The Least Likely Groom

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.