Luke’s Ride

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: [e-mail].

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.”