Читать книгу The Least Likely Groom - Linda Goodnight - Страница 12

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.”