Start reading this book:
Chapter One
“Owww! Son of a—” Rory Pearson dropped the fence puller, bent down, and gripped his left leg. “Dammit.” He jerked off his heavy leather glove and examined his shin just above his boot where there was a gash in his jeans and apparently in his leg as well. He was bleeding … a lot. Dark red was already showing through his jeans and his heavy boot sock. Ugh. He closed his eyes for a second against a rush of nausea.
Gus Prevott, the older hand who was helping him pull fence, must have heard him because he hurried down the fencerow. “What happened?”
“I moved my hand on the edge of the come-along, the wire snapped and hit my shin.” Rory lifted his leg, which was burning and stinging. Not an auspicious way to start the day when they had at least four more miles of fencing strands to tighten. He removed his safety glasses and hung them on his T-shirt collar. “Dang that hurts!”
Gus yanked his navy-blue bandanna from around his neck, knelt down and wrapped the square of fabric around the injury. “Press on that.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Bo, got an injury down here. We’re heading back to the barn.”
Rory put pressure on the place where the wire had sliced the flesh and hoped Gus’s bandanna was clean enough that the cut wouldn’t be filled with germs.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He hoped it wasn’t going to require stitches. Not only did he not want to make a trip down to the hospital in Marietta, but Del Foster, the owner of Juniper Falls Ranch, really wanted this fence done by the end of the week. Five minutes ago, that goal seemed achievable, but now … Rory sucked in a breath when the injury throbbed as he applied pressure. This was not a good beginning to his time working here, and he needed the money. Injured? On day four? Crap. Crap.
“Can you walk?” Gus pointed to the Gator down the row a bit. “No, wait here—I’ll come get you.”
“I can walk.” Rory sounded more confident than he felt, but when he took a step, he found he could indeed walk, which meant the bone wasn’t broken. Thank God. The memory of a buddy who’d broken his shin in a tumble from a bucking bronc suddenly filled his mind—the white bone sticking out of torn flesh and—Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed hard as he walked, well, limped alongside Gus to the Gator and climbed in.
Clinging to the roof bar as Gus bumped over the pasture grass toward the ranch, he kept his eye on the bandanna, which was getting soaked with blood. Every bump made the wound throb. Could you even stitch a shin? Rory didn’t think so. Hell, what did he know? He’d had plenty of injuries in his career as a bull rider, but he’d never hurt his shin before. He wore leather chaps when he was in the ring for his eight seconds, and they seemed to protect that tender skin. Maybe he should’ve had his chaps on to pull fence.
In record time, Gus got them to the barn lot where Bo Kennedy, the ranch foreman, paced, a worried expression on his face. He pushed his hat back on his head and came around to the side of the utility vehicle where Rory sat, chagrinned with his leg stretched out along the side of the Gator. Heat rose up his neck as Bo touched the bandanna. “What happened?”
“Wire slipped from the come-along and snapped,” Rory gritted, despite Bo’s gentle touch. “Sorry, boss. I should’ve made sure it was secure.”
Gus shook his head. “Ain’t your fault, kid.”
“Which puller?” Bo leaned an arm against the roof of the Gator.
“That one we found in the barn loft and cleaned up,” Gus admitted. “Should’ve given him the new one.”
Bo’s mouth twisted. “Nobody’s fault. That thing was workin’ just fine coupl’a days ago, but it was old.” He eyed Rory. “Stuff happens. Let’s get you to the house and see to that leg. Beth’s nurse can take a look.”
Rory blinked. “Mrs. Foster has a nurse? Is she sick?” He was still driving home to Marietta after work each night, so he hadn’t joined in the communal meals that happened in the evenings at Juniper Falls Ranch. Beyond the barn, he was pretty much out of the loop as far as the rest of the ranch life was concerned. Frank James, one of the other hands, had told him he needed to stay for supper one night. Told him that Beth Foster was a great cook, although hadn’t he overheard Frank and Gus talking about dinner being cooked by another woman a couple of nights ago?
“She’s pregnant,” Gus piped up. “High risk. They put her on bed rest, so Del hired a full-time nurse to take care of her ’til after the baby’s born.”
“Mrs. Foster’s pregnant?” He’d thought she was just comfortably round when he’d met with her to sign the paperwork for his job there.
“Yes.” Bo made a little frustrated sound. “That’s not important. Let’s get you up to the house and see if Millie can do anything for you. Otherwise, somebody’s going to have to take you down to town.”
Rory cringed. “I can take myself.”
Bo didn’t reply, just jerked his head toward the house, and hopped on the back of the Gator. “Hit it, Gus.”
Gus did, and Rory stiffened his spine to keep his leg from slipping off the edge of the seat as they sped to the screened back porch of the farmhouse.
“Can you walk?”
“I can walk,” Rory growled and immediately regretted his tone. But, dammit, why was everyone assuming he was cripped up? He swung around in the seat, put both feet on the ground and started to stand, but gasped as the top of his boot pushed against the injury.
“Yeah, okay.” Bo hopped off the Gator and put an arm around his back. “Keep the weight off that leg. Lean on me.”
They got into the screened porch with minimum effort and Bo opened the back door and leaned in. “Millie? You around?”
A rather impatient response came from the back of the ranch house. “I’m busy, Bo. What’s up?”
“Need your help, please.” Bo led him into the big kitchen that was obviously just renovated. Somehow they’d managed to bring everything up-to-date and yet maintain a very early 1900s feel with a wide-plank floor, a big farmhouse scrubbed-top pine table that seated at least ten people, and a huge old-fashioned stove like ones Rory had seen in the old westerns that his mom watched endlessly. “Sit.”
Rory started to sit when a woman, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, came into the kitchen. No, not beautiful—that wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t enough. She was … ravishing. Petite, but curvaceous with a body that would make strong men go weak in the knees—as he was now, so he sat. But he couldn’t stop staring. Clad in a crisp white shirt tucked into form-fitting black trousers that showed off her shapely curves, she stopped dead, head tipped to one side in clear curiosity. Her dark-brown ringlets fell well below her shoulders but were held off her face by a pair of glasses pushed up on her head. The kitchen light gave an almost mahogany sheen to the thick tresses. He took in everything about her features—whiskey-brown eyes fringed with even darker lashes, tanned and rosy cheeks, and plump full lips that would tempt a saint. Which he wasn’t.
She gave the three of them a quick appraising glance. “What?”
“Medical emergency,” Bo said and tilted his head toward Rory, who hadn’t taken a breath since she’d appeared.
He opened his mouth to speak, but at first, nothing came out. Finally, he choked out. “I-I hurt my leg.”
Bo frowned but added, “Fence wire broke and hit his shin.” He crooked a finger. “Can you take a look and see if we need to take him down to the ER?”
She walked briskly to where he sat and Rory’s heart sped up as the scent of flowers and citrus and something indefinable, but enticing, assaulted his senses. She pointed to a chair next to him. “Stick your leg up here.”
He couldn’t even lift his leg. He was gobsmacked, bowled over, utterly mesmerized. “I’m Rory.”
Millie furrowed her brow at the young man with the bloody bandanna wrapped around his left calf. I’m Rory? Was he also suffering from a concussion? “I’m sorry?”
She didn’t recognize him—not a surprise. She’d only been at Juniper Falls for a couple of weeks, and she hadn’t met all the hands yet. A couple of them were day workers who went home at the end of the day. “Will you let me look at it?”
He blinked and gave a little nod when she knelt down in front of him. “I’m going to take this bandanna off. Okay, Rory?” Oh, God, she was talking to him like he was a child and he wasn’t a child. The man was probably older than he looked, although right then, except for the neatly trimmed beard he wore, he looked like a dazed teenager.
“Okay.” He bit his lower lip as she pulled away the bandanna and handed it to Gus, standing behind Rory’s chair. It appeared to be a clean slice, although his torn jeans were covering too much of his leg to tell.
She tried to raise the hem of his jeans, but his boots were in the way, and when she gave a little moue of irritation, he said, “I can take my boot off.”
“Do that.”
Gus came around behind her. “Here, I’ll do it.” The older man, who Millie had already learned was much spryer than he appeared, stooped down and had Rory’s boot unlaced and off in mere seconds. “There ya go.”
But the younger man’s jeans were too tight and wet with blood to tug up over the equally bloody sock. Carefully, she rolled the sock down, wishing she had a pair of disposable gloves from the box in Beth’s bathroom. She stopped her ministrations. “I’ll be right back.”
She hurried out and with a quick explanation to Beth, grabbed a couple of gloves from the box in the bathroom. By the time she got back to the kitchen, Gus had gotten the sock off, dropped it inside the boot, and was washing his hands at the kitchen sink.
“You’re going to need this, I imagine.”
Millie spun around at the sound of Beth behind her, carrying a sizable first-aid kit. “You’re supposed to be on the chaise.”
Beth snorted. “You think I’m going to stay in my bedroom while there’s somebody bleeding on my kitchen floor?”
Rory looked up, clearly mortified. “Sorry, Mrs. Foster.”
Beth strode into the room and looked askance at Gus. “Go get some of those old towels from the mudroom to lay on the floor here, Gus, and put that tea towel in the laundry. Then come back and use a sanitizing wipe on the sink.” She marched over to the sink, opened the cupboard beneath, and pulled out a container of Clorox wipes.
Millie had to smile. Beth Foster was all business, and she wasn’t taking kindly to being put on bed rest seven and half months into her pregnancy. She’d been compliant but not happily so, and after two weeks, Millie had learned to pick her battles carefully. “Beth, sit down,” she said quietly. Beth sat across from Rory, who was looking a little peaked. “You okay?” she asked him as Millie snapped on the gloves and tried again to roll up his pant leg.
“Yeah.” He didn’t sound at all convincing. “Here, I can roll it up.” But he didn’t. Instead, he lowered his eyes, which Millie had already noted were green—emerald green. That made sense. The hair peeking out from under his Resistol was dark red, and he had an Irishman’s fair skin with a smattering of freckles on his very handsome face. He was a damn good-looking man, even when slightly ill.
“Rory, put your head down between your knees for a minute.” Millie glanced up at Bo, who just shook his head.
“This guy delivered a calf last night and was covered in all kinds of bodily fluids,” he commented. “But he can’t take the sight of his own blood?”
“That’s not unusual. Del’s the same way. He can handle any blood but his own,” Beth commiserated and got up, got a bottle of water from the fridge, and set it on the table beside Rory.
Millie kept a gentle hand on the back of the cowboy’s neck until he took a deep breath and raised his head. “I’m okay now, thanks.” He opened the bottle of water and took a long drink.
“Good,” Millie said, “because you’re going to have to stand up and drop your pants.”
His green eyes widened. “What?”
She rose from where she was stooped next to his knees. “Yeah, we’re not going to get those jeans rolled up from the bottom.” She held out a hand. “Here, stand up and—”
He set the bottle on the table and raised both palms. “I’m not dropping trou. I’ll drive myself to the hospital.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Millie sighed and blew a breath into her bangs. “Everybody out. Beth, scoot.” She turned to Bo and Gus, both of whom were trying very hard not to laugh and jerked her head toward the back door.
Rory sat quietly in his chair as they left, a look of grim determination on his face.
When everyone was gone, she set her hands on her hips and gazed at him. “Okay, it’s just you and me, cowboy. You can either bleed out or unzip and let me fix your damn leg.”
When he still hesitated, she smiled at him. “I’ve seen plenty of guys in their underwear. I’m guessing you don’t have anything going on that I haven’t seen before.”
He rose and slowly unbuckled his belt and opened the five buttons on his jeans to reveal a pair of tight, black, knit boxer briefs. Staring at something above her head, Rory lowered his pants, hissing a breath as he pushed them carefully past the wound. It was still bleeding, but not as profusely.
Millie put one hand on his chest. “Sit.”
He sat and allowed her to clean the wound with betadine wipes from the first-aid kit and examine the slice across his shin. “Like I thought. Mostly bluster.”
“Bluster?”
“Not as bad as the bleeding made it seem. Shins bleed a lot, like mouths and scalps. But this can’t be stitched, the skin over your shin is too thin for that. So I’m going to close it with Steri-Strips, smear it up with antibiotic ointment, and cover with a light bandage. Or you can go to the ER and let them do it and charge you a thousand dollars. Your call.”
“No.” He shook his head and looked a little less nauseated. “You do it, if you don’t mind. I gotta get back to work.”
“You’re not going back to work today, mister. You need to go home and elevate this leg and stay off it, or you’ll tear it open again.” After using several betadine wipes, the wound was clean, so she applied the Steri-Strips, also from the first-aid kit, and carefully covered the leg with a large sterile gauze pad. Then she wrapped it with cohesive wrap, pleased that the Fosters had such a well-supplied first-aid kit. “When was your last tetanus shot?”
“Last fall,” Rory answered immediately and when she quirked a brow, he explained, “I got a puncture wound on a chute in Cheyenne.”
“You accident-prone, Rory?” Millie smiled at him and touched a scar on his knee and another higher on his thigh, before offering a hand to help him out of the chair.
“No.” He ignored her hand, rose easily, and reached down for his jeans, which were around his ankles, revealing the firm heavily muscled thighs of a bull or bronc rider. He wasn’t tall, maybe just under six feet, but his arms in the navy-blue COPPER MOUNTAIN RODEO T-shirt he wore were also well-defined, and although she tried not to watch him as he buttoned up, she couldn’t help noticing how the knit shirt pulled over his brawny chest. He ducked his head shyly. “I don’t get hurt much, but bull riding isn’t exactly … you know, the safest event.”
He took his hat off, raked his fingers through the russet strands, and met her eyes with his direct green gaze. A shiver of something she barely recognized eddied through her. His expression was warm and his smile, the first one she’d seen, lit up his whole face. And he had dimples. God, she was such a sucker for dimples. Now that he was out of pain, she could see that he wasn’t as young as he’d seemed at first—maybe closer to her own age of thirty-three.
A silence grew awkwardly between them until at last he said, “You’re Millie … what?”
“Sparks.” She began gathering up the packaging from the supplies she’d used.
He stuck out one hand. “Rory Pearson.”
She started to accept it, but they noticed at the same time that his hand was crusty with dried blood. He drew it back with an embarrassed laugh and looked at his palm with disgust. “Sorry.”
She pointed to the laundry room beside the kitchen. “You can wash up in there. I’ll go see if Beth has a pair of Del’s socks you can borrow.”
By the time she’d returned with the socks, Rory was cleaned up—hands and his left leg and foot—and had put his bloody sock, Gus’s bandanna, and the towel he’d used in a plastic grocery bag, apparently planning to take them home and launder them. She liked him for that. He’d also picked up the towels Gus had put down on the floor. She liked him for that too. Millie was tempted to offer to help him get the sock and boot back on as he sat down and put his foot up on a chair next to him to gingerly take care of the task. He was going to have to do it on his own later, unless he had a wife at home to help him.
She was curious—too curious for her own good, so she assumed her best nurse demeanor. “Do you live in the bunkhouse or are you driving back and forth? I mean”—she stumbled over the question—“do … do you have someone to help you?”
His lips curved, his eyes danced, and oh, those dimples. “You offerin’ to come help me get my jeans off, Millie Sparks?”
Heat filled her cheeks, dammit. “I’m sure you’ve got somebody who can take care of that for you.”
His smile grew into a grin that warmed her all the way to her toes. He plopped his battered hat back on his tousled hair and gave her a lazy-lidded look from beneath the brim. “You’re a good nurse, Millie. Thank you.”
End of Excerpt
