The Least Likely Groom
The Least Likely Groom
Linda Goodnight
“Dance with me, Becka.”
Her heart clattered against her rib cage. “Too risky.”
“Okay, then. You asked for it.” Giving a quick yank, he unbalanced her, plunging her into his lap. His arms went around her, he snuggled her against his chest and grinned down into her face. “Gotcha.”
She struggled, but not nearly enough. While the sensible portion of her mind said get up and run, every other cell in her body refused to obey. Jett’s cologne drifted up from his cotton T-shirt. His firm thighs pressed against her trapped fingertips, and she could scarcely keep from stroking them.
“When you turn me loose you’re going to be very sorry,” she said with more authority than she felt.
“Then I guess I might as well enjoy this while I can,” he said as his blue eyes drifted over her face, coming to rest on her mouth.
“Don’t even think about it, cowboy.”
“Oh, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and now I’m going to do something about it.”
Dear Reader,
When you’re stuffing the stockings this year remember that Silhouette Romance’s December lineup is the perfect complement to candy canes and chocolate! Remind your loved ones—and yourself—of the power of love.
Open your heart to magic with the third installment of IN A FAIRY TALE WORLD…, the miniseries where matchmaking gets a little help from an enchanted princess. In Her Frog Prince (SR #1746) Shirley Jump provides a rollicking good read with the antics of two opposites who couldn’t be more attracted!
Then meet a couple of heartbreaking cowboys from authors Linda Goodnight and Roxann Delaney. In The Least Likely Groom (SR #1747) Linda Goodnight brings us a risk-taking rodeo man who finds himself the recipient of lots of tender loving care—from one very special nurse! And Roxann Delaney pairs a beauty disguised as an ugly duckling with the man most likely to make her smolder, in The Truth About Plain Jane (SR #1748).
Last but not least, discover the explosive potential of close proximity as a big-city physician works side by side with a small-town beauty. Is it her wacky ideas that drive him crazy—or his sudden desire to make her his? Find out in Love Chronicles (SR #1749) by Lissa Manley.
Watch for more heartwarming titles in the coming year. You don’t want to miss a single one!
Happy reading!
Mavis C. Allen
Associate Senior Editor
The Least Likely Groom
Linda Goodnight
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Celeste, Missy and Alison,
the best daughters-in-law on the planet.
Books by Linda Goodnight
Silhouette Romance
For Her Child… #1569
Married in a Month #1682
Her Pregnant Agenda #1690
Saved by the Baby #1709
Rich Man, Poor Bride #1742
The Least Likely Groom #1747
LINDA GOODNIGHT
A romantic at heart, Linda Goodnight believes in the traditional values of family and home. Writing books enables her to share her certainty that, with faith and perseverance, love can last forever and happy endings really are possible.
A native of Oklahoma, Linda lives in the country with her husband, Gene, and Mugsy, an adorably obnoxious rat terrier. She and Gene have a blended family of six grown children. An elementary school teacher, she is also a licensed nurse. When time permits, Linda loves to read, watch football and rodeo, and indulge in chocolate. She also enjoys taking long, calorie-burning walks in the nearby woods. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com.
Contents
Chapter One (#ub5ab9993-8dec-5e85-980a-ee577f590eea)
Chapter Two (#u3a621865-9c19-53e4-992d-3355d561eaf5)
Chapter Three (#u5c97d12f-b7ba-50f4-a4d3-9f26b2bdbb37)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
It had been a quiet summer Sunday in the small hospital of Rattlesnake, Texas…until a certain ornery cowboy appeared in the emergency room.
And now the misguided drunk-and-disorderly was singing at the top of his lungs.
From her spot at the nurses’ desk, Rebecka Washburn placed a hand over the telephone receiver and frowned down the long, white-tiled corridor toward the holding area where he lay sprawled on a gurney. She glimpsed one dusty cowboy boot and a muscled, jean-covered leg before a nurse’s assistant wheeled him into an exam room.
A tortured mangle of “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” and a rodeo song about bulls and blood and dust and mud echoed through the corridor.
“Do what you have to, Sid,” she said to the man on the other end of the line. “I’ll rake up the money somewhere.”
With a worried sigh she muttered her thanks to the town’s only auto mechanic and replaced the receiver. Where was she going to get that kind of money?
The singing maniac ripped into a third, even heartier, chorus of the children’s church song.
Determined to muzzle her unwanted serenader before he disrupted the other twenty patients on her wing, Becka pushed the nagging worry about her on-its-last-legs car into the background and padded on soft-soled shoes toward the E.R.
As charge nurse for the day shift, keeping everything running smoothly and under tight control was her responsibility. Control was what she did best. Every chart was neatly updated and in its proper slot, every medication carefully accounted for, and every patient given the best care a small-town hospital could manage. That included quieting down any and all drunks that passed through the doors.
“‘He’s got the little bitty babies in his hands,’” the man sang.
Irresponsible drunks. Didn’t they understand, as she did, that even a few beers at the wrong time could be deadly? For the past three years she’d had to live with the horror of learning that the hard way, and every time a drunk showed up in her E.R., the memory returned in full force.
Face set in a stiff, professional mask, she pushed the pneumatic door open. A swoosh of cool, antiseptic air wafted out.
“Would you please stop that caterwauling before you send someone into cardiac arrest?”
A vaguely familiar cowboy was propped on the exam table. His hat was askew. His black western shirt was filthy, and a wide abrasion marred his high, handsome cheekbone.
Becka clenched her teeth. So he was not only drunk and disorderly, he’d been fighting, too.
Hushed by her sharp command, the cowboy looking momentarily abashed. Then his glazed gaze roamed over her and a wicked little grin split his face.
“Well, lookie here, Jackson,” he said to the tall, silent cowboy standing beside him. “It’s the queen of the rodeo.”
The man called Jackson removed his white Resistol and grinned, too. “I don’t think so, Jett. Looks more like a little, mad redheaded nurse to me.”
“A nurse? What’s a nurse doing out here at the rodeo?” Mr. drunk-and-disorderly wobbled up from the gurney, his muscles rippling, his crystal-blue eyes showing alarm. The process knocked his black hat to the floor. “Did somebody get hurt?”
Becka captured his flailing arm and reseated him. Rock-hard muscle swelled beneath her fingers before the singing cowpoke collapsed wearily onto the pillow. With a moan he grabbed his head with both hands.
“I can’t make my head be still,” he mumbled.
“This is not a rodeo arena, cowboy, and it’s no wonder your head is spinning. How much have you had to drink today?”
Both men turned curious faces toward her. Her patient looked more stupefied than curious.
“Have we been drinking, Jackson?” he asked, frowning.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” His head wobbled crazily from side to side. “We haven’t done that in a while, have we?”
“Nope.”
“Then what’s she so mad about?”
“I don’t think she likes your singing.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Becka huffed in exasperation. No doubt this wasn’t his first visit to a hospital, and common sense said the E.R. was serious business. But when had any drunk shown common sense?
“If he hasn’t been fighting, why is he here?”
“A bull didn’t take too kindly to his showboating.”
“A bull?” Becka came to full alert, her irritation washed away in a sea of guilty concern. “He’s been in a rodeo accident?”
“Why else would we be in an emergency room on Sunday evening?”
“Good heavens.”
Guilt sliced through her with the strength of a bone saw. She was a good nurse. A compassionate, go-the-extra-mile nurse, but this time she’d allowed painful personal memories to interfere with her job. Instead of recognizing an obvious concussion, she had jumped to the conclusion that he’d been drinking.
Would that awful day from her past ever stop haunting her?
Hustling to the blood-pressure monitor hanging on the wall, Becka pulled it down and wrapped the length of cloth around the man’s well-developed biceps. Her patient had the typical body of a professional rider, athletic and strong enough to stay on a writhing bull, but not overly large. He had what she would term the perfect body—if she were interested in such things, that is.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” she said to the tall cowboy called Jackson.
The injured man lay back, quiet for the moment, his eyes closed. A crooked little bump atop his nose suggested this wasn’t his first rodeo injury, though his was still an incredibly attractive face, the kind of good-looking hunk of cowboy that had women lining up. She’d seen him somewhere before, she was certain. A woman didn’t forget a face like that.
“He took a head butt from the back. Got his bell rung.”
Becka filed that away. A two-thousand-pound bull could pack a real wallop. “And?”
The big guy shrugged. “And he toppled over like a hundred-pound feed sack.”
Wincing at the unpleasant image, Becka pumped the sphygmomanometer bulb, listened for the familiar thump-thump while watching the needle dance rhythmically down to zero. His pressure was okay.
She reached for his pulse. Deeply ingrained calluses and the more recent red stripes of rope burn crossed the palm of his leatherlike hands.
She pursed her lips in disapproval. Like every rodeo cowboy she’d ever met he had no sense at all. Living on the edge, throwing caution to the wind, endangering himself and those around him.
“How long was he unconscious?”
“Unconscious? Me?” The cowboy on the table opened bleary eyes and struggled up on his elbows. “Never fainted in my—” He melted onto the pillow like hot wax.
The man called Jackson grimaced and shook his head. “Out like a light.”
Someone pecked at the door. Then without waiting, an admissions clerk entered. She thrust some papers toward the tall cowboy hovering over the gurney. “Are you the patient’s next of kin?”
“No ma’am. Jett is my traveling partner. We look after each other. But his brother lives around here if we need him.”
“Becka,” the woman asked. “Can he still sign the E.R. papers? Or do we need to wait on Mr. Garrett to wake up?”
“Garrett? Jett Garrett?” Memory flooding back, Becka turned toward the unconscious patient. “I remember him.”
No wonder he’d looked familiar. He and her husband had played some rodeos together when she and Chris first started dating five years ago. Even Chris, as fearless as he was, marveled at Jett’s reckless daredevil attitude.
“He’s Colt Garrett’s little brother. The wild and crazy one.” The man was renowned for his careless, throw-caution-to-the-wind antics.
Jackson grinned. “One and the same. He and Colt own the Garrett Ranch outside of town. You know them?”
Reluctant to reveal just how she remembered Jett, Becka settled for the easy answer. “In a town of 6500 people, everyone knows everyone else, at least by name. Colt’s wife, Kati, takes care of my son in her day care.”
“‘Do, Lord, oh, do, Lord…’” Jett’s head wobbled back and forth on the pillow as he started singing in that deep baritone again. “‘Where the buffalo roam and the bulls and blood and dust and mud…’”
His partner laughed out loud.
“You gotta admit, ma’am, he’s pretty funny.”
Becka suppressed a smile. “Does he always sing—and I use the word loosely—when he’s injured?”
“Sings in his sleep, too. But never like this.”
Becka ran experienced fingers through the dark wavy hair covering Jett’s skull, searching for bumps or wounds. Finding none, she made the notation on the chart and reached for the telephone hanging on the wall next to the door. After a moment she hung up and turned toward the two men.
“Dr. Clayton will be here in a few minutes, but he said to go ahead and admit Jett for observation. Can’t be too careful with a concussion—which he clearly has.”
“Nope.” Jett sat up as quickly as a jack-in-the-box, steadied himself with a hand on either side of the table, and shook his head. After two shakes his eyes crossed. “I appreciate the invite, but I can’t stay.”
Becka saw what he was about to do, but couldn’t move fast enough to stop him from pushing off the table. He crumpled like a paper sack. The only thing that kept him from slamming onto the hard tile was the fast reflexes of his oversize friend.
“Whoa, there, partner.” Jackson gripped his arms and hoisted up as Becka rushed to roll a wheelchair beneath him. “I think you better do what this little nurse tells you to.”
Head lolling crazily, Jett gripped it with both hands and steadied the wobbling. “Nope, sorry, can’t do it. I promised Melissa…”
For once in her career Becka was actually glad to see a patient pass out. Jett and his women were legend, and she really didn’t care to hear about the latest flame.
While lifting his feet onto the wheelchair’s foot support, she saw what she’d missed before.
“Good grief.” Dropping to her knees beside the chair, she yanked a pair of bandage scissors from her uniform pocket.
“What?” Jackson squatted beside her.
“No wonder he passed out when his feet touched the floor.”
Quickly cutting Jett’s jean leg up the inner seam, she exposed the dark-muscled knee and thigh. The notion flickered through her head that he would be this rich tan color all over his body, a notion she squelched instantly. Jett needed her expertise, not her admiration, though heaven knew it was hard not to admire such an athletic, blatantly masculine body. Her husband’s body had been like this, all hard-cut muscle without an ounce of fat.
But even Chris’s perfect, athlete’s physique hadn’t been strong enough to stand up against the damage she’d unwittingly done it.
The familiar pain of guilt and loss twisted in her stomach. She glued her attention to Jett’s injury. She could help Jett. She couldn’t do a thing to help Chris. Not now. Not even then.
To her dismay, Jett’s knee looked more like a softball than a body part. Gently running expert fingers over the hot, misshapen flesh, Becka chastised herself for missing so obvious an injury. She hadn’t handled anything right today. Between the worry over her car, the nagging fear for her son’s safety, and these unwanted reminders of her dead husband, she wasn’t thinking straight at all.
“Oh, man,” Jackson murmured. “The bull must have stepped on him.”
“This had to hurt. Didn’t he complain?”
Jackson shrugged. “Cowboys believe if you’re still breathin’ you ain’t hurt.”
“Then why’d you bring him to the E.R.?”
A grin split the big man’s face. “I didn’t want him to quit breathin’.”
Becka shot him an exasperated look.
“The doctor will have to X-ray him and probably do a scan to say for certain, but I’ve seen this kind of injury before. He won’t ride on this knee for a while.”
“Jett won’t like that. He’s only a few rodeos away from the big show.”
“Excuse me?”
“Vegas. Jett’s never made it to the National Finals, but he has a shot this year. A few more rodeos, a few more points, and he’s eligible.”
Becka gave him a doubtful twitch of one eyebrow. “I don’t like to rain on anyone’s parade….”
“That bad, huh?”
“I’m afraid it could be.”
They both stared at the unconscious patient. One with sympathetic eyes. The other with thoughts that the idiot would be better off in traction than to risk his life on the back of a Brahma bull.
Jett awakened that evening with the mother of all headaches. Turning only his eyes because his brain undulated like the curves of a belly dancer, he spotted an overhead television, a bedside table and a wheelchair. He eased his eyelids down again, waited two beats and tried again. He could not be where he thought he was.
“A hospital?” He ran a thick tongue over dry lips. His mouth tasted like the floor of a rodeo arena.
From the corner Jackson unwound his big body from a miserable-looking plastic chair. “You awake?”
“Must be talking in my sleep. I can’t be in a hospital.”
“Rattlesnake Municipal. At least for tonight.”
A little quiver of relief shuddered through him. He was only here for the night. He must not be hurt too badly. Tomorrow he and Jacks would be back on the road. With a win in Odessa tomorrow night, he’d be one rodeo closer to the NFR.
“Did you bring me in here?”
“Yep. But Colt will be back in the morning to take you to Amarillo.”
“Colt?” Jett frowned. What did his brother have to do with anything? “Amarillo?” Jackson was talking in riddles. Maybe he’d been the one to get his head dinged. “We’re riding in Odessa tomorrow night, not Amarillo.”
The brown door swished open and the tiniest redheaded nurse Jett could imagine whipped into the room. If she hadn’t been wearing pink scrubs and a name badge that said, B. Washburn, RN, Jett would have sworn she was a little kid.
She bent over his knee, turning her backside in his direction.
Nope, he thought with an appreciative grin. This one’s definitely not a kid. He was in the midst of a rather nice perusal of her other petite but womanly assets when she laid an ice pack against his leg.
Pain, violent enough to be rated F5 in the tornado world, shot from his kneecap to his head and rattled around inside his brain long enough to make him forget his name.
He clamped down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep his big mouth from squealing like a stuck hog. He’d had pain before, didn’t really even mind pain that much since it was an expected part of his job, but this wasn’t regular pain. This was hot-metal-in-the-eye pain. Steel-toed-boot-in-the-groin pain. Hold-me-down-and-stomp-my-nose pain.
The little nurse looked up with sympathetic eyes. “Would you like me to ask Dr. Clayton if you can have something for the pain?”
“Pain?” he grunted, sucking in air through his teeth. “I don’t need anything for pain. What I need is my pants.”
She cast a sideways glance at Jackson who looked way too serious. And Jacks was not a serious kind of guy. All of a sudden, Jett had a real bad feeling.
“Did something terrible happen to my pants?”
Jackson laughed. “Yeah. She cut ’em off.”
“She did?” The dynamite blast in his leg had subsided a little. He managed a lascivious grin in the nurse’s direction. “And what did she do to me while I was helpless and naked?”
B. Washburn, RN, never even blushed. Guys must come on to someone as cute as she was all the time.
Was that what he was doing? Coming on to her?
Nah. He couldn’t afford to let himself get distracted right now with the NFR within reach. But she was cute.
Maybe later.
“So how am I going to get out of here without any pants?”
A cute little dip formed between Nurse Washburn’s eyes. “Don’t you remember talking to Dr. Clayton?”
That bad feeling came back, stronger this time. He cast a glance toward Jackson, who once more wore a troubled expression.
“’Fraid not. What’s up?”
“We’re sending you to Amarillo tomorrow to an orthopedic surgeon.”
“For a headache?” He refused to think about that teensy-weensy twinge in his knee.
“At the very least, you have a severed ACL that will require surgery.”
“How bad?” He looked to his partner for reassurance, but Jackson got that hang-dog look again.
Ignoring the incessant school of sharks ripping through his kneecap, he thought he’d better listen to Miss B. Washburn, RN, considering how he didn’t recall ever meeting Dr. Clayton. Or having an MRI for that matter.
What she had to say really put a kink in his good mood. He knew all about tears of the anterior cruciate ligament. Every athlete hated them because they sidelined a guy too long. But from the way B. Washburn, RN, told it, a regular ACL tear didn’t sound so bad. His, on the other hand, was way beyond torn. His knee was, as she so blatantly phrased it, “demolished.”
“So, when can I ride again?” He asked when she finished telling him that not only was his dream in jeopardy, but his career, as well.
“That will be for the orthopod to say after he’s done a scope.”
Orthopod? Was that a doctor from outer space?
He thought better of asking. And to tell the truth, if someone didn’t get the sharks off his leg, he was going to lose his sense of humor.
“But you’ll be off the circuit for at least a couple of months, maybe longer.”
“No way.” He struggled up to his elbows. “Get me some pants, Jacks. I can ride.”
To prove his point, he swung his right leg over the side of the bed, but the left one refused to follow.
B. Washburn, RN, caught him by the calf and pushed him gently, but efficiently back onto the bed. The eyes he’d thought of as honey-colored, now looked muddy with anger.
“Don’t be foolish, Mr. Garrett. It’s bad enough to put yourself in harm’s way by riding bulls, but refusing treatment for severe injury is totally irresponsible. It won’t heal and you won’t ride, maybe ever again if you make it any worse.”
He gazed down in amazement at her slender arms. “Hey, you’re pretty strong for a girl.”
She’d tossed him back onto the bed as easily as Sinsation had tossed him on his head. Dadgum ornery bull. “You must know judo or something.”
“Or something.” She favored him with a cheeky grin that sent a little spiral of interest curling through his belly. Darn if she wasn’t making him think of taking a couple days off to hang around Rattlesnake and find out just what that something was—among other things.
“Man, what’s the world coming to? I get stomped by a bull and body-slammed by a girl all in one day.” Moving had stirred the knee-eating sharks, and he was starting to feel grouchy again. “Are you gonna get my pants or do I have to call 911 and report a theft, as well as a kidnapping?”
B. Washburn, RN, pushed the phone toward him. He scowled at her. She stared back with those honey-colored eyes, as solemn and sympathetic as an undertaker. The real bad feeling settled in to stay. He got the unmistakable impression that he was about to take an unplanned vacation to Amarillo.
Chapter Two
Near the end of her shift Becka slid into a chair at the nurses’ desk to make final notations on the patients’ charts. As she leafed through Jett Garrett’s, she frowned.
Rolling her chair away from the desk, she called to the nurse standing inside the medication room directly behind her. “Mindy.”
“Yeah?” A bubbly blond head peeked around the door.
“Has Mr. Garrett in 14B had anything at all for pain since admission?”
“I haven’t given him anything. Did you give him something in the E.R.?”
Becka worried her bottom lip and looked through the chart once more. “No.”
“Those rodeo cowboys are so tough.”
Becka rolled her eyes. Tough or not, the man had to hurt, and there was no way he could sleep with a roaring headache and a throbbing knee. As uncomfortable as she was around a man as reckless as Jett, tonight he was her responsibility and, bull rider or not, she would never shirk her duty. Neatly replacing the chart, she stashed the ink pen in the pocket of her scrubs and headed for room 14B. On the way she made up a new ice pack for his knee.
As she approached the room she heard the sounds of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and didn’t even try to stop the grin that formed on her lips. Her son, Dylan, loved that song and she’d tickled her fingers up his four-year-old arm a thousand times or more. Besides, Jett’s inappropriate singing amused her.
Upon entering the room, Becka noticed at once that the cowboy was in a world of hurt: eyes squeezed a little too tight for sleep; lines of stress creasing his richly tanned forehead and bracketing the handsome mouth. The singing, no doubt, was to take his mind off the pain.
“‘Down came the rain,’” he sang through gritted teeth.
“Mr. Garrett,” she said softly.
The singing stopped. His eyelids sprang open. “Jett.”
“All right, Jett. I have a new ice pack for your knee.”
“Bring it on. The old one’s lost its zip.” He started up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down to reveal a sprinkle of black hairs on a brown, well-honed chest. Halfway up he grimaced and slid back onto the pillow.
“Would you like something for pain? Dr. Clayton left orders for an injection if you need it.”
“A shot?” The apprehensive way he asked nearly had her laughing.
“It will ease the pain. I promise.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’ll be better if you don’t play macho man. The physiology of the human body is such that healing takes place much quicker if the muscles are relaxed. Yours are as a tight as the lid on a pickle jar.”
He perked up. Cocking an eyebrow, he smoothed one hand over his six-pack belly. “Been looking at my muscles, huh?”
Becka ignored the little zip of interest. “They’re stellar, I’m sure. Now why don’t you let me get that injection for you so you can rest better?”
“On one condition.”
She eyed him warily. With a wild man like Jett, a woman never knew what “condition” he might think of. “What’s that?”
He indicated the green vinyl chair next to the bed. “You sit here by me afterward and talk to me until the medicine takes effect.”
Surprised, Becka studied a pair of eyes so blue the sky dimmed in comparison. Was this a come-on from a guy accustomed to having his way with any and all women? Or was Jett Garrett, daredevil deluxe, afraid?
The question intrigued her. A glance at her watch revealed her shift would be over in fifteen minutes. She had to go by Sid’s Repair Shop and check on her car before picking up Dylan at day care, so she couldn’t stay later than that. One of the other nurses had offered her a ride—an offer she couldn’t refuse under the circumstances.
However, except for Jett’s, all the patient charts were signed out, and everything was in order and ready for the next shift to take over.
“I only have about fifteen minutes,” she said. “But I’ll stay that long.”
“Deal.” He closed his eyes again and lay back.
She stood there a moment, staring down at a too-handsome man with all the qualities that scared her to death. Restless and unpredictable, Jett lived his life on the edge, ever searching for the next thrill, never staying in one place or with one woman because something else always caught his quicksilver interest. Beyond fearless, wildly exciting, and every inch a man, Jett Garrett exuded an energy, a life force so powerful that he was in danger of burning himself out like a shooting star. And the fool didn’t even know it.
But she knew. Oh, yes, Becka knew, for she had been a willing participant while another man’s flame was extinguished by his own lust for life.
Other than the compassion that made her an excellent nurse, she had no explanation for why she’d agreed to spend an extra fifteen minutes just sitting beside the disturbing cowboy. Sure, she’d done it a hundred times for other patients, but this one was dangerous. Everything about him brought back painful memories that were always just below the surface struggling to rise up and choke her.
Her son’s small, impish face flashed in her head. Dylan. Her heart squeezed painfully. What if she wasn’t cautious enough and the careless genes that were as much a part of her makeup as they were Chris’s resur-faced in him? What if something happened to him, too?
Jett’s lips moved. “You gonna get that shot or kiss me?” He opened lazy eyes and grinned. “Either one is okay with me.”
Disturbed at her troubled thoughts Becka yanked in a startled gasp and swept out of the room, cheeks hot.
Jett Garrett was the kind of man she avoided at all costs. He was dangerous. She knew his kind. Had suffered the consequences of being too enamored with the aura of excitement such men wore like others wore aftershave. Jett Garrett terrified her.
Then why had she experienced this funny little inner twinge when he’d mentioned kissing him? And why was her pulse suddenly racing along like freeway traffic?
Sliding moist palms down the sides of her scrubs, Becka pulled herself under tight control. Certainly, a man like Jett Garrett disturbed her; he was a reminder of things better left alone. But she was a professional. For Dylan’s sake she had learned to handle anything.
She would go right back down to that room and give him the pain injection. She would sit down and talk to him. And she would not notice his perfect body or his handsome face or be affected by his sexy little quips. She would ignore the zip of excitement that threatened to undermine her safety. And by the time she returned tomorrow, Jett would be off to Amarillo and she’d never have to deal with him again.
An hour later when Becka pulled into the sunlit parking lot outside the day care center, she’d managed to push Jett Garrett out of her mind. Or rather Sid, the mechanic, had done the deed for her.
Shutting off the car key, Becka listened with a worried frown to a series of mysterious chugs before the engine wheezed into silence. Sid’s words still rang in her ears.
“I’m not even sure I can get parts for this kind of car anymore. Give it up, Becka, before you get stranded again, or worse, have an accident.”
And on those words she’d driven away, the old Fairlane patched together once more by the expertise of a kind mechanic, knowing full well she had to find a way to buy another vehicle—soon.
Getting out of the car, she opened the gate to the fenced facility and started up the sidewalk toward Kati’s Angels Day Care. The name always made her smile because Kati Garrett, the owner and proprietress, did indeed treat each of her charges like gifts from Heaven. A very protective mother, Becka was thankful to have the serene and loving Kati caring for Dylan.
Inside the long open room, she spotted her son immediately. In the company of three other preschoolers, he ran in frenzied circles around a stack of wooden blocks and toy trucks, making car noises and issuing pretend honks.
Becka stared in disbelief. He shouldn’t be running. He could fall. Hit his head. Be killed.
“Dylan!” she called sharply and started toward him. Anxiety gripped her.
Kati Garrett, having a pretend tea party at a low table with four little girls, rose at the sound of Becka’s voice. Seven months’pregnant, she moved slowly, but her face was filled with concern.
Dylan, too, heard the fear in his mother’s voice. He stopped dead still only to be pummeled from behind by an overzealous playmate and knocked to the floor. The action sent Becka into a lope. Heart beating crazily, she rushed to her fallen child and yanked him into her arms.
“Are you all right?” She heard the panic in her voice and knew it was entirely out of proportion to the incident, but she couldn’t help herself. If anything happened to Dylan, she could not go on living. Not this time.
Dylan’s lips quivered. Tears rimmed his wide, hazel eyes. “I sorry, Mommy. I sorry.”
“Is he hurt?” Kati, now beside them, asked.
Becka did a quick once over, checking the child for injuries. “No. But he could have been. Why on earth was he allowed to run wild like that?”
“Becka, little boys are naturally rambunctious. It’s a part of their physical makeup. Running is healthy. I can’t make him sit in a chair all day.”
Becka inhaled deeply then blew out a calming breath. “I know.” She shook her head, embarrassed now that she knew her son was all right. “But it’s dangerous for him to be so unruly.”
Kati touched her arm and said quietly, “I was actually pleased to see him playing with such zest. Of all the little boys, Dylan is the most timid.”
Kati’s son, four-year-old Evan, dark eyes echoing his mother’s concern, hurried over to them. “Is Dylan hurt, Mommy? I bumped him down.”
Kati laid a hand on her son’s smooth, brown hair. “He’s fine, baby.”
“I not a baby.” He patted her bulging tummy with a chubby hand. “Baby is here.”
Both women smiled indulgently. Becka hoisted Dylan higher on her hip. “Do you allow Evan to run and roughhouse that way?”
“Oh my, yes. At home he and his daddy wrestle and romp like two puppies. Colt had him on a horse by himself on his second birthday.”
Becka shuddered at the thought. “How can you stand it? Aren’t you afraid something will happen to him?”
Kati laughed and swooped Evan into her arms. “His daddy loves him. Colt would never do anything to cause Evan harm.”
When Kati spoke her husband’s name, her eyes lit up. Becka envied the couple, though she was as amazed as everyone else in Rattlesnake when Colt, the confirmed bachelor with a reputation almost as bad as that of his brother, had married his quiet nanny and adopted the infant Evan. But anyone who’d seen the family together knew they had something special.
“How was Jett doing when you left the hospital?” Kati asked.
At Becka’s look of surprise, she went on. “Colt came by earlier and told me. Is the knee as bad as he says?”
“Probably worse,” Becka answered, remembering the way Jett had tried to downplay his injury.
“Probably. These cowboys, especially the Garrett men, think they are invincible.” Kati smiled softly and shook her head, a dark, waist-length braid swaying. “Sometimes I think Colt actually is.”
Becka wondered what it would be like to love a man the way Kati loved her husband. So confident. So secure. Yes, she’d loved Chris but not like this. Theirs had been a frenetic life, always on the edge, never safe and secure. She’d learned a valuable lesson from that short, manic episode of her life. Now, safety and security were the only things she wanted. That and a new car.
She sighed, weary with the constant worry over finances, and redirected her thoughts. “Your brother-inlaw will get great care in Amarillo. If anyone can repair the damage to his knee, the orthopedic team there can.”
“Colt said he had a concussion, too. Something about him singing his fool head off.”
Becka laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone react to a head injury in such an entertaining way.”
“That’s Jett for you. Always doing the unexpected.”
“Unexpected” Becka could do without. She didn’t like surprises. She liked safe, routine, predictable. Come to think of it she hadn’t seen Sherman Benchley, her occasional date, in a while. Maybe she’d give him a call and invite him over for a movie and popcorn tonight. With Sherman she always got exactly what she expected.
The unexpected occurred a week later. Called into the hospital’s administrative office, Becka sat across the desk from the director of nurses, Marsha Simek. The two had worked together since Becka’s graduate days shortly before Chris’s death and shared a friendly, comfortable relationship.
“I received an interesting call today,” Marsha said, fixing Becka with a curious blue gaze.
“Concerning me?”
“It seems you made quite an impression on one of our patients recently, and now he’s interested in hiring you to do home health care visits.”
Becka leaned forward, immediately interested. She’d done some home health care on the side to bolster her ever-low bank account, and right now she could certainly use some extra cash.
“Who was it? The man who had the foot amputation? Mr. Novotny?”
“No.” Marsha shuffled some papers, came up with a yellow sticky note, and handed it to Becka. “Jett Garrett. Do you remember him?”
“Jett—” The words stuck in Becka’s throat. Anyone but the singing cowboy with enough masculine chemistry to melt paint. “Why would he need a home health nurse?”
“Seems he’s staying out at that ranch he and his brother own while he recoups from knee surgery.” Marsha crossed her arms on the desk. “The orthopedic docs in Amarillo sent him home with a PT machine and he’s having fits trying to run it.”
“I’m not a physical therapist.”
“No, but you know enough about it to do the visits, help him with the machine, and see that he follows doctor’s orders. The PT department could give you a quick in-service if you’re not familiar with that particular piece of equipment.”
“Why me? Why not send PT out?”
“They’re too shorthanded. Besides, Mr. Garrett insisted on hiring you. And with your fitness training, coupled with nursing expertise, you’re the obvious choice.”
“Well, call him back and tell him I’m not interested.”
Marsha looked surprised. “Not interested? Becka, the pay is excellent.”
She didn’t even want to know.
Marsha told her, anyway, naming a sum considerably more than her usual fee. She needed that money, needed it badly. But Jett Garrett? No way. She shivered with a sense of unease and a flutter of unwanted interest at the idea of spending time in his troubling presence.
“I can’t, Marsha. Sorry.” She stood to leave, anxious to get back to her station. The physicians should be making rounds anytime now and they’d be looking for her.
“How’s your dad doing?”
She stuck a fist on one hip. “Dad’s okay, but that was a dirty trick.”
Marsha knew about Becka’s money woes. About the ailing father whose social security check didn’t cover his medications each month and about the hospital and funeral bills Becka was still paying off.
“Now Becka, what would it hurt to work for this guy for a few weeks? Make the money, make the hospital look good, help a patient. Everybody wins.”
Everybody but Becka. Hand on the door she blew out a long, exasperated breath. “I’ll think about it.”
She thought about it all day long, pulling the yellow sticky note out of her pocket a dozen times to stare at the name and phone number. By shift’s end, she’d reaffirmed her decision. She couldn’t take the chance. No matter that the money would go a long way toward a down payment on another car she absolutely, positively would not work for Jett Garrett.
Collecting her purse from the employee lounge, she soft-soled down the anesthetic-scented corridors and out to the parking lot. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached and the beginnings of a headache tapped at the base of her skull. Tension. Pure and simple.
Last night Dylan had somehow managed to open the front door by himself and had gone out into the yard without her knowledge. Finding her son gone when she got out of the bathtub had shaken her to the core. She’d found him playing not ten feet from the busy residential street. Her yard needed a fence, but fences cost money. She’d simply have to be more careful. Maybe a lock higher up on the door would do the trick.
Her baby boy was getting more adventurous by the day and the idea unnerved her. She’d tried her best to squelch this side of him, warning him of impending disaster but he hadn’t slowed down one bit. Her father warned that she’d make him a sissy, but Dad didn’t understand. He’d been a dirt track racer in his younger days before the diabetes damaged his vision, and he thought a man wasn’t a man unless he took chances. Just because a child still sucked his thumb and sometimes wet the bed didn’t make him a sissy. And even if it did, he would be alive.
Still, last night’s episode coupled with today’s tempting but impossible job offer from Jett Garrett had made this a stressful day.
Climbing into the old white Fairlane, Becka cranked the engine. The starter ground predictably, then a series of pop, pop, pops issued from the tailpipe. Acrid-smelling black smoke swirled in through the open window. All perfectly normal for her dying vehicle except for one thing: this time the engine didn’t start. She tried again, went through another series of smoky backfires and then—nothing. After several more attempts, she—and the car’s battery—gave up.
The tapping in the back of her head turned to hammering. Grabbing her purse, she shoved her shoulder against the sticking door, stepped out onto the warm pavement and headed back inside the hospital to call Sid. Maybe the part required to fix the car had miraculously arrived today, though she had no idea how to pay for it.
No. That wasn’t true. She knew how to pay for it. She was just too scared. As she trudged up the sidewalk, the yellow sticky note felt like a brick in her uniform pocket. She was scared of Jett Garrett. Scared of the energy in him, of the things he made her remember, and most of all, scared of the way her made her feel.
But fear or not, she had no choice. She had to take that job.
Chapter Three
Fresh from a one-legged shower, Jett slipped on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt and eased down onto the side of the bed. He was out of breath from the effort, a fact that ticked him off no end. Since when did a little bitty knee injury turn a man into a wuss? Sure, he had a bolt poking out each side of his leg with a cagelike stabilizer bar attached, but that shouldn’t make him so weak and winded. Nobody had warned him he’d come home with enough hardware attached to his leg to build a bucking chute.
He had to get over this thing. And soon. Time was passing. Rodeos were happening without him. The dream was fading like a new pair of Wranglers in hot water.
With more effort than he wanted to admit, he hoisted up and hobbled to the calendar on the wall. The National Finals were in December. This was mid-August. He flipped the pages, counting the weeks. He needed more wins, more rodeos to have enough qualifying points.
At the knock on the door behind him, he called, “Come on in.”
Must be Cookie, the ranch’s chief cook and bottle washer, though the old sailor seldom knocked. He barged in, blasting like a foghorn, usually grousing because Jett had left something in a mess. Jett screwed up his forehead, thinking. Probably the bathroom this time.
“I’ll take care of it later,” he offered.
“Should you be up on that leg?” a soft, feminine voice, nothing at all like Cookie’s foghorn, asked. He felt an undeniable lift in his spirits. Nothing like a little tête-à-tête with the opposite sex to cheer a fella up.
Putting all his weight on the good leg, Jett pivoted around and let his gaze slide slowly over the small, uniform-clad woman decorating the entrance to his bedroom. Sure enough, B. Washburn, RN, the cute redheaded nurse with the sassy attitude had arrived.
He flicked a glance toward the clock radio on the nightstand in appreciation of her punctuality. It was three forty-five and she didn’t get off until three. That’s what she’d told him when they’d talked on the phone the other night. He’d enjoyed that conversation. Had flirted with her shamelessly in an effort to elevate his own lousy mood. She’d flirted a little herself, though she kept wanting to talk about the job. Imagine. Talking work when you could play.
She came on into the room, pretending to pay no heed to his general state of undress, though Jett was certain he detected a flicker of interest, quickly shuttered. He kept in good shape, knew he looked good, and if the ladies appreciated his body, all the better for him. He certainly knew how to appreciate a woman.
His spirits lifted a little more. He was bored stiff, ready for some kind of stimulus to keep him breathing until he could get back on the road. Nothing like a female to provide that—temporarily, of course. If there was one thing Jett Garrett did not believe in, it was permanency. No permanent job. No permanent home. And most certainly, no permanent woman. He shuddered at the thought of being tied down in one spot with one woman too long. This few-week detour was already making him nuts.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“You gave excellent directions—for a man.” Offering him a smile to soften the jab, she set a small tote bag on the blue armchair next to the door and started digging through it.
Jett enjoyed the view. Body bent, trim behind pointed toward him, she did interesting things to a pair of ordinary purple scrubs. He’d never really appreciated that color before, but he was beginning to see its virtues.
“Speaking of directions,” she said, “I brought some simplified instructions for using this machine of yours. I should be able to train you in its use and on the rehab exercises in a matter of days.”
Not if he had his way, she wouldn’t. He could be dumb when he needed to be.
“What’s the B stand for?”
Straightening, she gave him a quizzical smile. “Pardon?”
He pointed to her name badge. “B. Washburn, RN.”
On the phone she’d referred to herself as “Nurse Washburn from the hospital,” saying the words in a prissified voice that announced her intentions of maintaining a professional distance. But that wasn’t going to happen. Professional was fine. Distance? Uh-uh.
She touched the pin above her left breast. “Becka. Rebecka, actually, but I prefer Becka. Shorter and easier.”
“Becka-Rebecka. Suits you.” His memories of the overnight stay in Rattlesnake Municipal were a little fuzzy, but he remembered her. Under the uptight exterior there might be a tiger in the tank. Be interesting to find out.
“Come on over and sit down.” She motioned toward the recliner Colt and Cookie had dragged into his bedroom. “I’ll examine your leg, take your vitals, then get the PT machine started.”
Left leg straight out in front, he gingerly lowered his body into the chair and motioned toward the mechanical device standing nearby. “Looks like something out of a medieval torture chamber, doesn’t it?”
Amusement flared in her. “You know medieval history?”
“What? You think I’m stupid because I’m a cowboy?”
Kneeling before him, she ran expert hands over his knee then checked the pulse in the back. Darn, but he liked those feathery-light hands touching his skin.
“I think you’re stupid because you ride bulls and risk killing yourself for a living.”
He looked down at the top of her head, bent as she seriously examined all the places where rods and wires poked through his hide. Her hair was parted in the middle, a little crookedly, and pulled into a smooth ponytail that hung to her shoulder blades. He wondered how it would look hanging loose around her delicate face, then smiled to himself. He’d find out. Women were an adventure and a heck of a lot of fun as long as they didn’t go getting serious on you.
“I don’t ride bulls for a living. I ride for fun.”
She harrumphed. “That’s even dumber.”
“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” He slapped a hand against his thigh. “Now there’s an idea. Wanna learn to ride bulls? I’ll teach you.”
“You won’t be doing much of anything for the next eight weeks.”
“Four weeks tops.” He didn’t tell the rest. That he really planned to make the Stampede over in Albuquerque during Labor Day weekend less than three weeks away. The bolts would be out by then, replaced by an air splint, and if he could walk he could ride. “I got rodeos to make.”
She tilted her head and looked at him. She had the most appealing golden flecks in her pale brown eyes. “You have a knee to heal. I’m a good nurse, Jett, but I don’t do miracles. According to Dr. Jameson you need at least eight weeks of rehab, six hours a day before you even think about riding again. Anything less and you may never ride another bull—or even a horse for that matter.”
“Then let’s get it on.” He motioned toward the PT equip. “Bring on the torture chamber.”
“Looks like one of those space satellites to me.”
He cocked his head sideways and studied the device. “Hey, you’re right. Think we could pick up satellite TV? The OLN channel carries rodeo.”
“Let’s point you toward the southern sky and give it a try.”
They both laughed as Becka went to work, easing his leg into a weird-looking harness, Velcroing him in, explaining as she went. He mostly ignored her words and concentrated on her efficient movements and on the way she smelled—which was pretty darn sexy for a woman who’d already worked all day.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
She glanced sideways without answering, and he wondered why he’d asked such a dumb question. She made one last adjustment, and turned the On dial, setting the machine into a slow in-and-out rhythm.
Jett gripped the side of the chair. The sharks were back. “Turn the stereo on, will ya?” he grunted.
“If that’s too painful, I can adjust it for less tension.” She reached for the power switch.
“I never said it hurt.” He was no baby.
“You sure?”
“No pain, no gain.” He sucked in a roomful of air and tried to relax. “Just turn the radio on and dance with me.”
She rose from her position beside the machine and stared at him as if he’d lost his reason. “Is the concussion still giving you problems?”
“Nah. I’m just in the mood to dance with a pretty girl. Come on. Humor me. I’m a poor wounded cowboy.” Angling his head toward the source of agony, he waggled his eyebrows in invitation. “One of my legs is already dancing. Might as well find a way to enjoy it.”
He held out his arms. She backed away, but he didn’t miss the leap of excitement in her eyes before she shook her head, and the uptight, rigid demeanor returned.
“I really have to be going.”
“Going? You can’t leave.” He would die of boredom sitting in this spot for six hours without anything but the television to distract him. “You’re my nurse. I hired you. You gotta dance with me.”
Summoning up his most persuasive smile—no small feat considering the sharks in his knee—he reached out and caught her hand.
“Really, Jett. This is a professional visit, not a social one.”
A horrible thought crossed his mind. “You’re not married, are you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Okay, then. No reason on the planet why we can’t dance.”
“As I said, this is a professional visit.”
“So? Dancing is therapy.”
Her lips twitched, and she didn’t remove her hand. He thought he might be making progress.
“Therapy? Now how do you figure that?”
Slapping his free hand against his chest, he pretended shock. “What? A fine nurse like you has never heard of recreational therapy?”
She made a snorting sound but he could see she wanted to laugh. He pressed the advantage. “I’m suffering terribly here, Nurse Becka-Rebecka. You can take my mind off the pain.” That much was certainly true. “Drag that chair over here.”
Though her expression was suspicious, she did as he asked.
“Now what, Mr. Idea Man?”
“Push in that Garth Brooks CD, then sit down and let’s dance.”
“Well…” Shaking her head, she turned on the stereo and sat down. “I suppose it’s harmless.”
Jett had never danced from a chair before but the idea intrigued him. He’d danced in bed, underwater, and on snow skis, so why not in a chair while sharks ripped his kneecap off?
Somehow he managed to maneuver his upper body sideways, and when Becka laughed, he purposely contorted his body a little more. He placed one of her hands on his shoulder and clasped the other one against his chest. The action unbalanced Becka and she pitched forward, landing with a surprised “ooph” against his upper body.
Man, she smelled good. Like clean sheets. And he did love the scent of a woman between clean sheets.
For a second Becka struggled to right herself, but he held on, swaying to the strains of the old Garth Brooks tune “The Dance.”
In too awkward a position to do otherwise, Becka rested her head against his shoulder. But where he’d hoped for a quick melting, she held herself rigid and restrained.
“Loosen up, Becka-Rebecka,” he whispered against her ear. “Muscles must be relaxed for healing to occur. Didn’t you teach me that?”
She tilted her face up toward his. “I thought you had a concussion that night.”
He grinned down at her and shrugged. She laughed, visibly relaxing as though by some inner command. Jett used the opportunity to snug her close. A dirty trick, he knew, but he was an invalid after all, in need of therapy.
He peeked over her shoulder. By now she was reclining on the arm of his chair and leaning into him. He could deal with that. Why hadn’t he tried chair dancing before?
“A little practice and we could take this routine on the road.” He gave a sudden tilt to the side as though to dip her. When he brought her upright, she held on, arched her body and tossed back her head. He followed her in a very distorted imitation of Fred and Ginger swinging from side to side, dipping up and back.
“I can see it now in neon lights. The newest fad. Chair dancing.” Her face was slightly flushed and her amber eyes sparkled.
“Guaranteed to cure what ails you.” He forgot all about his screaming knee. “Good for aches and pains, warts and athlete’s foot. Order now and get a second chair free.”
She picked up the spiel. “Send your check or money order for $19.95. Hurry, this offer ends soon.”
The music ended, much to Jett’s displeasure, and his dance partner pulled away, righting herself on the chair next to him. All the fun faded from her expression and she looked as though she regretted their few moments of silliness.
“Well.” Averting her eyes, she straightened her uniform. “I really do have to leave now. My son is in day care and Kati closes at six.”
“You have kids?”
Her faced softened. “Dylan. He’s nearly four.”
So she had a son but wasn’t married. He’d like to hear that story, but figured now, when she was about to run, wasn’t the best time to pry.
“Call Kati. She can bring him out here when she comes home and you can stay and entertain me a while longer.”
“I can’t ask Kati to do that.”
“I can. Hand me the phone.”
“No. I have to go.” She gathered up her tote and started talking about the PT machine again, giving him some last-minute instructions, reminding him to ice pack the incision after therapy. She seemed intent on regaining her professional footing.
“Hey,” he called when she opened the door and moved to leave.
She turned.
He gave her what he hoped was his sexiest grin. “Thanks for the dance.”
She responded with a look he couldn’t begin to interpret, then closed the door behind her.
Jett flopped back into the chair, disappointed, the incessant hum of the machine annoying him.
What was happening here? He hadn’t asked the woman to marry him. Heaven forbid. He’d only wanted a little diversion until he could get the heck out of Dodge.
Since when had any female ever walked out on Jett Garrett?
Man. He must be losing it.
“Chair dancing!” Teeth gritted, Becka thumped her forehead against the steering wheel. During the time she’d been inside the Garrett Ranch, the Texas sun had filled her on-the-road-again car with enough hot air to launch a balloon festival, but it was those few minutes of up-close-and-personal with Jett Garrett that had her in a sweat.
Less than an hour in the magnetic cowboy’s presence and she’d lost all sense of decorum, behaving in an un-characteristically unprofessional manner. What had come over her?
But she knew. The carefully sublimated side of herself that she worked so hard to control had leaped to the fore at the first opportunity. In fact, her blood still hummed, and pleasure still tingled her nerve endings. Jett had tapped into the reckless nature she wanted so much to destroy.
She’d intended to stay longer, to see that Jett tolerated the PT machine well and to observe for swelling but as soon as the music ended, she’d realized what was happening and knew she had to escape. She couldn’t do this again. She’d have to find an excuse not to come back here. Jett was too dangerous. She couldn’t take a chance at letting her own rash nature resurface.
But how? What excuse could she use? And what would she do without the money this job would provide?
“Ma’am,” a deep voice said right next to her ear. Stewing over the concern, Becka hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Raising her head from the steering wheel, she saw Jett’s brother, Colt, peering in through her window.
“You all right?”
Quickly she rolled down the window, nodding. “Yes, of course.” Like an idiot she was roasting alive in her own car, too caught up in her emotional response to Jett to even realize how hot she was.
Thinking fast, she said, “I was about to check the water in my radiator before I leave. Sometimes my car overheats.”
She pulled on the door handle, waited for Colt to step back and then exited the car.
“I keep a five-gallon container of water in the back just in case.”
Colt raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on that. “I’ll check it for you.”
Becka watched the tall cowboy pop the hood on her car and go through the motions of examining the water content. He was definitely Jett’s brother, with his dark good looks, but where Jett was flip and carefree, Colt was more serious, having little to say.
While Becka stood by in the Texas heat, Colt added water to the radiator, replaced the cap, then slammed the hood.
Wiping his hands down the sides of his jeans, he turned to where she leaned against the battered fender of her ancient car. “My brother giving you any problem?”
Becka tried not to blush, but the heat rose in her face anyway. “No. Not at all.”
“I want Jett to have the best care, whatever it costs.” Colt studied her. “If he needs you here longer, I’d like you to stay. I’ll pay extra if necessary.”
Becka stiffened. Was he questioning her ability to do a professional job? A twinge of guilt shifted over her. Hadn’t she just questioned that very thing? From the inappropriate way she’d reacted to Jett Garrett, she couldn’t trust herself. Why should anyone else trust her? But she couldn’t admit that to Colt.
“You can rest assured that I will give your brother the best of care, but I have to get back into town before six to pick up my son.”
Colt stepped around her to replace the water container in her back seat. “Doesn’t Kati keep your little boy?”
“Yes. And she’s wonderful with him.”
That made him smile. “Yeah. Kati’s something.”
Those few words coupled with the twinkle in his eye told her that the tough cowboy wasn’t so tough when it came to his wife.
“Even a dedicated woman such as Kati likes to close up shop and come home at the end of a long day.” Becka wrenched open the car door and slid inside, ready to leave. “It would be unfair of me to ask her to keep Dylan any longer.”
“You can bring him out here with you if you’d like. Then you won’t need to hurry off.”
Becka’s pulse set up another drum beat. Great. Just what she didn’t need. An excuse to stay longer in the presence of Jett Garrett when she was already searching for a way out of the entire commitment.
“Actually, it’s such a long way out here, I was thinking this may not work out for me.”
“You tell Jett that?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t.” He leaned down into the window. “My brother has his heart set on making the NFR this year. I think he’s crazy, but if he wants it, I want him to have it. He’s getting on in years for a bull rider.”
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Linda Goodnight
“Dance with me, Becka.”
Her heart clattered against her rib cage. “Too risky.”
“Okay, then. You asked for it.” Giving a quick yank, he unbalanced her, plunging her into his lap. His arms went around her, he snuggled her against his chest and grinned down into her face. “Gotcha.”
She struggled, but not nearly enough. While the sensible portion of her mind said get up and run, every other cell in her body refused to obey. Jett’s cologne drifted up from his cotton T-shirt. His firm thighs pressed against her trapped fingertips, and she could scarcely keep from stroking them.
“When you turn me loose you’re going to be very sorry,” she said with more authority than she felt.
“Then I guess I might as well enjoy this while I can,” he said as his blue eyes drifted over her face, coming to rest on her mouth.
“Don’t even think about it, cowboy.”
“Oh, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and now I’m going to do something about it.”
Dear Reader,
When you’re stuffing the stockings this year remember that Silhouette Romance’s December lineup is the perfect complement to candy canes and chocolate! Remind your loved ones—and yourself—of the power of love.
Open your heart to magic with the third installment of IN A FAIRY TALE WORLD…, the miniseries where matchmaking gets a little help from an enchanted princess. In Her Frog Prince (SR #1746) Shirley Jump provides a rollicking good read with the antics of two opposites who couldn’t be more attracted!
Then meet a couple of heartbreaking cowboys from authors Linda Goodnight and Roxann Delaney. In The Least Likely Groom (SR #1747) Linda Goodnight brings us a risk-taking rodeo man who finds himself the recipient of lots of tender loving care—from one very special nurse! And Roxann Delaney pairs a beauty disguised as an ugly duckling with the man most likely to make her smolder, in The Truth About Plain Jane (SR #1748).
Last but not least, discover the explosive potential of close proximity as a big-city physician works side by side with a small-town beauty. Is it her wacky ideas that drive him crazy—or his sudden desire to make her his? Find out in Love Chronicles (SR #1749) by Lissa Manley.
Watch for more heartwarming titles in the coming year. You don’t want to miss a single one!
Happy reading!
Mavis C. Allen
Associate Senior Editor
The Least Likely Groom
Linda Goodnight
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Celeste, Missy and Alison,
the best daughters-in-law on the planet.
Books by Linda Goodnight
Silhouette Romance
For Her Child… #1569
Married in a Month #1682
Her Pregnant Agenda #1690
Saved by the Baby #1709
Rich Man, Poor Bride #1742
The Least Likely Groom #1747
LINDA GOODNIGHT
A romantic at heart, Linda Goodnight believes in the traditional values of family and home. Writing books enables her to share her certainty that, with faith and perseverance, love can last forever and happy endings really are possible.
A native of Oklahoma, Linda lives in the country with her husband, Gene, and Mugsy, an adorably obnoxious rat terrier. She and Gene have a blended family of six grown children. An elementary school teacher, she is also a licensed nurse. When time permits, Linda loves to read, watch football and rodeo, and indulge in chocolate. She also enjoys taking long, calorie-burning walks in the nearby woods. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com.
Contents
Chapter One (#ub5ab9993-8dec-5e85-980a-ee577f590eea)
Chapter Two (#u3a621865-9c19-53e4-992d-3355d561eaf5)
Chapter Three (#u5c97d12f-b7ba-50f4-a4d3-9f26b2bdbb37)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
It had been a quiet summer Sunday in the small hospital of Rattlesnake, Texas…until a certain ornery cowboy appeared in the emergency room.
And now the misguided drunk-and-disorderly was singing at the top of his lungs.
From her spot at the nurses’ desk, Rebecka Washburn placed a hand over the telephone receiver and frowned down the long, white-tiled corridor toward the holding area where he lay sprawled on a gurney. She glimpsed one dusty cowboy boot and a muscled, jean-covered leg before a nurse’s assistant wheeled him into an exam room.
A tortured mangle of “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” and a rodeo song about bulls and blood and dust and mud echoed through the corridor.
“Do what you have to, Sid,” she said to the man on the other end of the line. “I’ll rake up the money somewhere.”
With a worried sigh she muttered her thanks to the town’s only auto mechanic and replaced the receiver. Where was she going to get that kind of money?
The singing maniac ripped into a third, even heartier, chorus of the children’s church song.
Determined to muzzle her unwanted serenader before he disrupted the other twenty patients on her wing, Becka pushed the nagging worry about her on-its-last-legs car into the background and padded on soft-soled shoes toward the E.R.
As charge nurse for the day shift, keeping everything running smoothly and under tight control was her responsibility. Control was what she did best. Every chart was neatly updated and in its proper slot, every medication carefully accounted for, and every patient given the best care a small-town hospital could manage. That included quieting down any and all drunks that passed through the doors.
“‘He’s got the little bitty babies in his hands,’” the man sang.
Irresponsible drunks. Didn’t they understand, as she did, that even a few beers at the wrong time could be deadly? For the past three years she’d had to live with the horror of learning that the hard way, and every time a drunk showed up in her E.R., the memory returned in full force.
Face set in a stiff, professional mask, she pushed the pneumatic door open. A swoosh of cool, antiseptic air wafted out.
“Would you please stop that caterwauling before you send someone into cardiac arrest?”
A vaguely familiar cowboy was propped on the exam table. His hat was askew. His black western shirt was filthy, and a wide abrasion marred his high, handsome cheekbone.
Becka clenched her teeth. So he was not only drunk and disorderly, he’d been fighting, too.
Hushed by her sharp command, the cowboy looking momentarily abashed. Then his glazed gaze roamed over her and a wicked little grin split his face.
“Well, lookie here, Jackson,” he said to the tall, silent cowboy standing beside him. “It’s the queen of the rodeo.”
The man called Jackson removed his white Resistol and grinned, too. “I don’t think so, Jett. Looks more like a little, mad redheaded nurse to me.”
“A nurse? What’s a nurse doing out here at the rodeo?” Mr. drunk-and-disorderly wobbled up from the gurney, his muscles rippling, his crystal-blue eyes showing alarm. The process knocked his black hat to the floor. “Did somebody get hurt?”
Becka captured his flailing arm and reseated him. Rock-hard muscle swelled beneath her fingers before the singing cowpoke collapsed wearily onto the pillow. With a moan he grabbed his head with both hands.
“I can’t make my head be still,” he mumbled.
“This is not a rodeo arena, cowboy, and it’s no wonder your head is spinning. How much have you had to drink today?”
Both men turned curious faces toward her. Her patient looked more stupefied than curious.
“Have we been drinking, Jackson?” he asked, frowning.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” His head wobbled crazily from side to side. “We haven’t done that in a while, have we?”
“Nope.”
“Then what’s she so mad about?”
“I don’t think she likes your singing.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Becka huffed in exasperation. No doubt this wasn’t his first visit to a hospital, and common sense said the E.R. was serious business. But when had any drunk shown common sense?
“If he hasn’t been fighting, why is he here?”
“A bull didn’t take too kindly to his showboating.”
“A bull?” Becka came to full alert, her irritation washed away in a sea of guilty concern. “He’s been in a rodeo accident?”
“Why else would we be in an emergency room on Sunday evening?”
“Good heavens.”
Guilt sliced through her with the strength of a bone saw. She was a good nurse. A compassionate, go-the-extra-mile nurse, but this time she’d allowed painful personal memories to interfere with her job. Instead of recognizing an obvious concussion, she had jumped to the conclusion that he’d been drinking.
Would that awful day from her past ever stop haunting her?
Hustling to the blood-pressure monitor hanging on the wall, Becka pulled it down and wrapped the length of cloth around the man’s well-developed biceps. Her patient had the typical body of a professional rider, athletic and strong enough to stay on a writhing bull, but not overly large. He had what she would term the perfect body—if she were interested in such things, that is.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” she said to the tall cowboy called Jackson.
The injured man lay back, quiet for the moment, his eyes closed. A crooked little bump atop his nose suggested this wasn’t his first rodeo injury, though his was still an incredibly attractive face, the kind of good-looking hunk of cowboy that had women lining up. She’d seen him somewhere before, she was certain. A woman didn’t forget a face like that.
“He took a head butt from the back. Got his bell rung.”
Becka filed that away. A two-thousand-pound bull could pack a real wallop. “And?”
The big guy shrugged. “And he toppled over like a hundred-pound feed sack.”
Wincing at the unpleasant image, Becka pumped the sphygmomanometer bulb, listened for the familiar thump-thump while watching the needle dance rhythmically down to zero. His pressure was okay.
She reached for his pulse. Deeply ingrained calluses and the more recent red stripes of rope burn crossed the palm of his leatherlike hands.
She pursed her lips in disapproval. Like every rodeo cowboy she’d ever met he had no sense at all. Living on the edge, throwing caution to the wind, endangering himself and those around him.
“How long was he unconscious?”
“Unconscious? Me?” The cowboy on the table opened bleary eyes and struggled up on his elbows. “Never fainted in my—” He melted onto the pillow like hot wax.
The man called Jackson grimaced and shook his head. “Out like a light.”
Someone pecked at the door. Then without waiting, an admissions clerk entered. She thrust some papers toward the tall cowboy hovering over the gurney. “Are you the patient’s next of kin?”
“No ma’am. Jett is my traveling partner. We look after each other. But his brother lives around here if we need him.”
“Becka,” the woman asked. “Can he still sign the E.R. papers? Or do we need to wait on Mr. Garrett to wake up?”
“Garrett? Jett Garrett?” Memory flooding back, Becka turned toward the unconscious patient. “I remember him.”
No wonder he’d looked familiar. He and her husband had played some rodeos together when she and Chris first started dating five years ago. Even Chris, as fearless as he was, marveled at Jett’s reckless daredevil attitude.
“He’s Colt Garrett’s little brother. The wild and crazy one.” The man was renowned for his careless, throw-caution-to-the-wind antics.
Jackson grinned. “One and the same. He and Colt own the Garrett Ranch outside of town. You know them?”
Reluctant to reveal just how she remembered Jett, Becka settled for the easy answer. “In a town of 6500 people, everyone knows everyone else, at least by name. Colt’s wife, Kati, takes care of my son in her day care.”
“‘Do, Lord, oh, do, Lord…’” Jett’s head wobbled back and forth on the pillow as he started singing in that deep baritone again. “‘Where the buffalo roam and the bulls and blood and dust and mud…’”
His partner laughed out loud.
“You gotta admit, ma’am, he’s pretty funny.”
Becka suppressed a smile. “Does he always sing—and I use the word loosely—when he’s injured?”
“Sings in his sleep, too. But never like this.”
Becka ran experienced fingers through the dark wavy hair covering Jett’s skull, searching for bumps or wounds. Finding none, she made the notation on the chart and reached for the telephone hanging on the wall next to the door. After a moment she hung up and turned toward the two men.
“Dr. Clayton will be here in a few minutes, but he said to go ahead and admit Jett for observation. Can’t be too careful with a concussion—which he clearly has.”
“Nope.” Jett sat up as quickly as a jack-in-the-box, steadied himself with a hand on either side of the table, and shook his head. After two shakes his eyes crossed. “I appreciate the invite, but I can’t stay.”
Becka saw what he was about to do, but couldn’t move fast enough to stop him from pushing off the table. He crumpled like a paper sack. The only thing that kept him from slamming onto the hard tile was the fast reflexes of his oversize friend.
“Whoa, there, partner.” Jackson gripped his arms and hoisted up as Becka rushed to roll a wheelchair beneath him. “I think you better do what this little nurse tells you to.”
Head lolling crazily, Jett gripped it with both hands and steadied the wobbling. “Nope, sorry, can’t do it. I promised Melissa…”
For once in her career Becka was actually glad to see a patient pass out. Jett and his women were legend, and she really didn’t care to hear about the latest flame.
While lifting his feet onto the wheelchair’s foot support, she saw what she’d missed before.
“Good grief.” Dropping to her knees beside the chair, she yanked a pair of bandage scissors from her uniform pocket.
“What?” Jackson squatted beside her.
“No wonder he passed out when his feet touched the floor.”
Quickly cutting Jett’s jean leg up the inner seam, she exposed the dark-muscled knee and thigh. The notion flickered through her head that he would be this rich tan color all over his body, a notion she squelched instantly. Jett needed her expertise, not her admiration, though heaven knew it was hard not to admire such an athletic, blatantly masculine body. Her husband’s body had been like this, all hard-cut muscle without an ounce of fat.
But even Chris’s perfect, athlete’s physique hadn’t been strong enough to stand up against the damage she’d unwittingly done it.
The familiar pain of guilt and loss twisted in her stomach. She glued her attention to Jett’s injury. She could help Jett. She couldn’t do a thing to help Chris. Not now. Not even then.
To her dismay, Jett’s knee looked more like a softball than a body part. Gently running expert fingers over the hot, misshapen flesh, Becka chastised herself for missing so obvious an injury. She hadn’t handled anything right today. Between the worry over her car, the nagging fear for her son’s safety, and these unwanted reminders of her dead husband, she wasn’t thinking straight at all.
“Oh, man,” Jackson murmured. “The bull must have stepped on him.”
“This had to hurt. Didn’t he complain?”
Jackson shrugged. “Cowboys believe if you’re still breathin’ you ain’t hurt.”
“Then why’d you bring him to the E.R.?”
A grin split the big man’s face. “I didn’t want him to quit breathin’.”
Becka shot him an exasperated look.
“The doctor will have to X-ray him and probably do a scan to say for certain, but I’ve seen this kind of injury before. He won’t ride on this knee for a while.”
“Jett won’t like that. He’s only a few rodeos away from the big show.”
“Excuse me?”
“Vegas. Jett’s never made it to the National Finals, but he has a shot this year. A few more rodeos, a few more points, and he’s eligible.”
Becka gave him a doubtful twitch of one eyebrow. “I don’t like to rain on anyone’s parade….”
“That bad, huh?”
“I’m afraid it could be.”
They both stared at the unconscious patient. One with sympathetic eyes. The other with thoughts that the idiot would be better off in traction than to risk his life on the back of a Brahma bull.
Jett awakened that evening with the mother of all headaches. Turning only his eyes because his brain undulated like the curves of a belly dancer, he spotted an overhead television, a bedside table and a wheelchair. He eased his eyelids down again, waited two beats and tried again. He could not be where he thought he was.
“A hospital?” He ran a thick tongue over dry lips. His mouth tasted like the floor of a rodeo arena.
From the corner Jackson unwound his big body from a miserable-looking plastic chair. “You awake?”
“Must be talking in my sleep. I can’t be in a hospital.”
“Rattlesnake Municipal. At least for tonight.”
A little quiver of relief shuddered through him. He was only here for the night. He must not be hurt too badly. Tomorrow he and Jacks would be back on the road. With a win in Odessa tomorrow night, he’d be one rodeo closer to the NFR.
“Did you bring me in here?”
“Yep. But Colt will be back in the morning to take you to Amarillo.”
“Colt?” Jett frowned. What did his brother have to do with anything? “Amarillo?” Jackson was talking in riddles. Maybe he’d been the one to get his head dinged. “We’re riding in Odessa tomorrow night, not Amarillo.”
The brown door swished open and the tiniest redheaded nurse Jett could imagine whipped into the room. If she hadn’t been wearing pink scrubs and a name badge that said, B. Washburn, RN, Jett would have sworn she was a little kid.
She bent over his knee, turning her backside in his direction.
Nope, he thought with an appreciative grin. This one’s definitely not a kid. He was in the midst of a rather nice perusal of her other petite but womanly assets when she laid an ice pack against his leg.
Pain, violent enough to be rated F5 in the tornado world, shot from his kneecap to his head and rattled around inside his brain long enough to make him forget his name.
He clamped down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep his big mouth from squealing like a stuck hog. He’d had pain before, didn’t really even mind pain that much since it was an expected part of his job, but this wasn’t regular pain. This was hot-metal-in-the-eye pain. Steel-toed-boot-in-the-groin pain. Hold-me-down-and-stomp-my-nose pain.
The little nurse looked up with sympathetic eyes. “Would you like me to ask Dr. Clayton if you can have something for the pain?”
“Pain?” he grunted, sucking in air through his teeth. “I don’t need anything for pain. What I need is my pants.”
She cast a sideways glance at Jackson who looked way too serious. And Jacks was not a serious kind of guy. All of a sudden, Jett had a real bad feeling.
“Did something terrible happen to my pants?”
Jackson laughed. “Yeah. She cut ’em off.”
“She did?” The dynamite blast in his leg had subsided a little. He managed a lascivious grin in the nurse’s direction. “And what did she do to me while I was helpless and naked?”
B. Washburn, RN, never even blushed. Guys must come on to someone as cute as she was all the time.
Was that what he was doing? Coming on to her?
Nah. He couldn’t afford to let himself get distracted right now with the NFR within reach. But she was cute.
Maybe later.
“So how am I going to get out of here without any pants?”
A cute little dip formed between Nurse Washburn’s eyes. “Don’t you remember talking to Dr. Clayton?”
That bad feeling came back, stronger this time. He cast a glance toward Jackson, who once more wore a troubled expression.
“’Fraid not. What’s up?”
“We’re sending you to Amarillo tomorrow to an orthopedic surgeon.”
“For a headache?” He refused to think about that teensy-weensy twinge in his knee.
“At the very least, you have a severed ACL that will require surgery.”
“How bad?” He looked to his partner for reassurance, but Jackson got that hang-dog look again.
Ignoring the incessant school of sharks ripping through his kneecap, he thought he’d better listen to Miss B. Washburn, RN, considering how he didn’t recall ever meeting Dr. Clayton. Or having an MRI for that matter.
What she had to say really put a kink in his good mood. He knew all about tears of the anterior cruciate ligament. Every athlete hated them because they sidelined a guy too long. But from the way B. Washburn, RN, told it, a regular ACL tear didn’t sound so bad. His, on the other hand, was way beyond torn. His knee was, as she so blatantly phrased it, “demolished.”
“So, when can I ride again?” He asked when she finished telling him that not only was his dream in jeopardy, but his career, as well.
“That will be for the orthopod to say after he’s done a scope.”
Orthopod? Was that a doctor from outer space?
He thought better of asking. And to tell the truth, if someone didn’t get the sharks off his leg, he was going to lose his sense of humor.
“But you’ll be off the circuit for at least a couple of months, maybe longer.”
“No way.” He struggled up to his elbows. “Get me some pants, Jacks. I can ride.”
To prove his point, he swung his right leg over the side of the bed, but the left one refused to follow.
B. Washburn, RN, caught him by the calf and pushed him gently, but efficiently back onto the bed. The eyes he’d thought of as honey-colored, now looked muddy with anger.
“Don’t be foolish, Mr. Garrett. It’s bad enough to put yourself in harm’s way by riding bulls, but refusing treatment for severe injury is totally irresponsible. It won’t heal and you won’t ride, maybe ever again if you make it any worse.”
He gazed down in amazement at her slender arms. “Hey, you’re pretty strong for a girl.”
She’d tossed him back onto the bed as easily as Sinsation had tossed him on his head. Dadgum ornery bull. “You must know judo or something.”
“Or something.” She favored him with a cheeky grin that sent a little spiral of interest curling through his belly. Darn if she wasn’t making him think of taking a couple days off to hang around Rattlesnake and find out just what that something was—among other things.
“Man, what’s the world coming to? I get stomped by a bull and body-slammed by a girl all in one day.” Moving had stirred the knee-eating sharks, and he was starting to feel grouchy again. “Are you gonna get my pants or do I have to call 911 and report a theft, as well as a kidnapping?”
B. Washburn, RN, pushed the phone toward him. He scowled at her. She stared back with those honey-colored eyes, as solemn and sympathetic as an undertaker. The real bad feeling settled in to stay. He got the unmistakable impression that he was about to take an unplanned vacation to Amarillo.
Chapter Two
Near the end of her shift Becka slid into a chair at the nurses’ desk to make final notations on the patients’ charts. As she leafed through Jett Garrett’s, she frowned.
Rolling her chair away from the desk, she called to the nurse standing inside the medication room directly behind her. “Mindy.”
“Yeah?” A bubbly blond head peeked around the door.
“Has Mr. Garrett in 14B had anything at all for pain since admission?”
“I haven’t given him anything. Did you give him something in the E.R.?”
Becka worried her bottom lip and looked through the chart once more. “No.”
“Those rodeo cowboys are so tough.”
Becka rolled her eyes. Tough or not, the man had to hurt, and there was no way he could sleep with a roaring headache and a throbbing knee. As uncomfortable as she was around a man as reckless as Jett, tonight he was her responsibility and, bull rider or not, she would never shirk her duty. Neatly replacing the chart, she stashed the ink pen in the pocket of her scrubs and headed for room 14B. On the way she made up a new ice pack for his knee.
As she approached the room she heard the sounds of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and didn’t even try to stop the grin that formed on her lips. Her son, Dylan, loved that song and she’d tickled her fingers up his four-year-old arm a thousand times or more. Besides, Jett’s inappropriate singing amused her.
Upon entering the room, Becka noticed at once that the cowboy was in a world of hurt: eyes squeezed a little too tight for sleep; lines of stress creasing his richly tanned forehead and bracketing the handsome mouth. The singing, no doubt, was to take his mind off the pain.
“‘Down came the rain,’” he sang through gritted teeth.
“Mr. Garrett,” she said softly.
The singing stopped. His eyelids sprang open. “Jett.”
“All right, Jett. I have a new ice pack for your knee.”
“Bring it on. The old one’s lost its zip.” He started up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down to reveal a sprinkle of black hairs on a brown, well-honed chest. Halfway up he grimaced and slid back onto the pillow.
“Would you like something for pain? Dr. Clayton left orders for an injection if you need it.”
“A shot?” The apprehensive way he asked nearly had her laughing.
“It will ease the pain. I promise.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’ll be better if you don’t play macho man. The physiology of the human body is such that healing takes place much quicker if the muscles are relaxed. Yours are as a tight as the lid on a pickle jar.”
He perked up. Cocking an eyebrow, he smoothed one hand over his six-pack belly. “Been looking at my muscles, huh?”
Becka ignored the little zip of interest. “They’re stellar, I’m sure. Now why don’t you let me get that injection for you so you can rest better?”
“On one condition.”
She eyed him warily. With a wild man like Jett, a woman never knew what “condition” he might think of. “What’s that?”
He indicated the green vinyl chair next to the bed. “You sit here by me afterward and talk to me until the medicine takes effect.”
Surprised, Becka studied a pair of eyes so blue the sky dimmed in comparison. Was this a come-on from a guy accustomed to having his way with any and all women? Or was Jett Garrett, daredevil deluxe, afraid?
The question intrigued her. A glance at her watch revealed her shift would be over in fifteen minutes. She had to go by Sid’s Repair Shop and check on her car before picking up Dylan at day care, so she couldn’t stay later than that. One of the other nurses had offered her a ride—an offer she couldn’t refuse under the circumstances.
However, except for Jett’s, all the patient charts were signed out, and everything was in order and ready for the next shift to take over.
“I only have about fifteen minutes,” she said. “But I’ll stay that long.”
“Deal.” He closed his eyes again and lay back.
She stood there a moment, staring down at a too-handsome man with all the qualities that scared her to death. Restless and unpredictable, Jett lived his life on the edge, ever searching for the next thrill, never staying in one place or with one woman because something else always caught his quicksilver interest. Beyond fearless, wildly exciting, and every inch a man, Jett Garrett exuded an energy, a life force so powerful that he was in danger of burning himself out like a shooting star. And the fool didn’t even know it.
But she knew. Oh, yes, Becka knew, for she had been a willing participant while another man’s flame was extinguished by his own lust for life.
Other than the compassion that made her an excellent nurse, she had no explanation for why she’d agreed to spend an extra fifteen minutes just sitting beside the disturbing cowboy. Sure, she’d done it a hundred times for other patients, but this one was dangerous. Everything about him brought back painful memories that were always just below the surface struggling to rise up and choke her.
Her son’s small, impish face flashed in her head. Dylan. Her heart squeezed painfully. What if she wasn’t cautious enough and the careless genes that were as much a part of her makeup as they were Chris’s resur-faced in him? What if something happened to him, too?
Jett’s lips moved. “You gonna get that shot or kiss me?” He opened lazy eyes and grinned. “Either one is okay with me.”
Disturbed at her troubled thoughts Becka yanked in a startled gasp and swept out of the room, cheeks hot.
Jett Garrett was the kind of man she avoided at all costs. He was dangerous. She knew his kind. Had suffered the consequences of being too enamored with the aura of excitement such men wore like others wore aftershave. Jett Garrett terrified her.
Then why had she experienced this funny little inner twinge when he’d mentioned kissing him? And why was her pulse suddenly racing along like freeway traffic?
Sliding moist palms down the sides of her scrubs, Becka pulled herself under tight control. Certainly, a man like Jett Garrett disturbed her; he was a reminder of things better left alone. But she was a professional. For Dylan’s sake she had learned to handle anything.
She would go right back down to that room and give him the pain injection. She would sit down and talk to him. And she would not notice his perfect body or his handsome face or be affected by his sexy little quips. She would ignore the zip of excitement that threatened to undermine her safety. And by the time she returned tomorrow, Jett would be off to Amarillo and she’d never have to deal with him again.
An hour later when Becka pulled into the sunlit parking lot outside the day care center, she’d managed to push Jett Garrett out of her mind. Or rather Sid, the mechanic, had done the deed for her.
Shutting off the car key, Becka listened with a worried frown to a series of mysterious chugs before the engine wheezed into silence. Sid’s words still rang in her ears.
“I’m not even sure I can get parts for this kind of car anymore. Give it up, Becka, before you get stranded again, or worse, have an accident.”
And on those words she’d driven away, the old Fairlane patched together once more by the expertise of a kind mechanic, knowing full well she had to find a way to buy another vehicle—soon.
Getting out of the car, she opened the gate to the fenced facility and started up the sidewalk toward Kati’s Angels Day Care. The name always made her smile because Kati Garrett, the owner and proprietress, did indeed treat each of her charges like gifts from Heaven. A very protective mother, Becka was thankful to have the serene and loving Kati caring for Dylan.
Inside the long open room, she spotted her son immediately. In the company of three other preschoolers, he ran in frenzied circles around a stack of wooden blocks and toy trucks, making car noises and issuing pretend honks.
Becka stared in disbelief. He shouldn’t be running. He could fall. Hit his head. Be killed.
“Dylan!” she called sharply and started toward him. Anxiety gripped her.
Kati Garrett, having a pretend tea party at a low table with four little girls, rose at the sound of Becka’s voice. Seven months’pregnant, she moved slowly, but her face was filled with concern.
Dylan, too, heard the fear in his mother’s voice. He stopped dead still only to be pummeled from behind by an overzealous playmate and knocked to the floor. The action sent Becka into a lope. Heart beating crazily, she rushed to her fallen child and yanked him into her arms.
“Are you all right?” She heard the panic in her voice and knew it was entirely out of proportion to the incident, but she couldn’t help herself. If anything happened to Dylan, she could not go on living. Not this time.
Dylan’s lips quivered. Tears rimmed his wide, hazel eyes. “I sorry, Mommy. I sorry.”
“Is he hurt?” Kati, now beside them, asked.
Becka did a quick once over, checking the child for injuries. “No. But he could have been. Why on earth was he allowed to run wild like that?”
“Becka, little boys are naturally rambunctious. It’s a part of their physical makeup. Running is healthy. I can’t make him sit in a chair all day.”
Becka inhaled deeply then blew out a calming breath. “I know.” She shook her head, embarrassed now that she knew her son was all right. “But it’s dangerous for him to be so unruly.”
Kati touched her arm and said quietly, “I was actually pleased to see him playing with such zest. Of all the little boys, Dylan is the most timid.”
Kati’s son, four-year-old Evan, dark eyes echoing his mother’s concern, hurried over to them. “Is Dylan hurt, Mommy? I bumped him down.”
Kati laid a hand on her son’s smooth, brown hair. “He’s fine, baby.”
“I not a baby.” He patted her bulging tummy with a chubby hand. “Baby is here.”
Both women smiled indulgently. Becka hoisted Dylan higher on her hip. “Do you allow Evan to run and roughhouse that way?”
“Oh my, yes. At home he and his daddy wrestle and romp like two puppies. Colt had him on a horse by himself on his second birthday.”
Becka shuddered at the thought. “How can you stand it? Aren’t you afraid something will happen to him?”
Kati laughed and swooped Evan into her arms. “His daddy loves him. Colt would never do anything to cause Evan harm.”
When Kati spoke her husband’s name, her eyes lit up. Becka envied the couple, though she was as amazed as everyone else in Rattlesnake when Colt, the confirmed bachelor with a reputation almost as bad as that of his brother, had married his quiet nanny and adopted the infant Evan. But anyone who’d seen the family together knew they had something special.
“How was Jett doing when you left the hospital?” Kati asked.
At Becka’s look of surprise, she went on. “Colt came by earlier and told me. Is the knee as bad as he says?”
“Probably worse,” Becka answered, remembering the way Jett had tried to downplay his injury.
“Probably. These cowboys, especially the Garrett men, think they are invincible.” Kati smiled softly and shook her head, a dark, waist-length braid swaying. “Sometimes I think Colt actually is.”
Becka wondered what it would be like to love a man the way Kati loved her husband. So confident. So secure. Yes, she’d loved Chris but not like this. Theirs had been a frenetic life, always on the edge, never safe and secure. She’d learned a valuable lesson from that short, manic episode of her life. Now, safety and security were the only things she wanted. That and a new car.
She sighed, weary with the constant worry over finances, and redirected her thoughts. “Your brother-inlaw will get great care in Amarillo. If anyone can repair the damage to his knee, the orthopedic team there can.”
“Colt said he had a concussion, too. Something about him singing his fool head off.”
Becka laughed. “I’ve never seen anyone react to a head injury in such an entertaining way.”
“That’s Jett for you. Always doing the unexpected.”
“Unexpected” Becka could do without. She didn’t like surprises. She liked safe, routine, predictable. Come to think of it she hadn’t seen Sherman Benchley, her occasional date, in a while. Maybe she’d give him a call and invite him over for a movie and popcorn tonight. With Sherman she always got exactly what she expected.
The unexpected occurred a week later. Called into the hospital’s administrative office, Becka sat across the desk from the director of nurses, Marsha Simek. The two had worked together since Becka’s graduate days shortly before Chris’s death and shared a friendly, comfortable relationship.
“I received an interesting call today,” Marsha said, fixing Becka with a curious blue gaze.
“Concerning me?”
“It seems you made quite an impression on one of our patients recently, and now he’s interested in hiring you to do home health care visits.”
Becka leaned forward, immediately interested. She’d done some home health care on the side to bolster her ever-low bank account, and right now she could certainly use some extra cash.
“Who was it? The man who had the foot amputation? Mr. Novotny?”
“No.” Marsha shuffled some papers, came up with a yellow sticky note, and handed it to Becka. “Jett Garrett. Do you remember him?”
“Jett—” The words stuck in Becka’s throat. Anyone but the singing cowboy with enough masculine chemistry to melt paint. “Why would he need a home health nurse?”
“Seems he’s staying out at that ranch he and his brother own while he recoups from knee surgery.” Marsha crossed her arms on the desk. “The orthopedic docs in Amarillo sent him home with a PT machine and he’s having fits trying to run it.”
“I’m not a physical therapist.”
“No, but you know enough about it to do the visits, help him with the machine, and see that he follows doctor’s orders. The PT department could give you a quick in-service if you’re not familiar with that particular piece of equipment.”
“Why me? Why not send PT out?”
“They’re too shorthanded. Besides, Mr. Garrett insisted on hiring you. And with your fitness training, coupled with nursing expertise, you’re the obvious choice.”
“Well, call him back and tell him I’m not interested.”
Marsha looked surprised. “Not interested? Becka, the pay is excellent.”
She didn’t even want to know.
Marsha told her, anyway, naming a sum considerably more than her usual fee. She needed that money, needed it badly. But Jett Garrett? No way. She shivered with a sense of unease and a flutter of unwanted interest at the idea of spending time in his troubling presence.
“I can’t, Marsha. Sorry.” She stood to leave, anxious to get back to her station. The physicians should be making rounds anytime now and they’d be looking for her.
“How’s your dad doing?”
She stuck a fist on one hip. “Dad’s okay, but that was a dirty trick.”
Marsha knew about Becka’s money woes. About the ailing father whose social security check didn’t cover his medications each month and about the hospital and funeral bills Becka was still paying off.
“Now Becka, what would it hurt to work for this guy for a few weeks? Make the money, make the hospital look good, help a patient. Everybody wins.”
Everybody but Becka. Hand on the door she blew out a long, exasperated breath. “I’ll think about it.”
She thought about it all day long, pulling the yellow sticky note out of her pocket a dozen times to stare at the name and phone number. By shift’s end, she’d reaffirmed her decision. She couldn’t take the chance. No matter that the money would go a long way toward a down payment on another car she absolutely, positively would not work for Jett Garrett.
Collecting her purse from the employee lounge, she soft-soled down the anesthetic-scented corridors and out to the parking lot. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached and the beginnings of a headache tapped at the base of her skull. Tension. Pure and simple.
Last night Dylan had somehow managed to open the front door by himself and had gone out into the yard without her knowledge. Finding her son gone when she got out of the bathtub had shaken her to the core. She’d found him playing not ten feet from the busy residential street. Her yard needed a fence, but fences cost money. She’d simply have to be more careful. Maybe a lock higher up on the door would do the trick.
Her baby boy was getting more adventurous by the day and the idea unnerved her. She’d tried her best to squelch this side of him, warning him of impending disaster but he hadn’t slowed down one bit. Her father warned that she’d make him a sissy, but Dad didn’t understand. He’d been a dirt track racer in his younger days before the diabetes damaged his vision, and he thought a man wasn’t a man unless he took chances. Just because a child still sucked his thumb and sometimes wet the bed didn’t make him a sissy. And even if it did, he would be alive.
Still, last night’s episode coupled with today’s tempting but impossible job offer from Jett Garrett had made this a stressful day.
Climbing into the old white Fairlane, Becka cranked the engine. The starter ground predictably, then a series of pop, pop, pops issued from the tailpipe. Acrid-smelling black smoke swirled in through the open window. All perfectly normal for her dying vehicle except for one thing: this time the engine didn’t start. She tried again, went through another series of smoky backfires and then—nothing. After several more attempts, she—and the car’s battery—gave up.
The tapping in the back of her head turned to hammering. Grabbing her purse, she shoved her shoulder against the sticking door, stepped out onto the warm pavement and headed back inside the hospital to call Sid. Maybe the part required to fix the car had miraculously arrived today, though she had no idea how to pay for it.
No. That wasn’t true. She knew how to pay for it. She was just too scared. As she trudged up the sidewalk, the yellow sticky note felt like a brick in her uniform pocket. She was scared of Jett Garrett. Scared of the energy in him, of the things he made her remember, and most of all, scared of the way her made her feel.
But fear or not, she had no choice. She had to take that job.
Chapter Three
Fresh from a one-legged shower, Jett slipped on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt and eased down onto the side of the bed. He was out of breath from the effort, a fact that ticked him off no end. Since when did a little bitty knee injury turn a man into a wuss? Sure, he had a bolt poking out each side of his leg with a cagelike stabilizer bar attached, but that shouldn’t make him so weak and winded. Nobody had warned him he’d come home with enough hardware attached to his leg to build a bucking chute.
He had to get over this thing. And soon. Time was passing. Rodeos were happening without him. The dream was fading like a new pair of Wranglers in hot water.
With more effort than he wanted to admit, he hoisted up and hobbled to the calendar on the wall. The National Finals were in December. This was mid-August. He flipped the pages, counting the weeks. He needed more wins, more rodeos to have enough qualifying points.
At the knock on the door behind him, he called, “Come on in.”
Must be Cookie, the ranch’s chief cook and bottle washer, though the old sailor seldom knocked. He barged in, blasting like a foghorn, usually grousing because Jett had left something in a mess. Jett screwed up his forehead, thinking. Probably the bathroom this time.
“I’ll take care of it later,” he offered.
“Should you be up on that leg?” a soft, feminine voice, nothing at all like Cookie’s foghorn, asked. He felt an undeniable lift in his spirits. Nothing like a little tête-à-tête with the opposite sex to cheer a fella up.
Putting all his weight on the good leg, Jett pivoted around and let his gaze slide slowly over the small, uniform-clad woman decorating the entrance to his bedroom. Sure enough, B. Washburn, RN, the cute redheaded nurse with the sassy attitude had arrived.
He flicked a glance toward the clock radio on the nightstand in appreciation of her punctuality. It was three forty-five and she didn’t get off until three. That’s what she’d told him when they’d talked on the phone the other night. He’d enjoyed that conversation. Had flirted with her shamelessly in an effort to elevate his own lousy mood. She’d flirted a little herself, though she kept wanting to talk about the job. Imagine. Talking work when you could play.
She came on into the room, pretending to pay no heed to his general state of undress, though Jett was certain he detected a flicker of interest, quickly shuttered. He kept in good shape, knew he looked good, and if the ladies appreciated his body, all the better for him. He certainly knew how to appreciate a woman.
His spirits lifted a little more. He was bored stiff, ready for some kind of stimulus to keep him breathing until he could get back on the road. Nothing like a female to provide that—temporarily, of course. If there was one thing Jett Garrett did not believe in, it was permanency. No permanent job. No permanent home. And most certainly, no permanent woman. He shuddered at the thought of being tied down in one spot with one woman too long. This few-week detour was already making him nuts.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“You gave excellent directions—for a man.” Offering him a smile to soften the jab, she set a small tote bag on the blue armchair next to the door and started digging through it.
Jett enjoyed the view. Body bent, trim behind pointed toward him, she did interesting things to a pair of ordinary purple scrubs. He’d never really appreciated that color before, but he was beginning to see its virtues.
“Speaking of directions,” she said, “I brought some simplified instructions for using this machine of yours. I should be able to train you in its use and on the rehab exercises in a matter of days.”
Not if he had his way, she wouldn’t. He could be dumb when he needed to be.
“What’s the B stand for?”
Straightening, she gave him a quizzical smile. “Pardon?”
He pointed to her name badge. “B. Washburn, RN.”
On the phone she’d referred to herself as “Nurse Washburn from the hospital,” saying the words in a prissified voice that announced her intentions of maintaining a professional distance. But that wasn’t going to happen. Professional was fine. Distance? Uh-uh.
She touched the pin above her left breast. “Becka. Rebecka, actually, but I prefer Becka. Shorter and easier.”
“Becka-Rebecka. Suits you.” His memories of the overnight stay in Rattlesnake Municipal were a little fuzzy, but he remembered her. Under the uptight exterior there might be a tiger in the tank. Be interesting to find out.
“Come on over and sit down.” She motioned toward the recliner Colt and Cookie had dragged into his bedroom. “I’ll examine your leg, take your vitals, then get the PT machine started.”
Left leg straight out in front, he gingerly lowered his body into the chair and motioned toward the mechanical device standing nearby. “Looks like something out of a medieval torture chamber, doesn’t it?”
Amusement flared in her. “You know medieval history?”
“What? You think I’m stupid because I’m a cowboy?”
Kneeling before him, she ran expert hands over his knee then checked the pulse in the back. Darn, but he liked those feathery-light hands touching his skin.
“I think you’re stupid because you ride bulls and risk killing yourself for a living.”
He looked down at the top of her head, bent as she seriously examined all the places where rods and wires poked through his hide. Her hair was parted in the middle, a little crookedly, and pulled into a smooth ponytail that hung to her shoulder blades. He wondered how it would look hanging loose around her delicate face, then smiled to himself. He’d find out. Women were an adventure and a heck of a lot of fun as long as they didn’t go getting serious on you.
“I don’t ride bulls for a living. I ride for fun.”
She harrumphed. “That’s even dumber.”
“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” He slapped a hand against his thigh. “Now there’s an idea. Wanna learn to ride bulls? I’ll teach you.”
“You won’t be doing much of anything for the next eight weeks.”
“Four weeks tops.” He didn’t tell the rest. That he really planned to make the Stampede over in Albuquerque during Labor Day weekend less than three weeks away. The bolts would be out by then, replaced by an air splint, and if he could walk he could ride. “I got rodeos to make.”
She tilted her head and looked at him. She had the most appealing golden flecks in her pale brown eyes. “You have a knee to heal. I’m a good nurse, Jett, but I don’t do miracles. According to Dr. Jameson you need at least eight weeks of rehab, six hours a day before you even think about riding again. Anything less and you may never ride another bull—or even a horse for that matter.”
“Then let’s get it on.” He motioned toward the PT equip. “Bring on the torture chamber.”
“Looks like one of those space satellites to me.”
He cocked his head sideways and studied the device. “Hey, you’re right. Think we could pick up satellite TV? The OLN channel carries rodeo.”
“Let’s point you toward the southern sky and give it a try.”
They both laughed as Becka went to work, easing his leg into a weird-looking harness, Velcroing him in, explaining as she went. He mostly ignored her words and concentrated on her efficient movements and on the way she smelled—which was pretty darn sexy for a woman who’d already worked all day.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
She glanced sideways without answering, and he wondered why he’d asked such a dumb question. She made one last adjustment, and turned the On dial, setting the machine into a slow in-and-out rhythm.
Jett gripped the side of the chair. The sharks were back. “Turn the stereo on, will ya?” he grunted.
“If that’s too painful, I can adjust it for less tension.” She reached for the power switch.
“I never said it hurt.” He was no baby.
“You sure?”
“No pain, no gain.” He sucked in a roomful of air and tried to relax. “Just turn the radio on and dance with me.”
She rose from her position beside the machine and stared at him as if he’d lost his reason. “Is the concussion still giving you problems?”
“Nah. I’m just in the mood to dance with a pretty girl. Come on. Humor me. I’m a poor wounded cowboy.” Angling his head toward the source of agony, he waggled his eyebrows in invitation. “One of my legs is already dancing. Might as well find a way to enjoy it.”
He held out his arms. She backed away, but he didn’t miss the leap of excitement in her eyes before she shook her head, and the uptight, rigid demeanor returned.
“I really have to be going.”
“Going? You can’t leave.” He would die of boredom sitting in this spot for six hours without anything but the television to distract him. “You’re my nurse. I hired you. You gotta dance with me.”
Summoning up his most persuasive smile—no small feat considering the sharks in his knee—he reached out and caught her hand.
“Really, Jett. This is a professional visit, not a social one.”
A horrible thought crossed his mind. “You’re not married, are you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Okay, then. No reason on the planet why we can’t dance.”
“As I said, this is a professional visit.”
“So? Dancing is therapy.”
Her lips twitched, and she didn’t remove her hand. He thought he might be making progress.
“Therapy? Now how do you figure that?”
Slapping his free hand against his chest, he pretended shock. “What? A fine nurse like you has never heard of recreational therapy?”
She made a snorting sound but he could see she wanted to laugh. He pressed the advantage. “I’m suffering terribly here, Nurse Becka-Rebecka. You can take my mind off the pain.” That much was certainly true. “Drag that chair over here.”
Though her expression was suspicious, she did as he asked.
“Now what, Mr. Idea Man?”
“Push in that Garth Brooks CD, then sit down and let’s dance.”
“Well…” Shaking her head, she turned on the stereo and sat down. “I suppose it’s harmless.”
Jett had never danced from a chair before but the idea intrigued him. He’d danced in bed, underwater, and on snow skis, so why not in a chair while sharks ripped his kneecap off?
Somehow he managed to maneuver his upper body sideways, and when Becka laughed, he purposely contorted his body a little more. He placed one of her hands on his shoulder and clasped the other one against his chest. The action unbalanced Becka and she pitched forward, landing with a surprised “ooph” against his upper body.
Man, she smelled good. Like clean sheets. And he did love the scent of a woman between clean sheets.
For a second Becka struggled to right herself, but he held on, swaying to the strains of the old Garth Brooks tune “The Dance.”
In too awkward a position to do otherwise, Becka rested her head against his shoulder. But where he’d hoped for a quick melting, she held herself rigid and restrained.
“Loosen up, Becka-Rebecka,” he whispered against her ear. “Muscles must be relaxed for healing to occur. Didn’t you teach me that?”
She tilted her face up toward his. “I thought you had a concussion that night.”
He grinned down at her and shrugged. She laughed, visibly relaxing as though by some inner command. Jett used the opportunity to snug her close. A dirty trick, he knew, but he was an invalid after all, in need of therapy.
He peeked over her shoulder. By now she was reclining on the arm of his chair and leaning into him. He could deal with that. Why hadn’t he tried chair dancing before?
“A little practice and we could take this routine on the road.” He gave a sudden tilt to the side as though to dip her. When he brought her upright, she held on, arched her body and tossed back her head. He followed her in a very distorted imitation of Fred and Ginger swinging from side to side, dipping up and back.
“I can see it now in neon lights. The newest fad. Chair dancing.” Her face was slightly flushed and her amber eyes sparkled.
“Guaranteed to cure what ails you.” He forgot all about his screaming knee. “Good for aches and pains, warts and athlete’s foot. Order now and get a second chair free.”
She picked up the spiel. “Send your check or money order for $19.95. Hurry, this offer ends soon.”
The music ended, much to Jett’s displeasure, and his dance partner pulled away, righting herself on the chair next to him. All the fun faded from her expression and she looked as though she regretted their few moments of silliness.
“Well.” Averting her eyes, she straightened her uniform. “I really do have to leave now. My son is in day care and Kati closes at six.”
“You have kids?”
Her faced softened. “Dylan. He’s nearly four.”
So she had a son but wasn’t married. He’d like to hear that story, but figured now, when she was about to run, wasn’t the best time to pry.
“Call Kati. She can bring him out here when she comes home and you can stay and entertain me a while longer.”
“I can’t ask Kati to do that.”
“I can. Hand me the phone.”
“No. I have to go.” She gathered up her tote and started talking about the PT machine again, giving him some last-minute instructions, reminding him to ice pack the incision after therapy. She seemed intent on regaining her professional footing.
“Hey,” he called when she opened the door and moved to leave.
She turned.
He gave her what he hoped was his sexiest grin. “Thanks for the dance.”
She responded with a look he couldn’t begin to interpret, then closed the door behind her.
Jett flopped back into the chair, disappointed, the incessant hum of the machine annoying him.
What was happening here? He hadn’t asked the woman to marry him. Heaven forbid. He’d only wanted a little diversion until he could get the heck out of Dodge.
Since when had any female ever walked out on Jett Garrett?
Man. He must be losing it.
“Chair dancing!” Teeth gritted, Becka thumped her forehead against the steering wheel. During the time she’d been inside the Garrett Ranch, the Texas sun had filled her on-the-road-again car with enough hot air to launch a balloon festival, but it was those few minutes of up-close-and-personal with Jett Garrett that had her in a sweat.
Less than an hour in the magnetic cowboy’s presence and she’d lost all sense of decorum, behaving in an un-characteristically unprofessional manner. What had come over her?
But she knew. The carefully sublimated side of herself that she worked so hard to control had leaped to the fore at the first opportunity. In fact, her blood still hummed, and pleasure still tingled her nerve endings. Jett had tapped into the reckless nature she wanted so much to destroy.
She’d intended to stay longer, to see that Jett tolerated the PT machine well and to observe for swelling but as soon as the music ended, she’d realized what was happening and knew she had to escape. She couldn’t do this again. She’d have to find an excuse not to come back here. Jett was too dangerous. She couldn’t take a chance at letting her own rash nature resurface.
But how? What excuse could she use? And what would she do without the money this job would provide?
“Ma’am,” a deep voice said right next to her ear. Stewing over the concern, Becka hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Raising her head from the steering wheel, she saw Jett’s brother, Colt, peering in through her window.
“You all right?”
Quickly she rolled down the window, nodding. “Yes, of course.” Like an idiot she was roasting alive in her own car, too caught up in her emotional response to Jett to even realize how hot she was.
Thinking fast, she said, “I was about to check the water in my radiator before I leave. Sometimes my car overheats.”
She pulled on the door handle, waited for Colt to step back and then exited the car.
“I keep a five-gallon container of water in the back just in case.”
Colt raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on that. “I’ll check it for you.”
Becka watched the tall cowboy pop the hood on her car and go through the motions of examining the water content. He was definitely Jett’s brother, with his dark good looks, but where Jett was flip and carefree, Colt was more serious, having little to say.
While Becka stood by in the Texas heat, Colt added water to the radiator, replaced the cap, then slammed the hood.
Wiping his hands down the sides of his jeans, he turned to where she leaned against the battered fender of her ancient car. “My brother giving you any problem?”
Becka tried not to blush, but the heat rose in her face anyway. “No. Not at all.”
“I want Jett to have the best care, whatever it costs.” Colt studied her. “If he needs you here longer, I’d like you to stay. I’ll pay extra if necessary.”
Becka stiffened. Was he questioning her ability to do a professional job? A twinge of guilt shifted over her. Hadn’t she just questioned that very thing? From the inappropriate way she’d reacted to Jett Garrett, she couldn’t trust herself. Why should anyone else trust her? But she couldn’t admit that to Colt.
“You can rest assured that I will give your brother the best of care, but I have to get back into town before six to pick up my son.”
Colt stepped around her to replace the water container in her back seat. “Doesn’t Kati keep your little boy?”
“Yes. And she’s wonderful with him.”
That made him smile. “Yeah. Kati’s something.”
Those few words coupled with the twinkle in his eye told her that the tough cowboy wasn’t so tough when it came to his wife.
“Even a dedicated woman such as Kati likes to close up shop and come home at the end of a long day.” Becka wrenched open the car door and slid inside, ready to leave. “It would be unfair of me to ask her to keep Dylan any longer.”
“You can bring him out here with you if you’d like. Then you won’t need to hurry off.”
Becka’s pulse set up another drum beat. Great. Just what she didn’t need. An excuse to stay longer in the presence of Jett Garrett when she was already searching for a way out of the entire commitment.
“Actually, it’s such a long way out here, I was thinking this may not work out for me.”
“You tell Jett that?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t.” He leaned down into the window. “My brother has his heart set on making the NFR this year. I think he’s crazy, but if he wants it, I want him to have it. He’s getting on in years for a bull rider.”
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Linda Goodnight
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The Least Likely Groom, электронная книга автора Linda Goodnight на английском языке, в жанре современная зарубежная литература