An Accidental Hero. Loree Lough

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      One palm resting on either side of the sink, Reid stared out the kitchen window, watching raindrops snake down the glass as wind buffeted Martina’s butterfly bushes. She often stood here, overlooking the wildlife that visited her gardens. She’d probably been standing on this spot when she’d called him a couple months back to tell him about Billy’s prognosis.

      After they hung up, Reid threw everything he owned into his duffle bag and drove straight through, arriving in Amarillo the very next day. He’d moved into the same room he’d occupied when his mom was the Rockin’ C housekeeper and his stepdad the foreman.

      Hanging his head, Reid wondered if he would’ve been so quick to come back and help out if his injuries hadn’t already ended his rodeo career.

      Just one more thing to feel guilty about.

      Well, he was here now. Determined to do everything in his power to help Billy and Martina, in any way he could, for as long as they needed him.

      The grandfather clock in the hall struck one, reminding him that Billy was right: The rooster crowed mighty early at the Rockin’ C. If Reid knew what was good for him, he’d try to catch some shut-eye, starting now. He flicked off the kitchen’s overhead light and quietly climbed the wide, wooden stairs, skipping the third and the tenth so the predictable squeak wouldn’t wake Billy or Martina.

      Two hours later, he lay on his back, fingers linked beneath his head, still staring at the darkened ceiling. The rain had stopped, but the wind blew harder than ever, rattling the panes in his French doors.

      He wondered if Cammi had made it home safely, if her homecoming had been warm and welcoming. She hadn’t seemed at all that enthused about being back in Amarillo. Brokenhearted because she hadn’t “made it” in Hollywood? Reid didn’t think so. Cammi seemed too down-to-earth, too levelheaded for pie-in-the-sky dreams of stardom. No, her reluctance, he believed, was more likely due to a falling-out with some wanna-be actor in L.A. Or maybe she’d come home for the same reason he had…to help an ailing sibling or parent.

      It got Reid to thinking about his own father, who’d taken off for parts unknown the moment his mom said “We’re going to have a baby.” And his mother? Well, for all her good intentions, she had a talent for choosing no-account men. The promise of a leak-proof roof and a steady supply of whiskey was enough for her. In exchange, she promised forty hours’ worth of work each week…from her young son.

      She had already put four ex-husbands behind her when she said “I do” to Boots Randolph. Grudgingly, Reid had to admit that Boots had taught him plenty about ranching. And while he’d been the best provider, he also had a hair-trigger temper, and Reid still bore the scars to prove it.

      Had Cammi run off to California to escape a father like Boots?

      The very thought made Reid clench his jaw so hard that his teeth ached, because it wouldn’t take much of a blow to break someone that fragile.

      No, not fragile. Cammi’s demeanor—right down to that model-runway walk of hers—made it clear she was anything but delicate. He liked her “tell it like it is” way of talking, admired how she looked him dead in the eye and admitted the accident had been her fault—no excuses, no explanations.

      She was agile, as evidenced by the way she’d balanced that tray of diner food on one tiny palm. Quick-witted, too, so he couldn’t imagine what had distracted her enough to run that red light.

      Picturing their vehicles again, gnarled and bent, made Reid cringe. It could have been worse. So much worse, as he knew all too well. Miraculously, they’d both walked away from the wreck without so much as a hangnail. “Thank God,” he whispered, though even as he said it, he knew God had nothing to do with their good fortune. If the so-called Almighty had any control over things like that, Rose London wouldn’t be dead, her husband wouldn’t be a widower and her four daughters wouldn’t have grown up without a mama.

      He forced his mind away from that night. Far easier to picture Cammi, smiling, laughing, gesturing with dainty hands. Once she’d locked onto him with those mesmerizing eyes of hers, he’d been a goner. She’d looked so familiar that he’d thought at first he’d met her somewhere before. But Reid quickly dismissed the idea, because he’d never seen bigger, browner eyes. If he met a girl who looked like that, it wasn’t likely he’d forget!

      Reid sensed Cammi was nothing like the women who’d dogged his heels from rodeo town to rodeo town. How he could be so sure of that after spending forty-five minutes in her presence, Reid didn’t know. Still, it was a good thing, in and of itself, because it had been a long time since he’d felt anything but guilt.

      Guilt at being born out of wedlock. Guilt that taking care of him had made life a constant struggle for his mother. Guilt that though he’d turned himself inside-out to please his parade of stepdads, he’d never measured up. Guilt that, while rodeoing was by its nature a business for the wreckless, his devil-may-care attitude had cost him his career. And the biggest, naggin’est guilt of all…that one rainy night a decade and a half ago, he’d been behind the wheel of the pickup that killed a young wife and mother.

      He tossed the covers aside, threw his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned forward, elbows balanced on knees. Head down, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, Reid stared through the French doors, deep into the quiet night. Self-pity, he believed, was one of the ugliest of human emotions. He had no business feeling sorry for himself; he’d been given a lot more than some he could name. He had his health back, for starters, a good home and a steady job, thanks to Martina and Billy. If not for this confounded disease of Billy’s, he’d have the pair of them, too, for decades to come.

      He’d taught himself to dwell on the positives at times like this, to get a handle on his feelings—remorse, shame, regret, whatever—because to do otherwise was like a slow, painful death. Billy and Martina needed him, and he owed it to them to get a grip.

      A well-worn Bible sat on the top shelf of the bookcase across the room. Martina had put it there, years ago, when he’d come back to Amarillo for his mother’s funeral. “Whether you realize it or not,” she’d said, “Boots did you a favor, beating you until you’d memorized it, cover to cover.”

      “How do you figure that?” he’d griped.

      She had smiled, hands folded over her flowered apron. “Anything you need is in those pages. That’s why folks call it ‘The Good Book’!”

      She’d been so sure of herself that Reid had almost been tempted to believe her. But blind faith had been the reason his mother had married badly…five times. If she hadn’t taught him anything else, she’d shown him by example what a mind-set like that could cost a person!

      Three or four steps, and he’d have Martina’s Good Book in his hands. Two or three minutes, thanks to Boots’s cruel and relentless lessons, and he’d locate a verse that promised solace, peace, forgiveness. A grating chuckle escaped him. Just ’cause it’s in there don’t make it so, he thought bitterly.

      In all his life, he’d known just two people who were as good as their word, and both of them were fast asleep down the hall. He loved Billy and Martina more than if they’d been his flesh-and-bone parents, because they’d chosen to take a confused, resentful boy into their home and love him, guide him, nurture him as if he were their own. Though he’d given them plenty of reason to, they’d never thrown up their hands in exasperation.

      And he wouldn’t give up on them now.

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