LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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