Dr. Holt And The Texan

“You And Your Monumental Ego Haven’t Changed A Bit, Travis King!” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Epilogue Copyright

“You And Your Monumental Ego Haven’t Changed A Bit, Travis King!”

Mercy’s words pricked. “Wait a damn minute. Isn’t there something about ‘Physician heal thyself’? You’re just as much an adrenaline junkie as I am, traipsing around that E.R., getting high on all that power.”

She gasped in outrage.

“And what have you got to show for it? An anonymous apartment, dead flowers and not a friend or lover in sight.” His mouth twitched. “At least I got a championship belt buckle.”

“Cold comfort for a womanizing rascal who never grew up,” she said, sneering.

Travis smiled. “I don’t get many complaints.”

“No, luckily for you, all those young buckle bunnies shoving their phone numbers down those tight jeans of yours don’t have a lot with which to compare your performance.” Mercy tilted her chin in challenge. “I wonder how you’d stack up against someone your own size.”

Dear Reader,

A sexy fire fighter, a crazy cat and a dynamite heroine—that’s what you’ll find in Lucy and the Loner, Elizabeth Bevarly’s wonderful MAN OF THE MONTH. It’s the next in her installment of THE FAMILY McCORMICK series, and it’s also a MAN OF THE MONTH book you’ll never forget—warm, humorous and very sexy!

A story from Lass Small is always a delight, and Chancy’s Cowboy is Lass at her most marvelous. Don’t miss out as Chancy decides to take some lessons in love from a handsome hunk of a cowboy!

Eileen Wilks’s latest, The Wrong Wife, is chock-full with the sizzling tension and compelling reading that you’ve come to expect from this rising Desire star. And so many of you know and love Barbara McCauley that she needs no introduction, but this month’s The Nanny and the Reluctant Rancher is sure to both please her current fans...and win her new readers!

Suzannah Davis is another new author that we’re excited about, and Dr. Holt and the Texan may just be her best book to date! And the month is completed with a delightful romp from Susan Carroll, Parker and the Gypsy.

There’s something for everyone. So come and relish the romantic variety you’ve come to expect from Silhouette Desire!

Lucia Macro

And the Editors at Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

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Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Suzannah Davis

Dr. Holt And The Texan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SUZANNAH DAVIS

Award-winning author Suzannah Davis is a Louisiana native who loves small-town life, daffodils and writing stories full of love and laughter. A firm believer in happy endings, she has three children.

One

“Hello, darlin’.”

The sexy rumble of a deep masculine voice brought Dr. Mercedes Lee Holt up short in the emergency room cubicle of Ft. Worth’s John Peter Smith Hospital. The man propped on the gurney in front of her had a devilish gleam in his dark eyes and a red-soaked bandage pressed to his temple.

She took in raven hair, an ebony Western shirt with pearl snaps, opened to reveal a swath of spectacular masculine chest, and a championship belt buckle the size of a pancake. Dust-coated cowboy boots, complete with—God help her!—roweled silver spurs, hung off the end of the examination table. Grime and blood obscured the patient’s features, except for a wide, come-hither grin beneath his thick black mustache.

Oh, Lord, it was going to be one of those nights!

She mentally kicked herself for failing to take the time to tuck her honey-colored curls into her usual severe topknot. Though the grueling pace of an E.R. physician often made her feel she looked twice her thirty-three years, there was inevitably some macho smart aleck who thought it would be amusing to try to make time while the pretty lady doc patched him up.

Make it the day before Halloween, a Saturday night to boot, then top that with a full moon, and what you got was a harried staff trying to deal with a waiting room overflowing with a multitude of wackos and every conceivable type of emergency.

What she didn’t need right now was a wise guy with an attitude.

“I’m Dr. Holt,” she said, her voice crisp. She caught the eye of the brunette nurse who’d accompanied her into the cubicle. In keeping with the season, the nurse sported a green-faced Dracula pin on her pink scrubs. “Lila, what have we got?”

“Scalp lacerations, contusions, possible concussion—”

“Aw, come on now, darlin’,” the man drawled. “I know it’s been a long time, but how about a kiss for an old friend?”

“Nice try, buddy.” Dr. Holt pulled a pen light out of the pocket of her white doctor’s coat. “Did you get the license of the eighteen-wheeler that did this to you?”

“Don’t blame Sidewinder. That old bull was just doing his job.” He shrugged. “Got my eight seconds out of that twister before he popped me a good one, though.”

Stepping closer, she waved the light in his irises. Her lip curled. “Stockyards Rodeo, huh?”

A large, tanned hand clamped around her wrist, and his megawatt grin was back. “Lordy, Miss Mercy, you’re contrary. Once upon a time there was nothing you loved better than a good rodeo.”

She tugged her wrist, her tone frosty. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. I—”

Mercy. She blinked. No one had called her that in years. She was Dr. Holt, or Lee to her peers, not that she had time or inclination to be on a first-name basis with more than a handful, anyway. But Mercy was her hometown name, an appellation she’d left behind in Flat Fork, Texas, a long time and several heartaches ago....

Mercy looked into the cowboy’s laughing, coffee-colored eyes. The world tilted suddenly, and vertigo sent her spinning back fifteen years in space and time. She recognized him now, even under the coating of dirt and lingering blood. His strong features had matured and changed into something devastatingly handsome, yet still familiar, still dear.

She gasped. “Travis?”

Releasing her, he settled back, his tone satisfied. “’Bout time, blue eyes.”

“How...why...?” Spluttering, her heart pounding in her chest, she could only repeat the obvious. “Travis King. Oh, my God.”

“Would you like the suture tray now, Doctor?” Lila asked.

Dragging her gaze away from her patient, Mercy shook her head, dazed. “What? Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. Mr. King is an old friend from home. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Travis?”

“Too long, darlin’.”

There wasn’t any of his easy teasing in those husky words, and that startled her. Rattled, she let her gaze slide away from his, afraid of what she might see. Long ago she’d counted on Travis King for just about everything, back when she’d been Flat Fork’s pampered darling, and she and Travis’s best friend, Kenny Preston, had been in love.

But that was before everything changed.

Before the memories could overwhelm her, she forced them down, making herself brisk again, carefully peeling off the soaked bandage. “Let me see what you’ve done to yourself, cowboy.”

“Just a little knot on the old noggin.” He dismissed his injury with a shrug, but he couldn’t suppress an involuntary grimace as he favored his side. “Tried to tell those medics over at the arena, but they wouldn’t listen. Had a hell of a time convincing them I didn’t need a damned ambulance.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“I’m not complaining.” He grinned. “In fact, I ought to send them a gilt-edged thank-you note. Not only did I get my share of prize money, but now I’ve ended up in the hands of the most beautiful woman ever to come out of Flat Fork. All in all, I’d say this was my lucky day.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “Are you by any chance flirting with me, Travis King?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled with an irresistible little-boy mischief. “Now, darlin’...”

“Can it, Casanova. I can see you haven’t changed a lick. And my days as a buckle bunny are long gone.” She frowned over the ragged laceration that ran from his temple up into his hairline, now slowly oozing blood. “You took quite a blow. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Fingers? What fingers?”

Mercy turned to the nurse. “Order X rays for Mr. King. Full head series.”

“Hey, I was just kidding!” he protested, dodging and swearing under his breath as the efficient nurse swabbed his face and cleaned the tender scalp wound.

“I don’t play around with this kind of injury, Travis,” Mercy said severely. “Head ache?”

“Some,” he admitted.

“I’ll order a painkiller. Slip out of your shirt and let me have a look at that side. Did you get stepped on?”

“It’s just bruised,” he muttered, defensive.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Travis gave Mercy a baleful look. “My, my, my. Look at Miss Mercy, all grown up and throwing her weight around. Who’d have thought?”

“Hey, you. Don’t mess with me,” she replied lightly. “I run with the big dogs now.”

With a show of reluctance, he slid his arms out of the garment and handed it over. Mercy tossed it into a nearby chair where a well-worn black felt cowboy hat rested crown down, a position dictated, she knew, by cowboy superstition so the luck in the hat wouldn’t run out. And bull riders needed all the luck they could get.

Turning back, Mercy caught her breath. While she dealt with human bodies all the time, she was female enough to acknowledge that bare-chested, clad only in black jeans and well-worn Western boots, Travis King was a magnificent male specimen who could turn any woman’s head.

Lean and rangy from years of hard physical activity, at thirty-six he still had the broad shoulders, tapering to a washboard stomach, that would be the envy of many a younger man. A light sprinkling of dark hair covered his chest in an inverted triangle, disappearing below the dimple of his navel. In the old days he’d never lacked for female company, and now, even bruised and battered, he radiated masculinity in potent waves. Mercy noted that Lila was certainly an appreciative and receptive audience for all that male magnetism.

But that was a line of thought she shouldn’t be pursuing. Instead she drew her attention to the business at hand and pressed Travis’s side. “Does this hurt?”

“Uh-uh. Well, not too bad.”

“Hmm.” Swiftly she continued her examination—arms, legs, ribs—then took her stethoscope and listened to his heart and lungs. His skin felt warm and velvety to the touch, stretched over well-honed muscles with the tensile strength of steel in their fibers. Beneath the pungent odor of antiseptic that permeated the hospital, she could smell the musk of his scent, clean and masculine and subtly arousing.

Appalled, Mercy clamped down on her involuntary response. What was the matter with her? Just because her love life was nonexistent, she was still a professional, for goodness sake, not some first-year student with overactive hormones. And this was Travis—confidant of her youth, part-time Cupid and general good guy. How many times had he helped her meet Kenny when her parents had forbidden it? How many times had she cried on his shoulder when the path of true love ran crooked?

It was the shock of seeing him again after all this time that was making her so jittery, that was all. That and the knowledge that they hadn’t spoken since Kenny’s funeral. An unexpected resurgence of long-dormant hurt and resentment produced a wince of pain, quickly and fiercely squelched. No, she wouldn’t go down that path again. She was over all that, and she had a job to do.

A breathless nurse appeared at the door, hesitated just long enough to give the bare-chested cowboy a wide-eyed once-over, then blurted, “Dr. Holt, there’s a possible gastric ulcer in room four and an OB in five. Can you come?”

“Be right there, Sandy. Lila, go help.” The two nurses rushed to the next patient.

Feeling the surge of exhilarating pressure that made her both love and hate her work, Mercy swiftly completed the exam, asking questions, checking reflexes. Frowning, she stepped back and scribbled on Travis’s chart.

“What’s the verdict, Doc?” he asked.

“I want to see X rays before I say for sure. But no cracked ribs, although you’re going to have a dandy of a bruise.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“I can imagine. We probably need to get a plastic surgeon to stitch your head.”

“Oh, hell, no.” He waved the suggestion away. “Can’t you do it?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then go ahead. I got no inclination to hang around this joint all night.” His mustache twitched. “I guess I trust you not to mess up my pretty face.”

Mercy gave him a sour look. “Thanks for that vote of confidence.”

“Hey, for a former Flat Fork High homecoming queen, you’ve come a long way. It’s the least I can do.”

His words touched a raw nerve of insecurity that she’d thought had healed. Apparently she’d been mistaken. She lifted her chin. “That’s quite a recommendation, coming from you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the twice National Bull Riding Champion must be an expert on getting himself stitched up—since it happens so often to the damn fools who ride bulls for a living.”

He lifted his brows at both her indictment and the fact that she was aware of his accomplishments on the rodeo circuit.

“Well,” he drawled, “we all know the real question is not when a bull rider is going to get hurt, but how bad.”

Her lips clamped down in a thin line of disapproval. “Not funny, cowboy.”

“You weren’t always so lily-livered, darlin’.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of things have changed, haven’t they?” She was surprised at how hard her voice sounded, sharp with an unexpected surge of anger. “But maybe you’re right, Travis. Maybe it is your lucky day. This time.”

Pulling on gloves, she settled him into position, reached for instruments and a hypo of anesthetic and began repairing the damage.

Stoically he watched her face as she worked. “If that’s the way you feel, I’m surprised you still keep up with the circuit.”

“Who says I do? Mother keeps me informed about Flat Fork’s favorite son.”

Holding still under her ministrations, he nevertheless managed to look astonished that Joycelyn Holt, Flat Fork’s preeminent society matron and wife of the Honorable Judge Jonathan Holt, might deign to notice a lowly cowboy. “You don’t say?”

“Certainly. You’re a bona fide celebrity. By all accounts, you lead quite a life.”

“Yeah, I’ve got the world by the tail, all right.” Somehow his answer seemed too hearty. “The traveling is murder, though. You know what they say—if the rodeo doesn’t kill you, the commute will.”

Mercy frowned over the last series of knots. To a healer like her, Travis’s jocularity was disturbing. She had proof right before her eyes of the hazards he faced every time he entered a rodeo chute. Not to mention certain other questions that had her professional intuition raising red flags where Travis King was concerned.

“Travis, have you ever had problems with—?”

Sandy, even more breathless than before, burst into the cubicle, cutting off the question. “Dr. Holt, we need you now. This mother isn’t going to make it to Maternity!”

“Oh, Lord. Finish up for me, will you?” She passed needle and clamp to the nurse. Mercy was peeling off her gloves, already halfway to the door, throwing an apology over her shoulder. “Sorry, Travis. Sandy will take good care of you. And don’t you go anywhere until I see you again. You got that?”

“No, ma’am, I won’t.” Flat on his back, waiting for the nurse to finish, Travis’s voice was grim. “You can bet on it.”

Mercy hesitated at the door, already regretting her unaccustomed sharpness, regretting... everything. “For what it’s worth, Travis, it is good to see you again. I’ll be back.”

One ulcer, a broken arm, a set of twins and a case of pneumonia later, Mercy snatched up Travis’s X rays from the pile on the admitting desk and hurried toward his cubicle.

Weariness sat on her shoulders like a heavy overcoat. Thankfully it was nearing the end of her shift, but she doubted that she’d be allowed to get away on schedule. Not that she was in any rush to get home to an empty apartment. She felt restless, unsettled; and the thought of facing another frozen dinner and then falling into her unmade bed, as was her routine, held no appeal.

She stifled a tired sigh. Well, it was her life. She’d chosen it, worked damned hard to get it, and she wasn’t complaining. No, she loved the work, the challenges, the rush of adrenaline that dealing with a multitude of life-and-death decisions every night entailed. Only the rigors of it left precious little time for anything or anyone else.

She thought briefly about losing Kenny, her first love, and about her disastrous marriage a year later. Despite the society wedding of the season, Rick Hulen hadn’t wasted much time before he’d left for greener pastures in the arms of another woman. Just as well she’d concentrated on her profession since then. Relationships obviously weren’t her thing.

Mercy shook her head. She wasn’t usually so morose. It had to be seeing Travis again that had brought on this melancholy. But before she could go home and put this mood behind her, she had to deal with this visitor from her past. It wasn’t as though they had anything in common any longer. For all his success, Travis was still a Texas tumbleweed, risking his life blowing around the rodeo circuit. Considering everything, the sooner the devilish wind that had blown him into her E.R. tonight blew him back out again, the better.

Drawing the X rays from their manila folder, she bumped open the cubicle door with her hip. Travis had pulled on his shirt again and was sprawled in a chair, brawny arms across his chest, long legs outstretched in loose-limbed elegance, black hat tipped over his face.

Mercy couldn’t repress a smile. During their early rodeo days, she’d contended that he and Kenny could nap anywhere, even on a bale of barbed wire. Both sons of ranchers, it was a part of the rodeo life they loved, weekend to weekend, hitting every competition they could, earning points toward the big time. They’d put thousands of miles on Kenny’s old truck before that fateful night.... Her smile faded.

Travis stirred, tilting his hat back to reveal the neat white bandage gracing his temple, watching her as she shoved the films into the viewer. “Back so soon, blue eyes?”

“Sorry about the delay.” Chewing her lip, she studied the X rays. “This looks okay.”

“Great.” Stretching, he stood. “I’ll be glad to get out of here.”

“Not so fast. I’m going to admit you overnight for observation.”

He scowled darkly. “The hell you will! I feel fine.”

“From what I can see, you aren’t fine.”

“Hey, my head’s harder than it looks—”

“It’s not your head I’m worried about. It’s the area of numbness in your leg and back that concerns me.” She rattled off a technical explanation about nerve injury and spinal compression. “I’ll schedule some tests first thing in the morning and then—”

“Forget it, Mercy.”

She exhaled slowly, fighting exasperation. “Who’s the doctor here? Be reasonable.”

Travis hooked a thumb in his belt loop and gave her a wry look. “The only thing’s the matter with me is I’ve got a hole in my belly that only a twenty-ounce sirloin can plug. When do you check out of this place ? We can get you one, too.”

“I rarely eat red meat anymore.”

“Maybe you should. You could use a little padding on those bones.” His grin under his mustache was persuasive, tempting. “I know this terrific little place out on Rosemont. Great steaks, mushrooms in wine sauce, the works.”

“Travis, this is important. These tests—”

“Can wait, can’t they?”

She hesitated. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

“I mean, I’m not liable to keel over on the sidewalk, am I?”

“No, but—”

He nodded. “There you have it.”

Feeling frustrated, she tried again. “I can’t emphasize enough the need to follow up on this as soon as possible. I don’t want to alarm you, but the ramifications could be serious.”

“Darlin’ I’m not spending the night in this hospital, for one very good reason.”

“And that is?”

With a conspiratorial glance from side to side, he leaned close, whispering in her ear. “Those little gowns they give you. Too drafty.”

She shivered at the warmth of his breath and the faintest touch of velvety mustache brushing her earlobe, then stepped back to glare at him. “This isn’t a joking matter.”

He inspected the fatigue in the set of her shoulders and his smile died. “Maybe not. Look, I’ll make you a deal. You let me buy you some dinner tonight, and we’ll discuss it further.”

A distant tremor of consternation tickled Mercy’s spine. Travis was a part of her past she’d put behind her a long time ago. It wouldn’t pay to resurrect it. “I don’t need dinner,” she said firmly. “And you do need the tests.”

“Even doctors have to eat.”

“I’m not good company after a busy shift. Besides, it may be another hour or two before I can finish up.”

“I got no place to be.”

“But—”

“Come on, Mercy. Quit giving me a hard time. Unless there’s a boyfriend waiting in the wings?”

“No.”

He gave her a hooded look. “I heard you were married.”

“Old news.” Her words were flat. “It was over a long time ago.”

His voice dropped, became husky and persuading. “Then for old time’s sake.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said honestly, and was surprised at the swift flicker of something almost like pain behind his dark eyes.

“You’re a hard-hearted woman, Mercy Holt,” he said, joking again, whatever she’d witnessed disappearing so quickly she thought she’d imagined it. “All right, you drive a mean bargain. Have pity on a lonesome cowboy tonight, and help me feed the inner man, and I’ll see to those tests in a day or two.”

Her teeth clicked together in annoyance. “That’s blackmail.”

Unrepentant, his expression bland, he said, “It’s up to you.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “You won’t weasel out on me?”

He crossed his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

What harm could it do? She was a grown woman, capable of spending time with an old friend without letting the past jumble up her emotional landscape. She didn’t have to make a federal case out of a simple dinner, even if her nerves were shot and she was as skittish as a newborn filly. At least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing her bullheaded patient was going to receive the care he needed.

“All right, then,” she said slowly.

“Gee, such enthusiasm could really go to a guy’s head.” His tone was dry.

“Never satisfied, are you, cowboy?”

His dark eyes gleamed. “Not often, darlin’. That’s what makes me a winner.”

No doubt about it. He was losing his touch.

Travis parked his custom, ebony pickup truck with the World Champion logo on the door and the PRCA—Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association—bumper sticker on the tailgate in front of Mercy’s town house. The building complex sat in an unpretentious neighborhood not far from the Ft. Worth Botanical Gardens. At three o’clock on a cold Halloween morning, there wasn’t much activity anywhere. In fact, nothing stirred, including the blond head resting on his shoulder.