The Least Likely Groom. Linda Goodnight
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health care visits.”
Becka leaned forward, immediately interested. She’d done some home health care on the side to bolster her ever-low bank account, and right now she could certainly use some extra cash.
“Who was it? The man who had the foot amputation? Mr. Novotny?”
“No.” Marsha shuffled some papers, came up with a yellow sticky note, and handed it to Becka. “Jett Garrett. Do you remember him?”
“Jett—” The words stuck in Becka’s throat. Anyone but the singing cowboy with enough masculine chemistry to melt paint. “Why would he need a home health nurse?”
“Seems he’s staying out at that ranch he and his brother own while he recoups from knee surgery.” Marsha crossed her arms on the desk. “The orthopedic docs in Amarillo sent him home with a PT machine and he’s having fits trying to run it.”
“I’m not a physical therapist.”
“No, but you know enough about it to do the visits, help him with the machine, and see that he follows doctor’s orders. The PT department could give you a quick in-service if you’re not familiar with that particular piece of equipment.”
“Why me? Why not send PT out?”
“They’re too shorthanded. Besides, Mr. Garrett insisted on hiring you. And with your fitness training, coupled with nursing expertise, you’re the obvious choice.”
“Well, call him back and tell him I’m not interested.”
Marsha looked surprised. “Not interested? Becka, the pay is excellent.”
She didn’t even want to know.
Marsha told her, anyway, naming a sum considerably more than her usual fee. She needed that money, needed it badly. But Jett Garrett? No way. She shivered with a sense of unease and a flutter of unwanted interest at the idea of spending time in his troubling presence.
“I can’t, Marsha. Sorry.” She stood to leave, anxious to get back to her station. The physicians should be making rounds anytime now and they’d be looking for her.
“How’s your dad doing?”
She stuck a fist on one hip. “Dad’s okay, but that was a dirty trick.”
Marsha knew about Becka’s money woes. About the ailing father whose social security check didn’t cover his medications each month and about the hospital and funeral bills Becka was still paying off.
“Now Becka, what would it hurt to work for this guy for a few weeks? Make the money, make the hospital look good, help a patient. Everybody wins.”
Everybody but Becka. Hand on the door she blew out a long, exasperated breath. “I’ll think about it.”
She thought about it all day long, pulling the yellow sticky note out of her pocket a dozen times to stare at the name and phone number. By shift’s end, she’d reaffirmed her decision. She couldn’t take the chance. No matter that the money would go a long way toward a down payment on another car she absolutely, positively would not work for Jett Garrett.
Collecting her purse from the employee lounge, she soft-soled down the anesthetic-scented corridors and out to the parking lot. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached and the beginnings of a headache tapped at the base of her skull. Tension. Pure and simple.
Last night Dylan had somehow managed to open the front door by himself and had gone out into the yard without her knowledge. Finding her son gone when she got out of the bathtub had shaken her to the core. She’d found him playing not ten feet from the busy residential street. Her yard needed a fence, but fences cost money. She’d simply have to be more careful. Maybe a lock higher up on the door would do the trick.
Her baby boy was getting more adventurous by the day and the idea unnerved her. She’d tried her best to squelch this side of him, warning him of impending disaster but he hadn’t slowed down one bit. Her father warned that she’d make him a sissy, but Dad didn’t understand. He’d been a dirt track racer in his younger days before the diabetes damaged his vision, and he thought a man wasn’t a man unless he took chances. Just because a child still sucked his thumb and sometimes wet the bed didn’t make him a sissy. And even if it did, he would be alive.
Still, last night’s episode coupled with today’s tempting but impossible job offer from Jett Garrett had made this a stressful day.
Climbing into the old white Fairlane, Becka cranked the engine. The starter ground predictably, then a series of pop, pop, pops issued from the tailpipe. Acrid-smelling black smoke swirled in through the open window. All perfectly normal for her dying vehicle except for one thing: this time the engine didn’t start. She tried again, went through another series of smoky backfires and then—nothing. After several more attempts, she—and the car’s battery—gave up.
The tapping in the back of her head turned to hammering. Grabbing her purse, she shoved her shoulder against the sticking door, stepped out onto the warm pavement and headed back inside the hospital to call Sid. Maybe the part required to fix the car had miraculously arrived today, though she had no idea how to pay for it.
No. That wasn’t true. She knew how to pay for it. She was just too scared. As she trudged up the sidewalk, the yellow sticky note felt like a brick in her uniform pocket. She was scared of Jett Garrett. Scared of the energy in him, of the things he made her remember, and most of all, scared of the way her made her feel.
But fear or not, she had no choice. She had to take that job.
Chapter Three
Fresh from a one-legged shower, Jett slipped on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt and eased down onto the side of the bed. He was out of breath from the effort, a fact that ticked him off no end. Since when did a little bitty knee injury turn a man into a wuss? Sure, he had a bolt poking out each side of his leg with a cagelike stabilizer bar attached, but that shouldn’t make him so weak and winded. Nobody had warned him he’d come home with enough hardware attached to his leg to build a bucking chute.
He had to get over this thing. And soon. Time was passing. Rodeos were happening without him. The dream was fading like a new pair of Wranglers in hot water.
With more effort than he wanted to admit, he hoisted up and hobbled to the calendar on the wall. The National Finals were in December. This was mid-August. He flipped the pages, counting the weeks. He needed more wins, more rodeos to have enough qualifying points.
At the knock on the door behind him, he called, “Come on in.”
Must be Cookie, the ranch’s chief cook and bottle washer, though the old sailor seldom knocked. He barged in, blasting like a foghorn, usually grousing because Jett had left something in a mess. Jett screwed up his forehead, thinking. Probably the bathroom this time.
“I’ll take care of it later,” he offered.
“Should you be up on that leg?” a soft, feminine voice, nothing at all like Cookie’s foghorn, asked. He felt an undeniable lift in his spirits. Nothing like a little tête-à-tête with the opposite sex to cheer a fella up.
Putting all his weight on the good leg, Jett pivoted around and let his gaze slide slowly over the small, uniform-clad woman decorating the entrance to his bedroom. Sure enough, B. Washburn, RN, the cute redheaded nurse with the sassy attitude had arrived.
He flicked a glance toward the clock radio on the nightstand in appreciation of her punctuality. It was three forty-five and she didn’t get off until three. That’s what she’d told him when they’d talked on the phone the other night. He’d enjoyed that conversation. Had flirted with her shamelessly in an effort to elevate his own lousy mood. She’d flirted a little herself, though she kept wanting to talk about the job. Imagine. Talking work when you could play.
She came on into the room, pretending to pay no heed to his general state of undress, though Jett was certain he detected a flicker of interest, quickly