Helen DePrima - Luke's Ride

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.