Heart of Grace (Return to Grace Trilogy #1) Read Free

seconds in his head: 9, 10, 11…until the strength of the beast
overcame the strength of the man. His hand slipped from the
rigging and the bronco reared back sharply, throwing the man
from its back.
Cole slammed into the chute and fell onto the damp dirt,
waves of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He struggled
to stand, but to no avail. Each of his limbs moved in a different
direction. His head rang from the impact and the first surges
of pain exploded through his arm. As the clowns herded the
bronco back through the gate, Cole’s body gave up the fight
and he crumpled back to the ground. Somewhere amongst the
terrified murmurs of the crowd he heard the rush of his own
heartbeat and the echo of his own breathing.
The paramedics worked their way over to him, asking their
routine questions as they quickly garnered him onto a stretcher.
They needed to clear the way; there were other battles to be
lost here.
Cole offered a low grunt as they lifted him up. He’d have
preferred to walk, but he just couldn’t muster the gumption to
demand that they let him.
He took his trampled hat when it was offered to him and
reached his thumb into the air as they carried him out of the
ring. The shouts came like a freight train roaring through the
crowd. Feet stomped the cheap aluminum stands, the sounds
vibrating excitedly through air fragranced with dirt
and
manure.
He smiled weakly and pulled his hat over his eyes as the
loudspeakers announced that he had moved into first place.
It had been a hell of a ride.
****
Cole turned off the ignition of his ’57 Chevy and stepped
out of the truck, holding the injured arm close to his ribs. The
drive from Cheyenne took twice as long as it should have, and
he could have wept with the relief of being home. The green
rolled out for miles, surrounded by rugged mountains topped
with year round snow. Although it was late spring, a thick fog
clung to those peaks, bringing to mind the countless mornings
he had awoken to the same view.
In the crisp morning air his boots crunched on the gravel,
the only sound to be heard, save for the call of a dove
somewhere in the distance. He walked up the old wood porch
steps, past the swing he could not recall sitting in for some
time, and opened the heavy double doors to the house.
He removed his hat and hung it on the rack by the door,
taking in the scent of leather and sandalwood. Going away for
a time made the scents more potent when he returned. For
that, Cole was grateful. He may have strayed often, but this was
still his home and it welcomed him warmly.
There were things to see to at the ranch. One of his favorite
mares had recently given birth to a filly and Cole had yet to see
mother and baby. There were details to discuss with ranch
hands and plans to make for the summer; problems with the
arena to sort through. But he would do that later. Now the
feeling of home was his only thought.
He had been born in this house. He had learned to walk
on the Spanish tiled floors. His mother had scolded him for
spilling his grape juice on the cushion of the brushed leather
sofa. The stain was still there, the cushion flipped over so that
it did not show.
He shook his head and tossed his keys onto the kitchen
table. He was no longer a boy, yet there were times he missed
those days. As he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a
carton of milk, he tried to remember what it was like to run
across that tile with bare feet and mischievous intentions. The
memory was dim and faded. Frowning, he took a sip directly
from the carton and put it back on the shelf.
He wandered beneath the exposed rafters and into the
living room. The cold fireplace took up the largest wall, waiting
for winter. Cole sank onto the couch, his body fitted to the
cushions as if a lover had taken him in her arms. He closed his
eyes and willed his exhausted body to sleep, resting his
throbbing arm on a pillow.
It is good to be home.
Two
    Angela drove beneath a canopy of leaves and