Protector of the Flight

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Coming Next Month

1

Colorado Mountains

Summer, Morning

Since her fall in the National Finals Rodeo, pain had been a daily enemy. Calli Torcher hesitated at the top of the steep stairs from her attic bedroom to the first floor, took a breath, braced a hand against the wall and gritted her teeth at the prospect of pain. No matter how carefully she set her feet, she’d jar herself, then stop and pant through the agony. Or she might fall and end up in the hospital. Again.

Recovering from a broken pelvis took time. The bad dreams that peppered her sleep didn’t help matters. She’d dreamt of people lost in a winter blizzard. Cries for help. Short notes of doom from a clock gong or the ranch’s iron triangle or a siren…

She shook her head to clear her mind and concentrate on navigating the stairs. It happened the third stair from the top, just a tiny misstep and she was leaning against the wall, trying to shut out waves of agony. When she recovered, she went on and made it to the ground floor with no other problems.

As she rested against the wall at the bottom landing, she wondered if she should ask her dad if she could use the downstairs storeroom as a bedroom until she fully healed. But things hadn’t been right between her and her father for months, ever since she’d fallen and lost the barrel-racing championship, ending her career at twenty-five.

That was the past. She could—and would—still train horses, take a more active role in the ranch now that she wasn’t on the road all the time, traveling the rodeo circuit.

Her nose twitched at the smell of strong coffee and frying bacon. Dad was up and fixing his own breakfast. Since he’d started without her, she decided she’d get some air, clear the images and sounds of the dream—the string of bad dreams—from her head and replace them with the beauty of the Rocking Bar T Ranch in their mountain valley.

Calli limped to the corral, breathing deeply, feeling the tingle of the breeze on her face, the softness of worn flannel and denim from her shirt and jeans on her skin. The ball of the sun shot yellow streaks of light into the sky.

She reached the corral fence and leaned against it, breathing fast, still weak from her last surgery. Still, if she continued to work hard, in another few months she’d be able to start training horses.

No whicker of greeting came from her gelding. Calli whistled. Nothing. He always greeted her. A twinge of alarm ruptured her calm. “Spark! Spark, here!” She called as if her horse was a young, heedless colt.

Her dad strode up, a lean tough man with a weathered face and hard lines carved from the rigors of cattle ranching. He leaned on the fence to her right. “The gelding ain’t here.”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. Bristly gray whiskers sprouted from his jaw. He could speak well if he wanted, if he respected the person he was talking to.

She wet her lips. “What do you mean, Spark isn’t here?”

His hat shadowed the eyes as blue as her own, but he squinted down at her all the same. Hard as the distant mountains. “He’s a highly trained rodeo horse, worth a lotta money. Couldn’t expect me to keep him ’round when you can’t ride him anymore and a profit can be made. Your last doctor’s appointment made me realize that.”

Calli pivoted so quickly it wrenched her hip. She ignored the pain in her body, so much less than the anguish in her heart. She spoke through the shock. “Spark is my horse. I gave you the money for him.”

Her dad shrugged. “I bought the gelding from the racetrack. The horse was registered in my name. I’m the owner of Rocking Bar T and everything on it.”

“Except for Spark. I paid for him,” Calli said through clenched teeth.

His stance was still casual. “Huh. My name is on the papers. And who paid for that horse’s keep when it was young? I did.”

Money wasn’t the issue. Love was. Giving and receiving love was everything. She’d needed something to love and return that love in her life. “How could you do this? I love him.”

He faced her now, as impassive as always, as if nothing touched him, not even a hint of irritation in his eyes. He looked her up and down as if judging a heifer, not as if he saw his daughter. “You should know better than that. Stupid to love an animal. Stupid to love at all. Love ain’t nothin’ that gets a return. A profit could be made, and Spark wasn’t no use to me. I sold him to Bill Morsey.”

Usefulness had always been Dad’s bottom line.

Her insides clenched, the pressure of hard tears backed behind her eyes. She couldn’t stop the question. “What about me? What about my usefulness?”

He grunted. “You can do your chores and stay. Do the cookin’ and cleanin.’ But I went to the bank. Since the ranch is paid for, I set up a reverse mortgage. The money’ll last long as I do, then you’ll have to find another place.”

Shock and nausea rolled through her. “I’d planned on training horses.”

“This is a cattle ranch.”

“We could build up a fine reputation—”

“No. We run cattle.”

She went to the bottom line. “You aren’t leaving the ranch to me?” Ever since she’d gone on the circuit, she’d always thought of the ranch as her future. Working hard, she’d sent money back for expenses. She’d thought she and her dad were partners.

His gaze fastened on her middle as if he could see her abdominal scars. “No reason to. Ain’t as if you can gimme a grandson, even.” Without another word he sauntered back to the house, leaving Calli’s world broken.

A noise tore from her, some animalistic cry of pain. Blindly she gripped the top fence rail, splinters lanced her hand.

All her life she’d shut out the knowledge of what her father was. Instead, she’d woven illusions that he cared about her. False, lying illusions that had been so comforting and that she’d held so long that she couldn’t see reality.

Her mother had abandoned them, then died. If her father had loved Calli before, he’d shut off his emotions afterward. As long as she proved useful, she was tolerated.

He might have enjoyed the reflected glory of her rodeo wins and liked the big bucks of the prizes. He’d taken care of her in the hospital and later when she was healing. But now that it was obvious she wouldn’t return to the rodeo she was nothing more than a woman to cook and clean.

She glanced around but refused to see past the surface beauty of the day. This place wasn’t her home anymore. She couldn’t afford the wrenching sense of loss.

Blood pounded in her ears and with it came the sounds of chimes and singing. Tinnitus, ringing in the ears, the doctors had said, and that it should go away soon. The illusory sounds might pass, but the very real loss of the ranch would always shadow her. More bad dreams.

Her white-knuckled hand on the wooden rail hurt from splinters, rough wood impressed hard on her palm, the ache of her stretched tendons. She let go.

She had to escape, allow emotions to surge through her—her grief for the loss of Spark, the destruction of her dreams. She’d plan later. This heartache she’d brought on herself for not letting herself see what the man who fathered her was—hard and bitter, guarding his heart from everyone, including her.

She limped, stumbled, caught herself, limped a few more steps—and found that she did so in rhythm to the reverberating rise and fall of melodic voices. Her foot brushed a fallen branch and she picked it up and used it as a walking staff.

By the time her eyes cleared from tears, she’d passed the edge of the ranch yard and was on her way to the sandstone rocks and the wide ledge on a hill that had always been her refuge. She needed air to breathe.

When she reached the ledge, her pelvis ached all the way up to her teeth. She hobbled past the huge sheered-off crystal face of the hill to solid rock and gingerly lowered herself to sit. She leaned against the hillside, her legs straight, and set the stick beside her. Then she wiped the sweat from her face, wrinkling her nose at the brown and red dirt smears on her bandana.