Seth held her by the waist and spoke softly in her ear, his breath warm

“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.

“I’m optimistic you’ll be able to walk without a limp again, in time.”

Walk again? Of course, he’d walk again!

“Cut to the chase, Dr. Tandy. When can I get back on a bull?”

“Bull riding? No.”

Bull riding, yes! It was all Seth knew. All he loved. “I’ve got to ride, Doc.”

“Is it worth the risk? You could do permanent damage.”

If it wasn’t worth the risk, I never would have climbed on the back of a bull the first time.

“Come on, Doc,” Seth had countered, refusing to accept his fate. “Guys ride after breaking a leg. No big deal.”

“The bone twisted apart in three separate places. If you injure it again…” He’d shaken his head and turned away from the hospital bed, writing on his chart. “Do yourself a favor, Seth. Find another career.”

Seth made himself stop thinking about that. He grabbed his gear bag, went out to his truck and headed to the gym.

THAT EVENING, Libby brought home food from the local café. Seth didn’t say so, but the fried fish, coleslaw and beans were a welcome change from the casserole he’d eaten for three days straight now.

“How did your workout go?” she asked.

Her sincere interest made him feel guilty. Her eyes searched his face and she shook her head, making her short blond hair bounce. “Not so well, huh?”

“I didn’t go today.” He wouldn’t admit that he had driven all the way to Bozeman, only to take in a movie and drive home again.

“Seth, you can’t do that! You have to be consistent with your rehab or you’re never going to make progress.”

“So what? Doc Tandy says I’ll never ride again, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but you’ll do something else, and you’ll want to be healed.”

Libby must have seen despair on his face, because she changed to that firm older-sister voice she always used when he was hurt. “It’s going to take awhile. There’s no overnight fix and you have to have patience. Grab a couple of plates, okay? I’m starving.”

Seth limped to the cabinet, laying napkins and utensils on the table, as well. “Patience,” he griped. “You sound like Doc. If I hear that word one more time, I’m going to blow. And patience for what, if I can’t ride?”

Libby began to eat, her face set in a worried frown. Maybe, Seth thought, he needed to move out, get away from his sister so she wouldn’t feel so…burdened, and he wouldn’t feel so guilty. The problem was, he’d sublet his apartment in Billings for the summer—a decision he now regretted.

“You’re not going to ride bulls again,” Libby said at last, “and you might as well accept it.”

“I don’t accept it!” Seth retorted. “And I don’t intend to.”

Libby put down her fork. “You know, changing your attitude might help a little.”

“My attitude will change when I see progress.”

The two of them ate in silence for a while. When Libby took her empty plate to the counter, she said, “Well, you can’t just lie around this house all summer. You’ll only get more depressed and down on yourself.”

Seth followed her to the sink, where she began to wash the dishes. “Are you kicking me out?” he asked.

She handed him a plate to dry. “You know I’d never do that. But I want you to do me a big favor. I want you to help out a friend of mine this summer.”

“Doing what?” Seth asked skeptically. He leaned against the counter, shifting his weight off his sore leg while he dried. “You know I can’t work on a ranch with this useless leg and that’s about all I know how to do. Besides, I have enough saved up to get by until I can ride again. If you need more rent I can pay it.”

“Certainly not. You’re welcome to stay here for free for as long as you want to—you’re the one who insists on paying room and board.” Libby finished the dishes and pulled the plug, letting the water flow down the drain. “I just hate to see you so low. If you had some sort of job, I think you’d feel better, and Claire is in a real bind.”

“I’ll feel better when I can ride a bull again.” Seth dried the last glass and set it in the cabinet. He handed the dish towel to Libby and she spread it across the double sink divider to dry.

“You’re being stubborn.”

“As always.” He managed a grin. “What’s the deal with your friend?”

“Claire’s the nicest person—and really pretty.”

Seth straightened and gave his sister a warning look. “Do not try to play matchmaker.”

She jammed her hands on her hips. “I’m not playing matchmaker. Claire just happens to be pretty, and she really needs help. She has a camp for at-risk youth starting next week at the Rider ranch, and the guy she’d hired to be in charge of the boys quit today. If she doesn’t have a full-time male counselor in place by early next week, they can’t come to camp.”

“Stop right there. I’m not babysitting a bunch of rotten kids all summer.”

“This isn’t babysitting. These teenagers need help, and Claire’s willing to provide it. She’s worked for three years to get a camp started, and has finally succeeded. Then Barry—he’s the assistant principal at school, who was going to help her this summer—he got a great job offer out of the blue, a position that starts immediately. He quit on her today and she’s afraid she’ll never find a replacement in time.”

“Nice guy.” Seth shrugged a shoulder. “But I don’t have the experience.”

“No, but you’re good with kids. And you could use something to occupy your time this summer.”

“I’m good with little kids—and teenage girls,” he said.

“Seth!”

He grinned again. “You know what I mean. Signing autographs and paying them a little attention, that’s all.”

Libby sighed in exasperation. “Anyway, Claire is concerned about one boy in particular. Micah Abbott. He’s been in a lot of trouble this year. If he can’t attend Claire’s camp, accomplish the work there, he won’t be allowed back in school next year.”

“So what’s the problem with this Micah? Sounds like he needs more than a slap on the back and an autograph. And that’s about my limit.”

“I don’t know much about him other than he has a bad home life. Claire’s camp is his last hope.”

Seth had never minded assisting somebody in need—changing a flat tire or lending a buddy a few bucks. But spending his summer herding a bunch of teenagers was a bigger commitment than he was willing to make. “Libby, I wish I could help your friend out, but I don’t think I fit the bill for what she needs.”

“Would you at least go talk to Claire? Maybe you could just fill in for a few days to give her time to find somebody permanent.”

“I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Okay, but don’t think too long. She needs help fast.” Libby’s voice held a rare edge of irritation. “And you could do this one favor for me. After all, I did you one, letting you come here, instead of making you go home to the ranch. I probably should have anyway, so you and Dad could make up. He wants to, you know.”

“No, I don’t know that,” Seth said. “He’s never done anything to make me believe it.”

“And when have you given him the chance? You won’t even talk to him. Even in the hospital you didn’t want him in your room.”

“Why would I? I did exactly what he always said I would. Ended up with my face in the dirt and busted up. I didn’t want him rubbing that in.”

“None of them would have done that. Everybdy was worried to death about you.”

“Yeah, well, Dad had a funny way of showing it.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Seth shrugged. “Just something I heard him say in the hospital.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I’ll think about helping your friend.” Seth felt trapped between the frustration of having an injury that prevented him from doing what he wanted to do, and the guilt of refusing his sister after all she’d done for him. He’d always hated being beholden, even to his family. “I’m going to bed. ’Night.”

He gave Libby a peck on the cheek, then hobbled to his room to watch TV and sulk behind closed doors. He slumped into a chair in front of the TV and used his cell phone to call some of his buddies. He wanted to catch up on the latest standings, see if his name had already dropped off the list of forty-five top-ranked riders, but nobody answered.

Were they checking their caller ID and deciding not to talk to him? He hoped not, but had to admit his attitude hadn’t been great lately. He couldn’t travel, and the others had to, or else they made no money. His travel partner, Jess Marvin, had been forced to pick up another buddy to defray expenses, but usually touched base every few days.

Sometimes Seth imagined that he saw wariness in the eyes of friends who visited him, as if what he had might be catching and if they hung around him too much, some of his bad luck might rub off and they could be the next one laid up. A lot of rodeo riders, like many athletes, had an unhealthy dose of superstition. Wearing a lucky hat or chaps. Dropping to a knee on the arena floor to give thanks to God after a ride or a save.

Who needed negativity when you had to go out and ride the next day? So his buddies had gone on with their lives and left Seth behind.

He picked up the Pro Bull Riders schedule from the floor beside his chair and studied it. No wonder they didn’t answer. They were riding tonight and the rest of the weekend, right up the road in Billings. He could drive there tomorrow. Limp around, breathe in the intoxicating scents of livestock, sweat and food from the concession stands. Take in the heady noise of the arena: the screams of the girls in the stands, the excited snort and grunt of a bull eager to get that rider off his back and that flank rope loose, the yells of the other cowboys urging their comrades on…The shouts of the bull riders luring a rampaging animal away from a fallen rider.

Seth remembered that sound well enough. And the pain, and the mortification of knowing he had to be hauled out of a hushed arena on a gurney. Yeah, he could drive up to Billings for all that. Sure.

He sailed the schedule into a corner, where it hit the wall and slid to the floor. No way in hell.

No, he’d just stay here with Libby all weekend and help her weed her flower beds. Hell, he might be doing that the rest of his life, the way things were going.

CHAPTER THREE

“WONDERFUL! You’re doing great. Cluck to her to keep her moving.”

Claire watched as fifteen-year-old Rachel Rider, one of her young volunteers, led a Shetland pony around the dirt paddock behind the Little Lobo Veterinary Clinic. Rachel’s twelve-year-old sister, Wendy, worked as a side-walker, her hand resting on the leg of a tiny helmeted girl sitting in a saddle that was too big for her, even though it was the smallest available. On the other side of the horse, another Rider girl, thirteen-year-old Sam, served as the second side-walker.

Another sister, eleven-year-old Michele, also volunteered for Claire’s therapeutic riding program. Claire certainly appreciated Jon and Kaycee Rider’s dependable girls. Without them, she feared she would be begging for enough volunteers to keep her program going in the tiny community. The family’s generosity was overwhelming. Kaycee let Claire use the stables and paddocks behind her veterinary clinic and Jon had donated a bunkhouse on his ranch for her summer camp.

With her petite frame, nine-year-old Natalie Hughes could have passed for a five-year-old. Thick glasses made her blue eyes look huge. A combination of neurological and physical problems had stunted her growth and robbed her of the freedom of movement normal in children her age. Yet in the months since she had become one of Claire’s pupils, the child had improved dramatically and now could sit unaided in the saddle. Soon Claire planned to give her the reins to learn to guide the pony, although one of the volunteers would have a halter rope to maintain control, and side-walkers would be in place on either side of her at all times. Still, given Natalie’s limited abilities, it would be a major step forward.

“Now, lift your hands over your head,” Claire told her. “That’s good. The girls won’t let you fall.”

Natalie’s body moved loosely with the pony’s easy sway. She was game, and never hesitated to attempt whatever exercise Claire asked of her. She held her hands overhead for a minute, then let them drop.

“Great job,” Claire said. “Now, say ‘Whoa, Sheffield.’”

“Whoa, Sheffield,” Natalie repeated.

The pony obediently stopped near the gate, waiting for Rachel to lead him through. Once in the covered cross-tie area outside the stables, Claire lifted the child down, hugging her for a long moment before settling her into the electric wheelchair on the concrete pad where her mother waited. Claire tried not to question God why kids like Natalie and the others she saw daily in her therapeutic riding program had been afflicted with such dreadful conditions, but their indomitable spirits always amazed her.

“Bye, Claire,” Natalie said, turning her wheelchair on a dime and heading for the family van, where a lift would place her inside, wheelchair and all.

Her mother smiled at Claire. “Thanks…for everything. She’s so much more confident now and happier all around. It’s wonderful.”

“I think she’ll continue to improve as she gets stronger,” Claire said. “She’s almost ready to hold the reins. Maybe in a couple more lessons.”

“Oh, she’ll love that. See you next time.”

Minutes later, the van pulled out of the parking lot, and Claire left the pony in the care of Rachel and Sam, so she could catch up on her administrative work. Claire’s office and the tack room were located down a breezeway connecting the paddock area to the back row of stalls. Three stalls on the inside ell of the stable looked out onto the covered work area, and she had use of five more stalls along the outside perimeter. A nice wash rack was located behind the stables and the covered area was big enough to cross-tie two horses and still leave room for her challenged riders to maneuver.

Before her next lesson Claire had time to update her charts and continue her search for somebody to replace Barry, so she settled behind her desk to get busy.

A few minutes later she heard another vehicle pull into the parking lot, but she didn’t bother looking up. As well as people coming and going at the vet clinic, there was a constant influx of customers for the Little Lobo Eatery and Daily Grind next door, not to mention the bed-and-breakfast behind the café.

The sound of approaching footsteps caught her attention, especially the uneven gait. She put aside her paperwork and went to the door. The man crossing the stable yard walked with a decided limp, favoring his left leg. When he looked up and found her watching him, his face registered surprise and embarrassment.

“Hello. Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Claire Ford.” The deep, confident voice belied his obvious discomfiture. A black Resistol hat sat low on his forehead, and a crisp, starched shirt and creased jeans complemented a lean, strong frame.

“You’ve found her,” she said with a smile. “Are you here to set up therapy?”

He glanced down self-consciously, then lifted his eyes to hers. “Well, ma’am, I probably need a little, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh, sorry,” Claire said. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

He offered a slight smile that brought a dimple to his left cheek. “I’m Seth Morgan, Libby’s brother. Libby wanted me to stop by about some camp.” He crossed his arms. “Doubt I’m what you’re looking for, but I told her I’d come as a favor, and here I am.”

“Seth, nice to meet you.” Claire reached out a hand and they shook briefly. So this was Seth Morgan. That explained the limp. Libby had told Claire about her brother’s injury. What she’d failed to mention was the attitude. Bull rider. Rodeo cowboy. What else should Claire expect? But this cowboy wouldn’t be riding bulls anytime soon. “Thanks for coming by. Libby told me you might be interested in working for me this summer.”

“It’s more like Libby wants me to find something to do. I owe her big-time, but asking me to play wrangler to a bunch of kids is a bit much.”

Too bad he hadn’t knocked that chip off his shoulder when he fell. Claire noticed him favoring his hurt leg. “Come into my office and let’s talk.”

Since yesterday, she’d made a dozen phone calls, with no luck. At this late date, anybody who might have the summer free had already found employment. Unfortunately, Claire hadn’t interviewed anyone for the job beforehand, since Barry had been the perfect candidate—or so it had seemed. Lesson learned. Always have a plan B.

Seth followed her inside and eased down into a chair, his relief obvious as he removed his hat and laid it in his lap. He was a good-looking guy in his midtwenties, around Claire’s age. Light brown hair showed traces of fading sun streaks, and that athletic physique hadn’t come from a gym.

“Like I said, I doubt I’m what you’re looking for.” His brow furrowed. “I’ve never done anything like counseling before.”

Claire toyed with a pen on her desk. “Right now I might gladly take any male over twenty-five.” She realized how that must sound to a stranger, and when he chuckled, the heat of a blush crept up her neck.

“Well, I fit that bill. Looks like we’re both in a bind.”

Boy, did he ever fit the bill—in spades. Golden eyes the color of a cougar’s held her gaze and turned up the thermostat under her skin until she forced herself to break contact and try to concentrate on what the job entailed.

“Look,” she said. “I’m desperate to find an authority figure for one of the boys.”

“Micah? Libby told me a little about him.”

“Yes, Micah Abbott. The guidance counselor won’t allow him or the other boy to attend if I don’t have a man as a full-time assistant camp director.”

“Assistant camp director? You’re getting way out of my league now.”

“Won’t be too difficult. I need a male authority figure to help keep Micah in line, that’s all.”

“And you think just having me around will do that, when the entire school system can’t? Won’t take a smart kid long to test a banged-up cowboy.” Seth’s gruff voice carried a hint of frustration, maybe even anger.

“Even if you were whole, I would expect you to avoid physical force.”

“Number one, I am whole, lady, just broke my leg,” Seth snapped, pushing himself up from the chair and setting his hat back on his head with a thump. “And number two, I think you need to find somebody else to wrangle this kid.”

If his attitude was a reflection of how he would handle students, she might just be creating more problems by hiring him. Besides, the sex appeal oozing from his pores might be too much of a distraction. Still, she had to have an assistant.

“I’m sorry, I should have said ‘even if you were completely healed.’” Claire rose also. “There are other ways of asserting authority besides being physical, you know.”

“No, I wouldn’t know much about that. I’m pretty used to physical.”

“Libby told me you were a bull rider.”

“Am. I am a bull rider,” Seth said, his words clipped with irritation.

“I understood from your sister that you wouldn’t be able to ride again after this injury.”

The color drained from his face and his breathing quickened perceptibly. “Libby’s got no business saying that. That’s my decision to make.”

“I must have misunderstood,” Claire said quickly. “I thought she mentioned that was the doctor’s prognosis.”

“The surgeon is probably the best there is, but he’s not God. I hope you find somebody for your camp.” Seth spun toward the door, and in the process lost his balance. He caught hold of the door frame to steady himself.

Claire’s first instinct was to rush to help him, but she refrained. He froze in the doorway as if paralyzed, and she realized he was in pain physically as well as emotionally. His pent-up frustration and fear were palpable.

Claire’s nurturing instinct kicked in. “Seth,” she called quietly. “I could really use you this summer. Libby almost promised you’d help me out.”

He wouldn’t turn back to her. “She’s got no business saying that, either.”

“I do need help.” Claire eased around her desk. “If I can’t give the guidance counselor a name by early next week, my camp may not be able to open.”

Seth’s grip on the door frame tightened until his knuckles went white. “You need somebody else,” he said between gritted teeth. “Like you said, somebody whole.”

“I wouldn’t offer you the position if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave, either.

“And, Seth,” she said, “I could work with you to strengthen your injured leg and improve your balance. That’s what I do for a living, you know. Therapeutic riding. Think about it overnight, okay?”

He shook his head in a brusque, dismissive movement and started for his truck.

“I’ll be here at eight tomorrow morning, if you change your mind,” Claire called after him.

CHAPTER FOUR

“SETH, GET UP.”

Libby’s voice outside his bedroom door startled him awake.

He groaned and muttered, “What?”

“Get up and go tell Claire you’ll help her.”

Seth sat up in bed, the covers pooling around his bare stomach. His sister had harangued him all last night for turning Claire down. “Don’t start on that again, Libby.”

“I just talked to her. She’s at the stables for a few hours this morning. Get your butt dressed and get out there.”

Seth did a double take, staring at the closed door. Libby never used an off-color word, not even butt. “Come on. I told you I don’t want to—”

“This is the way it is, Seth! Either go work for Claire this summer or I’m going to tell Daddy you’re just wallowing in self-pity, and that he should come up here and get you.”

Seth breathed a few choice words that Libby couldn’t hear. Just what he needed—his father and two of his older brothers on his case all summer. Lane, the one closest to his age, might cut him some slack, but his oldest brother, Howdy, wouldn’t. Sometimes Howdy acted as if he thought he was Seth’s father anyway. “Okay. All right. I’m getting up.”

“Good. Get up and stay up.” She was in full schoolmarm mode now and not to be denied. “I’m teaching early Sunday school today. If you get things straight with Claire in time, it wouldn’t hurt you to come to church.”

“Don’t count on that,” Seth muttered.

“What?” Libby said though the door.

“I said I’ll try,” he called. “You can stop the lecturing now. I’m up.”

He heard Libby cross the hall to her bedroom and close her door.

It was 7:00 a.m. He hadn’t been up this early since he’d gotten out of the hospital. Before his accident, he’d never lain in bed past six. Maybe it was time for him to get back to normal. But he hated the thought of facing Claire Ford again after yesterday. She must really be desperate if she was willing to hire him in his current physical condition.

He shook his head. He wasn’t used to a woman studying him with that analytical, sympathetic expression, something akin to pity. Seth didn’t want anybody, especially a good-looking woman, feeling sorry for him.

His jaw clenched as he recalled how other women had reacted to him, screaming his name and cheering while he flung his hat across the arena in celebration of a great ride. Pressing around after the event as he loaded his gear into his truck. Sidling up to him in the bars the cowboys frequented. Offering to come to his hotel room, or inviting him to theirs. Depending on how pretty she was or how drunk he was, Seth had taken some of them up on their offers. They had never looked at him with pity.

His blood pumped hard with rising anger. He sure as hell didn’t want Claire pitying him. He wanted that old sense of power, that cocksure attitude that had carried him to victory in and out of the arena. Sweat popped out on his forehead when he stood, and the ache in his leg threatened to lay him flat again. The anger turned into a hot, fluid rush of terror. What if he never got back to where he had been before the accident? What if it just never happened?

Stop it! He forced his breathing back to normal. Chased the dread out of his mind. No way would he surrender to a broken leg. He’d faced injury before, and looked at death every time he settled on a bull’s back. This was just a bigger setback than most. Still, as he hobbled to the shower, uncertainty gripped his stomach, like a hunger he couldn’t sate.

A hot shower and a big dose of ibuprofen eased the pain. He rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved jaw and splashed on aftershave. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he went to the closet in search of clothes. As usual, Libby had arranged his shirts by color and lined up a row of perfectly pressed jeans next to them. Maybe that was another reason she wanted him gone. Her life had been a lot simpler before he barged in. In all fairness, he had tried to convince her he could do his own laundry. He couldn’t help it if she was such a mother hen.

He pulled out a pair of jeans, rummaged in his drawer for underwear and moved to the bed. One of these days, he’d be able to step into pants again like a normal human being. Since the surgery, he hadn’t been able to lift his left leg high enough to dress standing up. Instead, he had to sit and drag the pants on like an old man. It had absolutely infuriated him at first, but he’d grown resigned over the weeks. Either do it that way or go naked—not an option as long as he lived in somebody else’s house. At least he could put his boots on by himself now.

He went back to the closet for a shirt, which he put on and tucked in. His eye caught a glimpse of his best pair of chaps hung across a heavy-duty hanger at the far end of the closet. He fingered the long, silky silver fringe, which feathered across his hand like a woman’s hair.

On a whim, he pulled the chaps off the hanger and buckled them on, along with his other riding gear. Standing before the mirror, Seth allowed his gaze to run the length of his reflection, from the black hat cocked on his head to the crisp white shirt and black flak vest emblazoned with sponsor emblems, to the long shimmering fringe on black-and-red leather chaps, and to square-toed, spurred boots that had seen more than one rodeo.

He lifted his eyes to stare at the oversize trophy buckle on his belt, the one for the win that was announced while he was en route to the hospital—his “Rotten buckle,” as he called it. Seth’s heart plummeted. The man in the mirror was the man he used to be. The man he still wanted to be. The man he might never be again.

A bull rider—all he’d ever wanted to be.

Seth snatched off the vest and chaps and threw them on the closet floor, followed by the trophy buckle. He found another, unassuming belt and took the spurs off his boots. He wasn’t going around pretending to be something he wasn’t, and right now he didn’t know what he was.

He recalled Claire’s offer to help him rehab his leg. Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea. And Libby had him over a barrel. He’d do anything not to have to tangle with his dad right now. Maybe by the time summer was done, he would be healed enough to make a decision—one that might change him forever.

MICAH SAT ON THE rickety front steps of his hotter’n hell trailer. Inside, his mother lay sprawled across her bed in a stupor, the result of cheap liquor and ill-gotten prescription drugs.

Knee-high weeds surrounded the trailer and the rusting pickup truck parked alongside. It had sat there since Pop went to prison. When his mother had said he couldn’t drive it, Micah had taken it without permission. Until she’d thrown the keys somewhere out in the overgrown field, and he’d never been able to find them. What did it matter now? All the tires were flat and the truck probably wouldn’t start, anyway.

Micah propped his elbow on his knee and rested his chin in his palm. Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do…His buddies wouldn’t be by today. Most of them were grounded for a month of Sundays for getting drunk and blowing up mailboxes last week. It had been fun while it lasted. Especially driving back around and laughing at the angry owners.

Unfortunately, one of them had nailed the culprits. The boys would have to replace all the mailboxes with their own money and labor. The ones who had money would pay for the boxes, and the ones who didn’t, like Micah, would have to do the grunt work of digging out the old posts, pouring fast-acting concrete, setting the posts, waiting for the concrete to harden, then attaching the new mailboxes. A lot of payback for a quick thrill.

Micah wasn’t grounded. His mother didn’t care if he blew up mailboxes. She didn’t care what he did as long as she had a stash of booze and pills. He closed his eyes, feeling the hot sun burn his face.

At least he felt something, even if it was just physical. He’d long ago learned to zone out most of the emotional stuff. It had begun about the time his father lost his job with a big construction company, a good-paying job painting the walls of new buildings. When Micah was young, the family had enjoyed a decent life. They’d lived in a modest house in town, the truck had been new and shiny, and Micah was allowed to sit on his pop’s lap and “drive” down the dirt roads outside of town. His mother had been pretty and kept a tidy house and cooked good food. Life had been okay until three years ago, when his father got caught stealing some paint from work to make the house look better…and worse, the investigation revealed that he’d been sneaking other material out the gate for years. Ten in the pen.

That was then, this is now. Micah shoved himself up from the porch, went down the steps to tinker with the rusted-out truck. If he could just get it going again, he’d be free….

“GOOD MORNING.”

Claire jumped at the sound of the deep voice. Her hand flew to her heart as she swiveled around in her chair. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard Seth come into the barn. He lounged against the door frame of her tiny office, arms crossed, watching her.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” she said, her heart still double-timing. “Just startled. How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know you concentrate very well—and if I can sneak up on you, just about anybody could.”

Claire found herself mesmerized by the steady eyes that locked with hers and wouldn’t let go. “That’s not good,” she said.

“Depends on who’s sneaking, I guess.” Seth pushed away from the frame with his shoulder and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Well, I’m here to take that job offer, if it’s still open. Libby’s going to throw me to the wolves if I don’t.”

Claire smiled. Any port in a storm, sometimes. Thanks, Libby. “I hate for you to be pushed into something you don’t want to do, but I am desperate.”

“Like I said, I don’t have much choice, either.” He cleared his throat and added, “I was wondering about that therapeutic riding, too. Do you think it might heal my leg quicker?”

“We could sure give it a try.”

“I guess that sort of thing’s pretty expensive, though, and my insurance has paid all it’s going to for physical therapy.”

“Therapy lessons aren’t cheap,” Claire agreed. “Most of my students are subsidized by donations.”

“That’s what I figured,” Seth said, shrugging. “It was a good thought, anyway.”

In truth, she didn’t recoup the cost of maintaining the stables and horses or upkeep of equipment, not to mention her modest salary, from what she charged her students. Most of her funding came from generous donations, most of her help from teenagers who volunteered their free time.

“How about this—you work at camp in exchange for therapy. However, I expect a firm commitment from you to stay the whole summer. I can’t afford to lose you halfway through and have to send the boys home.”

Seth didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “Fine. It’s not like I’ve got anything else waiting. I’m pretty much sidelined for the summer. So, what all does this camp involve?”

“Pull up a chair,” Claire said. When they were settled, she began, “The camp starts next Sunday and will last four weeks. An old bunkhouse on the Rider ranch has been converted to a dorm, thanks to donations from Jon Rider and Cimarron Cole. Do you know them?”

Seth shook his head. “I haven’t met many people since I’ve been here. Libby says I’ve been a hermit.”

“Jon’s wife, Kaycee, is the vet next door, and Cimarron and his wife, Sarah, own the café and bed-and-breakfast on the other side of the parking lot. Jon donated the bunkhouse on his ranch and Cimarron rebuilt it into a dorm.”

“Sounds like you’ve got some good connections.”

Claire laughed softly. “My dad, Clint, is Jon’s foreman, and I helped Cimarron with his little boy, Wyatt, before he married Sarah. He’s shown his gratitude by supporting both my camp and my therapeutic riding school.”

“So how much does a riding lesson cost?” Seth asked.

“If I charged what it costs me to run the school, at least a hundred fifty bucks an hour.”

Seth whistled softly. “That’s steep.”

“Yes, but who can afford that around here? Nobody. That’s why the donations are so important. I charge from sixty to ninety dollars an hour depending on what the family can afford.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t afford that for long. You must be planning on paying me a lot.”

“No, sorry, not all that much. Barry was a volunteer, but I did plan to offer a small salary.”

“Which I can exchange for a few therapy sessions?”

“Yes, we can do that.”

“Deal,” Seth said. “You’ve got an assistant camp director. So what now?”

“Paperwork. Lots of paperwork.” Claire pulled a folder from a desk drawer and handed it to him along with a pen. “There’s an application and other forms inside. One concerns general medical information. I’ll need your doctor’s signature on a physical exam form—you’ll need a physical if you haven’t had one lately. I’ll also need a recent therapist’s evaluation before you start riding. I can fax the forms to speed things up.”

“Sure. My surgeon is in Dallas and my therapist is in Bozeman.” Seth gave her the names.

“Dallas? That’s pretty far away for checkups, isn’t it?”

“Doc Tandy’s the best. I use an imaging center in Bozeman to do X-rays and send them to him to evaluate. My therapist sends him reports, too, probably not much to his liking these days. I’ll have to go back in a few months, but for now long distance works.”

“I see,” Claire said. She wrote down the names, then pointed to the packet of papers in front of him. “Also, there’s a release to run a background check on you.”

“Background check? In case I’m some kind of pervert?”

Claire leaned back in her chair and studied his face. He had the softest eyes, and a smile that quirked up endearingly on one side.

“Something I have to do on anybody I hire, since I work with children and teens. One of the local deputies runs the checks, and he usually gets back to me right away. But if there are any surprises that might show up, I’d appreciate you bowing out now. Having Micah come to camp is very important to me, and I don’t have time to spare.”

“No surprises. I had a speeding ticket two years ago, but I paid it. No bad credit—not yet, anyway. No arrests or anything like that. Not on any child-predator list, either.”

“That’s good to know,” Claire said. She trusted that Libby would never have suggested her brother for the job if he had a questionable background, but she had to be sure, anyway, to safeguard her campers.

Seth opened the folder and flipped through the pages. “Whew, this could take awhile.”

“Part of the process. Lots of red tape. But if you have time to fill them out now, we could get some of the orientation out of the way today.”

“What kind of orientation?”

“First, how to handle the horses.”

He gave her an incredulous glare. “I know how to handle horses. I grew up on a ranch. I’ve been around livestock since I could walk.”

“I don’t doubt that, but my horses are trained for special-needs children and adults. They’re accustomed to being treated the same way each time.” Claire was used to this spiel. She had to give it to all new riders and their parents and caregivers. The youngsters were generally not a problem, but older students and adults tended to resist learning new techniques. She hoped Seth was flexible.

“You’d have to go through the orientation, anyway, if you want therapy. I have a license to maintain and insurance requirements to fulfill.” Claire braced for his reaction, then added, “And you’ll be required to wear a helmet when you ride.”

A look of surprise and sheer defiance crossed his face. “A helmet? You’re kidding.”

“’Fraid not. It’s a safety requirement for me to keep my insurance.”

He looked away, frustration obvious in his eyes. She figured he was cursing her silently, but she had to stick to her guns.

“Lady, you must have a hell of an insurance company.”

She waited for him to back out of the whole deal. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he stared down at the stack of papers.

“So are you still with me?” she asked.

He glowered. “I don’t go back on my word. But I might just forgo the therapy.”

“That’s up to you. I’ll catch up on some computer work while you complete the forms.” She turned to her monitor and finally he picked up the pen and began to fill in the blanks.

When he finished, about twenty minutes later, he closed the folder and pushed it toward her. “Can we go pet the horses now?”

Claire ignored the sarcasm. “Sure, come on. I’ll let you have your pick, if you’re good.”

“Oh, I’m good, lady. I’m real good.”

Claire shook her head and rolled her eyes. Seth gave her a crooked smile in return.

They walked slowly down the row of stalls. One after another, horses pressed friendly noses against the bars and were rewarded with a pat from Claire as she introduced them to Seth. A small bay quarter horse nickered as Claire stopped before her stall.

“This is Sweetie Pie. I’ve had her for about two years. She’s a darling with the little kids. And this is Captain Jack.”

In the next stall, a large Appaloosa with a black patch around his left eye stuck his nose through the bars as far as he could.

“As in Captain Jack Sparrow the pirate?” Seth said, rubbing his knuckles gently along the soft muzzle.

Claire laughed. “Actually, yes. His former owner loved that movie, but I can’t bear to call him that. He’s no pirate. In fact, he’s a nice horse, but I’d want to start you on one with a smoother gait.”

She sensed Seth’s body stiffen, and glanced at him. He was obviously biting back words. She pretended not to notice as she moved on to another stall, where an old buckskin stood munching hay from a wall rack. “Jiminy Cricket.”

“Beg pardon?” Seth said.

“The horse. Jiminy Cricket. He’s twenty-eight, and I pamper him by only putting very lightweight children on his back. He’s a dear and deserves an easy old age.”

Seth nodded. “I got no problem with that. We do that on the ranch, too.”

“You have a ranch?”

“In northern Wyoming. My parents’ ranch where I grew up.”

“I should have remembered that. Libby’s told me a couple of stories about her childhood. I hope you weren’t the brother who operated on all her favorite dolls to heal them.”

“Nope, that was Will. I was still a baby, so that’s one thing I couldn’t be blamed for. About the only thing, though. Besides, Libby got a whole bunch of new dolls out of it and Will had to work off the cost of them.”

Claire laughed, as Libby had done when she told the tale, while admitting she’d been horrified when she discovered her dolls bandaged all over. Even worse was when she’d removed the bandages and found her dolls tattooed with permanent red marker to mimic surgical incisions.

“Will’s a surgeon in New Orleans now,” Seth said. “Guess he was just practicing for his future. My brother Cord’s a lawyer in Denver and Howdy and Lane are still at the ranch helping Dad. I seem to be the only one…”

His voice trailed off. Claire waited for him to go on, but he didn’t, so she resumed the tour of the stables.

They stopped again before a stall with a sleek palomino pony inside. The small animal whinnied and ambled to the door, his outstretched nose barely reaching the bars in the top half.

“I wouldn’t recommend Sheffield, even though he is pretty. You’d end up carrying him, as tall as you are.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem. I told you I’m not going to do that therapy.”

“Because of a helmet? Come on.”

Seth grew downright sulky, but again Claire ignored him. He definitely needed to lose the negativity, but instinct told her he was using it as a front to hide his real feelings.

“One more.” She rounded the corner and opened a stall door. Inside, a big, plump piebald mare lifted her head to stare at Seth with mild interest. Her huge hooves were feathered at the fetlocks, and her white mane and tail looked stiff as wire. Her conformation indicated draft-horse blood.

“She’d be good for a crusade,” Seth said, leaning against the stall post.

“Now, don’t make fun of her,” Claire said. “Her name’s Belle and she’s sweet as can be. If she’s ridden five minutes or all day, she’ll never complain. She’s the only one other than Jack that I use for adults.”

Claire brought Belle out on a halter, led her through the breezeway to the covered work area and hooked her in the cross ties. “I’m sure you know how to groom.”

“Nah, why don’t you show me?” When she held a currycomb out to him, he gave it a questioning frown. “Is this a test?”

“You might say so.”

He cocked an eyebrow, but took the tool from her and began to loosen the dust and debris on the horse’s coat with quick efficient strokes. His leg might be weak but muscles rippled under his shirt as he worked his way along the horse’s back. Claire could see him visibly relax, and gradually the frown left his face. She was glad to hear him talking softly to Belle as he worked, and Belle flicked her ears back and forth, listening. He finished with a dandy brush from the toolbox, leaving the black-and-white mare shining. Claire cleaned the horse’s hooves, then unsnapped the cross ties and handed Seth the rope.

“I’m going to teach you to lead now.”

“You walk off and the horse follows,” he said. While he didn’t actually say “duh,” his tone certainly implied it.

“Not around here,” Claire said. “You stand beside her head and ask her to move forward with you.”

“What?”

Claire took the lead rope and stood beside Belle, holding it several inches below the snap. She moved her hand forward without taking all the slack out of the rope. Belle stepped forward and they walked in a tight circle before Claire brought her back to Seth.

He heaved a sigh. “Lady, you’re crazy. What’s the difference?”

“Please stop calling me ‘lady.’ My name is Claire.” She handed him the lead. “And there is a difference.”

“Yeah, fine.” Seth tugged on the rope, not hard, but with an air of impatience. Belle didn’t budge.

“Don’t yank,” Claire said. “Just move your arm forward a bit. She’ll respond. Like this.”

His biceps tensed when Claire laid her hand on his long, scarred fingers. She felt the soft sprinkling of light hair on the top of his hand and the edges of calluses on the underside. Quickly, she moved his hand forward slightly until Belle took a step. Seth didn’t budge and the lead rope grew taut. Unable to go forward, Belle crossed in front of them, the change in direction tugging Seth’s arm around Claire’s waist. He spoke softly in her ear, his warm breath causing her to gasp in surprise. “I have to say, this is a novel way to move a horse, but I like it.”

He smelled good, of fresh soap and aftershave. Of a subtle maleness that quickened Claire’s breath. The heat of his muscled forearm burned through her thin T-shirt and her skin prickled with an odd anticipation. He made no effort to turn her loose, and his breath feathered the tiny hairs along her neck. Her initial urge 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 his eyes, jutted out his jaw and said, “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 and lingered, 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. And now, her chest heaved with embarrassment and an unwanted physical attraction, to boot. She couldn’t afford to be taken in by this bull rider’s charm, especially since he was her employee. She drew away from him to a more comfortable distance.

“We don’t have all day.”

With a wicked grin, Seth stepped to Belle’s side and did as Claire asked. She gathered her wits and explained other specifics about the handling techniques the horses understood. He listened and learned.

When Claire noticed him favoring his leg more, she brought the session to an end. “That’s enough for now. I have lessons this afternoon and some errands to run. We’ll start again tomorrow morning at eight.”

She glanced over her shoulder as she led Belle back to the stable. Seth walked slowly toward the parking lot, shaking his head. She wondered if hiring him was the right thing to do, and thought he might be asking himself the same thing.

WHEN CLAIRE ARRIVED HOME that night, she found her father setting out plates on the kitchen table.

“You cooked?” she said, laying her messenger bag on the built-in desk in one corner of the kitchen.

Since enrolling at Montana State University as a freshman, she’d lived in the small foreman’s house her dad occupied on the Rider ranch. As cramped as life was in the tiny two-bedroom house, she’d been glad to have her father back in her life after many years of separation. He was growing older now, and the sorrows of his past were etched on his face, yet he rarely asked about her mother and never mentioned her brother, Cody, at all. A couple of times, when they sat on the porch in the quiet evenings, she’d thought about bringing the subjects up, but never found the right opening.

“Humph,” Clint said. “You know I don’t cook unless I have to. Rosie promised to bring over beef stew in a few minutes.”

Rosie, the Riders’ live-in housekeeper, cooked, cleaned and kept the house in order as well as looking after seven kids ranging from the four girls who volunteered for Claire to a set of nine-year-old twins named Zach and Tyler, and Bo, a rambunctious five-year-old.

“She seems to cook for us a lot lately,” Claire said, tweaking her dad’s cheek to annoy him.

He pulled away with a frown. “Keeps you from having to do it when you get home. Seems like you’d appreciate it.”

“Oh, I do,” Claire agreed. “But it is getting more frequent.”

“Wipe that matchmaking grin off your face, missy. Ain’t nothing going on between me and Rosie.”

Claire grinned wider. “Never said there was.”

Clint set the last of the silverware in place and leaned a hip against the kitchen cabinet. Long, lean and lanky, her father was the quintessential cowboy, from his old, well-worn boots and jeans to his weathered face and the squint lines around his blue eyes. That applied to his outlook on life, too. No frills, no nonsense, no compromise. He had never been as hard on her as he’d been on Cody, but then, Claire had rarely seen him after her mother divorced him and took her to California. There her mother struggled to make a good life for them, building a successful career as a horse gentler. From her Claire had learned independence and the value of hard work, as well as her skill with animals.

“You ain’t saying, but you’re giving me that look,” he drawled.

Before Claire could respond, Rosie yoo-hooed and came in through the back door, holding a cooking pot with insulated oven mitts. A large-boned woman with graying brown hair, she had a round, kind face that one would pick out of a catalog for the perfect grandmother, even though she was younger than Clint. The stew smelled delicious. The youngest Rider girl, Michele, followed with a shopping bag filled with containers of corn and green beans and a basket of hot bread.

“Rosie, you are too good to us,” Claire said, helping set out the dinner. “Won’t you stay and eat.”

“Love to, but I can’t. Kaycee and I are going to be up half the night sewing the girls’ Scout badges on their sashes. I promise I will another time.”

“We’re holding you to it, right, Dad?” Claire winked at Clint, who turned red as a chili pepper under his tan. He mumbled something, and Rosie and Claire exchanged a conspiratorial look.

Michele skipped toward the door. “Gotta go. See you later.”

“I’ve got to get back to the house, too,” Rosie said, tucking the oven mitts into her apron pocket.

Clint followed her out the door, and Claire could hear their low voices just outside. She wondered what they were discussing. Her father rarely talked about anything of importance, mostly mundane day-to-day news. Never anything personal. She took her place at the table and waited for him to join her. Within moments, he returned, filled his plate and sat down, digging into his food.

“I hired a camp assistant today,” Claire said.

Clint gave her a look from under bushy eyebrows. “Who?”

“He’s the brother of a teacher I know, Libby Morgan.”

“He’s a counselor, like you need?”

Claire gave a soft laugh. “Not even close. I called everybody I knew and nobody was available for the summer. Seth’s a bull rider. He broke his leg earlier this year.”

“Seth Morgan? I hated when I heard about that. I’ve seen him ride. He’s damn good.”

Oh, he’s damn good, all right. Claire’s body tightened at just the thought of his arm around her that morning and his warm breath on her face. She exhaled softly. She was going to have to break herself of that reaction, and quick. No way should she be responding to his male appeal at all, considering the circumstances.

“A bad break, according to his sister,” she told her dad. “She says he won’t be able to ride again.”

“I bet that’s not what he thinks.”

“You’re probably right. But from the way he limps, he may be in for a long haul back.”

Clint paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. “I’m surprised you hired him, knowing how strong you feel about rodeo and all.”

“To be honest, Dad, I’d have taken anybody with a good recommendation at this point. I can’t let Micah down.”

“Yeah, I know, but what if Morgan up and quits on you when he finds out you don’t like how those poor little rodeo bulls are treated? How will that affect your camp?”

“Now you’re making fun of me. I can’t see where my opinion would matter to Seth. Besides, he committed to the whole summer and you know a cowboy’s word is everything.” She smiled at her father, who had drilled that into her head from the time she was a baby. “Anyway, why would it even come up?”

“You’ll be on the ranch. The first time you take one of the ranch hands—or Morgan—to task for the way they handle an animal, he’ll figure it out. And if he gets released to ride early, I guarantee you he’ll be gone before you can count eight seconds.”

“I’m not even going to think about that. Libby says the doctor’s not going to okay any bull riding. Seth wants to do some therapy riding, and I think the first time he straddles a horse he’s going to realize he doesn’t want to be on a bull—although he might back out of therapy before he gets started. I told him he’d have to wear a helmet.”

“Now that I’d like to see,” Clint said with a broad grin. “I surely would.”

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