Way Home

“May I come in?” he asked.

“You’ll have to if you want to talk to me,” she snapped. “I was expecting the new buyer for this place.” She turned on her heel and headed back to the kitchen.

Monte’s boot heels sounded on the hardwood floor right behind her as she went into the kitchen. They were still uneven—he was still limping. But he seemed to be getting around much better. He sat down as she filled a mug of coffee.

It occurred to Jo Lena that he must’ve changed his mind about selling the horse. “So let’s talk about the horse.”

“We’ve said all we have to say.”

Had he come here to talk about them? About six years ago? About now?

“Then what do we have to talk about, Monte?”

“I’m the new buyer.”

wanted to be a professional writer since she learned to read at the age of four. However, she became a secondary school teacher and then a college professor/ dean of women instead, and began to write after she was married and a stay-at-home mother. She entered an essay contest that resulted in a newspaper publication, giving her confidence she could achieve her lifelong dream of becoming a “real writer.”

Gena lives in Oklahoma with her husband of twenty-four years. Now that their son is grown, their only companions are two dogs, two house cats, one barn cat and one cat who belongs to the neighbors but won’t go home.

She loves to hear from readers. She can be reached c/o Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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But it was only right we should celebrate and

rejoice, because your brother here was dead and

has come to life; he was lost and is found.

—Luke 15:32

This book is for my friends,

Jill and Sheila

Dear Reader,

This story of Monte, the third McMahan brother and Bobbie Ann’s prodigal son, is one we can all relate to from our own experience. Who among us hasn’t felt separated from those we love by our choices and actions? At those times when we are farthest away, we all long to go home.

Monte takes the long way home, for he not only has stayed away for six years while rarely communicating with his mother, brothers and sisters, but he has also denied his yearning to see Jo Lena Speirs, the only woman he has ever loved. He believes he is past redemption, in God’s eyes and in Jo Lena’s, because of the death of her brother, Scotty. He bears a burning guilt that he has not been able to escape, even by traveling thousands of miles and putting himself in constant danger.

From the instant that Monte gets thrown from a bull and is hurt too badly to ride, he knows that he can no longer bear to be so alone. He sneaks onto the Rocking M, and dreads seeing anyone there, especially Jo Lena, but from the moment he arrives on the ranch, he knows that at last he has come home.

If you haven’t read the stories of Monte’s brothers, Jackson and Clint, please look for Stranger at the Crossroads and Midnight Faith, both also published by Steeple Hill. I would love to hear from you. You can reach me c/o Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42 ndStreet, New York, NY 10017.

All warm wishes,

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

For maybe half of his ride on the brindle bull, Monte McMahan believed.

That he could stay on for the whole eight seconds.

That he could score high enough to put him back in the running.

That his injured back had healed enough to let him keep going on down the rodeo road.

Then the wily old Brahma dropped his head, shook his ugly horns and spun hard to the right when he’d definitely been looking to the left ever since the first jump out of the chute.

Pain clamped on to Monte’s spine like a coyote’s teeth around a rabbit. It twisted the breath out of his lungs one second before it sucked the strength from his arms and legs and tore the rigging from his hand.

He flew through space with the bright lights sparkling and the dust shimmering across his vision. He couldn’t close his eyes. He would not. If he closed his eyes, he’d be giving up and if he gave up, he’d be dead when he hit the ground.

The impact made him believe he was. But then the pain exploded inside his head and took the place of his last gasp of precious air. He decided a man could live without breathing because a dead man wouldn’t be hurting.

A dead man wouldn’t be hearing the true concern in the announcer’s voice. Good old Butch, he was worried about Monte.

“Folks, put your hands together for Monte McMahan,” he boomed. “He’s one tough Texas bull rider and he’s been ridin’ through the pain for a lot of months now. Y’all may’ve just had the privilege of seeing his last ride, right here in Houston tonight.”

The applause started, but it didn’t grow. It was hesitant, it died and the fear-filled hush fell over the arena again.

“He’s not moved a muscle since he hit,” Butch said. “Let’s hope Old Brindle hasn’t sent him back to the Rocking M for good. As you all know, Monte’s one of the fourth or fifth generation of McMahans from that famous ranch in the Hill Country.”

Good old Butch needed to get another line of patter. It was nobody’s business where Monte was from.

Faces, blurry and worried, bent over Monte.

“Boys, get that ambulance on out here,” Butch called. “And we need a big thank-you, friends and neighbors, for our brave bullfighting clowns. They’ve got Old Brindle outta here, now. There he is, joggin’ down the run, already lookin’ for his next victim.”

Monte cringed inside, in spite of the fact he couldn’t move a muscle. Victim. Butch coulda talked all night without calling him that.

Fool, maybe. That’d be more like it. And now he was a crippled fool.

No, he was not. He would not be.

Calling on the raw willpower that had carried him through many a scrape, he tried once, twice, then he caught his breath and he could force his arm to move. He lifted his hand. He waved to the crowd. Their noise returned, instantly surged into a roar.

He would come back. It might take him a little while, but he’d come back.

All the time the guys from the sports medicine trailer worked on him and examined him and then clamped the stabilizer around his neck and slid him onto the backboard, he held that thought.

Jo Lena Speirs sat her horse on top of the hill and let him blow. She loved this spot overlooking the entrance to the Rocking M. The river bridge glinted in the dying sunlight, far up the narrow highway, and the bluffs on the other side of it lifted green trees to the sky.