Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1

by Sarah Anderson

  It didn’t take her long to realize that the job was going to be a hell of a lot harder without actual supplies. The normal conversation went along the lines of, “Where’s the iodine?” Or saline or cotton swabs or vaccines or any number of things a clinic needed to function on a daily basis.

  “Don’t have any.”

  “When are we getting some?”

  “When someone pays us.”

  Over and over and over. The clinic didn’t have any supplies beyond four bottles of Tylenol that were about three days from expiring, two boxes of bandages and half a box of hypodermic syringes. She’d brought supplies, sure, but a few boxes of bandages and needles weren’t enough to hold her through the morning. By eleven, the supply closet was empty of everything but alcohol swabs.

  She didn’t have time to get frustrated. The patients came in droves. Diabetics who were in danger of losing feet, what seemed like dozens of people with the stomach flu, and people who were going blind from chronic alcohol poisoning. Few people actually looked at her, unless she caught them staring out of the corner of her eye. Half of them didn’t even talk to her, just to Tara and Clarence.

  The worst was a guy who came in looking like he’d wandered right out of a cage match. He was compact and muscled with his head shaved on the sides and his hair was pulled into a tight, tribal-looking braid. Which was intimidating enough, but with the flesh wound he was sporting on his shoulder? Mercenary, was all she could think. That, and what did the other guy look like? Clarence wouldn’t tell her what his name was. “That’s nobody,” was all she got out of anyone. No one looked at him, and he looked at no one.

  And then she was alone with him, behind the curtain. If he wasn’t so damn intimidating, he’d be a good-looking man—definitely one of the healthier ones she’d seen today. However, the blood-soaked shirt she cut from him looked anything but good, and the old scars on his chest were even worse. A trickle of fear cut through her stomach as she snapped on a new pair of gloves. What had happened to this man? Nobody, she repeated to herself as she began to dig for the bullet. Just nobody. “How did this happen?”

  Nothing. Not even a grunt of pain as she packed the wound with the last of the gauze. It was like performing surgery on a statue. She found her hands shaking as she wondered just who the hell nobody was, and what, exactly, he’d done to get shot. The list was long.

  Okay. So this guy was terrifying. She still had a moral obligation to make sure her patients received the best care, as long as they weren’t ax murderers, right? “You’ll need to come back in within a week for me to check the wound,” she said as she opened the curtain and made notes in a blank file. She thought about writing Nobody on the top. “And I’m required by law to inform the authorities, Mister…” she said, hoping to get something out of him.

  She felt a breeze rustle her hair. That’s weird, she thought as she turned around. The fan doesn’t normally…

  Nobody was gone.

  The trickle became a waterfall of panic. What kind of person just blew out with the breeze—after a bullet wound? Someone who didn’t want to be found, that’s who. Someone who was wanted. Someone who was dangerous. More than just her hands shook as she tried to walk casually over to Tara. “We’ve got to call the police,” she said, hoping her voice wasn’t giving her away—at least not within earshot of patients.

  Tara gently shook her head as she answered the phone again. “It was just Nobody. Tim—he’s the sheriff—he’ll call us if he needs us,” she replied as she handed Madeline another file, like gunshot wounds in unnamed patients were just another day.

  And that was all before lunch.

  Madeline tried to keep upbeat. Clarence was a hell of a good nurse, and the patients clearly trusted him—at this point, more than they trusted her. Tara was a multitasking genius. She could answer the phone, greet new patients and take histories all at the same time. Madeline had a good team to work with. Now if she only had some supplies to go with it.

  “Tara, start a list,” she called across the room upon discovering the only bottle of penicillin was expired.

  “We don’t have any money,” Clarence repeated with a grunt as he lifted an old woman without her feet out of a rusty wheel chair.

  She’d been here for three hours and had already heard that seventeen times. They might not have any money, but she did. “I’ll get it. Just write it down.”

  By the time they stopped for a twenty-minute lunch, the list was up to number forty-seven, and she’d already seen forty-four patients and two emergencies. Tara slipped out with a promise to be back soon, whenever that was.

  She was exhausted. She’d sweat through both her shirt and coat, rubbed blisters on top of blisters in her new cowboy boots, and the artificial smoothness she’d ironed into her hair this morning was all but shot. Even though she was sitting on the floor in front of the fan, she was still hot. She’d done more in four and a half hours than she normally did in a twelve-hour shift in the E.R. “Is it always this busy?” she asked between bites of peanut butter and jelly. She needed to get something closer to real food if she was going to sustain this energy level for long, but she didn’t have any idea where she’d put groceries in her minuscule kitchen. At least she’d guessed right about there being no microwave in the clinic.

  “Nah,” Clarence replied from Tara’s chair. He had his feet up on an exam table and his head leaned all the way back with his eyes closed. She was afraid he was going to fall asleep on her, but a nap actually sounded like a great idea right now. Add coffee maker to the list. “We just haven’t had a doctor for a few months. Kind of a backlog.”

  “You did this by yourself for a few months?”

  “It’s a paycheck. Sometimes,” he added.

  Things picked up again at one thirty. Tara made it back in at two. Madeline was beginning to figure out that Indian time did not necessarily coincide with numbers on a clock, but no one else was exactly rushing around either. Indian time. Just a time zone not found on any map, she mused as she looked down another throat.

  A lot of these people had the same symptoms—stomach cramps, low-grade fevers and occasionally diarrhea. Seems like everyone always has the same stomach bug, she thought as she took a few blood samples from the people who seemed the worst. A few samples were all she could take—those were all the vials she had. Add them to the list. How huge of a chunk she was going to have to take out of the trust-fund money she’d transferred into her checking account for all this stuff? And how long it would last before she had to do it again?

  Her wheels were already turning. After all, she knew people whose hobbies included expensive dinners and charity auctions. The Mitchells had been one of the leading philanthropic families in Columbus. It wouldn’t take much to convince people with bleeding hearts and open wallets to have a dinner and charity auction for this clinic. And the hospital back home—maybe she could get Todd in Supplies to ship her at least the bandages that were just past their freshness date? It wasn’t like gauze went bad. The drugs were going to be harder. She couldn’t weasel extra freebies out of pharmaceutical reps if no reps got within a hundred miles of the place.

  Things began to slow down around four, which meant there was only one person left in the waiting room, an old man with gray hair that just hit his flannel shirt collar. He didn’t look sick as he sat and thumbed through an ancient magazine. The end is in sight. She sighed. Maybe he just needs a prescription re-authorized. It would be nice to end on something easy. At least today hadn’t been boring.

  And suddenly, it got a whole lot less boring. Tara gasped in shock as the fan was kicked out of the door. Now what? Madeline spun around in her pitiful supply closet.

  Two men stood in front of Tara. Well, one man stood. He was tall and straight, all the more so compared to the broken people she’d looked at all day. His jet-black hair hung long and loose under a straw cowboy hat, all the way down to his denim-clad butt. Even though he was supporting the other man, he was moving from one black cowboy bo
ot to the other, his hips shifting in a subtle-but-sexy motion. He was wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, revealing a set of honest biceps that looked like carved caramel—the best kind of delicious.

  “Find a nice cowboy.” Mellie’s voice floated back up her from their last conversation. “Ride him a little. Have fun!”

  Now, Madeline wasn’t exactly a thrill-seeking adrenaline junkie. On more than one occasion, she’d been accused of being the party pooper, the stick in the mud, a real-bring-me-downer in the room. Several times, it had been pointed out that she wouldn’t know fun if it walked up and bit her in the ass. And that was just what Mellie said to her face. God only knew what everyone else said behind her back.

  But there he was, standing in her waiting room. Fun in cowboy boots. No biting in the ass required, because she knew him immediately, and all she wanted to do was find a horse and ride. With him. The heat started at her neck and flashed southward. She could feel her curls trying to break free into a full-fledged frizz with the sudden temperature change, which only made things that much worse.

  “Jesse!” Tara said in a voice that was just one small step below shouting. “What did you do now?”

  “Give me a hand, will you?” Fun in Cowboy Boots called back to Clarence. He pivoted just a little, revealing the other man who was leaning all of his weight on Fun’s right side.

  Not good. The second guy’s leg was being held together with what looked like broomsticks and duct tape. His right arm hung limp, and his scratched face was contorted in pain.

  “Damn, Rebel, what happened?” Clarence was already hefting the broken man—Jesse?—onto the nearest free table, leading to a volley of clenched grunts from the injured man. “I thought we might get through this month without you trying to kill yourself, you know.”

  Did Clarence really just call this guy Rebel? Well, it was official. She’d heard it all today.

  Rebel—if that was his real name—was shaking his head when he caught her staring. He had beautiful black eyes, the kind of black that didn’t so much show you the window to his soul, but reflected yours back on you. Those eyes widened in surprise. “You know how it goes, Clarence,” he said, his gaze bearing down on her with enough heat that the rest of the clinic felt suddenly cool by comparison. “Life with Jesse is always an adventure.”

  Tara was next to the exam table now, holding Jesse’s hand as she felt his head. “Do I even want to know?”

  “Not really,” Rebel replied, taking his time as he looked her over. His thumbs were hanging from his belt loops, which only made the shifting thing he was doing look more intentional. Aside from the long hair, he looked like every cowboy fantasy she’d ever had. Did he have a horse, or was her imagination way out of control? “You must be the new doctor, ma’am.” He took off his hat and nodded. All that black hair, so straight it made her jealous, flowed around him like a cape.

  Oooh, her first ma’am. From an honest-to-God cowboy, no less. She felt the sudden urge to curtsey, but then realized what he’d said right before the ma’am. She was the doctor, and she had a job to do. Wrenching her eyes from the caramel-colored cowboy to the patient, Madeline tried to regain her professional composure. “Dr. Mitchell, please. And this is Jesse?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  That wasn’t helpful. “I need to know how this happened, Mister…”

  “Rebel,” he said, those hips still moving.

  She was not staring like a schoolgirl at this man. “Excuse me?”

  “Just Rebel, ma’am.”

  A shiver ran down her spine. One more ma’am and she might swoon. “Dr. Mitchell,” she said with more force as she turned to her patient. Clarence had finished cutting the duct tape off. “And how did this happen?”

  “Dirt bike,” Rebel said with a shrug. “Thinks he’s going to make the X-Games circuit.”

  “Jesus, Jesse.” Tara edged ever closer to hysteria. “That’s your fresh new start? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

  There was something else going on here, something that went a little deeper than the friendly compassion Tara had shown everyone else.

  “Nobody’s dead yet.” Madeline kept her voice low, hoping to regain some semblance of control. “What exactly happened on the bike?”

  Rebel finally stopped looking at her. She could tell, even though she had her back to him, because her neck stopped sweating. Then he was standing by her side, pointing to the splint. “He rolled it. Heard his leg sort of snap.” Tara’s face turned white as Jesse groaned, but everyone else just nodded.

  “And the arm?”

  “Hit the ground funny. Obviously.”

  Madeline considered the situation. They only had four films left for the X-ray machine. In good conscience, she could only take two films—one for the leg, one for the shoulder. “Only two,” she said to Clarence, and he nodded. Hopefully, she’d get the shots she needed on the first try. The phone rang. “Tara.” But the young woman didn’t move. “Tara, the phone.”

  “I got it,” Rebel said, moving so fast that he picked up the phone before the third ring. “Clinic.”

  “Um, Clarence?” She wanted to tread carefully—first impressions and all—but she’d never worked anywhere where a patient just jumped into the fray. But Rebel wasn’t a patient, her brain noted. And was an entirely different matter. “He can’t answer the phone—can he?”

  “Sorry, Doc.” Clarence wheeled the X-ray machine over to Jesse and loaded the precious film. Mentally, Madeline added film to the list, which made it the most expensive item out of all of the must-haves. “Rebel helps out some. He knows how to answer the phone, but he hasn’t learned the machine yet.”

  He helped out? This was bordering on insane, but she tried to ignore that fact. Frankly, at the moment, she could use a little help. Really, was this any different from a normal day at the E.R.? The only difference was that she didn’t know everyone. She didn’t know Rebel.

  Yet. She glanced back at him. She didn’t know him yet.

  “Hiya, Irma,” Rebel was saying as he sat in Tara’s chair. “Yup—new doctor.” Despite her confusion, Madeline’s ears perked up. What would Fun in Cowboy Boots say about her? “Yeah, she’s a little busy right now. Jesse crashed his bike. No, really.” His eyes settled on her again, sending her temperature up a notch. God, was she imagining things, or was he interested? “She looks like a good one.”

  Not imagining that. Her cheeks warmed at the compliment. If things got much hotter, she was going to officially melt.

  Now Tara was crying. “What about Nelly, huh?” She was never going to take her phone away from Fun named Rebel. “You promised you’d help out with Nelly more now that you’re home, Jesse,” Tara sniveled. “How are you going to do that if you’re all busted up?”

  Days of Our Lives. Madeline cut the rest of Jesse’s shirt off. That certainly isn’t any different than Ohio, she thought with a smirk. Jesse had Army tattooed on his biceps. Ah. He must be home from the Middle East.

  “How about Thursday?” Rebel was saying. “Earlier would be better. I think you’ll like her.”

  Okay. Yes. This was insane. Beyond certifiable. But she still had a broken bone to set. She forcibly directed all her attention to her patient. “Get him some of that Tylenol. Sorry, Jesse, but it’s all we’ve got.” Jesse nodded, his eyes watering. “Do we have enough fiberglass?” she asked Clarence. Because all signs up to this moment pointed to no.

  “We don’t have fiberglass. We got a little plaster of Paris,” he said as he shifted Jesse around on the bed. “Rebel can mix it while we do this, if it’s okay with you.”

  Plaster of Paris? No one used that stuff anymore. And Rebel could mix it? What the hell? She turned to look at the man in question. He whipped his hat off his head again. “I help out,” he explained, somehow managing to look both sheepish and sexy. “But only if it’s okay with you.”

  She looked from the ancient X-ray machine rattling to life to Jesse’s broken bone and back to Rebel. “Do
you know how to mix plaster?”

  Anything sheepish about him disappeared, and her temperature shot up another few degrees. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Rebel’s okay,” Tara said between sniffs. “Better than Jesse is.”

  “I’ll do better,” Jesse muttered as Madeline tried to position his leg for the best shot. “Promise—Ow!” He tried to sit, but didn’t manage much more than some unproductive shouting.

  Lord, she had her hands full, and nothing about Rebel said he was a problem. Well, not the bad kind, anyway. She nodded, and Rebel spun on his heel and made straight for the supply closet in one smooth motion. Madeline knew she shouldn’t just stand there and watch him walk away from her, but she couldn’t help it. She’d never seen jeans sit on a man like that. But then, she’d never seen a man like Rebel.

  “Uh, Doc?” The humor in Clarence’s voice snapped her out of her little cowboy fantasy. “The X-ray?”

  Excellent. Everyone was noticing. She hadn’t been staring, she reasoned. She’d been keeping an eye on a strange man in her supply closet. That’s all. “Of course,” she said, trying to play it cool as she bent over Jesse’s leg. It didn’t look swollen—hopefully it was a minor fracture so she could cast it now. To be sure, she’d have to get the angle just right… “Tara, does Jesse have a file?”

  Tara nodded, but she made no move to leave Jesse’s side. “You were supposed to watch Nelly tomorrow so Mom could have a break. Now what?”

  The old man from the waiting room appeared at her shoulder. He said a bunch of stuff, but the only thing Madeline understood was “Jesse,” and even that was iffy.

  So that’s Lakota, she thought as Jesse nodded. Didn’t sound anything like it looked in the textbook she’d tried to study from.

  “What?” Tara demanded. “Albert, you know I don’t understand.”

  “He said bring her over. Jesse can read her stories,” Rebel informed them, arm-deep in a bucket of plaster of Paris.