Houston Calloway strode across the first-aid tent, his black hat tipped low on his brow, the licensed athletic trainer in Jill noticed the gash in his well-worn jeans above his right knee, and that his right hand was wrapped around his left wrist below the cuff of the red shirt. Had she not been a professional, she would have only noticed his confident gait, the shading of whiskers surrounding his mouth and his above-average height. But she was a professional and always had been.
Besides, as a member of an elite rodeo medical program, Jill had treated the likes of him before. In fact, she’d treated him before. Several times. The ever-popular rodeo superstar had enough bull-riding championship trophies to fill a football stadium and several concussions on his injury résumé. He also had a penchant for being an uncooperative patient, something she’d discovered the hard way over the past two years.
Jill rolled her chair back from the counter, swiveled completely around to face him and suppressed a frown. “What is it this time, Mr. Calloway?”
He worked his way onto the exam table across from her without an invitation. “Got my left hand caught in the rope when I was trying to get my right hand free, and I took a horn to my leg. But I made it to the buzzer.”
Good for you, she thought as she stood. “Are you right-handed?”
“Yep.”
“That’s a plus. Any chance you fell on your head again?”
He cracked a cynical smile. “Not this time.”
“That’s new and different. Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
Doubting she could believe him, Jill held up a finger. “Follow my movement without turning your head.”
He grumbled and scowled. “I told you I didn’t fall on my head. I landed square on my feet and if you don’t believe me, ask Henry.”
Like she’d really believe a rodeo clown wouldn’t cover for him. Jill lowered her hand in resignation, but stared at him straight on. “Okay. Fine. For now. But I’ll be watching you for any latent signs. You’ve already had two concussions that I’ve treated, and who knows how many you had before that.”
That earned Jill a frustrated look. “Why are you so bent on giving me grief, Jilly?”
Only one person had ever been allowed to call her by that name, and the loss of that special someone still hurt her to the core. She shook off the memories and faked a calm demeanor. “Why are you so determined to annoy me with that Jilly thing?”
He inclined his head and studied her. “It fits you better.”
“Well, I don’t like it and I suspect that’s why you do it.”
He had the gall to grin. “Would you feel better if I let you call me by a nickname?”
Jill grabbed for a little levity to defuse her frustration. “Overly confident?”
“Hmm...” He streaked his right hand over his stubbled jaw. “Overly Confident Calloway. Has a nice ring to it, but it’s too long. I was thinking more along the lines of Handsome.”
Shocker. “How about Crazy Calloway?”
“Been called that before. Charming?”
This exchange could go on all night if she didn’t put a halt to it now. With that in mind, Jill morphed back into medical mode and turned to retrieve a pair of disposable gloves, then approached the table to inspect the cut beneath the slit in his jeans. “You’re lucky. Your leg was protected from certain doom by denim. This is superficial and nothing a little antiseptic and a bandage won’t cure. Now let me see your wrist.”
He gingerly held the appendage out for her to examine. “Probably just a sprain,” he muttered.
She pressed the fleshy part of his palm next to his thumb and immediately heard a litany of oaths. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but in my opinion you have a scaphoid fracture. You’ll need to confirm that with an X-ray.”
“I don’t have time for a fracture.”
She shrugged. “You’re going to have to make the time if my assessment is correct.”
He frowned. “How much time?”
She reached behind her, grabbed an antiseptic packet and tore it open. “That will be up to a doctor to decide.”
His jaw tightened when she began to dab at the cut. “Give me a hint,” he said.
After discarding the damp pad in the appropriate bin, Jill applied a plastic strip to the abrasion. “Best case scenario, three months. Worst case, six months.”
Surprise passed over his expression before turning to anger. “If I’m laid up for even three months, I might as well forget making it to the finals in December.”
Always chasing those championships, as were most of the cowboys who came to her for aid. “If you don’t comply with any treatment you might need, you could complicate matters.”
He released a rough sigh. “Can’t imagine this being any more complicated than it already is.”
Oh, if he only knew...and now he would. “If you go back to riding before the fracture heals, you could suffer a ruptured tendon.”
“It’s my left hand. All I have to do is hold it over my head to balance.”
“And if you lose your balance, you risk landing on it again. I assure you that would not be pleasant.”
He swiped his arm across his forehead. “None of this is pleasant.”
“No, it’s not, but it’s unfortunately a risk you take when you climb onto a raging animal. Do you have someone who can drive you to an emergency room?”
Houston looked even more defeated. “My brother took off in the rig to hook up with some old girlfriend.”
“Which one?”
He scowled. “Hell if I know who she is.”
Suppressing a smile, she stripped the gloves off and tossed them into the bin behind her. “I meant which brother.”
“Tyler.”
Jill had treated the bronc rider once or twice, only he had always been polite and accommodating, unlike his big brother. “I’m sure if you give him a call—”
“I did before my ride. He told me to find a way back to the motel and I’d see him in the morning.”
“You might try calling him again.”
“Did that, too. It went straight to voice mail, which means he’s tied up for the night. Literally.”
Clearly he’d run out of brother-based options. “Surely you can find one of your rodeo cronies to give you a ride.”
He slid off the table and groaned. “I was the last entry so everyone’s
