Into The Storm

Can she finally stop running?

Horse trainer Shelby Doucette never bothers to unpack her bags. With no roots, no ties and no fixed address but her granddad’s old sedan, she’s avoided emotional connections, and eluded her past, for fourteen years. Get in, do the job, get out. That’s always been her way. Until she meets Jake.

Widower Jake Cameron is unlike any man she’s ever known, but that doesn’t mean he can be trusted. He has a way of sneaking through her defenses, a way of making her want to stay for good. But being with Jake would mean finally facing her past. And heading directly into the storm...

“What am I going to do?”

Stranger licked the side of her face.

“You’re no help.” She shoved the dog in mock anger. “The longer we stay, the harder it’ll be to leave.” She buried her face against his rough fur. For thirteen years, caution had been her lodestar, warning her not to put out tentative roots.

How had she let Jake Cameron sneak past her defenses? His pain speaking to hers? Not enough reason to trust, but she did trust him.

One summer, her parents had rented a cottage on a barrier island in the Gulf. She had been a fearless child, dashing into the surf, entranced by the schools of small fish bumping her legs with their noses. One day she ventured out too far and a rogue wave knocked her down and sucked her under. Before she could panic, her father scooped her up. She remembered the strength of his arms and the absolute certainty nothing could harm her as long as she was with him.

With Jake, she felt a whisper of that long-ago comfort.

She couldn’t afford that indulgence.

Dear Reader,

After living in New England for decades, I’ve finally returned to the loves of my youth, the Rocky Mountain West and Western horsemanship. I’m also an avid fan of professional bull riding and love nothing better than long cross-country road trips to watch live competition. Into the Storm combines all three passions when a traveling horse trainer drops into the lives of a Colorado rancher and his two sons involved with bull riding.

I hope you’ll enjoy the tale as much as I’ve loved telling it. Please write me if you have any questions or just want to chat. I’d love to hear from you. You can contact me at helen@deprima.com or find me on Twitter, @HelenDePrima.

Happy reading. I hope you enjoy the ride.

Helen DePrima

Into the Storm

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 keeping me focused on the dream.

Acknowledgments

Thank you

To my agent, Stephany Evans, for her persistence.

To my editor Dana Grimaldi for keeping me honest.

To my wonderful critical reader Melissa Maupin for her comments, suggestions and validation.

To Earlene Fowler for her encouragement and prayers.

To the Professional Bull Riders for inspiring me to cowboy up—love you all!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE CHUTE GATE flew open and the big red bull erupted into the arena. Jake Cameron swayed forward in his third-row seat, reflexively matching his son’s moves on the bull’s back, counting the seconds from zero to eight. He surged to his feet when the horn sounded, yelling along with the sold-out crowd. The bull gave a final buck as Tom Cameron loosened his grip, slamming him hard to the dirt. Cheers turned to groans as a hoof came down on Tom’s thigh.

Jake pushed to the end of the aisle, muttering apologies and earning a sharp “Watch it, mister!” as he trod on a woman’s foot.

Tom had scrambled to his feet by the time the sports medicine team reached him. The announcer’s voice boomed over the applause. “He’s fine, folks, and his score’s going to make him feel even better. That’s ninety-two points and the event win for Tom Cameron!”

Jake climbed over the railing to the chute area in a rain of confetti and watched his son accept a silver buckle and a Stetson hatbox. Tom limped back to the exit gate and then let the two burly paramedics half carry him to the sports medicine room.

Jake followed. Yeah, that stomping would leave Tom lame for a bit, but he had left the arena upright, and winning thirty grand plus for the weekend would ease his pain considerably.

“The kid did all right.” Jake’s older son, Luke, caught up with him, pulling his electric-blue bullfighter’s jersey over his head. “Sorry we couldn’t get to him before Sidewinder did.”

“Could have been a lot worse,” Jake said. “He walked out—couldn’t have done that if he’d broken his leg again.”

They made their way to the locker room, past the organized confusion of dismantling pens and chutes. The bulls had already been herded back to the big cattle trucks waiting to haul them away for a few days’ rest before the next event.

“Just a bruise, Doc thinks,” Tom said, shifting the ice pack on his leg, “but he wants me to go for an X-ray. We’ll stay here in town overnight.”

“What a wuss!” Luke shrugged out of his protective vest. “I got butted half a dozen times and stomped twice, but you don’t see me running to the ER.”

“You would if Doc said to,” Tom said, throwing a towel at his brother’s head.

Jake chuckled. Their sparring meant no more than two colts play-fighting. Luke had been watching over his younger brother since Tom had taken his first steps, ridden in his first roundup, straddled his first bull. Stood to reason he would take up bullfighting when Tom got into serious competition.

“Well, dang!” Deke Harkins blew into the room with a cell phone clamped to his ear. “You snatched that win right out from under me, Tom, but I’ll take the next event for sure.” Catcalls went up from the cowboys changing out of jeans stained with arena dirt and bull slobber. Deke was a little hard to take just now, new to the big-time and pumped after a series of good rides. A string of buck-offs would settle him down to the gritty business of riding bulls for a living.

“Catch up with you later, sweet thing,” Deke said into the phone and stuffed it into his pocket. “Well, let’s party—I’m buying. You, too, Jake.”

“Can’t do it,” Jake said with a smile. “I’ve got a long drive ahead—my little girl’s waiting at home.”

“Hot stuff, I guess,” Deke said, elbowing him.

Tom slapped at Deke with his black felt hat. “Watch your mouth—he’s talking about my baby sister.” He turned to his father. “Why don’t you stay over? Tell Lucy to sleep at the Farleys’. You can bunk with Luke and me.”

Jake gave it a long thought, recalling the post-event rowdiness from his own rough stock days—war stories inflated by beer and testosterone and blown-off adrenaline.

“Guess I won’t,” he said, “but thanks. Tom, make sure you get that X-ray.”

The last cars and pickups were streaming out of the parking lot when Jake reached his silver Ram crew cab. The air had been springlike several hours earlier, but now the wind came out of the north and carried the scent of snow. He studied the deep-bellied purple clouds straddling his route northward—new snow over the high country for sure and maybe at lower elevations before he got home.

He pulled out his cell phone and punched his neighbor’s number. “Mike around?” he asked when Bob Farley answered.

“Out bringing the horses into the barn pasture,” Bob said. “Nothing happening yet, but it’s looking to snow like a sonofagun.”

“I figured that. I’m just leaving Albuquerque. Could Mike pick Lucy up at work? I dropped her off this morning because her Jeep’s laid up. Better than even money I won’t make it back before she gets off.”

“’Course he will. I’ll send him down as soon as he gets in—could be she’ll get off early if it’s coming down hard. Just plan for her to stay with us unless you make better time than likely. Bed down here yourself if your road’s too bad.”

“Thanks, I might if I make it that far.”

Jake keyed off, grateful for his daughter’s boyfriend, although boyfriend seemed too feeble a word—best friend and confidante came closer. He just hoped Lucy appreciated Mike’s devotion and that Mike could hold her steady long enough to finish high school. She certainly had no use for anything her father said.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Annie, I don’t know how to talk to her. Why’d you go and leave me?” He bowed his head against the steering wheel. “I didn’t mean it, girl—I know you hung on as long as you could.”

No pressure now to get on the road—he could go back inside but reckoned he wouldn’t. He’d seen too many dads hanging around behind the chutes acting like jerks, treating their sons like kids still riding in high school rodeos. Luke and Tom had done a man’s work on the ranch before they could shave. They didn’t need him riding herd on them.

And he wanted to go home. Not to the empty house, but to the ranch just north of the New Mexico border. The land sustained him like breath and blood.

His hand brushed the bottle in its brown paper bag when he stuck his phone in the center console. With Annie gone, sleep eluded him like a rope-wise old horse endlessly dodging a loop. He could generally drop off at a decent hour by timing sips of bourbon through the evening—better than pills, he supposed.

He’d bought two bottles in Albuquerque, cheaper than close to home. Jake had gone to school with the clerk at the local liquor store and didn’t need Alma gossiping about how much he bought in a month. The bag rustled seductively under his hand. A Bud with a plate of nachos had been hours ago—a little taste now couldn’t hurt, just to take the edge off the lonely drive.

He peered over his shoulder—no one watching. He broke the seal on the quart of Beam, admiring its warm amber translucency, anticipating its sweet fiery slide down his throat, and tipped the bottle to his lips. Before the first drop hit his tongue, he lowered it and screwed the cap on. Through all the heartache with Annie, he had developed a fanatical reverence for life, hard and painful as it might be. Be damned if he would take to the road liquored up, landing at the bottom of a canyon or drifting into oncoming traffic, maybe taking innocent lives with him. He thrust the bottle away and followed the last vehicles out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER TWO

SHELBY DOUCETTE’S DOG leaped down from the cab of the Kenworth and she followed, dragging her backpack and the bag holding her saddle behind her. She slammed the door on the stream of curses, nothing original, and stepped well back off the breakdown lane. The rear of the trailer twitched toward the spot where she would have been standing, and then the big rig roared away with a spray of gravel and an insolent blast of the air horn.

She made a rude gesture at the retreating taillights. “Thanks for nothing!”

Shelby looked around. The late afternoon overcast flattened details of the ravines and low buttes and lent a sepia tint to the broken landscape. Clouds like dirty cotton batting half hid the mountain peaks to the north. Half a dozen white-faced steers stared over a barbed-wire fence, but she saw no sign of a ranch house and couldn’t recall how far back it might be to the last mailbox.

She dug a large Milk-Bone from her pack and broke it in half for the rough-coated dog standing waist-high at her side. “Sorry, Stranger,” she said, pocketing the other piece. “Gotta make these last.”

An empty cattle hauler roared past, headed south; otherwise the road stretched empty in both directions.

“Guess we’re on our own,” she said, slinging her pack over one shoulder and her saddle over the other. “Let’s keep moving.”

Her old car breaking down south of Albuquerque had been bad luck, but at least she’d found a mechanic willing to work on it. She knew she should swap the 1990 Town Car for something more reliable, but the vehicle was her last link to the part of her past she wanted to remember.

“Stop it!” she said with a shudder. The dog looked up at her. “It’s okay, boy. Just smacking myself upside the head.” She talked more to the dog and to the horses she trained than she did with humans. “You told me not to trust that guy, but we were due in Colorado yesterday.”

Her new boss had been sympathetic when she’d called this morning—sure, he could pick her up in Durango. Maybe he’d be willing to fetch her from... She looked around for some kind of landmark. From wherever they were.

She checked her cell phone—no signal, of course. Just as well—she hated asking favors. Which left her on foot somewhere north of Hind Shoe, New Mexico, with daylight fading fast and a veil of snow advancing on the wind.

She’d been comfortable in shirtsleeves when they’d set out from Albuquerque, but she’d felt a bite in the air at the last truck stop and had slipped on the good down jacket she’d bought for ten bucks at a Lubbock flea market. The wind picked up, sending occasional tumbleweeds bounding across the road and whipping the first snowflakes in her face. She zipped the jacket to her chin and pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt.

She started walking. If she didn’t catch a ride, she and Stranger could hunker down under the next bridge until the snow passed. Not bitter cold—the tiny thermometer dangling from her zipper pull read thirty-one degrees. Stranger generated a lot of heat, and she could wrap her saddle blanket around her feet and legs. With luck, she could find dry wood for a fire. They’d be okay.

Wet snow began clinging to the ragged bushes dotting the landscape, looking like the blossoms on the blackberry bushes back home. Stranger shook his rough coat from time to time, and Shelby brushed the dampness from her hood before it could soak through. In the distance a dark slash marked the whitening landscape; she hoped the gully would be deep enough to warrant a bridge.

Intent on reaching shelter, she didn’t hear the big pickup until it whooshed past in the inch of slush already built up on the pavement. She dropped the saddle to wave her arms, but the taillights were already flashing. The driver was braking too hard. She began to run as the truck fishtailed in a slow-motion pirouette and crashed nose down in the shallow ditch.

She didn’t think the truck had hit hard enough to rupture the fuel line, but the engine was still running. Slipping in the snow, she yanked open the driver’s door. The whiskey fumes hit her when she reached in to turn off the ignition. An uncapped bottle rolled into the ditch.

Blood ran from the driver’s nose—idiot wasn’t wearing his seat belt—and he had a nasty scrape on one cheekbone. His hair shone silver as he fumbled off his brown felt hat and gave her a lopsided grin. “Howdy, miss—you need a lift?”

She caught him as he slumped toward her.

CHAPTER THREE

DARKNESS BROKEN BY glaring light, sleet like tiny burns on his face, then falling and wet and cold. A woman’s voice: “Work with me, cowboy.” Darkness again.

The woman’s voice roused him: “Jacob, can you hear me? Open your eyes.”

He must be dead! No one but Ma ever called him Jacob.

“Come on, open your eyes.” A Southern voice, not his mother’s. He gave a grunting gasp of relief and squinted into a bright light.

“Open ’em wide—good. How many fingers?”

He managed to count three fingers.

“You know what day it is?”

He wrinkled his forehead, rummaging for the right answer. “Yesterday?”

She laughed. “Fair enough. Okay, you can go back to sleep.”

* * *

JAKE OPENED HIS eyes to level sunlight throwing shadows across stained ceiling tiles. Where was he?

He thought he remembered a woman’s voice, a silhouette bending over him. A soft rustle to his right made him turn his head. The room spun, his stomach heaved. Closed his eyes, waited and then tried again. Someone in the next bed—he could see only a wild mane of dark hair.

“Annie?” He knew it couldn’t be Annie.

The woman threw back the covers and swung her denim-clad legs out of bed. She yawned widely and pushed her hair back from her face before crossing to where he lay.

“Welcome back,” she said. “How do you feel?”

Like he’d been trampled by a flock of dirty sheep. The left side of his face ached and so did his nose. He made a wordless sound of disgust.

“That good, huh? Could have been lots worse, with Jim Beam as your copilot.”

“Wha...?”

“You remember anything?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to order his thoughts. “Bull riding ended about four—I hung around maybe half an hour. I called home before I hit the road...” No, that didn’t sound right. “I called my neighbor.” And opened the bottle. Had he taken a drink? Pretty sure he hadn’t.

He opened his eyes. “You called me Jacob.”

“That’s your name, isn’t it? The picture on your license even looks like you.”

He grabbed for the region where his wallet should have been and discovered he wore only his briefs.

“I hung your clothes to dry,” she said, gesturing toward his shirt and Wranglers draped over a chair. “You slipped in the snow and got pretty wet, plus whiskey all over your jeans. Don’t worry, your wallet’s on the table, minus fifteen bucks for your half of the room.”

He jacked himself up on his elbows and promptly fell back, groaning. “I gotta tell you, miss, I don’t recall a thing except...” A bizarre image surfaced. “I could swear I saw someone leading a calf...”

She laughed. “You saw Stranger. Stranger, come.”

Jake found himself looking up into a grizzled brown face, pink tongue lolling between massive jaws. “Whoa, he’s bigger than a calf!”

“Maybe a little bigger—he’s a mastiff-wolfhound mix, the vet thought. Or deerhound and Great Dane. We were hoping for a ride. I thought you were going to stop, then you started to skid—”

Bile rose in his throat. “Did I wreck my rig?”

“Not to speak of, just nose-dived into the ditch. The rear wheels were still on hard gravel, so I got it back on the road—you had passed out.” She frowned. “Maybe I should have gotten you to an emergency room, but you didn’t seem much hurt, and you smelled like a distillery. I didn’t want you to have trouble with the cops or your insurance.”

She moved toward him. “Need some help sitting up? Let me—”

“No! I mean, no, thanks.” He heaved himself up against the vinyl-padded headboard and took a couple deep breaths. When his head cleared, he took his first good look at his rescuer.

Tall, probably close to his own five-ten, with arms and shoulders toned like a gymnast. Thick wavy hair, more black than brown, green eyes and amber skin over high cheekbones. Part Indian, he’d lay money, but he couldn’t guess which tribe. With the jeans she wore a black tank top. Maybe in her early thirties, but wariness in her eyes added years and reminded him of a she-coyote watching from just out of range.

“Guess I owe you for getting me out of the ditch last night,” he said.

She shrugged. “Maybe you wouldn’t have crashed if you hadn’t tried to stop for us. Call it even—Stranger and I didn’t have to spend the night under a bridge.”

Jake looked around—faded floral spreads on the beds, a blond bedside table scarred with cigarette burns and a single armchair upholstered in cracked pink vinyl. “Where did we spend the night?”

“I passed a sign that said Welcome to Cuba, wherever that is,” she said, “and pulled in at the first Vacancy sign—the Plainsman Motel.”

“Did the clerk offer you the hourly rate?”

Her face flamed. “You mean...”

“So I’ve heard—I wouldn’t know personally.”

“No wonder the guy looked at me funny when I asked for two beds.” Her chin came up. “Who cares? He’ll never see me again.”

“You know my name,” Jake said. He had a monster headache, but at least the room had stopped spinning. “What’s yours?”

“Shelby.”

Jake waited.

“Doucette,” she said.

“Cajun, am I right? I used to rodeo with a cowboy from Louisiana.” He stuck his hand out. “Howdy, Shelby Doucette. Where you headed?”

“A ranch near Durango,” she said, touching his hand briefly. “A lady adopted a couple mustangs—her husband wants me to start them.”

“That’ll be Ross Norquist—I heard about those horses. He can’t say no to Liz, but he’s scared she’ll get herself killed. You any good at breaking horses?”

“I gentle horses. And I am good at it—I’ve been doing it for more than ten years.” She took a deep breath. “I hate to ask, but could I ride with you as far north as you’re going? I can ask Mr. Norquist to pick me up from wherever you drop me off.”

“Shoot, girl, my spread’s less than an hour west from his. I’ll drive you straight to his corral.” He started to throw the covers back and then grinned. “If you’ll toss me my britches.”

He refused her offer of help into the bathroom—shaming enough she’d dragged him in here and undressed him. He braced his hands on the sink before looking into the mirror and then swore.

“You okay in there?”

“Yeah, fine—just got a look at my face.”

He heard her chuckle. “Pretty scary.”

She had cleaned most of the blood off his face and fixed a strip of adhesive tape across the bridge of his nose. He touched it gingerly—probably broken, not for the first time. Two black eyes and a long scrape along his right cheek made him look like the loser in a bar brawl.