try, buddy.” Dr. Holt pulled a pen light out of the pocket of her white doctor’s coat. “Did you get the license of the eighteen-wheeler that did this to you?”
“Don’t blame Sidewinder. That old bull was just doing his job.” He shrugged. “Got my eight seconds out of that twister before he popped me a good one, though.”
Stepping closer, she waved the light in his irises. Her lip curled. “Stockyards Rodeo, huh?”
A large, tanned hand clamped around her wrist, and his megawatt grin was back. “Lordy, Miss Mercy, you’re contrary. Once upon a time there was nothing you loved better than a good rodeo.”
She tugged her wrist, her tone frosty. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. I—”
Mercy. She blinked. No one had called her that in years. She was Dr. Holt, or Lee to her peers, not that she had time or inclination to be on a first-name basis with more than a handful, anyway. But Mercy was her hometown name, an appellation she’d left behind in Flat Fork, Texas, a long time and several heartaches ago....
Mercy looked into the cowboy’s laughing, coffee-colored eyes. The world tilted suddenly, and vertigo sent her spinning back fifteen years in space and time. She recognized him now, even under the coating of dirt and lingering blood. His strong features had matured and changed into something devastatingly handsome, yet still familiar, still dear.
She gasped. “Travis?”
Releasing her, he settled back, his tone satisfied. “’Bout time, blue eyes.”
“How...why...?” Spluttering, her heart pounding in her chest, she could only repeat the obvious. “Travis King. Oh, my God.”
“Would you like the suture tray now, Doctor?” Lila asked.
Dragging her gaze away from her patient, Mercy shook her head, dazed. “What? Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. Mr. King is an old friend from home. It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Travis?”
“Too long, darlin’.”
There wasn’t any of his easy teasing in those husky words, and that startled her. Rattled, she let her gaze slide away from his, afraid of what she might see. Long ago she’d counted on Travis King for just about everything, back when she’d been Flat Fork’s pampered darling, and she and Travis’s best friend, Kenny Preston, had been in love.
But that was before everything changed.
Before the memories could overwhelm her, she forced them down, making herself brisk again, carefully peeling off the soaked bandage. “Let me see what you’ve done to yourself, cowboy.”
“Just a little knot on the old noggin.” He dismissed his injury with a shrug, but he couldn’t suppress an involuntary grimace as he favored his side. “Tried to tell those medics over at the arena, but they wouldn’t listen. Had a hell of a time convincing them I didn’t need a damned ambulance.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“I’m not complaining.” He grinned. “In fact, I ought to send them a gilt-edged thank-you note. Not only did I get my share of prize money, but now I’ve ended up in the hands of the most beautiful woman ever to come out of Flat Fork. All in all, I’d say this was my lucky day.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “Are you by any chance flirting with me, Travis King?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled with an irresistible little-boy mischief. “Now, darlin’...”
“Can it, Casanova. I can see you haven’t changed a lick. And my days as a buckle bunny are long gone.” She frowned over the ragged laceration that ran from his temple up into his hairline, now slowly oozing blood. “You took quite a blow. How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Fingers? What fingers?”
Mercy turned to the nurse. “Order X rays for Mr. King. Full head series.”
“Hey, I was just kidding!” he protested, dodging and swearing under his breath as the efficient nurse swabbed his face and cleaned the tender scalp wound.
“I don’t play around with this kind of injury, Travis,” Mercy said severely. “Head ache?”
“Some,” he admitted.
“I’ll order a painkiller. Slip out of your shirt and let me have a look at that side. Did you get stepped on?”
“It’s just bruised,” he muttered, defensive.
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Travis gave Mercy a baleful look. “My, my, my. Look at Miss Mercy, all grown up and throwing her weight around. Who’d have thought?”
“Hey, you. Don’t mess with me,” she replied lightly. “I run with the big dogs now.”
With a show of reluctance, he slid his arms out of the garment and handed it over. Mercy tossed it into a nearby chair where a well-worn black felt cowboy hat rested crown down, a position dictated, she knew, by cowboy superstition so the luck in the hat wouldn’t run out. And bull riders needed all the luck they could get.
Turning back, Mercy caught her breath. While she dealt with human bodies all the time, she was female enough to acknowledge that bare-chested, clad only in black jeans and well-worn Western boots, Travis King was a magnificent male specimen who could turn any woman’s head.
Lean and rangy from years of hard physical activity, at thirty-six he still had the broad shoulders, tapering to a washboard stomach, that would be the envy of many a younger man. A light sprinkling of dark hair covered his chest in an inverted triangle, disappearing below the dimple of his navel. In the old days he’d never lacked for female company, and now, even bruised and battered, he radiated masculinity in potent waves. Mercy noted that Lila was certainly an appreciative and receptive audience for all that male magnetism.
But that was a line of thought she shouldn’t be pursuing. Instead she drew her attention to the business at hand and pressed Travis’s side. “Does this hurt?”
“Uh-uh. Well, not too bad.”
“Hmm.” Swiftly she continued her examination—arms, legs, ribs—then took her stethoscope and listened to his heart and lungs. His skin felt warm and velvety to the touch, stretched over well-honed muscles with the tensile strength of steel in their fibers. Beneath the pungent odor of antiseptic that permeated the hospital, she could smell the musk of his scent, clean and masculine and subtly arousing.
Appalled, Mercy clamped down on her involuntary response. What was the matter with her? Just because her love life was nonexistent, she was still a professional, for goodness sake, not some first-year student with overactive hormones. And this was Travis—confidant of her youth, part-time Cupid and general good guy. How many times had he helped her meet Kenny when her parents had forbidden it? How many times had she cried on his shoulder when the path of true love ran crooked?
It was the shock of seeing him again after all this time that was making her so jittery, that was all. That and the knowledge that they hadn’t spoken since Kenny’s funeral. An unexpected resurgence of long-dormant hurt and resentment produced a wince of pain, quickly and fiercely squelched. No, she wouldn’t
