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Into The Storm
Helen DePrima
Can she finally stop running?Horse trainer Shelby Doucette never bothers to unpack her bags. With no roots, no ties and no fixed address but her granddad's old sedan, she's avoided emotional connections, and eluded her past, for fourteen years. Get in, do the job, get out. That's always been her way. Until she meets Jake.Widower Jake Cameron is unlike any man she's ever known, but that doesn't mean he can be trusted. He has a way of sneaking through her defenses, a way of making her want to stay for good. But being with Jake would mean finally facing her past. And heading directly into the storm…
Can she finally stop running?
Horse trainer Shelby Doucette never bothers to unpack her bags. With no roots, no ties and no fixed address but her granddad’s old sedan, she’s avoided emotional connections, and eluded her past, for fourteen years. Get in, do the job, get out. That’s always been her way. Until she meets Jake.
Widower Jake Cameron is unlike any man she’s ever known, but that doesn’t mean he can be trusted. He has a way of sneaking through her defenses, a way of making her want to stay for good. But being with Jake would mean finally facing her past. And heading directly into the storm...
“What am I going to do?”
Stranger licked the side of her face.
“You’re no help.” She shoved the dog in mock anger. “The longer we stay, the harder it’ll be to leave.” She buried her face against his rough fur. For thirteen years, caution had been her lodestar, warning her not to put out tentative roots.
How had she let Jake Cameron sneak past her defenses? His pain speaking to hers? Not enough reason to trust, but she did trust him.
One summer, her parents had rented a cottage on a barrier island in the Gulf. She had been a fearless child, dashing into the surf, entranced by the schools of small fish bumping her legs with their noses. One day she ventured out too far and a rogue wave knocked her down and sucked her under. Before she could panic, her father scooped her up. She remembered the strength of his arms and the absolute certainty nothing could harm her as long as she was with him.
With Jake, she felt a whisper of that long-ago comfort.
She couldn’t afford that indulgence.
Dear Reader (#ulink_1cece8e4-8a9b-5225-bb26-0bfd2a1edbd3),
After living in New England for decades, I’ve finally returned to the loves of my youth, the Rocky Mountain West and Western horsemanship. I’m also an avid fan of professional bull riding and love nothing better than long cross-country road trips to watch live competition. Into the Storm combines all three passions when a traveling horse trainer drops into the lives of a Colorado rancher and his two sons involved with bull riding.
I hope you’ll enjoy the tale as much as I’ve loved telling it. Please write me if you have any questions or just want to chat. I’d love to hear from you. You can contact me at helen@deprima.com or find me on Twitter, @HelenDePrima (https://twitter.com/helendeprima).
Happy reading. I hope you enjoy the ride.
Helen DePrima
Into the Storm
Helen DePrima
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
HELEN DePRIMA grew up on horseback on her grandfather’s farm near Louisville, Kentucky. After spending a week on a dude ranch in Colorado when she was twelve, Helen fell in love with all things Western.
She spent wonderful weeks on the same ranch during her high school summers. After graduation she headed for the University of Colorado to meet the cowboy of her dreams and live happily ever after in a home on the range. Instead she fell in love with a Jersey boy bound for vet school. She earned her degree in nursing and spent four years as a visiting nurse in northern Colorado while her husband attended Colorado State University.
After her husband graduated, they settled in New Hampshire, where Helen worked first in nursing and then rehabilitating injured and orphaned wildlife. After retirement, she turned again to earlier passions: writing and the West, particularly professional bull riding.
To my husband for keeping me focused on the dream.
Acknowledgments (#ulink_47226def-e589-5f3a-8b4f-23e4d710ab33)
Thank you
To my agent, Stephany Evans, for her persistence.
To my editor Dana Grimaldi for keeping me honest.
To my wonderful critical reader Melissa Maupin for her comments, suggestions and validation.
To Earlene Fowler for her encouragement and prayers.
To the Professional Bull Riders for inspiring me to cowboy up—love you all!
Contents
Cover (#uaac255d4-7cd4-55c0-be8d-3f3c4739d433)
Back Cover Text (#u0c659f39-4dfe-588b-aa97-5aad337d97eb)
Introduction (#u41f97c9c-17b6-51cd-8ac6-c5007abac996)
Dear Reader (#u0c7a1a4f-d598-5627-9fa5-f492cb5a1417)
Title Page (#u2a774a4f-d1e8-5c98-aa60-d20f1a41877e)
About the Author (#ue278cd71-8551-524f-ae71-9a8b5f73531d)
Dedication (#u907da5d7-90a9-50a4-b694-04f2ce549417)
Acknowledgments (#u670efbdc-ec76-599d-b8f1-564884297991)
CHAPTER ONE (#ub4fe5d2a-0f79-5fb3-9fee-398a9104a6df)
CHAPTER TWO (#u35e1bc52-7e20-5fb1-aa93-44ee9822d36f)
CHAPTER THREE (#u0d917135-f361-555d-9b52-4690e7b64888)
CHAPTER FOUR (#udd1b1d72-81b6-552f-a2b3-eb484de5a452)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u429e4eb3-7867-5dcc-97a7-cdfb5f3f1b14)
CHAPTER SIX (#uadac54b0-95e6-5aaf-8b21-0de598d4b466)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ub2461665-18ff-542f-9bc3-b4e8ddf953cd)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#u0b79f39b-db0b-55cc-adf7-c7c939387ce4)
CHAPTER NINE (#u8b697358-d10d-5642-85aa-6f600132516e)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_b7d80f45-a614-53bc-8fd0-0ef276b35511)
THE CHUTE GATE flew open and the big red bull erupted into the arena. Jake Cameron swayed forward in his third-row seat, reflexively matching his son’s moves on the bull’s back, counting the seconds from zero to eight. He surged to his feet when the horn sounded, yelling along with the sold-out crowd. The bull gave a final buck as Tom Cameron loosened his grip, slamming him hard to the dirt. Cheers turned to groans as a hoof came down on Tom’s thigh.
Jake pushed to the end of the aisle, muttering apologies and earning a sharp “Watch it, mister!” as he trod on a woman’s foot.
Tom had scrambled to his feet by the time the sports medicine team reached him. The announcer’s voice boomed over the applause. “He’s fine, folks, and his score’s going to make him feel even better. That’s ninety-two points and the event win for Tom Cameron!”
Jake climbed over the railing to the chute area in a rain of confetti and watched his son accept a silver buckle and a Stetson hatbox. Tom limped back to the exit gate and then let the two burly paramedics half carry him to the sports medicine room.
Jake followed. Yeah, that stomping would leave Tom lame for a bit, but he had left the arena upright, and winning thirty grand plus for the weekend would ease his pain considerably.
“The kid did all right.” Jake’s older son, Luke, caught up with him, pulling his electric-blue bullfighter’s jersey over his head. “Sorry we couldn’t get to him before Sidewinder did.”
“Could have been a lot worse,” Jake said. “He walked out—couldn’t have done that if he’d broken his leg again.”
They made their way to the locker room, past the organized confusion of dismantling pens and chutes. The bulls had already been herded back to the big cattle trucks waiting to haul them away for a few days’ rest before the next event.
“Just a bruise, Doc thinks,” Tom said, shifting the ice pack on his leg, “but he wants me to go for an X-ray. We’ll stay here in town overnight.”
“What a wuss!” Luke shrugged out of his protective vest. “I got butted half a dozen times and stomped twice, but you don’t see me running to the ER.”
“You would if Doc said to,” Tom said, throwing a towel at his brother’s head.
Jake chuckled. Their sparring meant no more than two colts play-fighting. Luke had been watching over his younger brother since Tom had taken his first steps, ridden in his first roundup, straddled his first bull. Stood to reason he would take up bullfighting when Tom got into serious competition.
“Well, dang!” Deke Harkins blew into the room with a cell phone clamped to his ear. “You snatched that win right out from under me, Tom, but I’ll take the next event for sure.” Catcalls went up from the cowboys changing out of jeans stained with arena dirt and bull slobber. Deke was a little hard to take just now, new to the big-time and pumped after a series of good rides. A string of buck-offs would settle him down to the gritty business of riding bulls for a living.
“Catch up with you later, sweet thing,” Deke said into the phone and stuffed it into his pocket. “Well, let’s party—I’m buying. You, too, Jake.”
“Can’t do it,” Jake said with a smile. “I’ve got a long drive ahead—my little girl’s waiting at home.”
“Hot stuff, I guess,” Deke said, elbowing him.
Tom slapped at Deke with his black felt hat. “Watch your mouth—he’s talking about my baby sister.” He turned to his father. “Why don’t you stay over? Tell Lucy to sleep at the Farleys’. You can bunk with Luke and me.”
Jake gave it a long thought, recalling the post-event rowdiness from his own rough stock days—war stories inflated by beer and testosterone and blown-off adrenaline.
“Guess I won’t,” he said, “but thanks. Tom, make sure you get that X-ray.”
The last cars and pickups were streaming out of the parking lot when Jake reached his silver Ram crew cab. The air had been springlike several hours earlier, but now the wind came out of the north and carried the scent of snow. He studied the deep-bellied purple clouds straddling his route northward—new snow over the high country for sure and maybe at lower elevations before he got home.
He pulled out his cell phone and punched his neighbor’s number. “Mike around?” he asked when Bob Farley answered.
“Out bringing the horses into the barn pasture,” Bob said. “Nothing happening yet, but it’s looking to snow like a sonofagun.”
“I figured that. I’m just leaving Albuquerque. Could Mike pick Lucy up at work? I dropped her off this morning because her Jeep’s laid up. Better than even money I won’t make it back before she gets off.”
“’Course he will. I’ll send him down as soon as he gets in—could be she’ll get off early if it’s coming down hard. Just plan for her to stay with us unless you make better time than likely. Bed down here yourself if your road’s too bad.”
