him. Already? It wasn’t possible. Her heart thudded. Donny. She raced to the ranch house as quickly as her unfamiliar pegheeled boots would allow.
How could she have forgotten to get her brother out of bed?
Chapter 7
H e ran through the grass, the wind in his hair, the sun in his face. He kept running and running as if never to stop. He didn’t know what he was running to or even from, but he had to keep running because . . .
Donny woke with a start. Fighting to hold on to the dream as long as possible, he didn’t dare move. But the sweet smell of grass and the wind in his hair soon faded away like popping bubbles, along with the rest of his dream. Only the memory of running remained.
Every night it was the same dream. Every morning he woke to the reality of his life. He couldn’t walk, let alone run. He could barely manage to put on his own shirt.
A clanging sound in the distance made him glance at the mechanical clock next to his bed. Noon. He couldn’t believe it. No wonder his stomach growled.
Where was Molly? It wasn’t like her to keep him waiting so long. Had something happened to her? The thought sent cold chills down his spine. The Dobson Creek fire made him realize like never before how much he depended on his sister. Without her he couldn’t survive.
Had Molly been injured? Was that why she was so late? What if she never returned? Heart thumping, he hung his head over the side of his bed and dangled his arms, his fingertips barely reaching the floor. Slowly he eased his shoulders over the edge of the mattress. He placed the palms of his hands on the floor. Tears of frustration sprang to his eyes and sweat trickled down his forehead.
Blinking away the moisture, he measured the distance to his wheelchair. It looked like a mile away, though the room was only a few feet wide. He tried pulling himself forward using his arms, but it was no good. He wasn’t strong enough. Feeling helpless as a slug, he gasped for breath.
He’d die rather than let Molly know how much he hated his life, hated being crippled, hated having to depend on her to get him out of bed in the morning and put him there at night. He hated the pitying looks from others—if they bothered looking at him at all.
If only he could escape that dream. Dreaming about running only made his reality that much worse. Sometimes, like today, he wished he were dead.
He was still half on, half off the bed when Molly burst through the door.
“Drat!” Eleanor Walker rested her hands on the pommel of her saddle and stared at the barbed wire fence that someone had cut. The problem was worse than she thought.
Robert Stackman rode his gelding beside her roan. He was both her banker and friend, but he would be more if she would let him. Each year on her birthday he proposed marriage; each year she turned him down.
The ranch couldn’t survive such a partnership. Robert was too practical, too money-oriented. He understood finances, not cattle. To him, profits were much more important than legacies. He never sat up all night nursing a horse or delivering a calf. He knew nothing about the soul of a ranch or its heart.
She knew from painful experience that such differences would ruin a marriage and for this reason she chose to settle for friendship— nothing more. But it was a friendship she deeply valued.
“What did I tell you?” she said.
The grazing cattle by her windmill were not her own. She dug the wells and other cattlemen reaped the benefits. The sheer number of beeves from neighboring ranches worried her. An even greater concern was the eastern investor who wanted to finance a cattle company in the area. The man knew nothing about cattle and even less about conserving land.
Robert’s horse whickered and pawed the ground. “Whoa, boy.” A firm square jaw, crinkly blue eyes, and proud turn of head hinted at the good-looking man he must have been in his youth. At age sixty-two he was now more distinguished than handsome and his lush
How could she have forgotten to get her brother out of bed?
Chapter 7
H e ran through the grass, the wind in his hair, the sun in his face. He kept running and running as if never to stop. He didn’t know what he was running to or even from, but he had to keep running because . . .
Donny woke with a start. Fighting to hold on to the dream as long as possible, he didn’t dare move. But the sweet smell of grass and the wind in his hair soon faded away like popping bubbles, along with the rest of his dream. Only the memory of running remained.
Every night it was the same dream. Every morning he woke to the reality of his life. He couldn’t walk, let alone run. He could barely manage to put on his own shirt.
A clanging sound in the distance made him glance at the mechanical clock next to his bed. Noon. He couldn’t believe it. No wonder his stomach growled.
Where was Molly? It wasn’t like her to keep him waiting so long. Had something happened to her? The thought sent cold chills down his spine. The Dobson Creek fire made him realize like never before how much he depended on his sister. Without her he couldn’t survive.
Had Molly been injured? Was that why she was so late? What if she never returned? Heart thumping, he hung his head over the side of his bed and dangled his arms, his fingertips barely reaching the floor. Slowly he eased his shoulders over the edge of the mattress. He placed the palms of his hands on the floor. Tears of frustration sprang to his eyes and sweat trickled down his forehead.
Blinking away the moisture, he measured the distance to his wheelchair. It looked like a mile away, though the room was only a few feet wide. He tried pulling himself forward using his arms, but it was no good. He wasn’t strong enough. Feeling helpless as a slug, he gasped for breath.
He’d die rather than let Molly know how much he hated his life, hated being crippled, hated having to depend on her to get him out of bed in the morning and put him there at night. He hated the pitying looks from others—if they bothered looking at him at all.
If only he could escape that dream. Dreaming about running only made his reality that much worse. Sometimes, like today, he wished he were dead.
He was still half on, half off the bed when Molly burst through the door.
“Drat!” Eleanor Walker rested her hands on the pommel of her saddle and stared at the barbed wire fence that someone had cut. The problem was worse than she thought.
Robert Stackman rode his gelding beside her roan. He was both her banker and friend, but he would be more if she would let him. Each year on her birthday he proposed marriage; each year she turned him down.
The ranch couldn’t survive such a partnership. Robert was too practical, too money-oriented. He understood finances, not cattle. To him, profits were much more important than legacies. He never sat up all night nursing a horse or delivering a calf. He knew nothing about the soul of a ranch or its heart.
She knew from painful experience that such differences would ruin a marriage and for this reason she chose to settle for friendship— nothing more. But it was a friendship she deeply valued.
“What did I tell you?” she said.
The grazing cattle by her windmill were not her own. She dug the wells and other cattlemen reaped the benefits. The sheer number of beeves from neighboring ranches worried her. An even greater concern was the eastern investor who wanted to finance a cattle company in the area. The man knew nothing about cattle and even less about conserving land.
Robert’s horse whickered and pawed the ground. “Whoa, boy.” A firm square jaw, crinkly blue eyes, and proud turn of head hinted at the good-looking man he must have been in his youth. At age sixty-two he was now more distinguished than handsome and his lush
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