Rachel Lee - No Ordinary Hero

Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

Title Page No Ordinary Hero Rachel Lee www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author About the Author RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve, and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time. Her bestselling CONARD COUNTY series (see www.conardcounty.com) has won the hearts of readers worldwide, and it’s no wonder, given her own approach to life and love. As she says, “Life is the biggest romantic adventure of all—and if you’re open and aware, the most marvellous things are just waiting to be discovered.” Readers can e-mail Rachel at Rachellee@ConardCounty.com.

Dedication For my oldest daughter, for whom every day is a battle and every night another triumph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

Dear Reader,

No Ordinary Hero was an adventure for me, a twist on the usual suspense. I left a question dangling at the end, hoping you would choose whichever answer best pleases you.

When two people fall in love, they often encounter differences in the way they view things, and the process by which they come to agree, or at least agree to disagree, has always fascinated me.

None of us would want to fall in love with a mirror image. How boring that would make life, to live in an echo chamber, and never experience the magic of someone else’s way of seeing even mundane things.

Mike and Del face a few major hurdles because they come from such different cultural backgrounds. Love, however, is not about to leave them alone in their private worlds.

Nor is the house.

Best,

Rachel Lee

RACHEL LEEwas hooked on writing by the age of twelve, and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Her bestselling CONARD COUNTY series (see www.conardcounty.com) has won the hearts of readers worldwide, and it’s no wonder, given her own approach to life and love. As she says, “Life is the biggest romantic adventure of all—and if you’re open and aware, the most marvellous things are just waiting to be discovered.” Readers can e-mail Rachel at Rachellee@ConardCounty.com.

For my oldest daughter, for whom every day is a battle and every night another triumph

Mike Windwalker, D.V.M., came home early from work, pulling into his driveway in his battered brown van, practically a veterinary clinic on wheels. It had been a busy but short day, allowing him to leave his assistants in charge of the kennels and point himself toward a relaxing late afternoon and evening.

A well-earned bit of relaxation, considering he rarely enjoyed a day off. Not that he minded his workload. In fact he loved it because it gave him scant time to think about all the things missing in his life. And the animals he spent his time with, if not all of their owners, didn’t give a damn that he was a “redskin,” a full-blooded Cheyenne, an escapee from the rez.

He climbed out of the van, feeling a little stiff from an unusual encounter that morning with a bovine. The animal had been half insane but worth enough money that the rancher wanted to be sure there wasn’t some treatment for the steer. In the process, he’d been kicked, although not too badly, nearly bitten—thank God he’d dodged that one—and had wrestled with twelve hundred pounds of maddened muscle while trying to get a blood sample.

He’d guessed it was rabies to begin with, but the rancher had been insistent. In the end, however, he’d simply had to put the animal down, over strenuous objections, with the flat statement that he wasn’t going to risk his own life or anyone else’s when the diagnosis was damn near written all over the steer.

He’d left with the body of the steer and dropped it off in his cooler so that tomorrow he could remove the brain and spinal cord to send to the state lab.

Fun day, stubborn client, and now he ached all over. Yet he still felt a lot of sympathy for the rancher, who, like most in his business, was running on a margin so small that losing one steer, just one, could be a terrifying prospect.

The only thing that had made the guy stand back and let Mike put the animal down was the possibility that if he kept that steer around, he might wind up with a sick herd—the only catastrophe worse than losing a single animal.

Mike tossed his head, causing his inky hair to fall back from his face. Despite local opinions about Native Americans, he defiantly wore his hair long. Let ‘em stare. His heritage was stamped on his face, and his hair was the crowning glory. Usually he tied it back with a beaded band, but today when he left work, he’d discarded the band. His scalp was grateful.

“Hi, Dr. Windwalker!”

The light, youthful voice called to him from the house next door, and he turned to see Colleen Carmody sitting in her wheelchair on the large front porch. The Carmodys had moved in a little over a month ago, and he’d shared a few brief conversations with thirteen-year-old Colleen, who was incurably cheerful and friendly. He’d even spoken to her mother Delia, or Del, a few times, but he tried to keep the contact to a minimum. He didn’t want any trouble, and he certainly didn’t want to cause any to the Carmodys. He knew his place; it had been beaten into him.

“You’re home early,” Colleen said with a wide, welcoming smile.

He couldn’t be rude to that girl, not for anybody’s sake. From inside the house he heard a banging, indicating that Colleen’s mother was busy at the restoration work she did to support herself and her daughter. “Yeah,” he replied, without approaching. “And I need it. I had a hard morning.”

“What happened?” Colleen asked.

“A very sick steer would have liked to kill me. I didn’t let him, but he almost won the fight.”

The girl giggled, a delightful sound, and rolled her chair across the porch so she was a little closer. Her red hair caught some of the spring sunlight that filtered through the leaves before it crept under the porch roof, and flamed. “You don’t look like you did so bad.”

“That’s because my bruises are under my pants. I figure I’ll look like a piece of modern art in a day or two.”

Another giggle answered him.

“How’s your day been?” he asked. Nope, no way could he be rude to that child.

He watched, feeling a twinge of concern as he saw the girl’s smile vanish. “Colleen?” Something must be wrong.

“It’s nothing,” the girl said. “I just don’t like this house.”

“Why not?”

She hesitated, then said in a rush, “I feel like there’s something else in there. I hear things. It’s creepy!”

He looked from her to the two-story, clapboard house, and the blank eyes of the windows. Old house. Plenty of rot, no doubt, and maybe raccoons or mice. But something else … Some feeling he tried to shove away, because at least around here he had to be one hundred percent a man of science and bury instincts honed throughout his youth by people who believed in spirits and the sentience of even the very rocks.

“Rats?” he suggested. “Raccoons?”

“Mom checked. That’s what she thinks it is.”