The Least Likely Groom

“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.”