Luke's Ride

by Helen DePrima

  “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.”r />
  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 th
e 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.