Melting Megan: a Cowboy Fairytales spin-off (Triple H Brides Book 5)

by Lacy Williams

  Melting Megan

  Lacy Williams

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Never miss a new release…

  Also by Lacy Williams

  Prologue

  Early parole.

  Good behavior.

  Lucky.

  Dan Evans had always wanted to win big. For one shining moment on his twenty-first birthday, Lady Luck had smiled on him. He'd won five grand at a casino blackjack table.

  And then he'd turned around and lost it all. In twenty minutes. But the high...

  For a kid whose mom had walked out and left him with his grandpops, the high been addictive, because it had made a lot of dark memories fade, just a little.

  He'd been seeking Lady Luck's elusive smile ever since.

  There was nothing lucky about three years of good behavior or his early parole. While in prison, he'd worked his butt off, kept his nose clean, sucked up to the guards so much he'd begun to hate himself. When he’d waited in county for sentencing, he’d had nightmares about what prison would be like, terrible visions of what awaited him. The reality had been much worse.

  Today, he was going... somewhere. He was getting out. Taking a bus that the prison had arranged to a halfway house, which they’d also arranged. They'd even lined him up a job. Probably sacking groceries or working construction. Whatever it was, he'd do it.

  He couldn't court Lady Luck any more. He'd learned his lesson. He wasn't one of the lucky ones. Wasn't meant to be a winner.

  No highs were high enough to make up for this. The only good thing in his life had been his job on the Triple H ranch. The other ranch hands had been like brothers. And when Dan had gotten in too deep, stolen ten grand, he'd lost the only people who'd ever cared about him.

  Midmorning, the guard escorted him to the intake room, where a uniformed guard handed him a paper bag with his belongings.

  He'd worn the orange jumpsuit for three years. His jeans and T-shirt felt foreign. His boots fit like they always had—but how could that be, when he wasn't the same man anymore?

  He left behind the cold, cement-block walls and iron bars. The cocky, arrogant man he’d been when he entered prison had long since disappeared.

  Outside, Dan squinted in the sunlight, not for the first time wishing for his Stetson to shade his eyes.

  His boots clicked on the pavement. His heart thumped hard in his chest.

  There was a cold chill in the late October air that cut through his T-shirt. He'd been convicted on a smoldering day in the middle of summer.

  He stopped on the sidewalk. Stood there, unmoving. Because he could. Because no one shouted for him to keep moving or get back in line.

  He was out. Free—sort of. He still had to meet with his parole officer and make arrangements for continuing meetings.

  He'd toe the line, and he'd never forget what he owed to the Triple H.

  He looked for the big bus he'd been told would meet him.

  But what he saw was two cowboys exit their truck and stand on the sidewalk with their feet spread wide and their arms crossed.

  Gideon and Matt Hale. Two of the owners of the Triple H ranch.

  The men he'd stolen ten grand from.

  He didn't shirk from what was coming. He walked right up to them, bracing for a punch. Or two.

  He deserved it, after all.

  Would it be Matt? He had the hotter temper of the two. But Gideon had been the one to discover Dan's theft.

  He would never forget the look of betrayal on Gideon's face that morning years ago. What was he doing here now? Shouldn’t he be in Europe with his wife? He'd come a long way for his revenge, apparently.

  Both men were ex-military. This was going to hurt.

  It was difficult to meet their eyes. Probably the most difficult thing he'd done since being jailed. The breeze carried a slight whiff of leather and horses, punching him with memories.

  The brothers were unsmiling, their eyes hidden in the shadows thrown by their Stetsons. Again, Dan wished for his hat. What had happened to all his things? He'd left a room full of clothes and a computer behind when he'd been incarcerated. The Hales had probably trashed it all.

  "Go ahead," he said when the silence became unbearable.

  Gideon raised one eyebrow.

  "You're here to collect, right? I don't have your ten K, so you'll have to take it out of my hide."

  Matt's narrowed eyes slid to Gideon. "Guess he figured us right."

  Gideon didn't crack a smile. "Guess he did."

  "Well? Get it over with." He closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable punch. Maybe they'd go for the midsection, not the face.

  Nothing happened.

  He cracked one eye open to see them staring at him.

  "We aren't here for revenge," Gideon said. Dummy. The name he hadn't called Dan reverberated in the air, unspoken.

  Dan stood straight. What were they here for, then?

  He was too proud to ask.

  "Come back to work at the Triple H," Matt said. He almost sounded... exasperated?

  Dan knew his mouth must be hanging open. Catching flies, his grandpops would've said.

  Surely he'd heard wrong.

  But then Gideon shifted slightly. "We're offering you your job back."

  Okay, so he hadn't misheard.

  "Why?"

  He couldn't imagine any scenario in which they'd want him back. Was this to punish him? Get him out to the Triple H and then tell him it'd all been a joke?

  Or was there some other reason?

  Neither one answered his question.

  "You got a better offer?" Gideon asked.

  He didn't. And all three of them knew it.

  If he stuck it out, did he have a chance at paying back his enormous debt?

  A throat cleared from nearby, and Dan turned to see his parole officer. Was the tiny kernel of hope he'd just experienced about to be quashed? Had Gideon and Matt even cleared it with the officer?

  Apparently they had.

  "The choice is yours," the officer said. "You should consider that returning to a place that contributed to your state of mind before is likely to be more difficult than starting fresh somewhere else."

  In other words, the guilt could eat him alive.

  But would there really be a fresh start if he walked away from the Triple H? At least on the ranch, he knew the score. The guys would watch his every move. The foreman, Nate, his former best friend, would never forgive him. He'd barely make more than minimum wage, plus room and board. He'd never make it out of the hole he'd dug himself.

  But going back was the right thing to do. Even if it meant he'd never make it out of Taylor Hills.

  And he was done courting Lady Luck. It was time to buckle down and do right.

  For once in his sorry life.

  Chapter 1

  Eighteen months later

  Megan Fuller, M.D. paused outside the exam room door, smoothing her white coat out of habit, patting her pocket to check that the stethoscope was still there. She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. They needed an adjustment. They’d been slipping all day.

  Last patient.

  Based on how her day was going, inside she could expect to find a crotchety grandpa or a talkative mom with a toddler. She hadn't had an appointment end on time all week.

  She glanced at
the patient chart in her hand, squinting at the tiny type. Dan Evans. Crotchety grandpa it was.

  She only let herself breathe for a moment, then pasted on a smile, knocked softly, and opened the door.

  A man looked up from where he sat on the exam table. But this was no grandpa.

  He was shirtless, and his muscled shoulders stretched for miles. His abs were defined, and she pretended her quick perusal was simple professional interest even as heat suffused her cheeks.

  "Hello. I'm Doctor Fuller," she said quickly.

  He nodded, his chocolate eyes darting away, lashes a dark smudge against his cheekbones as he stared at the floor.

  His jaw was hidden by two days of scruff, but he had an elegant nose that defied the ruggedness of his features. His hair was... a mess. It looked as if it'd been shorn, buzzed almost to his scalp, but was now growing out—that awkward stage in between two male hairstyles.

  It did not detract from his appearance.

  As she stepped into the room, she saw the cowboy hat atop his button-up shirt, both lying on the chair in the corner.

  A cowboy.

  She pushed back the instant flare of attraction—how anyone could not be attracted to the man was beyond her—and let her physician's eyes catalog. His tension was obvious in his grip on the exam table and the muscle ticking in his jaw. Had she offended him with the perusal she couldn't help? Should she apologize? Pretend it hadn't happened?

  "To what do I owe the honor of your visit today?" she asked, hoping a bit of humor might ease them both into the appointment.

  "Stitches."

  He twisted his torso and gave her a glimpse of the gash across his ribs, beneath his arm.

  "Uh-oh." She set the chart down on the counter and moved to the sink to scrub her hands, putting her back to him momentarily. "Please don't tell me you got it doing something reckless like bull riding."

  He didn't respond.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see his eyes cut away. As if he'd been watching her while her back was turned.

  "Or a farm implement gone rogue?" She grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and leaned her hips against the counter to dry her hands.

  The cowboy didn't look up, didn't crack even a hint of a smile.

  "I tried to butterfly it, but the bandages wouldn't hold." He spoke to the floor. As a former ER doctor from Houston, she was used to all different reactions from patients. From talkative to comatose, from patients handcuffed to the bed screaming obscenities, to laboring mothers. In Houston, the cowboy's reaction wouldn't have blipped her radar as unusual. But she'd taken over the family practice in Taylor Hills two weeks ago, and every single person she'd seen had chatted her ear off. From the grandmothers who detailed their entire medical histories, to the men in their mid-forties who questioned her credentials because she looked younger than her thirty-five years, they all wanted to talk.

  Not the cowboy.

  Fine. She needed to get home to Julianne and Brady anyway.

  "Let's take a look." She stepped to the exam table, unable to douse her awareness of his muscled form.

  Ignore it. Pretend he's a grandpa.

  Her internal instructions didn't help. Especially when she touched the corded back and he startled.

  "Sorry," she murmured. "Cold hands are a hazard of the profession."

  She had to gently shift his muscled arm forward, out of her line of sight with another touch. He remained frozen, barely breathing.

  Maybe the attraction zinging through her veins was one-sided. Maybe he was married, though she didn't see a ring on his finger.

  The laceration wasn't deep, but she could see how the location would be difficult to treat without help. It was surrounded by a fading yellow bruise. Curving along his upper ribcage, every time he moved, the bandages would pull.

  She stepped back, relieved for the momentary distance. "I can stitch you up, but you'll need to take it easy for several days."

  He shook his head very slightly, still not looking at her.

  "If you lift too much weight or haul... I don't know, bales of hay or a baby cow or something, you'll rip out the stitches, and we'll be right back here."

  His gaze flicked to meet hers for the briefest second. Was that a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips? It disappeared too quickly to be sure.

  "I'm serious."

  His eyes were downcast again. "I can't afford time off."

  "I can have the office phone your boss," she offered.

  He immediately tensed up, shoulders rigid.

  She glanced down at the counter, at his chart. "Oh. I have a sticky note here from Rene at the front desk. I think it says"—she squinted at the loopy handwriting—"you put down that you're a cash pay but normally the bills are sent to the... Triple H? I think she wanted me to find out if it was a mistake." She looked back up at the man.

  His stare was hard, any hint of humor gone behind a blank mask. His eyes narrowed, his hands clenched. If she’d thought him tense before, she hadn’t met tense. She figured any second, he’d vibrate right off the table.

  "I'm a cash pay." The words were said with deadly seriousness. And then she saw his throat work as he swallowed. Looked away again. "I'm good for it. I can make installments."

  Pride was a funny thing. So he didn't want this Triple H to pay for the appointment. He still held that tension in every line of his body. The charge would only be for an appointment and sutures. She didn't know the ins and outs of billing—that's what an office manager was for—but how much could it cost?

  She cleared her throat, forcing false brightness. "I'll make sure she gets it billed correctly." She reached up to the upper cabinet, pulled out a syringe. "Let me just get a local to numb the—"

  "That's not necessary."

  She looked over her shoulder at him. "Are you sure? Most patients find the needle uncomfortable." Uncomfortable was an understatement. Most people freaked out just looking at the curved surgical needle.

  "I'm sure."

  "Okaaaay."

  She assembled needle and thread and washed her hands again for good measure.

  He kept his focus on the floor as she moved close to the table.

  "Can you hold your arm away for me?" she asked quietly.

  He obliged, holding the limb aloft.

  Several inches below the laceration was a fading scar she hadn't noticed on the first pass. Farming must be more dangerous than she’d thought.

  "You'll feel a stick," she warned.

  But he didn't jump at the first prick of the needle. She couldn't even be sure he was breathing.

  "Deep breath," she said.

  And then his chest expanded beneath her hand.

  She kept stitching. Three. Four.

  "Tetanus can be dangerous," she said. "I'd recommend a booster—"

  "I'm current." His words were bit off, but when she adjusted her stance and glanced up at his face, he showed nothing of the pain he must be feeling. Good poker face.

  She refocused on her task. Seven. Eight.

  "I didn't see it on your chart—"

  "I'm current." This on an exhale, the words would've been a howl if they’d been louder than a puff of air.

  "Almost done." She just needed to tie... her opposite hand brushed his back as she manipulated the needle, and this time he did jump—away from her touch.

  "Sorry," she muttered. "Hold still."

  He went back to not breathing, and she tried to stifle the nerves. He was clearly not attracted to her. What was her problem?

  "It's been a long day," she said. "Packed with appointments. It seems like every person in Taylor Hills wants to meet the new doctor. We could do a church potluck or something, but they all just want to book appointments…"

  She forced the rambling words to a stop, snipped the end of the thread, and found her hand shaking slightly.

  "Okay, you're done."

  He was already off the table, his broad back to her as he reached for his shirt.

 
She backed toward the door. She hadn't been this flustered since her residency.

  She didn't get it. She'd treated plenty of men. Handsome men.

  The cowboy had barely looked at her. What—twice? Obviously, the flare of attraction she'd felt had been only in her mind. He couldn't wait to get out of here.

  And then, his head turned as he shrugged into his shirt. Not all the way, as if he didn't dare look at her square on. "Thanks."

  She saluted with his chart, which was silly because he couldn't see her, and ducked out, closing the exam room door behind her.

  She rubbed a hand over her face. She was exhausted. Long days and interrupted sleep had worn her clear out. That's what the problem was. This had been an anomaly.

  Maybe she'd imagined the whole thing.

  She'd go home, feed the kids dinner, and get to bed early.

  Except it was summer. And Friday night.

  The kids would be wired for the weekend. Not for the first time, she had the thought that she wasn't cut out for this life.

  But it was hers now.

  Lady Luck was right there. Beckoning him.

  Daring him.

  Dan looked away from the gas station's lottery ticket display. Even from across the room, it had power over him. He hated that.

  He slurped his fountain drink, trying to divert his attention. He waited while the attendant checked out the woman at the counter while his drink sweated almost as much as he did.

  He'd only left the ranch a few times since his release. The first time, he'd gone to pick up a load of feed, and the store owner had made it very clear he wasn't welcome. Taylor Hills had a long memory, and he could see judgment in folks' eyes. He was still the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Still the screw-up.

  Only worse now.

  A screw up with a record.

  He'd only come to town today for the stitches. He'd been driving back to the Triple H in Matt Hale's truck when he hadn't been able to resist the urge to stop off for a soft drink.