Luke's Ride

by Helen DePrima

  The house of her dreams, once.

  “Would you like to see the interior? I have the key.”

  Alarm bells clanged in her mind. “No, thanks.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” He reached across her, and she resisted the impulse to shrink away.

  “I took some photos, if you’d like to look.” He pulled a manila envelope from the glove box and held it out to her.

  “I’m sorry, Brad. It’s too late. If you put this kind of effort into a new relationship, you’ll do fine.”

  He pitched the envelope into the backseat. “I should have known better. Get out. Go back to your new ragtag friends and family.”

  The last shreds of regret fell away. “I believe I will,” she said. She left his car, closing the door with a gentle touch, and climbed into Greg’s vehicle. “You guys ready to buy a house?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  LUKE STOOD AT the airport perimeter fence and watched the tiny speck become a toy plane which quickly grew to full size as it floated over the end of the runway. He’d spent a couple bad nights during Katie’s absence, still unable to believe she would return until he saw her walk through the security portal.

  She had called after Garrison’s last-ditch effort and again after the divorce had been finalized the next day. Even with her reassurances, Luke had prepared himself to accept that, surrounded by childhood memories, she might decide there was no place like home.

  He turned and set a good pace toward the terminal—a fine welcome if she didn’t see him waiting for her. He reached the lobby just as she came hurrying down the concourse trailing her rolling bag behind her. For a moment he reveled in watching her unaware, her head held high and her eyes scanning right and left. Then she saw him, and a smile lit her face and his heart like sunrise after a dark night.

  She dropped the handle of her bag and ran to him, giving him the kiss he’d been waiting for, free and unafraid.

  “Oh, it’s so good to be home,” she said when they broke apart.

  She retrieved her bag and linked her arm in his, snuggling against him like a giddy teenager. Truth was, he felt about seventeen himself.

  “I gotta take care of something before we go any farther,” he said, pulling a small box from his pocket. Steadying himself with a hand against the wall, he dropped to one knee and opened the box. “Katie Gabriel, will you marry me?”

  She looked into his face, tears shimmering in her eyes. “You know I will.”

  He slipped the modest diamond solitaire on her finger. “Marge loaned me this so I could do it right. We can pick out whatever suits you together.”

  “Nothing expensive,” she said. “I don’t need flashy jewelry.” She helped him to his feet and into her arms.

  “My car’s here,” she said after a kiss to seal their promise. “I suppose I should go to work.”

  “Shelby’s helping Marge today. She dropped me off to meet you. The day is ours to spend any way we want.”

  She giggled.

  “Okay, maybe not any way we want, but you can take time to catch up with yourself. What’s your second choice?”

  “You’re really okay with my buying into the Queen?”

  “Please don’t ask me that again. I’m Luke, not Brad.”

  The brightness on her face faded a little. “He seemed so sad I almost felt sorry for him. Until he turned ugly.”

  “No 1814 houses in Durango,” Luke said, throttling both anger and relief. “But how about we look at some properties I scoped out while you were gone? If you’re going to run a business here, you can’t commute from the ranch, especially in winter.”

  “You wouldn’t mind living in town? Won’t your dad need you?”

  “Once you and Marge get everything organized, you’ll be able to take a couple days off at a time, and I can stay at the ranch during the busy times like calving season. Maybe we’ll board Dude and Dawn closer to town so we can ride out for an evening.”

  “And if you’re going to take accounting classes and work for Mike...” She clicked open her car doors. “I’ll drive, you navigate. Where to, boss?”

  He directed her to several addresses in and near Durango. Each had points to recommend it, but none seemed to click with her. “I don’t mean to be fussy,” she said, “but I grew up in a house with history. These newer ones leave me cold.”

  “One more to look at.” He gave directions to the older part of town then onto a street she knew well. “Pull over here,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m dreaming—that’s Marge’s house.”

  “By golly, you’re right. Could you stand to live there?”

  “With Marge? I guess we could make that work,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Well, I don’t—I want you all to myself. Marge says she’s tired of keeping up a house. She’s talking about moving into the apartment. She checked into putting a mini elevator from the cellar up through the kitchen to the second floor—not as expensive as you’d think. Easier to bring supplies up from the storeroom, too.”

  “If we can swing it...”

  “How about the payments from your mother’s house?” He took her hand. “Living here would mean a lot to me, too. I spent many an evening in that kitchen when I was a wild young buck, whipping up the nerve to go home.”

  “Do you think Marge would mind if we went in? There’s a key in the garden shed.”

  “Like this one?” He dangled it in front of her eyes.

  “You planned this all along.”

  “Just saving the best till last,” he said.

  * * *

  ON A GOLDEN day in early September, Luke stood under the giant cottonwood at Cameron’s Pride with his father and brother beside him, letting his eyes range over the crowd gathered for the wedding.

  Most of the guests had been here for Auntie Rose’s birthday, plus townspeople from Durango who were now Katie’s friends.

  Luke’s fellow bullfighters had made a flying trip from this weekend’s PBR event, along with Doc Barnett, who stood chatting with Luke’s physical therapist. Jake and Shelby had welcomed members of Katie’s family, including her cousin Greg and his wife with their two small boys, who stood goggle-eyed at the sight of real-life cowboys as well as the Camerons’ Ute relatives.

  Since Katie’s return from Connecticut, buying Marge’s house, setting up the partnership in the Silver Queen and his rehab had run parallel courses at breakneck speed. The wheelchair was now being used by a teenager in Hesperus recovering from a tractor rollover. The braces had been returned to Denver, and Luke was managing well with a cane.

  A murmur swept through the crowd as Katie came toward Luke on her cousin’s arm, as beautiful as a dream in Emily Ruston’s wedding dress. Although they had met less than six months ago, each had traveled many miles in pain and joy to reach this moment.

  If Brad Garrison’s faithlessness hadn’t driven her from their marriage, she would likely have lived out her days more or less content but never knowing real fulfillment.

  Except for his fateful encounter with Sidewinder, he would have been working an event somewhere across the country when she arrived carrying his mother’s letters.

  He’d still been a kid despite his hard years on the road; now he understood what it took to be a man. He stepped forward and joined hands with Katie as they faced the minister together.

  * * * * *

  Be sure to check out the rest of the CAMERON’S PRIDE books by Helen DePrima:
INTO THE STORM and THE BULL RIDER.

  Available at Harlequin.com.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from PROTECTING THE SINGLE MOM by Catherine Lanigan.

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  Protecting the Single Mom

  by Catherine Lanigan

  CHAPTER ONE

  TRENT DAVIS GRIPPED his fully loaded Smith & Wesson M&P 45 semiautomatic pistol and motioned to his fellow officers who had approached the abandoned brick building with as much stealth and expertise as his Special Forces team had used in Afghanistan. They plastered their backs against the outside walls. All wore Kevlar vests and navy windbreakers with yellow ILPD patches on the back. Trent tried the rickety door. It was locked. He gave a hand signal that said he would bust it down.

  “Police!” Trent bellowed with a voice that used to thunder down rocky mountains and desert terrain, as he kicked the door in.

  The heroin dealers were sitting at a table counting money, just as the two undercover officers had planned. Both Sal Paluzzi and Bob Paxton had been Green Beret just as he was. They’d been to Iraq while Trent had been all over the Middle East. The three of them had worked closely on this sting for two months.

  Trent knew a lift of an eyebrow, sidelong glance or nod of recognition could blow future efforts if this bust didn’t go well. Trent had worked undercover a few times and never liked it. He didn’t like living amid criminals even for a single day. He wanted them behind bars where they couldn’t sell dope to a kid or pull the trigger on an innocent bystander.

  Trent worked best as the leader. The first guy in. The one who might have to take a bullet for his men, but who knew he could take down any obstacles in his path.

  Trent was not just good at his work, he was excellent. He knew it. The United States Army had plastered ribbons and stars on his chest because they knew it, and now the Indian Lake Police Force knew it.

  He was prepared for anything. Even to die.

  Instantly, Trent recognized Sal and Bob slouched in their metal folding chairs watching the gang leader count money. Behind the table was a stack of plastic-wrapped heroin. Five-pound bags, Trent assumed. All of it looking like innocent sugar.

  There has to be half a million dollars of dope in that pile.

  Sal and Bob shot to their feet, whipping their guns out from under their shirts.

  In a nanosecond, the tall, lean Asian dealer whisked his semiautomatic off the table, spun around and away from the table, making himself a tougher target to hit. Immediately he fired, spewing bullets at Sal and Bob.

  Trent fired and winged the perp. Right shoulder. It didn’t faze the creep, who kept firing. Trent dropped to the floor, belly down flat, aimed and shot the perp’s gun out of his right hand. Blood sprayed the man’s face. He screamed and hugged his hand to his chest.

  Another gang member, as rotund as he was tall, spilled off his chair, hit the floor and rolled, spraying bullets randomly from his black .40-caliber Smith & Wesson. Bullets pierced the tin ceiling, pinged off pipes, but, mercifully, didn’t hit anyone. Trent guessed the guy was a wheelman.

  Trent shot the jerk in the foot. He squealed like a pig.

  More bullets from the third gang member zinged through the air as he spun the table on its side, sending money fanning in all directions. The guy was quick. He moved like the wind toward a far wall where a window was covered by a sheet. The man was tall, dark haired and stared at Trent with black, cunning, evil eyes.

  Eyes Trent had seen once before. Eyes on a terrorist in Afghanistan who’d held Trent dead in his sights. He’d thought he’d been a dead man for sure. But he’d been too fast for the poorly trained al-Qaeda shooter. Trent tried to shake off the memory, but it held him like a prisoner. The flashback of the sound of his gun firing reverberated in his ears. His aim had been deadly. Trent had lived.

  The present slammed back at Trent as the sound of his men shouting broke through his PTSD terrors. He looked up to see the gang leader getting away.

  “Le Grande,” Trent shouted, and the hair on his neck prickled as he stared down the leader. Trent wanted this one—bad.

  Le Grande scrambled toward the far wall and was out the window. He bolted down the alley.

  Trent cursed and leaped across the overturned table in pursuit. He swung through the window.

  A black SUV started, and Le Grande jumped in the passenger’s seat. It sped down the alley, out on to the street.

  Trent shot at the tires and missed. He ran as fast as he could, trying to catch up to the vehicle. As the SUV raced through a red light, dodging one oncoming car and swerving around another, Trent realized that the license plate had been muddied enough he couldn’t get an accurate read.

  Out of breath, he stopped in the middle of the empty side street, bent at the waist and placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath. What he wouldn’t give to be nineteen again. At thirty-one, he felt like an old man.

  Trent hustled back to the building and heard obscenities fill the air, but the sound of bullets had died. Then he heard the rattle of handcuffs being latched to wrists. Miranda rights were recited. More curses.

  But Trent’s hands shook as he finally holstered his gun. He shoved them in his pants pockets and let his eyes scan the melee.

  The interior was exactly as his undercover investigation team had described, but that wasn’t what Trent saw. Suddenly, he was inside a bombed-out building in Kandahar where his special ops team had rappelled in to extract an American marine who’d been taken prisoner by al-Qaeda terrorists. He smelled rotted food, urine, sweat and blood. He heard voices hammering curses in Pashto and Dari like rattlesnakes. The images slithered across his memory, reminding him of horrors.

  Trent knew one thing—evil was everywhere. Even in Indian Lake.

  And right now, Trent’s home was under fire. Drug lords thought they’d found an easy target here. Little kids, ripe for the picking. Citizens so naive and trusting they couldn’t believe that drug lords would set up shop in their town.

  Yes, they were at war in Indian Lake—just like he’d been in Afghanistan.

  Sal Paluzzi was talking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  Instructions.

  Sal wanted instructions, and Trent was their leader.

  Trent tried to remember. Yes. The chopper. There was always a chopper, and it would be here in seconds. Hoist them out as if t
hey’d never been here.

  “...back to the station?” Sal said. “Sir?”

  Trent blinked. Only once. He was here. He never stayed back there too long. Couldn’t afford to.

  “Copy that. Get these creeps out of here,” Trent ordered, as his eyes scoped the interior. He touched the radio phone Velcroed to his shoulder. “Coming out. Send in Forensics.”

  Trent turned and led the way for his men—as was expected of him.

  * * *

  TRENT POURED COFFEE from the glass pot into a foam cup, sipped the stale, nearly cold brew, then dumped the rest down the drain. He looked around. The break area was vacant. Dead as a tomb. It was nearly midnight. Everyone had gone home. He stared at the stained coffeepot. He guessed the last batch had been made around suppertime—when he’d been bringing in the perps. Booking them. Filling out paperwork. Doing his job.

  He shoved the pot onto the warming plate. “Too late for coffee.”

  He went to the nearly empty vending machine and bought a pack of jalapeño potato chips. He hated them. But the Doritos were long gone. He knew. He was probably the only guy eating them.

  He went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. It was the only thing that the department provided free. That and the coffee.

  Trent went to his desk and stared at the computer screen. He’d nearly finished his report. He felt as if he’d written a book.

  Trent had been assigned to this sting for three months, but it had been ongoing long before his promotion to detective. The Indian Lake police chief told Trent that the Chicago Police Department had been hunting Le Grande for two years. The man was like a shadow. No one knew his real name, but he was a vicious drug lord, and his gang had tentacles from Houston to Chicago to Detroit. Le Grande’s network went straight through Indian Lake. Thanks to geography and unpatrolled country highways and roads, drugs moved from Mexico through Texas all the way to Toronto.