Kathryn had been so absorbed in fuming at the delay she hadn’t noticed the morning’s bright sunshine had dimmed. The sky overhead, what she could see between towering cliffs, had turned gray, and inky clouds hid the peaks ahead.
She glanced at her watch. The drive from Walsenburg, where she had spent the night, should have taken only four hours or so, but following the hay truck had delayed her considerably. Still, she should be able to reach Durango by early afternoon.
She passed a sign welcoming her to the San Juan National Forest and then a couple of campgrounds with chains across the entrances. A few desultory snowflakes drifted down.
She slowed as she rounded a steep climbing curve and drove with no warning into a complete whiteout. Mountains, canyon, the road itself disappeared. She hit the brakes reflexively and her car skidded for endless sickening seconds before rocking to a halt against a snowbank. She sat clinging to the wheel, numb with fear, enveloped in a snowy shroud.
Turning back would be impossible; going forward was too terrifying to contemplate.
Gradually she became aware of a grunting sound, a grumble that grew into a roar. An avalanche? She’d passed a sign saying Slide Area. Before she could panic even more, flashing red lights appeared in her rearview mirror. A huge dump truck ground past her, spewing sand behind it, its wide wing plow missing her vehicle by inches. Acting purely on instinct, she gunned her car into its wake and crept through the storm behind the fan-shaped spray of grit covering the icy road.
Twenty minutes later the snow lightened, the mountainsides reappeared, and the roadway turned from packed snow to wet blacktop. The plow truck pulled aside into a wide parking area to turn and head back up the mountain. Below, a broad valley lay in bright sunshine, untouched by the snowstorm still raging over the peaks.
Kathryn made the rest of the descent as if still on ice. The pavement was dry, but the road clung to the mountainside in tortuous curves above a deep canyon. Her hands ached from clutching the steering wheel and sweat soaked the back of her shirt by the time she reached the valley floor. Stopping for lunch in Pagosa Springs just ahead was tempting, but she knew once she got out of her car she wouldn’t want to drive any farther. Durango lay only another hour to the west—better to keep going and then settle in at that night’s destination.
When Kathryn reached the outskirts of Durango, she had recovered enough composure to be awed by the grandeur of the snowy peaks rearing their heads north of the town. Driving down the main street, she passed the Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium, its Victorian storefront like a set from a classic Western movie. She had checked her Colorado guidebook this morning at breakfast; the Silver Queen was rated four stars for classic regional fare. She glanced at her watch—a few minutes before three o’clock. With luck, they would still be serving lunch.
She had her hand on the ornate brass doorknob when someone inside turned the Open sign hanging in the window to Closed. The distress on her face must have been apparent, because the door opened.
A young woman with red-gold curls gathered on top of her head, wearing a white chef’s apron, beckoned her inside. “I was just closing,” she said, “but you look like you needed feeding at least an hour ago. Would soup or a sandwich work for you? I’ve already shut off the grill.”
“That sounds like manna from heaven,” Kathryn said. “I’m starving—I haven’t eaten since I left Walsenburg this morning. I thought I’d get here earlier, but I got stuck behind a hay truck and then it started to snow—”
“You just came across Wolf Creek Pass? Brave lady. I’m surprised the road wasn’t closed—the forecast this morning said heavy snow above eight thousand feet.”
“I wasn’t brave,” Kathryn said, “I was clueless.” She shuddered, reliving the moments of terror in the whiteout. “Luckily I got in behind a snowplow or I’d still be sitting on top of the mountain waiting for spring.”
“You might have had quite a wait,” her savior said. “I’ve seen it snow on that pass in June. What can I get you? I have chicken noodle soup or chili. And coffee? Or tea?”
“Chili sounds wonderful. And coffee, please.”
“Green chili or red with beans?”
“I’ve never heard of green chili,” Kathryn said.
“So you’re not from around here—better stick with red. A bowl of old-fashioned diner chili will hold you till supper time.”
She disappeared into the kitchen. Kathryn heard her tell someone to bring out a cup of coffee. A few moments later a little girl, possibly six, with the same ruddy hair and wearing her own miniature apron, appeared. She carried a mug in one hand and a cream pitcher in the other, setting them on the table with a sigh of relief.
“Your chili will be right out,” she said.
“Thank you,” Kathryn said. “You’re doing a great job helping your mom.”
“That’s not my mom, that’s Aunt Lucy,” the little girl said. She returned to the kitchen, switching on overhead lights that had probably been dimmed for closing.
Kathryn dosed her coffee with cream and sugar, gulping a few swallows before the waitress set the chili and a small salad on her table.
“That should keep body and soul together until you land for the night,” the waitress said. “Do you have much farther to drive?”
“I plan to stay in Durango for the night and then drive on to Hesperus tomorrow.”
“Not much to see in Hesperus. You have family there?”
“Not exactly—it’s a long story.”
“I love a good story. You mind if I join you? I’m ready for my afternoon coffee.” The waitress returned to the kitchen and came back with her own mug and two slices of pie. She slid into the booth opposite Kathryn.
Kathryn took her first good look at her rescuer. “I’ve never been out West before, but I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time on the East Coast. Where do you live?”
“A little town near Hartford,” Kathryn said.
“Do you ever attend local theater?”
“That’s where I saw you, at the Seven Angels Theater in Waterbury. You’re Lucinda Cameron, right? Someone gave my husband tickets for The Seagull.” Could this possibly be Annie Cameron’s daughter, Lucy, who she had described so lovingly?
“Just plain Lucy on my home range. Did you enjoy the play?”
“I hated it,” Kathryn said. “I felt like going home and putting my head in the oven. But you were wonderful.”
“Chekhov can be pretty heavy,” Lucy said with a laugh. “But he wrote great female roles.”
“And now you’re running a restaurant?”
“Temporarily. I started working at the Queen when I was fourteen, right after my mom died. The owner is one of my dearest friends—I’m keeping the doors open while she recuperates from knee surgery.” Lucy added cream to her coffee and leaned back. “So tell me your story.”
Kathryn hadn’t yet rehearsed a coherent narrative. “Actually, I came to see you,” she said. “Your family, that is. My mother had lupus. She met your mother in the hospital in Albuquerque almost twenty years ago and they corresponded right up to the time your mother died. Mom kept all her letters—I thought your family might like to have them.”
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.
“Dad, Shelby, this is Katie Gabriel,” Lucy said. “Katie, this is my brother Luke.”
With reluctance Luke took the hand Katie extended.
“This is a first for me,” she said. Her gray eyes met his with no hint of pity. “I never met a bullfighter before.”
“Ex-bullfighter,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
JJ erupted from under the table, his favorite place to stash his toys. “We’re having a party, with ice cream and cake.”
“No, with ice cream and peach pie,” Lucy said, setting a pastry box on the counter.
JJ’s face fell.
“I may have some cake in the freezer,” Shelby said, and his face brightened again.
Luke turned loose
of Katie’s hand and returned to making the salad.
“I’m going back to Durango after supper,” Lucy said, “but I thought Katie could stay here. She came over Wolf Creek Pass today in that snow squall—she should be done driving for the day. And maybe someone can show her around the ranch tomorrow.”
Like who? Luke wondered. In the past, he’d enjoyed giving visitors, especially female guests, the guided tour, but now he felt self-conscious about the restrictions his injury laid on him. Still, Katie Gabriel might be okay—she had greeted him as if she saw a man, not a man in a wheelchair.
“If you’re sure it’s no imposition,” Katie said, picking up the box she had set on a chair to shake hands with Luke. “Here’s what I came to bring you.”
Lucy took it as if it were a holy relic. “This means so much to us. Mom died when I was just fourteen.” Tears filled her eyes. “I missed her so much I made myself and everyone else miserable.”
“You were entitled, Red.” Jake entered the kitchen. “I wasn’t much help to you back then.”
“You did the best you could, Dad.” She rolled her eyes. “And don’t call me Red.”
He held out his hand to Katie. “Jake Cameron, and mighty glad to meet you. We feel like we know you from your mom’s letters.”
“I don’t suppose...”
“Of course we saved them. I reckon you’ll be happy to have them, just losing her so recent. She sounded like a special lady.”
“She was,” Katie said. “We were more like best friends, especially after my dad died.”
Missy set the table with great concentration while Shelby pulled a pan of biscuits from the oven. Lucy took an enameled pot of beef stew from the stove to put on a trivet made of horseshoes. They all took their seats around the big oak table.
Luke's Ride Page 5
