The Wrangler And The Runaway Mom

“You know I’d do anythin’ for you, darlin’. And not just for your daddy’s sake, either. God rest him.”

The two wives of Billy Joe Rawlings couldn’t have been more different, Maggie thought, not for the first time. Her mother had been pearls and imported lace. A cultured debutante, the worst possible choice of wife for a cowboy trying to be a rodeo star. Helen had run off with Billy Joe when she was seventeen, more to spite her parents than for any grand passion, and had spent the rest of her life bitterly regretting it.

It had been a disastrous marriage, and their divorce when Maggie was three had been a relief to everyone involved.

Peg, on the other hand, had been perfect for her father. Even though she seemed flighty, with her flamboyant wardrobe and her ever-changing hair colors and her gaudy jewelry, Peg was the most grounded person Maggie knew. She had turned Billy Joe’s dream of being a star into something more realistic, the creation of a world-class rodeo stock company that provided animals to events across the West

Peg was warmhearted and generous and had been more of a mother to Maggie in the six weeks each year she spent with her father than Helen had ever been.

Feeling guilty for the thought, she jerked her mind back to her job. “So where’s my patient?”

“He should be comin’ anytime now. Wouldn’t let ’em bring him in on the stretcher. You’d have thought the damn thing was a coffin the way he carried on.”

She sighed. “There’s nothing like a stubborn cowboy.”

“Nothin’ like a gorgeous one, either, and I’m telling you, this one’s a Grade A prime cut. Haven’t seen him around before and, believe me, I never forget a good-lookin’ man. I’d let this one leave his boots under my bed anytime.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

At the slow drawl, Maggie turned to find a dusty, hatless man filling the doorway, his arm pressed across his stomach at an awkward angle. Peg hadn’t exaggerated about his looks. The contrast of black hair and eyes as blue as a mountain lake was arresting, as was the cowboy’s firm jaw and thick, cry-on-me shoulders.

If she were the sort of woman who went weak-kneed over the rugged Marlboro Man type, she would have collapsed into a boneless heap on the floor by now.

Lucky for her, she wasn’t that sort of woman.

Peg winked at the cowboy. “You ever get lonely,” she said on her way out of the trailer, “mine’s the green-andwhite rig with Rawlings Stock written on it in big pink letters.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He managed a grin but Maggie recognized the lines of pain slashing the edges of the stranger’s mouth.

“If you’ll climb up here, I can take a look at that shoulder.” She gestured to the examination table.

“It’s just dislocated. You only need to pop it in and then I can be on my way.”

“Why don’t you let me make my own diagnosis?”

He shrugged and slid a Wrangler-covered hip to the table. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

She carefully unbuttoned his colorful cotton shirt then slid his arm out of the sleeve. “I’m afraid I haven’t been paying attention to the announcer. What event were you riding? It’s too early in the evening for the bull riders, which is where I get most of my business. Does that make you a bronc buster, then?”

He gave a gruff laugh. “Bronc buster? Do I look crazy to you?”

She glanced at him under her eyelashes, then instantly wished she hadn’t. He looked tough as hardened steel, with that tanned skin stretching taut over hard muscle.

She had patched up dozens of cowboys since she’d been hired. Broken wrists, pulled muscles, cuts and bruises mostly. None of the wounded glory boys had made her feel as odd as this one did—jittery, as if she really had overdosed on caffeine.

Nerves, she tried to tell herself. That’s all it was. She was on edge, anyway, and he was just so...big. She didn’t like big men. Never had. Was it any wonder he made her uncomfortable?

The completely inappropriate—and unwanted—tingle of awareness that slid over her out of nowhere made her speak more curtly than she normally would with a patient. “You’re here, aren’t you? I haven’t treated too many physicists on the rodeo circuit.”

He laughed again, then winced as the movement jarred his injury. “Well, I guess I’m no physicist, but at least I’m smart enough to stick with the little guys, the ones that don’t fight back. I’m a calf roper. Wrenched my shoulder with a bad throw.”

“Any rodeo event can be dangerous, Mr....” she stopped at the realization she’d just insulted a man whose name she didn’t even know.

“McKendrick. Colt McKendnck. Call me mister and I don’t figure I’ll answer.”

“McKendrick. As I was saying, any event can be dangerous. Even deadly, as I’m sure you know.”

“That’s what keeps the crowds coming back,” he replied. “What does the M stand for?”

The abrupt change of subject left her floundering. “Excuse me?”

He glanced pointedly at her chest and she felt heat soak her cheeks. It took her several beats to realize he was referring to the silver name tag emblazoned with M. Rawlings, M.D.

“Medical. As in medical doctor,” she replied, knowing perfectly well that wasn’t what he meant.

He rolled his eyes. “The other one.”

“Maggie,” she said shortly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Maggie Rawlings.”

She finished her examination in silence, aware of him watching her movements with interest. “You’re right,” she finally said. “It’s dislocated, Mr. McKendrick.”

“Colt.”

“Right. Colt.” She glanced at the shoulder. “I can readjust it, pop it back into the joint, but I’m afraid it’s going to be painful”

“I know,” he said glumly. “Go ahead.”

With true cowboy machismo, he barely winced when she stood to his side and extended his arm out. It took several attempts before the joint worked back into place but he didn’t complain.

When she was done, he immediately rotated the shoulder. “Much better.”

“It’s going to be inflamed and painful for a day or two. I’d advise you to take it easy.”

“Does that mean I can’t ride tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not.”

He didn’t appear devastated by the news as he shrugged into his shirt and began to work the buttons one-handed. “Well, thanks, Doc. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Sponsors and the rodeo association take care of my salary. It pays to keep the cowboys healthy.”

“Makes sense to—”

Before he could complete the sentence, the door crashed open and bounced against the wall with a bang as loud as a shotgun blast. Maggie had barely yanked her heart from her throat when a voice boomed through the trailer. “This is a stick-up, lady. Put your hands where I can see ’em and nobody gets hurt.”

Instead of obeying, she took a deep, calming breath and frowned at the little dynamo standing in the doorway in sheepskin chaps, a denim vest and a cowboy hat two sizes too big for his blond head. Her big, bad hombre of a five-year-old had a wooden pistol aimed right at her stomach.