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“NASCAR fan or not, let In the Groove drive you to distraction.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub (4 stars)
“A fairy tale that succeeds.”
—Publishers Weekly on Scandal
“This is the kind of book that romance fans will read and reread on gloomy days.”
–Publishers Weekly on Tempted
“Passion and humor are a potent combination, and author Pamela Britton comes up with the perfect blend and does everything right.”
—The Oakland Press
“This nonstop read has it all—sizzling sexuality, unforgettable characters, poignancy, a delightful plot and a well-crafted backdrop.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub (Top Pick) on Tempted
“It isn’t easy to write a tale that makes the reader laugh and cry, but Britton succeeds, thanks to her great characters.”
—Booklist (starred review) on Seduced
Dear Reader,
Well, here we are again. I’m so tickled and delighted to be bringing you yet another story set in fictional Los Molina. When I started writing for the Mills & Boon American Romance line, I never thought I’d be creating a whole series of books based in this town, very similar to my own beloved hometown of Cottonwood, California.
As always, I hope you enjoy Cowboy M.D. and get a chance to pick up the other books in the series, too. And don’t forget that I’m also writing a line of NASCAR books for Mills & Boon’s HQN Books. (I know, NASCAR and romance—who’d have thunk?) Some of you might have read about these books in your local newspapers, Sports Illustrated or Entertainment Weekly. It’s been a wild ride, and I couldn’t be happier to be combining romance with a sport I love.
Until next time!
May all your books be keepers,
Pamela
P.S. Please visit my Web site at www.pamelabritton.com.
Cowboy M.D.
Pamela Britton
www.millsandboon.co.uk
To the gang at Elegant Bean in Cottonwood, California. Thanks, guys, for all the coffee. Not only do you keep me awake in the mornings, but you keep me laughing, too. Here’s to many more books being written on your comfy couch.
Books by Pamela Britton
MILLS & BOON AMERICAN ROMANCE
985—COWBOY LESSONS
1040—COWBOY TROUBLE
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
The door to the rooftop opened with a bang that caused Dr. Nicholas Sheppard to swivel in his plastic lawn chair.
“Doctor,” Lori, one of the first-year residents, said, lights from the parking lot ten stories below illuminating the concern in her face. “You’d better come.”
It was a cold, crisp night and his breath came out in a mist when he exhaled. “Is it Robby?”
She nodded.
Nick shot up so fast the dark green chair fell back. His leather soles lost purchase on the tar-and-gravel roof as he ran to the door.
“CBC?” he asked as he pushed open the metal door. The fluorescent lights from the narrow stairwell nearly blinded him as he took the stairs two at a time, the metal rail warm to his chilled hands.
“Came back a few minutes ago. Not good.”
“Damn,” he muttered. The coffee he’d just gulped down turned to acid. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Lori followed him as he entered the hospital’s main corridor, startling one of the candy-striped volunteers who was pushing an elderly patient down the hall.
“What are the numbers?” he asked, both volunteer and patient wide-eyed as he raced past.
“White blood cells just below four hundred.”
“Damn,” Nick repeated.
“BP at two-ten over one-twenty.”
He attacked the elevator button with ferocity.
“Do you think—” Lori started to ask.
But of course he thought that. Nine-year-old Robby Martin had been brought in four days ago, the victim of a rollover, one that had killed his father. But this kid was a fighter, even with burns on eighty percent of his body, so maybe it would be all right.
The minute he entered the ICU, Nick knew it wouldn’t be all right. If the dusky pallor of Robby’s face—the only part of him that wasn’t bandaged—didn’t tip him off, the way each breath gurgled in the boy’s chest in spite of the respirator would have done it. Pneumonia.
Damn.
Nick almost hurled the metal chart. He jerked the cover back, the aluminum flap swinging on its hinges with a protesting squeak barely audible above the respirator.
He was losing him.
“Should we up his meds?” Lori asked.
But Nick knew pumping more drugs into the child’s feverish body would do no good. “Up the morphine.” And when he met Lori’s eyes, he could tell she understood. The savvy, first-year resident had impressed him with her cool head and soothing bedside manner. Now she had tears in her eyes, too.
“Okay,” she said, blinking rapidly before turning to do as ordered.
Nick moved to the side of the bed where Robby lay, the kid’s brown eyes barely open. What was it about this one that tugged at everyone’s heart? That had every nurse and every resident on the floor checking in to see how he was? They all ached for him. They hurt for the little boy who’d lost his daddy, whose skin had been ravaged by flames while his dad screamed next to him.
“Hey, Robby,” he said. The back of his esophagus swelled as he fought the impulse to cry. The boy couldn’t talk. Hell, he was barely conscious. But he could moan, and the sound was pitiful. He’d been groaning like that when they’d brought him in, the hospital staff hushed by the child’s pain-racked cries.
Get a hold of yourself, Nick. You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to be immune to this.
But he wasn’t. No doctor ever could be, especially the head of a burn trauma unit.
“Get his mother,” he said to Lori, his voice grating.
When Lori left, Nick reached a hand out and gently fingered a tuft of the child’s blond hair sticking out from the bandage. “It’s okay,” he said softly, his damn eyes blurring again. “It’ll be better soon.”
His hand began to shake.
“Dr. Sheppard,” Robby’s mom said from the doorway. “What’s wrong. What is it—”
But one look at Nick’s face and the child’s mother knew. She took a step back, covering her mouth with both hands.
Nick could only stand there, suddenly out of emotion.
“Mrs. Martin,” Lori said as she came into the room, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
But Robby’s mom didn’t hear her.
“Robby?” she called. But the boy didn’t respond, his consciousness already slipping away.
“Page me when—” He met Lori’s gaze, and there was no need to finish the sentence. She nodded, looked away.
As he left the room, he ignored the staff members who tried to stop him.
He was a kid. Just a damned kid.
He didn’t want to lose another one.
By the time he reached the stairwell, the words were a chant.
Not another kid.
By the time he climbed up a floor, his eyes were welling.
Not another kid.
And by the time he reached the hospital’s roof, the cry that clogged his throat erupted into the cold winter air.
“Bastard,” he moaned. “Bastard,” he said again, the stars blurring into smudges dotting the black sky. He sank to his knees, the rooftop gravel digging into his legs. But he didn’t notice anything except the despair he felt.
Dr. Nicholas Sheppard had lost his faith.
Chapter One
Naked.
Alison Forester stopped so fast she almost stepped out of her pumps.
Dr. Nicholas Sheppard looked to be…naked.
She peeked around the Los Molina Rodeo grounds to see if anyone else had noticed.
Hey, Naked Man over here. Whoo-hoo.
But everyone had left the arena, the rodeo practice long since over. The only things left behind were the pipe panel livestock chutes and tall, aluminum grandstands that appeared to be deserted beneath the blueberry-colored sky. Cows and horses called out to one another from their pens, but Nicholas Sheppard didn’t notice as he rummaged through a brown duffel bag.
No. Not naked, she realized when he stood. He wore underwear, the kind that usually came with tiger stripes or leopard spots—only these were white. His tanned body was completely at ease as he shook out a pair of black jeans, his chiseled rear swinging around toward her as he started to pull them on.
My, my, my.
He turned.
Ali jerked back.
So did Nicholas Sheppard.
“Can I help you?” he said, holding up his waistband.
He was supposed to look different from his medical school picture. Bald, maybe. Or pudgy. Really, really pudgy—with a pocket protector in his shirt. But this was the same, darkly handsome face that had just about taken her breath away when she’d first seen it.
“Dr. Nicholas Sheppard?” she asked, knowing it was him. He’d left his jeans undone, the white V of his underwear visible behind the—
He cleared his throat, quickly doing up the zipper and the snap.
“I’m Nick Sheppard,” he confirmed. Nicholas Sheppard was tall. And tanned all over—she should know—with eyes the color of riverbed grass and a face too masculine to belong to a world-renowned reconstructive surgeon.
“I’m a—” Ali swallowed. “I’m—” Who are you, Ali? Think. Think. “I’m Ali Forester,” she said in a rush.
She knew he recognized the name. And why shouldn’t he? She’d left enough messages on his machine to fill a movie reel.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled, standing there with his hands on his hips like the jolly Green Giant, only with dark brown hair, not green. “I guess if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed—”
“Mohammed came to you,” she finished for him.
In response he turned and—oooh—bent down. She wished he wouldn’t do that. Her body warmed as he retrieved a beige shirt from his bag. With one smooth jerk, he had the shirt on.
“Do you always change out in the open?”
“I do when my old clothes are dirty and I need to go someplace afterward.”
“Oh,” she answered, feeling as intelligent as the fly that buzzed around her face. Obviously he’d been riding, which meant the truck and long white horse trailer she’d passed in the deserted gravel lot must belong to him.
“You could have waited for me to call back,” he said, doing up the last of the buttons, then sucking in his abdomen—what there was of it—and tucking in his shirt.
“See, that’s just it,” she said, shifting her heels and resisting the urge to fuss with her black business suit. “I have waited. Weeks, in fact. And I have to be honest, it’s a little odd for me to hear your voice without a beep after it.”
At his lifted brow, she added, “You know, the one that usually follows your, ‘Hi, you’ve reached Nicholas Sheppard. I’m not here right now. Leave a message.’”
His brows dropped.
“Beeeeep,” she added.
He frowned. “I’ve been busy.”
Ali inhaled so deeply, her bra strap popped off her shoulder. She nonchalantly fixed it before saying, “Obviously, which is why I’ve come to you.” Nervously she launched into her speech. “We need you, Dr. Sheppard. You’re the most gifted reconstructive surgeon in the United States. The Daniel Meredith Burn Center in Texas needs that expertise. You’ll be working on people who’ve lost hope. People who need you to give it back to them.” People like me.
“Look,” he said, slipping on a pair of brown cowboy boots that had been standing empty nearby, “I appreciate that you seem to have set your sights on me.”
But he wasn’t going to do it; she could see the answer in his eyes. Damn.
“I’m not practicing that kind of medicine anymore,” he said, turning away from her again to zip up his duffel bag, the spurs attached to his boots clinking against pebbles.
“Do you mind me asking why not?”
He threw his bag over one shoulder and covered the only part of him that looked doctorly—his short-cropped brown hair—by cramming a black cowboy hat on his head.
“Is it because of that boy you lost?” she called as he walked away.
His boot heels kicked up little puffs of dust, the rowels on his spurs spinning, he’d stopped so suddenly. In the distance she heard a horse neigh. A car drove by on the road in front of the grounds. Nicholas Sheppard turned back to her, eyes narrowed, an OK Corral look of pique on his face.
“Because if it is, you don’t need to worry. I’ve seen the file. You did everything you could to save him.”
“You’ve seen the file?”
She nodded.
Those green eyes narrowed even more, if that were possible. “How the heck did you get your hands on a patient’s file? And how do you know about Robby to have looked in the first place?”
“When I made the inquiry, they told me about the case. And when I asked to look at the file they seemed happy to give it to me.” Of course, Nana Helfer had made the call. Members of one hospital board often did things for sister members of the board, even if those hospitals were thousands of miles apart.
“That file is none of your business.”
“I needed to be thorough, and when I heard about what happened, naturally I wanted to make sure…”
That you weren’t negligent.
“What else has your snooping uncovered?” he asked.
“Your personnel file. And might I say it’s impressive, though I’m disappointed it didn’t give me your weight and hair color.”
Her joke fell flat. He just looked at her, stern, before turning away.
“Wait!”
“No,” he said right back. “I have no interest in whatever job you’re here to offer me.”
“Head of the department,” she said, coming up alongside him. “And I know you’ve always wanted to research new skin-graft techniques. If you worked for us, you’d have your own research staff, unlimited funding…you name it, you’ve got it.”
“Not interested,” he said, tugging his hat lower on his head and looking a far stretch from one of the most gifted surgeons in the industry. He looked like…a cowboy.
“Have a safe flight back,” he said. And Ali was surprised to realize they’d reached his truck and horse trailer.
“But—”
He threw his duffel bag on the passenger seat and then climbed inside. With a polite if somewhat old-fashioned tip of his hat, he slammed the door in her face with a gust of air that blew a few strands of her blond hair out of the bun she’d wrestled it into.
When the truck started, Ali jumped back.
Well, that had gone well.
He started to pull out, the tires on his horse trailer popping up gravel as he rolled away.
He’d be a tougher nut to crack than she thought.
NICK REFUSED to look in his rearview mirror as he drove his rig toward the exit.
Calm down, Nick. It was just a job offer.
And yet he still felt rattled. And, darn it, there he went looking in his rearview mirror. The woman with the corporate-raider attire and the sweet-as-honey Texas accent walked to her car, looking as out of place at the Los Molina Rodeo grounds as a show horse at a racetrack.
The gooseneck stock trailer groaned as he slowed, riveted by the sight of her feet. She wore some kind of shoes with thin straps that crisscrossed and wrapped around her very delicate ankles. He didn’t know what surprised him more, the feminine shoes or that she looked nothing like he’d envisioned. Beautiful in an ice queen sort of way, with gray-blue eyes.
Thump.
Boom!
Bam, bam, bam.
Nick groaned. Damn it, he’d forgotten to tie his horse, something that wasn’t a problem—as long as the trailer wasn’t moving.
He shook his head and stopped the trailer.
His own research staff.
Yeah, well, he thought, as he got out of his truck, spurs clinking against the door frame, he was through with that dream. From now on he’d patch up cowboys at rodeos—the kind of doctoring his father had wanted him to do in the first place. No more burn victims. No more crying parents.
No more children.
“Hold on,” he said, slapping the side of the trailer to get the horse’s attention. Damn thing. He’d hurt himself if he didn’t stop scrambling around.
Out on the road, a car flew by, blowing Nick’s cowboy hat up in the back. The driver honked, which meant Nick probably knew him, but he was too busy to look up to see who it was.
“Hold on, Boy. Let me tie your fool head down.”
At the back of the trailer he swung the door wide, put out a hand and touched the horse’s flank, trying to soothe him. In a few seconds he had him contained. When he stepped out of the trailer, it was to hear the unmistakable ch-ch-ch-chu of a car engine, one that didn’t want to start.
For half a second Nick considered pretending he didn’t hear.
Ch-ch-ch-chu.
Son of a—
His boots kicked up little pebbles as he crossed over to where she was.
Send Bill, the local mechanic, out to help her.
She started when he tapped her window.
Tell her about the pay phone.
Her expression conveyed relief, dismay and the most endearing damsel-in-distress look he’d ever seen.
Nick almost smiled.
“Need a ride?” he asked after she rolled down the window.
To give her credit, she said, “No. I’ll make do on my own.”
He shook his head. “C’mon. I’ll give you a ride into town.”
“I’ve got a cell phone,” she said, reaching for the thing and then waving it in his face.
“No service.”
Her gray eyes widened as she quickly looked at the phone. “Well, I’ll be.”
“Service is spotty out here.”
“Is there a pay phone nearby?”
“Someone stole the handset.”
She raised her brows.
“C’mon,” he said again.
She just gave him a big smile. “That’s okay. I can flag someone down.”
She was starting to irritate him. “I’m not leaving you.”
She opened the door, unfolded her pretty legs with those frilly shoes and stood. Their two bodies almost touched.
“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that,” he said softly, feeling an unexpected stir of interest as he gazed down at her. She had hair like the Barbie dolls his sister used to play with. Not dark blond, not light blond, but a bunch of blonds all mixed together.
“You didn’t have to,” she said.
Didn’t have to what? He took a breath, inhaling a citrus-like smell that he knew wasn’t perfume but rather a soap of some sort.
Nick backed up. “Look,” he said. “I’m not leaving you alone. Your cell phone won’t work, there’s no pay phone and I sure as heck refuse to leave you while I go call a tow truck. Sometimes we get crazies stopping by here.”
Her eyes widened again.
“Tell me what hotel you’re at and I’ll give you a ride.”
Her thick eyelashes concealed her eyes. “Look, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you just called a tow truck for me.”
He let out a curse. “What do I have to do? Pick you up and throw you over my shoulder?”
She looked up sharply. “No, but maybe you could loan me your horse?”
Amazing how she’d done that, irritated and amused him practically in the same breath.
“Look, just hop on in. Heck, you can ride in the back with Boy if you want to.”
“Boy?”
He nodded.
“Your horse’s name is Boy?”
“Yeah, it is. C’mon,” he said, gritting his teeth. But three steps later, he realized she still hadn’t moved.
“What now?”
She didn’t blink. “You’re not going to like where I’m staying.”
“I’m not?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
She didn’t say anything.
And Nick knew.
“You’re staying at my parents’ dude ranch, aren’t you?”
She smiled again, a mischievous, fun-loving smile he might have found cute if her next words hadn’t made his jaw pop in anger.
“I am.”
Chapter Two
Ali knew he wouldn’t take the news well, but to be honest, she’d been hoping to avoid the subject until it was too late for him to say something. Like, when she was already at his parents’ ranch, unpacked, maybe riding one of the horses she’d been promised were available for guests.
Unfortunately things hadn’t worked out that way.
“You can’t stay at the Diamond W,” he said, his square jaw more angular with his jaw muscle flexed.
“Actually, I can.”
“Are you stalking me?”
She winced, having wondered herself what it was about the man that made her determined to hire him.
He’s the best.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Doctor. I needed a vacation and so I decided to combine a little work with pleasure.”
He didn’t appear convinced.
“Look. You really don’t need to worry about me. I’m sure I can find a spot where there’s cell phone service. And if not, I’ll hike up my skirt, undo a few buttons and hitch a ride.” She smiled widely. There was no way, no how, she’d ever expose her body.
But he appeared to have no sense of humor. Typical doctor.
“Seriously—”
“Hop in the truck.” He turned away, his spurs chinking like they did in old movies.
Ching, ching, ching.
“Wait,” she said, realizing it was time to give up. “I’ve got to get my cat.”
He faced her suddenly, quickly, like a gun-fighter. “Your what?” he asked. Oh, but now he looked like a doctor, one who’d just been told by a cancer patient that they’d been outside smoking a pack of cigarettes.
“I brought my cat.”
“You brought your cat,” he repeated.
“It’s okay. I talked to your mom. She said it was all right.”
He just stared at her. Alison could hear Mr. Clean howling inside the car.
“Go get your cat.”
“I know, I know,” she muttered. She’d have been better off leaving him at home. Her next-door neighbor probably wouldn’t have forgotten to feed him or left the door open or a window….
“What is that?” he asked when she’d pulled the cat carrier from the car. It was one of those Quonset-hut-shaped things, the kind made from wire mesh so you could see the animal inside.
“This is Mr. Clean,” she pronounced, holding the cage up.
“That is the ugliest damn cat I’ve ever seen.”
She straightened. “He’s not ugly. He’s just…hairless.”
“It looks like something out of E.T.”
“Nope. He’s from this planet. Russia, actually. He’s a Russian Peterbald.” Clean gave another howl. “I’m allergic to cat hair,” she explained. And something about the bald cat appealed to her, something that had to do with the poor thing being laughed at by everyone who saw it at the pet store. She knew what it was like to have people laugh at you.
“Where should I put him?”
“Put him in the back.”
“Of the truck?”
“No. The backseat.”
Oh. Well, okay. Shaking her head, she did as asked, Mr. Clean protesting from the back.