Luke’s Ride

CHAPTER THREE

LUKE REVELED IN the first few hours on the road home, almost like returning to his life before his injury. He’d taken this route dozens of times driving to and from bull-riding events, mostly with his brother at the wheel and then alone after Tom retired from competition five years ago.

After a career traveling every weekend to a different city and working on the ranch during the week, almost three months of confinement had been first cousin to a prison sentence. With his wheelchair stowed in the back of the van his dad had rented for the trip, he could lean back in the front seat and enjoy the passing scenery. The Austin suburbs gave way to countryside with armies of white wind turbines marching to the horizon. Farms petered out to rangeland; the terrain became more broken the farther west they drove. Buttes rose in the distance like tables for an extinct race of giants.

Jake was describing this spring’s relatively trouble-free calving season when the muscle spasm hit Luke. He doubled in his seat with a grunt of agony.

Jake swerved the van onto a gravelly ranch road and swiveled in alarm. “What’s happening? What can we do?”

“Gotta straighten my legs,” Luke said through gritted teeth as the agonizing cramp brought tears to his eyes. He got his door open and released his seat belt.

Shelby was beside him in an instant, helping him turn sideways and extending his legs to brace his heels on the door’s armrest. “Tell me where to rub,” she said.

“Back of my thighs.” He fumbled a medicine vial from his shirt pocket and reached a hand behind him. “Water bottle, Pop.”

Jake slapped the bottle in his hand, and Luke swallowed a capsule with one long gulp. Shelby’s strong hands had already begun to loosen the muscles. The medication to relieve the spasm would do the rest once it kicked in.

Jake patted Luke’s shoulder. “This happen often?” His voice shook.

Luke swallowed to steady his voice. “More than I like. My nerve pathways are all screwed up. Sometimes it feels like knives or broken bones, mostly when I don’t move around enough.”

“Would you like to lie down for a while?” Shelby kept rubbing. “I brought along an air mattress—I can fold down one of the rear seats so you can stretch out.”

Luke sighed. “Probably a good idea.” The attacks exhausted him, and the pill would make him drowsy, as well. “Sorry to be a bother.”

Jake’s voice cracked like a whip. “That better be the last time I hear you talk that way. You’re no more bother than your mother was with lupus.”

Luke’s chin dropped on his chest. “Sorry, Pop—it’s still a lot to get used to.”

Shelby settled Luke’s feet on the van’s running board. “I’ll have you set up in a minute. Do you need the wheelchair?”

He had driven himself like a slave during physical therapy to maintain upper-body strength; now with Shelby to guide his legs, he managed to pivot himself into the rear of the van and lie down. Jake pulled back onto the road; soon the steady hum on the tires and the muted twang of country-and-western music on the radio lulled Luke to a drowsy half wakefulness.

Random thoughts rambled through his mind—uppermost was the yearning to be home. Here he was, thirty-six years old and totally screwed—no wife or kids, unsure of his future. Though he was the older son, he’d never shared the same passionate devotion to the ranch, to the whole family tradition, his dad and brother did. Now his heart reached toward Cameron’s Pride like a wounded animal seeking refuge in its den. Maybe he’d walk again, maybe he wouldn’t, but he understood for the first time how generations of Camerons had endured by drawing strength from the green valleys and red-rock ravines.

The van slowed, breaking into his reverie, and gravel grated under the tires. He jacked himself up on his elbows as Jake pulled into the parking lot of a low adobe-front building with a simple sign above the door: Ana’s Kitchen. He knew the place; he and Tom had stopped here for meals.

The side door of the van slid open. “We checked this out on our way to Austin,” Shelby said. “Good food and a wheelchair-accessible restroom.”

Luke’s heart dropped like a shot bird, jerking him to the reality he’d now be planning his life around his disability. He settled his black Stetson on his head and eased into his wheelchair, rolling into the dim interior of the restaurant while his dad held the door open.

A round-faced hostess with black hair in a sleek braid showed them to a table that would accommodate his chair. They all ordered coffee and studied the menu. The food at the rehab center hadn’t been bad, but Luke’s mouth watered at the prospect of good Southwest food with plenty of beef and beans, cheese and green chili. And real fresh-made tortillas—he could see a skinny kid in the kitchen slapping out dough into thin circles.

Luke was trying to decide between pork enchiladas and carne asada when he became aware of a little boy, maybe six, standing beside his chair. He turned with a smile. He liked kids, had been thinking lately about having his own, especially with his younger brother’s two always underfoot at the home ranch. Fat chance of that now. Doc Barnett had said there was no physical reason he couldn’t father a child, but who would want him like this, a broken man?

“Hey, pard,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Danny, sir.” The child held out a tiny paw. “My daddy’s got a chair like yours because he’s a soldier and he got blown up in the war. Did you get blown up, too?”

“No, I got stepped on by a bull,” Luke said, shaking the boy’s hand. “I’m a cowboy.”

Danny’s eyes got big. “A real cowboy?”

“Pretty real.” At least he used to be—who knew what he’d be in the future?

A young blonde woman appeared from the direction of the restrooms and hurried over to the table. “I’m so sorry Danny’s been bothering you,” she said.

“He’s no bother,” Luke said. “Danny, your daddy’s a hero—he’s lucky to have you for his top hand.” He touched his hat brim. “Thank your husband for his service, ma’am, and thank you, too.”

She nodded, tears in her eyes, and led her son to their table.

Jake and Shelby sat in silence during the exchange. Now Jake surprised Luke by reaching across the table to shake his hand. “I reckon you made that little guy’s day.”

Luke shrugged. “Little enough I could say. A lot of veterans have it lots worse than me—it’s just my legs that don’t work.”

He’d tried to keep his relative good fortune in mind through the drudgery of learning new ways to manage daily activities, functions he’d never given a thought to in the past. At least he had full control of his body except for his legs, and he planned to keep fighting against all logic to walk again even if his chances were slim.

* * *

BY LATE AFTERNOON the next day, Luke regretted his decision not to fly. Jake and Shelby had done everything in their power to make the trip comfortable for him, but the hours in the van and the effort of personal care in the motel’s impersonal setting exhausted him more than his rigorous exercises at the rehab center.

“We have to make a quick stop to pick Lucy up,” Jake said as they approached Durango. “She’s going to drive the van back tomorrow.”

“Lucy’s in Colorado? I thought she was acting in a play on Broadway.”

“Off Broadway,” Shelby said. “And the play folded. She’s going to do summer stock in New Hampshire starting in June, but right now she’s home managing the Silver Queen. Marge had double knee replacements last month.”

“Ouch,” Luke said. “Not fun.” He’d had both knees rebuilt after tendon injuries. And Marge Bowman was no spring chicken, although she always seemed ageless. “Lucy’s running the whole show?”

“Pretty much,” Shelby said. “Marge decided they would do just breakfast and lunch, so Lucy moved into the apartment upstairs and opens in the morning. Jo and I have been pitching in for breakfast until the regular waitress shows up to work lunch.”

Jake double-parked across the street from the Victorian storefront with Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium in ornate gold letters across the wide window. He honked the horn; a few minutes later a slim young woman wearing jeans and a leather jacket came out carrying an insulated bag.

Lucy Cameron climbed into the back seat beside Shelby and leaned forward to kiss Luke’s cheek. “Hey, big bro—good to have you back.”

He reached over his shoulder to ruffle her ruddy curls. “Good to see you, too, Red.”

She slapped his hand away, a ritual performed many times. “Don’t call me Red.” She settled in and latched her seat belt. “I brought chicken fricassee and biscuits plus a peach pie, enough for a small army.”

Shelby tapped Jake’s shoulder. “Home, driver.”

Half an hour later they rolled under the Cameron’s Pride ranch sign, and Luke sighed with relief. He would have kissed the ground if he’d been able to get up off his face afterwards.

He noticed at once that modifications had been made for his benefit. A blacktop parking pad had replaced the graveled area by the back door and a ramp sloped up along the side of the house. He swung himself into his chair and wheeled up the ramp and into the spacious kitchen.

By the time Lucy had unpacked the food, Luke heard his brother Tom’s voice outside, answered by his wife, Joanna. The kitchen door slammed and running footsteps clattered on the wood floor. Luke locked the wheels on his chair just as a small red-haired whirlwind flung herself at him.

“Uncle Luke, you’re home! I missed you! I lost a tooth, see?” His seven-year-old niece, Missy, stretched her mouth in a monkey’s grin to demonstrate. “Can I ride in your chair with you?”

“Sure you can, Shortcake.” He pulled her more securely into his lap as her four-year-old brother, JJ, pounded into the kitchen and scrambled up to join her.

Dang, it was good to be home!

CHAPTER FOUR

A HOWLING MARCH wind woke Kathryn during the night. She shivered and snuggled closer to Brad to sleep again.

The morning’s first light revealed at least six inches of fresh snow covering grass that had begun to show hints of green. Flakes still swirled, almost hiding the woods behind the house. Judging from the low hum of the standby generator, power lines must be down.

Brad strode into the kitchen dressed in the clothes he wore to construction sites and pulled boots and a heavy coat from the closet. “No time for breakfast,” he said. “I need to get to the office. We’ve got projects in trouble from Stamford to Providence.” He slammed through the door to the garage and Kathryn heard the roar of the snowblower.

She watched from the front window while he blasted a path down the driveway and then returned to gun his Mercedes out onto the unplowed street.

She sighed and returned to the kitchen. She had scarcely filled her mug with coffee when she heard the garage door opening again. Brad stamped in, running his hand through his hair so that it stood in stiff spikes like an angry cat’s fur.

“There’s a big pine down across the end of the street,” he said. “No telling when the town will get around to moving it.”

“The downside of a secluded country setting,” she said, hoping to defuse his anger and frustration. Theirs was one of only six houses on a cul-de-sac bordering a conservation area. Although Kathryn wasn’t fond of the house, she loved the easy access to the woods and swamp just out their back door.

“At least you’ll have time now for a decent breakfast,” she said. “Pancakes or waffles? And I still have some of that good bacon we got from Vermont.”

He scowled but then took a deep breath. “Waffles, I guess.”

“Waffles coming up.” She took his coat from him, pausing to pat his shoulder as she carried it to the closet. “Being marooned could be kind of fun.”

The scowl returned, with interest. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I used to know, when I was working for you and your dad,” she said, stung by his curt reply. Since Brad’s father had retired and an architect had joined the firm, she didn’t feel welcome in the new glossy chrome-and-glass offices. “Now I’m not so sure.”

He stared at her for a long moment before turning away.

She prepared breakfast in silence. He caught her wrist as she set the plate before him. “Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you. This snow has hit at the worst possible time. We’ll have to wait till the ground dries out before we can start excavating or the heavy equipment will bog down. We’ll be behind before the season even gets underway.”

The spring construction start-up was always stressful, but a mini break like this would be welcome. Kathryn had been working hard to ready her mother’s house for its next occupants. She couldn’t bring herself to put it on the market. Instead she had offered it for the cost of upkeep to her cousin Greg Gabriel, newly out of the Marines—little enough to thank him for his service.

She bent and kissed Brad’s cheek. “We’ve both been under a strain,” she said. “Enjoy your waffles while they’re hot. We’ll hope the snow lets up and they get the road cleared soon.”

The snow persisted most of the day, and they heard no chain saws working on the downed tree. Brad paced laps around the kitchen island, barking instructions into his phone and muttering curses at the end of each call.

Kathryn cooked Brad’s favorite dinner, pot roast from his mother’s recipe. She held him close in the night but lay awake sad and frustrated when she wasn’t able to penetrate his angry preoccupation.

When the town plow finally ground its way up their street late the next day, she was glad to see Brad roar out of the driveway. Once he resolved all the construction crises, maybe she could talk him into a brief getaway, a few days on Cape Cod or at an inn on the Maine coast. She laughed at her fantasy—she wouldn’t be able to pry him loose until construction wound down in late fall.

She saw little of Brad during the next week. He left the house early and returned late, usually eating dinner somewhere between job sites and falling into bed with only a few words to her.

She filled her days with sorting through the contents of her mother’s house. The work might seem a sad occupation, but she rediscovered forgotten memories, taking comfort that her mother’s suffering was over.

Kathryn’s last chore was rearranging the top floor of her grandparents’ Victorian to accommodate any furniture Greg and his wife Allie might want to store there to make room for their own possessions. The attic had always been a magical place for her. When she was very small, she had played with her dolls under the south-facing window while her mother hung bundles of herbs to dry under the rafters. On Kathryn’s sixth birthday, her mother had placed an old bridge lamp and a bookcase beside a shabby wing chair to create a private reading nook. From her aerie, Kathryn could look out into the top of the copper beech in the backyard. Now in early spring the budding branches framed a view of the old carriage house still holding her mother’s gardening tools and where her father had restored a succession of antique autos and refinished secondhand furniture.

She began sorting through the trunks and boxes shoved under the eaves. In a camel-back trunk she found a white tin bread box decorated with red and yellow tulip decals. Inside were letters tied in bundles with the gardener’s twine from long-ago herb swags. Arranged in chronological order beginning nearly twenty years earlier, each bore the letterhead Cameron’s Pride, Hesperus, Colorado and were signed by Annie Cameron.

Kathryn began reading the earliest one.

Dear Elizabeth,

Too bad we met under such sorry circumstances, but I’m glad you felt well enough to travel to the Grand Canyon. Like you, I’m always grateful when the Red Wolf lets me do something I’ve looked forward to. Thanks for letting me know what a great time you and your husband had the rest of your trip.

She laid the letter down. Her parents had taken a driving trip to the Southwest her freshman year in college. Her mother’s lupus had flared up, landing her in the hospital in Albuquerque, but a simple adjustment in medication had solved the problem. She must have met Annie Cameron there. Her mother often spoke of her struggle with lupus erythematosus as “fighting off the Red Wolf.” Had she thought up the expression or adopted it from Annie?

The afternoon sunlight was beginning to fade, so Kathryn switched on the old lamp and continued reading. Annie’s letters carried her into a foreign world of cattle and horses, mountains and desert, introducing her husband, Jake, their young daughter, Lucy, and their sons, Luke and Tom, both involved with the sport of bull riding. Annie hadn’t written much about her illness except in one of the last letters, telling Kathryn’s mother the disease had damaged her kidneys to the point she needed a transplant.

My sons are mad at me because I won’t accept a kidney from either of them. I don’t know whose job is more dangerous, Tom riding bulls or Luke fighting them, but I can’t leave either of them with only one kidney in case they get injured. Luckily my Jake is a good match, so he draws the short straw—he would move heaven and earth to help me.

The sun had almost set by the time Kathryn unfolded the last letter, dated more than ten years ago. Jake Cameron had written a brief note saying his wife had died from complications following the kidney transplant. Tears filled Kathryn’s eyes for Annie, for her own mother’s long decline and for the suffering both women had endured.

Kathryn wondered if Annie’s family would like to have these letters, this wonderful chronicle of their lives, but she didn’t recall seeing the name Cameron in her mother’s address book. Then she remembered she had given her mother a new book five Christmases ago; inactive addresses wouldn’t have been transferred. Maybe she could call the post office in Hesperus, Colorado, for an exact mailing address or check online. She carried the letters downstairs, thinking to show them to Brad.

The attic had been warm enough as heat rose from the lower floors, but the kitchen seemed unnaturally chilly. She turned up the thermostat and heard no answering hum from the cellar. Frowning, she peered down the stairs. She’d had the furnace serviced in the fall, but it was almost twenty years old. A quick inspection showed no flicker of flame from the boiler.

She sighed and dialed the heating contractor’s number.

“Not till tomorrow morning?” she said after describing the problem. “I guess that’s no big deal—the temperature won’t drop enough for the pipes to freeze.”

Next she called Brad. “The furnace just quit,” she said. “Someone’s coming over first thing in the morning. I don’t know how early that might be, so I guess I’ll sleep here. I’m sorry—I had a nice dinner planned.”

“Don’t worry about it. Looks like we might have a thunderstorm, and I know you don’t like to drive in the rain. I’ll grab something to eat and put in a couple more hours at work. You sure you’ll be warm enough?”

“I’ll be fine. I bought an electric heater for Mom’s room.” She’d always felt cold. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

“I may be late,” he said. “The Springfield project has turned into a hairball. I’ll be there all day, maybe into the evening.”

“Just don’t drive too tired,” she said. “I’ll have supper waiting.”

She ended the call and took a can of chili from the pantry. While it heated, she finished the list she’d been compiling for her cousin—whom to call for plumbing and electrical problems, who delivered oil and repaired the furnace, how to jiggle the light switch beside the front door to turn on the porch light. Greg could call her with questions, of course, but she wanted to make his occupancy go as smoothly as possible.

She finished her meal and was peering into the freezer in search of ice cream when a knock sounded at the back door. She switched on the porch light and recognized Frank Dutton, who had serviced the furnace ever since its installation.

“I saw Gabriel on my work order for tomorrow,” he said. “I figured I’d stop on my way home and see if this might be an easy fix—I didn’t want to leave you ladies in the cold overnight.”

“Bless you, Frank,” Kathryn said. “Although there’s just me here—Mom died a few weeks ago.”

His face screwed up in distress. “Say, I didn’t hear about that. I’m sure sorry—she was a nice lady, always sent me off with a piece of her applesauce cake.”

He hefted his tool bag. “Let’s take a look at that furnace. It’s got some years on it, but you’ve always kept it serviced—should be good for a while longer.”

He clumped down the stairs, and soon Kathryn heard clanking and banging. A short time later the whoosh of the burner floated up the stairs. Frank emerged from the cellar wiping his hands on a square of red cloth.

“Good as new,” he said. “It was just a clogged valve. You selling the house?”

“Not any time soon,” Kathryn said. “My cousin just got out of the Marines, so he and his wife are moving in to take care of it. Maybe they’ll want to buy it sometime down the road.”

“Good for you. I’m a Navy man myself, but the jarheads deserve all the perks they can get. Just tell him to ask for me if the furnace gives him any trouble.”

The house was deathly quiet after Frank’s service van rolled down the driveway. Kathryn shivered. She wasn’t afraid to stay in the house alone, but announcing her mother’s death again had brought home its reality, the utter finality, as nothing had done before. She couldn’t bear to be alone tonight. She needed the warmth and comfort of her husband’s arms.

Only eight o’clock—she could be home in less than an hour. She locked the back door and set the box containing Annie Cameron’s letters on the front seat of her Volvo. The air was heavy with the threat of rain, but the first drops held off until she pulled into her own driveway.

A dim light shone through the front window from the kitchen and another from their bedroom—Brad was probably already upstairs, watching TV or getting ready for bed. If she didn’t open the garage door, she could slip in quietly and surprise him.

She stepped out of her shoes in the entryway and padded barefoot into the kitchen. A soft rumble overhead told her the tub jets were running. Brad must be relaxing after a hard day, although he seldom used the big soaker tub without her.

She decided to carry two glasses of wine upstairs and join him. She crossed to the wine keeper and picked up the cork already lying on the counter; he must have taken a bottle up with him. When she reached toward the overhead rack, she saw two glasses were missing. Puzzled, she looked around for the missing glass, and then her heart stopped before beginning again in slow painful rhythm. A woman’s jacket hung on a chair in the breakfast nook. A purse and scarf lay on the table.

She set the cork down like an unexploded bomb precisely where she had found it and lifted the scarf. A whiff of her own cologne struck her like a slap in the face. The name on the cards she found in the purse came almost as an anticlimax: Britt Cavendish.

Moving without conscious volition, she drifted to the stairs. She froze with a foot on the first step when she heard Brad’s laugh answered by a woman’s giggle. The grumble of the tub jets ceased.