The Cowboy Way. Christine Wenger

to make before she could close the office for the day and watch the therapist work with Kevin.

      “You’d best get your bathing suit on. Sam will be here in a half hour for your exercises. I’ll be in to help you change.”

      “I can do it.”

      “But—”

      He was off in a flash of chrome and denim, wheeling up the ramp that led to their small apartment in the back of the office.

      She felt a pang of sadness when she remembered that Kevin had called their apartment “crummy.” It was crummy compared to where they used to live—a brand-new, four-thousand-square-foot house in the Catalina Mountains crowning Tucson. There they’d had wide-open spaces and room to run. It was a perfect spot for a kid growing up.

      In contrast, their apartment complex was crowded with cars, concrete and cul-de-sacs.

      Their life had been fairly good before the accident. Before her husband Brad had picked up eight-year-old Kevin from his friend’s house and crashed into the concrete pilings of a bridge.

      That was two years ago, yet she always felt physically sick whenever she thought of that day, that minute, that second that had forever changed her life and Kevin’s. She would live with the guilt forever.

      She should have known that Brad had started drinking again. She should have known….

      She had been driving home from the grocery store that day when she saw Brad’s cherry-red convertible crushed against a wall of concrete. She’d jumped out of her car and run as fast as she could toward the accident, but the police had caught her and pulled her away. Helpless, she’d watched and waited, crying hysterically, as police and firemen pried the mangled metal of the car away from Kevin to get him out.

      She was screaming his name so loudly that Kevin heard her. He lifted his hand and waved. She knew then in her mother’s heart that he was going to live. They’d let her hold his hand until they sedated him and got him ready for the ambulance.

      As Kevin dozed, a kind policeman took her over to see Brad. He was already dead, lying in a ditch along the side of the road. A bright blue plastic sheet covered his body.

      She knelt down, lifted the sheet and saw her husband, finally at peace.

      Alcohol had claimed Brad, but it wouldn’t take her little boy, not while she had a breath left in her. She’d kissed Brad’s forehead for the man he used to be, taking one last look and remembering happier times. She’d let her tears fall, and when they dropped onto his face, she brushed them off and then covered him.

      “Your husband didn’t have his seat belt on, but your boy did. That saved him,” said the cop.

      She got into the ambulance with Kevin, and didn’t let go of his hand until they wheeled him into the operating room.

      Beth shook away the memory and blinked back her tears. Relaxing her clenched fists, she poured herself a drink of water from the cooler and drank it down. She had to concentrate on business right now, so she would be able to watch Kevin’s progress with Sam. Then she’d make dinner, read the information from the Gold Buckle Ranch, and enjoy her son’s company for the rest of the evening.

      Kevin was her whole life, and to make things up to him, she would give him the world if she could. But since she couldn’t, the least she could do was give him Jake Dixon.

      Jake signed a dozen autographs in front of the baggage claim area at the little airport outside Mountain Springs. When he was on top of the Professional Bull Riders point standings, hundreds of people used to crowd around him. He’d loved every minute of it.

      A dozen fans would have to do, since these days he was ranked number thirty-nine out of forty-five pro bull riders. He was just hanging on to the tour by his ragged fingernails.

      Jake checked his watch for the hundredth time. Instead of being cooped up in the dinky little airport, he would rather be mending fences or working with the new mustang he’d just bought from Joe Watley, a stock contractor.

      Better yet, he’d rather be riding bulls on the Professional Bull Riders tour and working on pumping up his ranking.

      But nothing was scheduled for the month of July on the tour, so he’d take care of business at the ranch and work on organizing the Jake Dixon Gold Buckle Bull Riders Challenge and Wheelchair Rodeo like he’d done for the past two years.

      From what he could tell so far, they were going to have a bigger crowd than ever for the Gold Buckle Challenge. Area hotels were booked solid and so were area campgrounds. This meant a nice boost to the local economy and an even bigger boost for the Gold Buckle Ranch.

      He really loved organizing and running Wheelchair Rodeo for the kids. At least he was doing something that made him feel needed instead of angry and frustrated, the way he usually did these days.

      He walked the short distance to the one waiting room, his back and right leg screaming for mercy. He checked the clock and sat down on a yellow plastic chair that was welded to three other yellow plastic chairs. Stretching his legs in front of him, he waited. Fifteen minutes later, people began filing into the waiting room.

      He watched and waited, but others picked up all the passengers. Soon he was alone.

      Shifting in his chair, he pulled the piece of paper his mother had given him from the back pocket of his jeans and checked it against the sign to the left of the door. Flight 1843. This was the correct gate.

      Jake looked around for someone to ask about Beth and Kevin Conroy and when they might be arriving.

      “Mom, it’s him! It’s Jake Dixon! He’s really here! He’s here!”

      Jake couldn’t help but grin as he found the source of the noise—a cute-as-hell, freckle-faced boy in a wheelchair.

      The beautiful blonde who pushed the boy stifled a yawn. It must have been a long flight.

      The boy wiggled in his wheelchair and waved his hands in the air. “Jake! Jake! Remember me, Kevin Conroy? And this is my mom.”

      Jake tipped his hat to her. Immediately he was drawn to her eyes. They were as green as the new grass that sprouted along the Silver River in the springtime.

      “Wyoming will never be the same, now that your biggest fan has landed, Mr. Dixon.” She held out her hand. “I’m Beth Conroy. As you now know, this is Kevin. You’ve met him at the Tucson Rodeo a couple of times.”

      He shook her hand, glad for the heads-up. He’d met so many kids over the years, he couldn’t remember them all.

      “Sure. Howdy, Kevin. Good to see you again.” He hunkered down and shook Kevin’s hand. The boy had a nice strong grip, and his eyes were round with excitement.

      What a darn shame that he was in a wheelchair. What a darn shame that any child in this world had to be disabled, handicapped, impaired—whatever the latest politically correct term was. It always twisted his gut. That was one of the reasons he’d started Wheelchair Rodeo—to give kids like Kevin the chance to be like other kids.

      “Are you ready for Wheelchair Rodeo, Kevin?” Jake asked.

      “Yes. I can’t wait. It’s going to be awesome!”

      “We have a great time every year.”

      The boy had a death grip on Jake’s hand and was still pumping away.

      “Is Clint Scully going to be at the Gold Buckle?” Kevin asked.

      “Sure. I’m expecting Clint anytime now. Joe Watley arrived a couple of days ago. Cody’s here. Wayne and Trace are here. Ramon is arriving later in the week. More are coming in every day.”

      The boy was ready to rocket out of the chair at that news. “Oh, wow! Oh, cool! This is awesome!”

      “Kevin, Mr. Dixon is going to be needing his hand back,” his mother said, her green eyes twinkling.

      Jake laughed