One

      “Hello, darlin’.”

      The sexy rumble of a deep masculine voice brought Dr. Mercedes Lee Holt up short in the emergency room cubicle of Ft. Worth’s John Peter Smith Hospital. The man propped on the gurney in front of her had a devilish gleam in his dark eyes and a red-soaked bandage pressed to his temple.

      She took in raven hair, an ebony Western shirt with pearl snaps, opened to reveal a swath of spectacular masculine chest, and a championship belt buckle the size of a pancake. Dust-coated cowboy boots, complete with—God help her!—roweled silver spurs, hung off the end of the examination table. Grime and blood obscured the patient’s features, except for a wide, come-hither grin beneath his thick black mustache.

      Oh, Lord, it was going to be one of those nights!

      She mentally kicked herself for failing to take the time to tuck her honey-colored curls into her usual severe topknot. Though the grueling pace of an E.R. physician often made her feel she looked twice her thirty-three years, there was inevitably some macho smart aleck who thought it would be amusing to try to make time while the pretty lady doc patched him up.

      Make it the day before Halloween, a Saturday night to boot, then top that with a full moon, and what you got was a harried staff trying to deal with a waiting room overflowing with a multitude of wackos and every conceivable type of emergency.

      What she didn’t need right now was a wise guy with an attitude.

      “I’m Dr. Holt,” she said, her voice crisp. She caught the eye of the brunette nurse who’d accompanied her into the cubicle. In keeping with the season, the nurse sported a green-faced Dracula pin on her pink scrubs. “Lila, what have we got?”

      “Scalp lacerations, contusions, possible concussion—”

      “Aw, come on now, darlin’,” the man drawled. “I know it’s been a long time, but how about a kiss for an old friend?”

      “Nice 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