She could have been fresh out of med school or as old as Pinky; Austin couldn’t tell by her voice or her shape. “Well,” she replied, “it certainly wouldn’t include riding bulls in rodeos.”
Austin closed his eyes.
He was a bull rider and not much else. Who the hell would he be if he quit the rodeo circuit?
“What about horses?” Tate asked. “He can still ride them, right?”
“If you’re talking about regular saddle horses,” the doc answered, “that would probably be fine, once he’s had some time to recover, and if he uses common sense.”
The sound Garrett made was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “That’ll be the day.”
Tate again. “What’s the worst-case scenario?”
Tate, being the eldest brother, the one who oversaw the day-to-day operation of the family ranch, took himself pretty seriously sometimes. More so since their folks were gone.
The doctor didn’t reply right away. That, Austin concluded, probably wasn’t a good sign.
“Doc?” Garrett prompted.
Another sigh. More hesitation.
Austin tried to sit up, but his back spasmed and he barely bit back a groan.
He must have made some kind of sound, though, because he’d drawn their attention. The curtain zipped open and the doctor appeared at his bedside, peering at him.
She was young and pretty. Some consolation, under the circumstances.
“Mr. McKettrick?” she said.
Austin nodded. “That would be me,” he told her.
“How are you feeling?”
If the pain is under control, I’ll release him. If not, he’ll have to stick around for more tests and some observation.
“Never better,” Austin said, scrounging up a grin.
She looked him over skeptically. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”
“You will need to see your own doctor within the next few days.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Austin agreed cheerfully. “I will surely do that.”
Tate and Garrett exchanged suspicious glances. They’d probably figured out that he’d say just about anything he had to say to get out of that place.
“I’m prescribing muscle relaxants,” the doctor rambled on. “But only for the short term. It is imperative, Mr. McKettrick, that you rest. I’m sure your personal physician will agree that, except for moderate exercise, definitely low-impact, you shouldn’t move around a lot for the next several weeks.”
“Whatever you say,” Austin told her, sweet as pecan pie.
Garrett rolled his eyes.
Tate folded his arms and frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe our brother ought to stay here after all,” he said. “For some of that...observation.”
Austin spoke up. “I need to get my gear from the motel room,” he said, suddenly scared that Tate might convince the doc to admit him after all. He’d spent enough time in hospitals to last him the rest of his life. “And the dog. He’ll be wondering where I went—”
“Will you forget that damn dog?” Garrett snapped.
“No,” Austin said, leveling a look at his brother. “I won’t forget the damn dog.”
Garrett subsided, coloring up a little.
The doctor gave a few more instructions, promised that a prescription would be waiting downstairs at the pharmacy by the time Austin had been wheeled down there in a chair and signed all the insurance forms. With that, she left.
A good half an hour had gone by before they finally turned him loose. He’d scrawled his name on various dotted lines and retrieved his cell phone and wallet, along with the key to Room 3, over at the Cozy Doze Motel.
After climbing into Tate’s truck—this time with no help from his brothers—he shook two pills out of the bottle into his palm and swallowed them dry.
Then he directed Tate to the motel where he’d left a change of clothes and the dog he’d found cowering in the alley the first night, slat-ribbed and down on his luck.
“Room 3,” he said as they pulled up to the crumbling adobe structure. “It’s around back.”
Garrett turned in the front passenger seat to look at him, both eyebrows raised. “You were staying here?” he asked.
Austin chuckled. “The Ritz was full,” he replied. Then he rolled down the back window and whistled, shrill, through his front teeth. He’d chosen the Cozy Doze because he’d wanted to keep a low profile until after he’d evened the score with Buzzsaw the night before at the rodeo. Folks in San Antonio knew him, especially around the fancier hotels, and he hadn’t wanted word of his presence to get back to his brothers before he’d had a chance to make his ride. But clearly Tate and Garrett had eventually tracked him down.
Much to his relief, the dog he’d named Shep wriggled out from behind a pile of old tires all but overgrown by weeds, wagging his tail and lolling his tongue.
Part German shepherd, part Lab and part a lot of other things, by the looks of him, Shep wasn’t a big dog, but he wasn’t a little one, either. He was about the same size as Harry the beagle, and his coat was probably brown, although it would be hard to tell until he’d had a bath.
Austin tossed his room key to Tate, while Garrett got out of the truck to call the dog.
Shep growled halfheartedly and laid his ears back. One of them was missing a chunk of hide.
“It’s all right, boy,” Austin told the frightened animal through the open window of Tate’s rig. “This is my brother Garrett. He used to be a politician, but you can trust him just the same.”
The dog gave a low whimper, but he wagged his tail and let his ears stand up.
Austin pushed the truck door open. If Garrett tried to touch the poor critter, he’d be bitten for sure.
“Come, Shep,” Austin said very quietly.
Shep sort of slouched around Garrett, then crept over to stand on his hind legs, both front paws resting on the running board of the truck.
“Let’s go on home,” Austin told him.
After considering the proposition, the dog high-jumped into the rig, scrambled across Austin’s boots and clawed his way up onto the seat next to him.
Tate appeared with Austin’s shaving kit and duffel, a five-pound sack of kibble under one arm.
“You square on your
