Blazing Hot Cowboy

by Kim Redford

  The girl parked down the block, climbed out of her car, and made sure Hank and Delon were watching as she sashayed into the drugstore.

  Hank gave a low whistle. “I gotta get me a piece of that.”

  “She’s a human being, not an apple pie,” Delon snapped. “And she’s still in high school.”

  “Old enough to know what she wants.” Hank turned his smirk on Delon. “And you should talk. Like you’ve never gone stupid for a hot blonde.”

  Tori. The memory slammed into Delon. Another of those times he’d made a grab for something way out of his reach. And fallen hard. “That was a long time ago,” he said stiffly.

  “But you were seein’ her for, what—five, six months?” Because of course there were no secrets in Earnest, and on the rare occasions that the past died, it was buried in a very shallow grave. Hank shot him a sly grin. “You never brought her around, not even to meet Miz Iris. Sounds like a booty call to me.”

  Delon had to choke down his fury for fear of sparking the gasoline fumes. Besides—damn it to hell—he couldn’t argue.

  “Can’t blame you. I seen pictures.” Hank made a show of wiping his brow with his sleeve. “She was smokin’. Melanie and Violet and Shawnee called her Cowgirl Barbie.”

  Tori might’ve looked perfect, but she was definitely not made of plastic. Delon would know. He’d examined every inch of her on multiple occasions. Had planned on doing it a whole lot more, until he’d called her that one last time.

  We’re sorry, the number you have reached is no longer in service…

  “Too bad she wasn’t the one you knocked up. Senator Patterson’s daughter? Beni would be like royalty around here.”

  Delon slammed the nozzle back onto the pump and wheeled around, biting off a curse when pain stabbed through his busted knee. “Honest to shit, Hank, why someone hasn’t strangled you yet is beyond me.”

  Hank gazed back in wide-eyed bafflement. “Why? What did I say?”

  Only the gas pump between them stopped Delon from running the little bastard down as he drove away. He reached over to the passenger’s seat, grabbed a Snickers bar, and ripped it open with his teeth, but even the blast of sugar and chocolate couldn’t ward off the memories. Tori, with her long blonde hair sliding like expensive satin between his grease-stained fingers, and eyes as blue as her blood. Whose family spread was a Texas legend, the owners reigning as kings and queens of the Panhandle for well over a century.

  Tori, who’d disappeared without so much as a Kiss my ass, cowboy, we’re through. And stayed gone.

  He’d been stupid enough to be surprised, even after seeing how being a rich girl’s whim had worked out for his brother. Tori and Krista were stamped from the same cookie cutter, sugar-frosted temptation with glittery sprinkles on top. How could a man stop at one bite? Especially Delon, with his sweet tooth. But all he and Tori had in common was mutual lust and the fact that his father trucked loads of cattle, while Richard Patterson served on the United States Senate subcommittee with oversight of the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration. The Sanchezes’ idea of a big night out was prime rib with all the fixin’s at the Lone Steer Saloon. The Pattersons had dined at the White House on multiple occasions during the last Republican presidency.

  Yeah, Delon had had a real chance there.

  Sometimes he wondered if he’d been following in his brother’s footsteps for so long that he couldn’t help himself. Little League shortstop—check. Defensive back and punt returner on the Earnest High School football team—check. Bareback rider—check. High class, heart-breaking blonde—check.

  Illegitimate son—yep, check that one too.

  Except Delon had done his brother one better for a change. The mother of his son was—or had been, pre-Joe—one of his best friends. Having a baby with Violet had made Delon a permanent part of the Jacobs clan, who had folded him in like he was blood-born. But Gil had knocked up the rich blonde, and now he waged an endless war against her powerful family to be a significant part of his son’s life. At least Delon didn’t have to drive clear to Oklahoma to see Beni. He just had to share him with goddamn Joe Cassidy.

  Delon crammed the rest of the Snickers into his mouth and punched up the playlist he’d labeled The Hard Stuff. The bass notes vibrated clear down into his gonads and he thumped his fist against the steering wheel in time to the beat. He might drive a mom car, but he’d match the custom stereo system against any gangbanger in Amarillo.

  When he pulled into the parking lot at the clinic, Delon sat for a moment to delay the upcoming appointment. His new physical therapist was probably competent as hell. Panhandle Orthopedics & Rehabilitation was the best in the region—they wouldn’t hire anything less. But he was so damn tired of rolling with the punches—of taking the crumbs he was given and pretending he was satisfied.

  Don’t kick up a fuss now, Delon. Your mother can’t come visit if you’re gonna throw such a fit when she leaves.

  He scowled, drop-kicking that memory into the distant past as he climbed out of the car. On the worst days along the rodeo trail—beat-up, exhausted, and homesick—he’d always been able to paste on a happy face. He was the guy who could work the crowd, the sponsors, the rodeo committees, trading on the face God had given him to the tune of as much sponsorship money as some of the world champions. Now he could barely manage a smile for the receptionist.

  Beth, a faded redhead with tired eyes who didn’t have much luck hiding her prematurely gray roots or the hard miles that had put them there, smiled back. She clicked a few times with her computer mouse. “Got you checked in, Delon.”

  “Thanks. Can I go ahead and warm up?”

  She shook her head. “Tori said she wanted to do a full evaluation first thing. She’ll be right out.”

  His heart smacked into his ribs at the name. Then he blew out a dry laugh. Geezus. He’d really let Hank get into his head. Yeah, his—no, scratch that—the Tori he’d known had been studying physical therapy. But a Patterson wouldn’t work at a general orthopedic clinic. She’d be at a highfalutin research hospital, developing new techniques for treating Parkinson’s disease, or at one of those exclusive joints in Houston or Dallas that treated pro football and basketball players.

  Besides. Even his luck wasn’t that bad.

  Then the waiting room door opened. A woman stood there—tallish, slender, and almost plain, wearing khakis and a white Panhandle Sports Medicine polo shirt. Her shoulder-length hair was the color of caramel. She was probably wearing makeup, but it was the kind a man never noticed. No jewelry. No glitter. No frosting of any kind on this Tori.

  Then the voice that had whispered through his memories for almost seven years said, “Hello, Delon.”

  The floor tilted under his feet. He knew he was gawking, but he couldn’t stop himself. She didn’t smile. Didn’t…anything. Her face was as blank as if they’d never shared more than a cup of coffee. She gestured toward the open door, cool as spring water. “Come on in.”

  She turned to lead the way without checking to see if he followed. Delon squeezed his eyes shut, taking a moment to steady himself. Here he’d been thinking his life couldn’t get much more screwed up than it already was.

  That’d teach him.

  Chapter 2

  Delon was still gorgeous. Which, of course, Tori had known. He’d been one of the top bareback riders in the country for years, and fans and sponsors alike swooned over that face, that body, and that way he had of making every person feel like he’d been waiting all day just to smile at them alone.

  He wasn’t smiling now.

  Tori led him through the open gym space immediately adjacent to the waiting room, past patients sweating on stationary bikes, grunting painfully through sets on the weight equipment and stretches on the mat tables. She pointed Delon down the hall toward one of the four private treatment rooms. He walked with the distinctive, slightly duck-footed gait
of a bareback rider who’d spent a lifetime turning his toes out to spur bucking horses. From behind, the view was spectacular, despite loose-fitting nylon warm-up pants and a plain navy blue T-shirt. His body was denser, the way men got as they matured. The changes only made him more attractive. More…there.

  She’d never seen him in workout clothes. Hell, she’d barely seen him in clothes at all, back in the day. Most of the time they’d spent together had involved the opposite of dressing for the occasion. She poked at the memory, the way her dentist poked her cheek to see if she was numb enough for him to start drilling. Can you feel that? No? Great. We can go ahead then.

  Ah, the blessed numbness. It had settled around her like thick cotton batting, layer after layer, down the long highway between here and the Wyoming border. By the time she’d crossed into the Panhandle, she hadn’t felt anything but the most basic biological urges. Eat. Drink. Pee. Sleep…well, she was working on that one.

  Everything else was muted. Grief. Guilt. The gossamer thread of anger that wound through it all. She was aware of their presence, but from a safe distance. An induced coma of the heart, so it could finally rest and heal.

  If anyone could penetrate her cocoon, it should have been Delon, but she had looked him straight in the eye and there was…not exactly nothing. But what she felt now was an echo from far in the murky past. Which meant her concerns about whether she could effectively function as his therapist were ungrounded, at least from her perspective. From Delon’s…hard to tell, since he had yet to say a word. He hesitated at the treatment room door, as if unsure about being trapped in the confined space with her.

  “Climb up on the table,” she said. “I want to take some measurements.”

  He didn’t budge. “It’s all in my chart.”

  “I reviewed Margo’s notes, but I prefer to form my own opinions.” When he still didn’t move, she added, “You won’t be charged for the evaluation, since it’s solely for my benefit.”

  She held her breath as he stood for a few beats, possibly debating whether or not to turn around, stomp back to reception, and demand to be assigned a different therapist. Being fired by a star patient wasn’t quite the impression she wanted to make on her first day. Damn Pepper for insisting that she take over Delon’s rehab when she transferred here, but she’d rather hang herself with a cheap rope than explain to her mentor why she shouldn’t take the case.

  Delon finally moved over to the table. But rather than sit on it, he braced his butt against the edge and faced her, arms and ankles crossed. The pose made all kinds of muscles jump up and beg for attention. A woman would have to be a whole lot more than numb not to notice.

  “So, you’re back from…”

  “Cheyenne,” she said, filling in the blank.

  He blinked. “Wyoming?”

  Was there any other? Probably, but only one that mattered. “Yes. I did my outpatient clinical rotation at Pepper’s place and he hired me when I graduated.”

  “Pepper Burke?”

  “Yes.” Surgeon to the stars of rodeo. The man who’d performed Delon’s surgery, also in Cheyenne, where Tori had made damn sure their paths hadn’t crossed. “I’ve worked for him since I graduated.”

  She watched the wheels turn behind Delon’s dark eyes, connections snapping into place. Cowboys traveled from all over the United States and Canada to be treated by Pepper and his staff. “Tough place to get hired on.”

  “Yes.” She gestured toward the table. “If you’re satisfied with my credentials…”

  He blinked again, then squinted as if he was seeing double, trying to line up his memory of college Tori with the woman who stood in front of him. She could have told him not to bother. She’d shed that girl, layer by superficial layer, until there was barely enough left to recognize in the mirror.

  Whatever Delon saw, it convinced him to slide onto the treatment table. She started with girth measurements—calf, knee, thigh—to compare the muscle mass of his injured leg to the uninjured side. As she slid the tape around his thigh, she felt him tense. Glancing up, her gaze caught his and for an instant she saw it all in his eyes. The memories. The heat.

  Her pulse skipped ever so slightly, echoing the hitch in his breath. Her emotions might be too anesthetized to react to his proximity, but her body remembered, and with great fondness. A trained response. No more significant than Pavlov’s drooling dogs.

  “Lie flat,” she ordered, and picked up his leg.

  Halfway through the series of tests, she knew Pepper’s concern was justified. If anything, Delon’s injured leg was slightly stronger than the other, testament to how hard he’d worked at his rehab. Four months post surgery, though, he should have had full range of motion. Instead, when she bent the knee, she felt as if she hit a brick wall a few degrees past ninety. She increased the pressure to see how he’d react.

  “That’s it,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Well, crap. “How does it feel when I push on it?”

  “Like my kneecap is going to explode.”

  Double crap. She sucked in one corner of her bottom lip and chewed on it as she considered their options.

  “Is there any chance it’s going to get better?” His voice was quiet, but tension vibrated from every muscle in his body—for good reason. He was asking if his career might be over. It wasn’t a question she could, or should, answer.

  She stepped back and folded her arms. “I’ll give Pepper a call. He’ll want new X-rays, possibly an MRI—”

  “What will an MRI tell him?” His gaze came up to meet hers, flat, black, daring her to be anything less than honest.

  “Whether you’ve developed an abnormal amount of scar tissue, either inside the joint or in the capsule.”

  “And if I have?”

  “He can go in arthroscopically and clean up inside the joint.” But from what she’d felt, she doubted that was the case.

  “What about the capsule?”

  She kept her eyes on him, steady, unflinching. “You had a contact injury with a lot of trauma. The capsule may have thickened and scarred in response, or adhesions may have formed between folds. There are ways to address the adhesions.”

  “But not the other kind.”

  “No. And there are limits to how much we can improve it with therapy. You’ll have to learn to live with a deficit.”

  That would mean a shorter spur stroke with his left compared to his right leg, in an event where symmetry was a huge part of the score. How many points would the lag cost him per ride? Five? Ten? Enough to end his career as he knew it.

  “Worst case scenario, we can get you to at least eighty percent of normal. Then we can look at your biomechanics, make adjustments—”

  He gave a sharp, impatient shake of his head. “The judges aren’t stupid. They’ll notice if I try to fake it.”

  She didn’t argue. After the thousands of hours he’d spent training his body to work in a very precise groove, telling Delon he had to change his riding style was no different than informing a pitcher they couldn’t stay in the major leagues unless they changed their arm angle, or a golfer that they had to retool their swing.

  The tight, angry set to Delon’s shoulders suggested it might be a while before he would consider trying. Well, he was in luck. He’d landed a physical therapist who knew all about adapting to loss. One of these days she might even get around to finding her new style.

  Delon sat up abruptly and swung his legs off the table, forcing her to step aside. She pulled out a business card and scribbled a number on the back.

  “For today, stick with your regular exercise program. Between now and your next appointment, I’ll decide what changes we need to make. If you want to go ahead with the X-rays and MRI, let Beth know on your way out and she’ll make the arrangements.” She handed him the card. “That’s my direct line if you have any other questions.”

 
He turned the card over and studied the front for a long moment. Then he looked at her, his face a wooden mask. “What does your husband think of living in Texas?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  His fist curled around the card. “Sorry. Divorced?”

  “Dead,” she said, and walked out the door before he could join the legions who’d expressed their heartfelt sympathy when they didn’t know fuck all about Willy except what they’d heard on the evening news.

  A COWBOY FIREFIGHTER FOR CHRISTMAS

  First in the Smokin’ Hot Cowboys contemporary romance series from author Kim Redford

  Trey Duval, a rancher and firefighter in Wildcat Bluff, is out of luck. His ranch has suffered from several “accidental” fires and there is no explanation in sight. All he wants for the upcoming holiday is to get to the bottom of this mystery, but what he gets instead is hotter than any ranch fire when he meets city-girl Misty Reynolds.

  “This tale will melt even the iciest heart.”

  —Publishers Weekly Starred Review

  For more Kim Redford, visit:

  www.sourcebooks.com

  RECKLESS IN TEXAS

  First in the Texas Rodeo contemporary romance series from author Kari Lynn Dell

  Violet Jacobs is trying to get her family’s rodeo production company into the big time. When she hires a hotshot rodeo bullfighter, she expected a ruckus—but she never expected her heart to be on the line.

  Joe Cassidy is the best bullfighter in the business, but what he finds with Violet is more than just a career opportunity; it’s a chance to create a life of his own, if he can let her see him for the man he really is.

  “A sexy, engaging romance set in the captivating world of rodeo.”