not like she had a great selection of men to choose from. Ruben doesn’t strike me as a stud. Neither does Aaron. They’re too old. I’ve known both of them all my life. And the boys . . . I know about teenage hormones, but I can’t believe Callie would do something like that.”
“You can’t rule it out, especially since someone might have killed her.”
“I know.” Lexie sighed. “But Callie was like a mother to me. I can’t even stand the thought of it.”
They fell into silence again as the truck mounted the pass and began the zigzagging descent. From here, Shane could see the layout of the ranch, with its sprawling, red-tiled house, the sheds and stable, the bunkhouse, the tall windmill, and the small trailer where the foreman lived. He could see the paddocks, corrals, and pastures that spread over the high meadowland, and the patches of deep green where springs seeped out of the rocks. At the northeast boundary, he could see the arroyo, a ragged gash that looked as if it had been carved by some giant primordial claw. In the monsoon, it would channel the runoff and send it streaming down onto the reservation. Today it was bone-dry.
Compared to Brock’s luxurious spread, the Alamo Canyon Ranch was nothing. But to Shane it was a refuge, a place to start over from nothing and build a life again—but only if he could find the strength, the patience, and the courage.
As Lexie pulled the truck up to the house, Shane saw three people waiting on the porch—the teenage boys he recognized from his last visit and a petite, red-haired woman in ragged jeans and a black tee. As Shane opened the door of the truck, she strode out to meet him.
“Howdy, cowboy. You must be Shane. I’m Val.” She was as beautiful as Lexie had described her. But she was bone thin, and her smile reminded him of one he’d seen on a combat veteran with PTSD. She was wounded, he sensed. Like him.
Lexie had hurried around the truck. She directed her attention to the boys. “The wheelchair’s in the back. Get it and set it up. After you help Shane out of the truck, you can unload his things from the back and take them to his room.”
Shane stopped himself from protesting. The truth was, he’d needed help getting into the truck because of its height, and he would need help getting out and into the chair. In the rehab center, everything had been set up for him to get around on his own. But this was the real world. Pride be damned, there were some things he wouldn’t be able to manage on his own.
The distance from the truck to the ramp wasn’t far, but the chair’s narrow wheels sank in the gravel, making for slow progress. And the ramp was so steep that Val had to jump behind him and help push him the last few feet.
Patience, Shane told himself. Today would be the worst of it. After that, little by little, the adjustments would come. But damn, he hated needing so much help.
At least getting around inside the house wasn’t too difficult. Someone had moved the furniture to give him a clear path, and when he saw his bedroom and bathroom, Shane was relieved. With a few minor changes, he could manage fine here.
“Thank you,” he said to Lexie, who’d come along to show him the way. “You’ve done a lot of good work here.”
“I had help. We all want you to be comfortable.”
“And the rest—clearing out my apartment, driving me. I’ll owe you for life, Lexie. You’ve been an angel.”
It was all he could do to keep from catching her hand, pulling her to him, and kissing her long and deep, as he ached to do. But he knew better than to try. And she had already stepped away.
When she spoke, there was a catch in her voice. “Get some rest. Supper will be in an hour, maybe longer, knowing Val. I think she’s working on lasagna. Call me if you need anything.”
With that, she walked out of the room. Shane listened as her footsteps faded down the hall. Then, gathering his resolve, he set to work unpacking and organizing the things he’d brought. The task would keep him busy till suppertime, at least. Without the use of his legs, everything seemed to take twice as long.
* * *
After a late supper, Shane had retired to his room, insisting he didn’t need