No Hero Like Him

“I have to say this is a novel way to move a horse, but I like it.”

Claire felt the soft feathering of hair on top of Seth’s hand and the calluses on the underside. He smelled good, of fresh soap and aftershave. Of a subtle maleness that made her breathe faster. The heat of his muscled forearm burned through her thin T-shirt and her skin prickled in anticipation. He made no effort to turn her loose. Her first inclination was to lean against that rock-solid chest and enjoy the moment, see what he would do next. Then Belle snorted and Claire caught herself. She pushed Seth’s arm away.

“Let’s see you do it on your own.”

He narrowed those golden eyes that made Claire think of a mountain lion. “Aw, it’s a lot more fun when you help. I work much better hands-on.”

His gaze slid to the camp logo on her shirt, a smile curling his lip and triggering that deep dimple on his cheek. With a start, she realized her body had betrayed her through the taut T-shirt….

Dear Reader,

Here’s another story about the folks around Little Lobo, Montana. I’ve nicknamed them my “Love in Little Lobo” books. It’s fun matching up new people as well as revisiting old friends like the Rider family with all their kids; sweet little Wyatt and his new parents, Sarah and Cimarron; and Clint and Rosie from the Rider Ranch.

In No Hero Like Him, Claire Ford, the daughter of ranch foreman Clint, falls for Seth Morgan, a physically and emotionally wounded bull rider. Seth is coming to terms with the possibility of never riding again. Claire tries to help him redefine himself and he steps in to save her summer camp for at-risk teenagers. But they never expect to fall in love….

Would you believe, Hurricane Gustav hit my hometown full blast just as I was finishing this book? Nine days without power, trees down everywhere, a house full of my son’s Tulane University friends fleeing New Orleans…And two characters who needed to fall in love in spite of all odds. Whew! Once things returned to a semblance of normalcy—other than needing a new roof—my family spent Thanksgiving in gorgeous western Montana. No wonder I love to set my books there.

I hope you get a thrill out of my bull-riding book and love Little Lobo as much as I do!

I look forward to hearing from all my readers, so keep in touch. Contact me by e-mail at eygrant@aol.com, or at 14241 Coursey Boulevard, Suite A-12 #212, Baton Rouge, LA 70817 or visit my Web site at www.elainegrant.com or www.superauthors.com.

Elaine Grant

No Hero Like Him

Elaine Grant

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

When Elaine was five years old, she decided she wanted to be a writer who illustrated her own books. The illustrating part is still ahead of her; however, her first short story was published in the local weekly newspaper when she was in third grade. There was no turning back after that! No Hero Like Him is her third Harlequin Superromance novel set in the fictional town of Little Lobo, Montana. The first, Make-Believe Mom, was a Waldenbooks bestseller and a 2008 RITA® Award finalist.

Elaine lives in Louisiana with her husband, son, a gray tabby cat and an Australian shepherd. Elaine’s books have garnered reviewer acclaim for their vivid characterizations and loving, committed relationships—praise she finds immensely gratifying, since these are the elements of romance that she loves to write.

Specials thanks to the following for their help with researching this book.

If I got something wrong—blame me, not them!

Many thanks to:

D. J. Domangue, Professional Bull Rider (www.djdomangue.com), who sustained an injury similar to Seth’s and who graciously shared the experience in detail. Darren Epstein, Executive Director, Express Sports Agency, (www.csarodeo.com/index.cfm) for introducing me to D.J. Chris Shivers and Mike White, Professional Bull Riders, for introducing me to Darren.

Thanks to:

Dr. Tandy Freeman, Sports Injuries, Dallas Orthopedic Center, surgeon extraordinaire to the Pro Bull Riders, for his information on leg injuries; to his assistant Val Worthington for shuffling my questions and his answers back and forth.

To Josh Peter, author of Fried Twinkies, Buckle Bunnies, & Bull Riders: A Year Inside the Professional Bull Riders Tour for putting me in touch with Dr. Tandy.

To Dale Butterwick, MSc, University of Calgary Sport Medicine Centre, for describing rodeo injuries and rehab. To Daniel Brister, steer wrestler, for general rodeo information.

To Carol Vallee, Meadowview Stables, Baton Rouge, for allowing me to observe her therapeutic riding classes, and to Priscilla Marden, CEFIP-ED, Horse Warriors, Jackson Hole, Wyoming (www.horsewarriors.com for more information on equine-assisted therapy).

Professional Bull Riders, Inc. (PBR) is the premier bull-riding organization in the world. For more information on the PBR and its riders and bulls, visit www.pbrnow.com.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all who are willing to

take a risk to live their dreams.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

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

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

T HE HEAT FROM A TON OF animal sinew and hide rose beneath Seth Morgan’s thighs as he hovered over the cramped bull chute. The dust of the rodeo arena filled his nostrils. The roar of a thousand eager fans in the stands echoed off the stadium walls.

Rotten.

He’d drawn a bull named Rotten for the final go-round. And from all he’d heard, the name fit.

Seth braced himself on the rails, waiting for the cowboy hanging over the side to pull the rope tight around the animal’s girth, and then he eased down onto the bull’s broad hindquarters. This huge yellow bull, a descendant of the notorious Bodacious, was gaining a reputation for tossing riders, as well as having a tendency for vicious retaliation afterward.

For a lot of riders, drawing Rotten was their worst nightmare. To Seth, he was just another bull that needed riding, and nobody had managed to do that—yet. An eight-second dance with this partner could score more than ninety points. Enough to give Seth the win today and ramp up his earnings to third, or maybe second place, in the overall standings. Yeah, he was ready for this ride!

Seth wrapped the rope taut around his gloved hand, then shifted forward, rope hand tight against his crotch. He popped in his mouthpiece, clamped his teeth hard and nodded to the gatekeepers.

The gate swung wide. With a wild snort and bellow, Rotten exploded into the arena, jackhammering his front feet into the ground with bone-jarring jolts. Bull snot flew in wide arcs as the animal launched into another gyrating buck, then whipped into a spin to the right. Perfect, Seth thought. Piece of cake. What he loved best in the world, this unbridled exhilaration.

One second…two…three… This bull was turning out to be easy. Why could nobody ride him?

Four… Stupid question. When Seth didn’t fly off his back in those first few seconds, Rotten changed tactics. Rocketing off the ground, he whirled in the opposite direction, throwing Seth off balance. Known as an “eliminator,” Rotten hated to lose as much as the cowboy on his back did. Smart, strong and unpredictable, the animal gauged his opponent and acted accordingly.

Seth slipped farther to the side. Only a split second to respond or land, as the announcers often quipped, like a “yard dart” on the hard arena dirt. Clenching the rope so fiercely it hurt, Seth released his leg grip long enough to shift back to center. Chin down, shoulder in, focus on the withers. Anticipate!

Five… Rotten ducked hard, jerking Seth forward toward the bull’s head. One whack from those massive horns could be fatal. Unlike some of the younger cowboys, Seth rode without a helmet. His daddy and brothers would laugh him out of the arena if he came out of the chute wearing anything but his Resistol on his head. But a look at that swinging horn a foot away made him think again. Too late now.

Six… Seth pushed his fist hard against the rope around his riding hand to stay upright, away from the horns. Sweat soaked his shirt under the protective vest. Fighting to keep his free hand up to avoid any disqualifying contact with the bull, he forced himself erect.

Seven… Which apparently infuriated Rotten. The monster twisted like a corkscrew, throwing those massive horns at Seth. A contortion brought the wide head around so that one wild, red eye met Seth’s with a chilling defiance.

Rotten plunged forward again. Seth felt his hand slip on the sticky rope. No way! One second to go. Sometimes you had to let loose and ride. Go for broke. Let your body and mind do what it did best. Seth shook off the stiffness of apprehension and spurred hard in rhythm with the bull’s gyrations. The crowd went wild. If his teeth hadn’t been clenched around his mouthpiece, Seth would have grinned.

Eight! The buzzer sounded. Seth had covered all three of his bulls for the event, earning a qualified score each time. He would move to first place on the leaderboard with this ride. Another event title, another buckle and a lot more money.

Elated, he reached to snatch the loose end of the rope and free his hand.

But Rotten wasn’t finished. The bull plunged to his knees with a bellow. Now, when Seth needed it free, his glove stuck to the rosined rope. The animal rolled. With another hard yank, Seth freed his hand. But not in time.

A horn caught the side of his face. He heard the crunch of bone against bone, tasted blood mixed with arena dirt. He threw his arms up as if he could stop the steamroller mashing him into the arena floor, cracking ribs, crushing his left leg…suffocating him.

Then, as if the sun had been momentarily eclipsed, Seth saw daylight again. And heard noise. And felt horrific pain. His instincts told him to get up, run. But, helpless on the ground, his leg bent at a grotesque angle, his body wouldn’t obey. Four massive black hooves shook the ground around his head.

He couldn’t breathe. Rotten whirled, lowered his huge horns and lunged toward him. Seth braced for the worst.

Then a bullfighter threw himself in front of the animal. “Rotten. Rotten! Here!” he yelled.

He grabbed Rotten by the horns and swung the bull’s head, shifting his momentum. Another bullfighter threw himself on top of Seth, risking his own life to save him. By the time the bull took off for the catch pen, the sports-medicine crew had surrounded Seth, holding him still, asking him questions he couldn’t answer. Then everything went black….

CHAPTER ONE

WHAT NOW?

“Good morning, Kristin.”

Claire Ford greeted the high school secretary and signed the visitors’ register. Claire and the guidance counselor Betty Haynes had held their weekly meeting yesterday to discuss the upcoming summer ranch camp for troubled kids, but she’d gotten a call early this morning to come in at ten. Micah must have gotten in trouble—again.

“Go right in,” Kristin said. “Miss Haynes is expecting you.”

Claire’s stomach churned. One more strike and Micah was not only out of her camp, but out of chances—at least at Little Lobo High School. Of the two boys and two girls registered in the summer camp, Micah Abbott, a tough seventeen-year-old only one strike away from reform school, was the kid who would benefit most.

She thought back to the preadmission interview she’d held with Micah and his mother—Micah’s sullenness and his mother’s assurances he would not only attend camp, but also do the mandatory follow-up assignments. Since then, Micah had been in trouble again, and now if he wanted to stay in school he had to finish the camp.

The counselor’s door was open a few inches and Claire could hear the sound of conversation. She recognized the voice of Barry Nestor and smiled. The assistant principal, he had agreed to work for Claire over the summer as camp leader.

It was only days before her dream would be realized, the goal she’d struggled toward for several long years achieved. Finally she’d be able to try to help these kids get their lives back on track.

She tapped on the frosted glass of the door before opening it wide. Betty Haynes sat behind her desk, a venerable teacher and advisor with a reputation for dishing out fair but firm discipline. Dressed in a prim navy-blue suit, she had pulled her silver hair into a bun. The students loved her, with the exception of those like Micah who spent far too much time in her office.

Barry was dressed more casually, in khaki pants and a light blue knit shirt. Heavy, dark-framed glasses gave him a bookish air that had the odd effect of softening his angular features.

Both looked glum, and Claire braced herself. “What’s Micah done?” she asked, taking the seat Betty indicated.

The advisor made a wry face. “He and some others got drunk last night and decided to set off cherry bombs in rural mailboxes. They made the mistake of returning to gloat over their handiwork, and somebody got the license number off the truck.”

Way to go, Micah. “I hope this won’t interfere with his coming to the camp. I’m sure Barry and I can help him,” Claire said. She saw the look the other two exchanged and didn’t like it. “What?”

Barry cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable.

“What?” Claire repeated.

“I don’t quite know how to tell you this…” He hesitated. “So I’m just going to say it. I’m not going to be able to work for you this summer.”

“You’re…you’re kidding, right?” She shifted in her seat, leaning toward him. “Barry, camp starts in a little over a week! We have to move the horses to the ranch and get the bunkhouse ready. And—”

“Listen, I’m sorry about this, but I got a job offer last night that I couldn’t refuse. I’ll be joining a group of psychologists in Phoenix. I’ve been trying to land a position like this for years. It’s in my field of study, pays triple what I make here and, frankly, I’d be a fool to pass it up.”

“But you made a commitment to these kids. They need you. I need you.”

Barry lifted his hands in a hopeless gesture. “I’m sorry, Claire. I’ll try to help you find a replacement, but I fly to Phoenix at the end of the week, as soon as school’s out.”

“I can’t believe this. What about Micah?”

“I wish I could help you. I really do.” Barry used a finger to push his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “I can’t afford to turn down this offer. If I can’t start right away, they’ll find someone else.”

Fighting back panic, Claire moaned. “This can’t be happening.” Where would she find a replacement for Barry?

“Claire,” Betty said, “I have great respect for what you’re doing with your camp. But, this is Micah’s ‘third strike’ and the principal intends to expel him.”

“Summer break starts next week. And Micah will be coming to camp the following weekend,” Claire pleaded. “Just this once, couldn’t you ask for leniency?”

Betty smiled sadly. “I am sorry. I was hoping Micah would stay out of trouble until summer. But I’m afraid with this last incident, and without Barry there…”

“In other words, you think I can’t handle Micah,” Claire said with a frown. “It’s not fair to punish him because of Barry’s decision.”

“I know you’re very capable, but Micah needs a strong male presence. Even if I could convince the principal to make an exception, I can’t support his participation at this point, especially since we have another boy attending.”

“We’ll be on the ranch, surrounded by men. My father, Jon Rider—both are excellent role models. We’ll be fine.”

Betty propped her fingertips together and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Claire. They’re not camp employees and will have other things to worry about. If you can’t find a suitable replacement for Barry by early next week, I’ll have to recommend that neither of the boys attend the camp.”

Claire had dealt with Betty before and knew that the guidance counselor wielded enough influence to keep the students away from camp. Determined that Micah was not going to slip between the cracks, Claire stood, clenching her fists at her sides and forcing herself to remain calm. “Barry, I hope the job works out.” Then to Betty, she said, “I’ll find somebody. Please convince the principal to give him one more chance. I intend to have Micah Abbott at camp.”

STARING OUT THE WINDOW during math class, Micah saw Claire Ford leave the school building. Nosy bitch. No doubt she’d been talking to Miss Haynes. And no doubt when class was over he’d get a summons to the guidance counselor’s office because Claire’d been meddling in his business again.

Like his life was any of Miss Haynes’s concern. Or Claire Ford’s concern, or anybody else’s, for that matter. They all wanted to horn in where they had no business.

Wanted to fix him.

Well, he couldn’t be fixed. His dad was in jail, his mother was a junkie who didn’t particularly care what he did, and they lived in a crappy trailer on the wrong side of Little Lobo—hard to do, given the size of this Podunk Montana town. His parents were trash, his life was trash. He was trash.

Micah watched Claire detour to the playground where the elementary students were at recess. Miss Morgan, the third-grade teacher, met her at the fence that enclosed the play area, and they began to talk. Claire was hot, with a great butt—must be from riding horses all the time. If he thought there was any chance of tapping that, he’d be happy to play camp. But that jerk Nestor was going to be a counselor. Micah figured he might as well be in prison like his dad as go to that camp.

Micah’s attention wandered to the front row of the classroom where Annie Whitman took notes on the lecture, her blond hair falling in silky waves over her shoulders. He’d heard she’d made it with every player on the football team.

She denied it, of course. But everybody knew it was true.

As if she could feel him staring, she turned her head and met his gaze. He winked. She straightened and jerked her head back around. She hadn’t lost her high-and-mighty attitude, that was for sure. Micah pressed his lips together. Just wait, babe. You’ll change your mind yet.

An announcement crackled over the classroom intercom. “Micah Abbott, please come to Miss Haynes’s office after class.”

Micah rolled his eyes and stuffed his math book into his bag as the bell rang.

Right on time.

CHAPTER TWO

SETH YAWNED and opened his eyes to narrow slits. Midmorning light filtered into the room around fluttering curtains. He breathed in the smell of sweet grass and fresh air wafting through the partially open window.

Still sleepy, he closed his eyes again, drifting aimlessly in murky half dreams to a bright, sunny day more than three months ago. Victory within reach. A rank bull named Rotten. Riding on top of the world—then plummeting into oblivion.

Fighting the sensation of falling, Seth jerked violently awake. He wrenched upward, triggering a shaft of pain in his left hip and leg, which were held together with a rod and screws. He let out a yelp and collapsed onto the bed, snatching fast, shallow breaths, squeezing his eyes shut until the pain began to ebb. Meanwhile, he pulled a pillow over his head and tried to shut out the awful memory.

When he could breathe normally again, he shoved the pillow aside and looked toward the nightstand, which was lined with medicine bottles. The clock there showed it was almost 11:00 a.m. Another day in hell. He hated how the pain meds fogged his brain, but some days they were the only way to get a few hours of relief from the constant ache. Then there were the torturous workouts at the gym. They seemed to be doing next to nothing to restore strength to his thigh.

Almost three months after surgery he was still a cripple. He’d been able to put his full weight on his leg for a week now, but without crutches, he still struggled to keep his balance.

Seth sat up again, more gingerly this time. Slowly he shifted his legs over the side of the bed. He pushed himself to his feet, then stood still for a minute to let the pain ease before hobbling to the bathroom. After a hot shower that loosened him up a little, he poked around the kitchen, then nuked a large chunk of leftover casserole and sat down at the table with the steaming food and a glass of milk.

He hated to impose on his sister for so long, but the choice had been Libby’s house or his parents’ ranch. In truth, he’d rather be alone all day than have to deal with his father after the way they’d parted when Seth left home after high school. Seth’s jaw tightened at the thought that once again he’d disappointed the man, even though he’d made a name for himself on the bull riding circuit. Rookie of the Year right out of high school, he’d earned a good living, been to the Professional Bull Riders World Finals in Vegas the last three years in a row, came in third last season. Damn it. He would have qualified this year, too. The way he’d ridden in the first few events, he could have ended up number one.

Then he could have returned home on his own terms to mend the rift between him and his father. Not now…not after that night in the hospital room when his father had assumed he was asleep.

“I knew he would end up this way. I tried to tell him,” he’d heard his father say to his mother. “What’s he going to do now that he’s all busted up?”

Judd Morgan had no idea that Seth had heard, but the old resentment had flared up again and Seth would rather have gone to hell than drag himself home in disgrace.

Instead, he’d ended up here. Laid up at his sister’s house, too dispirited to even follow the rest of the season on TV. He needed to get back on the circuit to bring in some money. He was losing his savings at an alarming pace, on expenses his meager medical insurance wouldn’t pay. No company wanted to insure a bull rider, at least not at a reasonable rate, so he’d taken the minimum coverage. Even though he knew the bull riding mantra—it’s not if you get hurt, it’s when and how bad—he’d never intended to use that insurance. The best intentions…

Plus, he had a hefty truck payment, and insisted on paying room and board to his sister. Libby didn’t want him to, but she didn’t make much teaching, and he refused to mooch off her. His sponsors had been patient so far, but the nasty rumors that he’d never ride again were getting around, and those sponsors wouldn’t wait for him forever.

Bile rose in Seth’s throat as he recalled the orthopedic surgeon’s dire prognosis after hours of intensive surgery.