by Max Monroe
My gaze moves over his body in a panicked rush, searching for anything abnormal.
Jeans, a lot of bulging muscles beneath his white T-shirt, cowboy hat, boots, leg brace…
Instantly, I’m thankful his injured leg is at least protected.
After another minute or two goes by and he doesn’t budge from his spot, I decide to take a more vocal approach.
“Uh…are you okay?” I ask softly, hoping not to startle him again.
“I’ve been better,” he says with an edge of pain in his voice, and I wince.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to blind you. I just got excited about succeeding in our deal, and well…yeah, I’m sorry.”
His eyes pop open and meet mine. “Our deal?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “I found you.”
“No offense, Doc, but it’s been so long since we made that deal, I thought you’d already left.”
“It was only a week ago,” I correct. “And I’m not stupid, Rhett. I know you’ve been doing your best to avoid me. But obviously, you’re not as sneaky as you thought.”
“Darlin’, you do realize I’m at my house, right? This is about as un-sneaky as a man can get.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I smirk down at him. “The fact of our situation remains, I found you.”
“Are you expectin’ a congratulations or somethin’?”
“I mean, kind of?” I shrug. “I figured you’d be across the border by now.”
“Pretty sure you’ve got that twisted.” He laughs. Though, it’s without humor. “I’m not the one who should be running away from this ranch.”
Hold up. Is he insinuating that I should be the one running?
Instantly, my guard goes up and I narrow my eyes. “What are you trying to say?”
He just flashes a smirk in my direction, and with his muscly biceps bulging, he pushes himself to standing. A small grunt leaves his lips when he bears weight on his braced leg, but he swallows back the discomfort. “How much do you know about ranch life, Leah?” he eventually asks, and I tilt my head to the side.
“What do you mean?”
“Before arriving here a week ago, had you ever been on a ranch? Seen how shit goes on a ranch?” he queries and doesn’t hesitate to take inventory of my attire. His scrutinizing gaze moves from the laces of my running shoes up to my favorite neon-pink Lululemon leggings and doesn’t stop until it reaches my formfitting tank top embellished with a flowery flair. “From the way you’re dressed right now, I’m going to guess that’s a big fat no.”
Uh…excuse me?
It’s not like I’m in my preferred high heels. This morning, when I got ready, I purposely dressed in my most reliable athleisure—that I was super thankful to find in my suitcase, mind you. I’m basically Sporty fucking Spice out here, ready to chase Rhett Jameson around these wide-open spaces until I can treat his leg.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Other than the amused chuckle that leaves his lips, he doesn’t respond.
I furrow my brow and open my mouth to ask him again, but he just heads inside his house, leaving me standing there on the porch.
What the hell?
I hesitate at the threshold, trying to decide if private property trespassing laws apply to physicians trying to treat stubborn patients, but before I can come to a decision, Rhett is back out the door and hobbling down the porch steps and toward his garage.
I grimace at his retreating form. Goodness, he really shouldn’t be moving around like that…
A little over five weeks after surgery and you’d think Rhett Jameson has been given the all clear for full-weight bearing on his leg. But I know for a fact that’s not the case. I talked to his doctor last night. And he confirmed what I already knew—all this activity he keeps doing was not approved in his surgical discharge instructions. Not to mention, he should still be slowly transitioning from crutches.
I shudder to think about the last time he even used crutches to get around.
Or iced his knee.
Or stretched his knee.
Or took a fucking ibuprofen.
From the looks of his current activity mind-set, this cantankerous man is a poster child for everything you’re not supposed to do after a major orthopedic surgery.
Eventually, when I realize he’s almost out of my viewpoint, I follow his retreating form.
No way in hell I’m going to let this man out of my sight after everything I’ve been through to track him down. I woke up at four in the morning just to get him in my freaking sights, for fuck’s sake.
Half expecting that I’m going to have to resort to actually chasing him, I’m shocked when I find him grabbing a duffel bag out of the bed of his truck and turning back around to meet my gaze.
“Let’s go,” he says, but when I don’t respond, he smirks. “We got a long day ahead of us, and you’re driving.”
I almost ask him what the day actually entails but bite my tongue in the name of keeping the peace. I mean, he’s actually choosing to go wherever he wants to go in the same vehicle as me. That certainly feels like a monumental victory.
I’ll figure out the details of the day as they come.
“Looks like Tex gave you something more reliable to drive,” he notes when we reach the F-150.
“Yeah, though, I’m assuming it was more out of pressure from your mom than anything else.”
“I’d say that’s an accurate assumption,” he comments and opens the passenger door. “She’s about the only one who can pressure that hardheaded bastard into doing anything that isn’t his idea.” A sigh leaves his throat, and his voice is laced with just enough frustration that I know to stay far away from this line of conversation.
Rhett and his dad are on shaky ground at best, and I’d prefer not to add that to the mix of my already challenging task of convincing this stubborn cowboy grouch to let me help him rehab his knee.
Don’t forget, insanely hot cowboy.
I roll my eyes at myself. At this point, Rhett Jameson’s looks don’t mean shit to me. All I’m focused on is doing the job I was hired to do.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I shake myself out of my stupid, pointless thoughts and open the driver’s side door.
“So, uh, where we headed?” I ask once we’re both inside the cab and buckled into our seats.
“To enjoy the simple pleasures of ranch life.” He smirks over at me, but it’s not a pleasant smirk. Or even a friendly smirk. It’s more of an “I can’t wait to be an even bigger pain in your ass” kind of smirk.
Okayyy…whatever that means…
I start up the engine, and he proceeds to play navigator, giving me succinct directions to wherever it is we’re headed. Take a left at the bottom of the hill, veer to the right at the fork in the road, follow the path for another mile. That sort of thing.
Other than Rhett’s occasional instructions and the truck’s tires crunching on gravel and rocks, the cab is completely silent as we head down a long and winding path.
“Take a right here,” he says, and I follow his directives dutifully, turning onto a road that opens up to a big, gorgeous meadow with pretty yellow flowers.
It’s all so beautiful it takes a Herculean effort to keep my eyes focused on the road and not let them wander over the breathtaking view.
“The barn and stalls are just down there on your left,” Rhett says and points an index finger forward.
I nod and, eventually, pull us to a stop in front of an impressive-looking structure that is the barn and stalls. I know this because I already stopped by a few of the barns and stalls on this ranch during last week’s never-ending quest to find this cowboy bastard.
I cut the engine and turn a little in my seat to face him. “So, uh, now what do we do?”
“It’s feedin’ time.”
“We’re eating breakfast here?” I ask, scrunching my nose up in confusion.
I mean, considering I’ve only had some coffee, I could def
initely use sustenance, but this doesn’t seem like the greatest place to dine.
“We’re not eatin’, darlin’.” He smirks and points toward a small, gated area where a few horses roam about. “They are.”
“Oh, okay.”
“The longhorns, too.” He moves his finger out toward the meadow where a bunch of those big-ass cows with even bigger horns stand around. “And you’re gonna be the one to feed ’em.”
“Wait…I’m feeding them?” I ask, and I don’t miss the way his lips fight the urge to lift up into amusement.
The horses, I can sort of understand, even though I have no idea how you feed a horse. But the cows with the horns? What the hell? Aren’t they supposed to just munch on the meadow grass? Pretty sure, unless you want to lose a limb, it’s smart to keep your distance from those big fuckers…
“Yeah. You’ll be feedin’ them. You know, since I’m the one with the bad leg,” he answers and makes a show of searching my eyes. “You have a problem with that, darlin’?”
He’s fucking goading me. And truthfully, I kind of do have a problem with it, especially with those beastly horned cows, but I know Rhett wants me to have a problem with it, so that leaves me with only one response.
“Nope. No problem at all,” I lie, and he grins.
“Well, that’s real good news, Dr. Leah. Because there’s a lot of important work that needs to get done today, and my injured leg means you’re the perfect woman for the job.”
The stubborn jackass. He’s doing this on purpose. A big master plan on how to push me to the brink of throwing in the towel and leaving the ranch.
Which is not going to happen.
Seven days of this tracking-him-down bullshit means I’m all in. Fucking laminate that shit because I won’t be backing down.
His eyes look over at me like I’m the most entertaining thing in the whole fucking world. Though, I’m certain it has nothing to actually do with me. It all revolves around the things he’s planning to throw my way.
Too bad for him, I never back down from a challenge.
I only strive to use whatever I can to tip the scales in my direction.
“Sounds like a perfect plan,” I lie again. “And you know what’s great?”
“What?”
“While I do the feeding, you can elevate and ice your leg.”
He flashes a sly smile. “Don’t got any ice out here, darlin’.”
Lucky for me, I planned ahead.
“I guess it’s a good thing I brought my bag full of medical tricks, then, huh?” I retort with a sugary-sweet smile.
He just stares at me, furrowing his brow, and I go in for the kill.
“You know, since treating that leg of yours is the whole reason I’m here.”
Suck on that, cowboy.
Come hell or high water, I will find a way to do the job I’ve been asked and make sure Rhett Jameson’s knee is fully healed and rehabilitated before I leave this ranch.
The instant I managed to get the stubborn bastard to take off his knee brace so I could properly elevate and ice his leg, I realized just how poorly he’s been taking care of himself since his surgery.
Severe swelling stretched from his upper thigh all the way down to his ankle.
I told him as much when I placed the disposable ice pad on his knee.
Although, he appeared to give exactly zero fucks, only offering an irritated grunt and an “Enough of the chitchat, darlin’. Them horses need feedin’.”
It was more than apparent that his focus was more fixated on getting me started on my day of fun.
And by day of fun, I mean day of hell mixed with hard fucking labor.
I have no idea how long I’ve been out here, working my ass off, but with the way the summer sun is beating down on my shoulders and sweat is making my sports bra stick to my boobs, I’d say at least six hundred hours. Maybe seven hundred.
I grimace as I shovel fresh horse shit out of one of the empty stalls and just about gag when the lovely aroma hits me straight in the face.
Goodness. What have they been feeding these horses?
I know they ate some special kind of feed this morning because I had to drag heavy barrels of it out to their troughs, but I’m starting to wonder if they let these horses binge on Taco Bell at night.
Once the stall is crap-free, I add a cozy pile of fresh hay across the ground and move on to the last and final stall.
Thank everything.
Never in a million years did I think this is where I’d end up when I told Frank Kaminsky I’d fly out to Shaw Springs Ranch and help the owner’s son rehab a patella fracture and tendon tear.
But why in the hell would I? Cleaning horse shit isn’t a typical job responsibility for an orthopedic doctor. There certainly wasn’t a single question about it on the MCAT.
I only have to gag fifty more times before I finish up on the last stall, and by the time I head back out into the sunshine, I’m grateful to find Rhett where I left him—sitting cozily on a pile of hay with his leg still propped up on a blanket.
Though, the ice pack is long discarded, sitting haphazardly off to the side of his knee.
“Stalls are all cleaned,” I say and walk over to him and take a gander at his leg. The swelling has gone down so much that his leg no longer looks like an oversized tree trunk. “Oh, look, you actually do have a knee and an ankle,” I comment and lean down to riffle through my medical bag to grab another disposable ice pad.
“I don’t need any more fuckin’ ice,” he retorts, but I ignore him, activating the ice pack with a pop and placing it on his leg.
Rhett sighs. “You just can’t help yourself, can ya?”
“Nope,” I answer and grab four ibuprofen and a small bottle of water from my bag. “Even if I have to clean horse shit out of stalls every damn day, before I leave this ranch, that leg of yours will be fully rehabilitated.” I hold the pills and water out to him. “Now, take these.”
“I’m not takin’ any fucking drugs.”
I snort. “It’s ibuprofen. Not ecstasy.”
He stares at me, and I stare right back at him, still holding the medicine and water in front of his face.
“Don’t be a baby, Rhett. It’s just a little medicine.”
He shakes his head, snags the pills from my hand, and swallows them down without the water.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” I smile at him and open the bottle of water for myself, drinking most of it down in three big gulps. Lord knows I could use the extra fluids after being put to work all damn day.
I swear, every muscle in my body aches from all the manual labor.
Muscles I didn’t even know I had are screaming in pain.
“So, shall we head back and eat some lunch and…” I stop myself before I tell him about my other plans. Medical-related plans. I still have no idea how I’m going to persuade this grouch to let me do some stretch work and administer deep tissue massages. I mean, convincing him to ice his leg was hard enough.
“And what?” he asks, and I shrug.
“And…uh…you know, take a load off.”
His responding sly smile makes me instantly suspicious. “There’s still work to be done.”
I stare at him. Still work to be done?
“First, the horses you just fed need exercisin’ in the pasture.”
I almost add, and cleaned up their foul-smelling shit, but I bite my tongue.
No way I’m going to let him know just how awful I really think that task was. If he knew I had to gag my way through every single stall, with the way his calculating brain works, he’d make a point to have me out here every day for the next two months doing just that.
Or worse, send me in the direction of those big cows with the horns. It was scary enough setting out alfalfa in the meadow for them to graze on.
Ew. Gross. I don’t even want to think about the kind of disgusting mess those big beasts leave behind after they finish eating.
So, I do what anyone in my positio
n would do; I suck it up, plaster a smile on my face, and focus on giving the horses some exercise.
“Okay, then,” I state with a nod. “You stick with the ice pack, and I’ll get the horses some exercise.”
But when I turn on my heel, his sarcastic voice stops me in my tracks.
“Darlin’, you and I both know you don’t have a fuckin’ clue what you’re doin’. So, why don’t you turn back around and let me give you some instructions.”
His words are like nails on a chalkboard, scraping straight up my spine and fueling nothing but anger and irritation.
With the way he talks, you’d think I was the biggest moron on the planet.
I made it through med school, for shit’s sake. Pretty sure I can figure out how to exercise some damn horses.
“I’m a big girl, Rhett,” I toss over my shoulder, heading to the gated area where the horses are finishing eating. “I can figure it out.”
Rhett
“What in tarnation is she doin’?” Tiny questions, both hands on his hips as he stares out toward Leah, who is currently in the pasture with the horses.
I have no idea how long he’s been standing there, but I can’t deny the show that is currently occurring before us is something we’ve never seen out on this ranch.
I bite back the urge to laugh.
“She teachin’ them fuckin’ aerobics?” he asks, narrowing his eyes to get a better look. Once he comes to the realization that what he’s seeing is actually real, his jaw just about hits his damn boots.
“Well, Tiny, I told her to get the special feed horses some exercise, and that’s pretty much led us to here.”
Truthfully, once Leah refused to take any of my instructions on how to “exercise the horses,” I’ve had the pleasure of watching her run around the pasture like a maniac.
Jumping jacks, sprints, lunges, squats—you name it, and she’s out there doing it to an audience of about ten confused-as-fuck horses.
If Jane Fonda would’a made a career out of teaching livestock aerobics, I have a feeling this is pretty close to what it’d look like.
