Christmas Eve Delivery. Connie Cox
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ropes he’d carried in his mouth.
Once done, he threw his hands in the air. Another man looking official with his stopwatch and mounted on a horse that stood as still as a statue called, “Time,” as he nodded to someone in the speaker’s booth next to the complex structure Rusty had called “the gate.”
A smattering of applause broke out from the stands. Deseré couldn’t help but notice that most of the cheering came from the women and girls, all dressed similarly to the first girl Deseré had met.
If those were his type of women, then she definitely didn’t fit his mold.
Not that she needed to be Jordan Hart’s type.
She just needed his money.
As Jordan loosened the cinch on his mare, he saw his cousin and ranch foreman, Rusty, approach him.
“Nice run, cuz.” Rusty gave Jordan’s mare a rub on her neck. She leaned into it, clearly enjoying his touch.
“Thanks.”
“Jordan …” Rusty hesitated. “Are you expecting to meet a woman here tonight?”
He quirked his eyebrow at his cousin’s cautious question. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, there’s one waiting for you on the bleachers.”
She wouldn’t be the first buckle bunny to approach him. Under the brim of his hat, he checked her out.
In her city clothes, she certainly wasn’t dressed for a rodeo pickup. He couldn’t be sure as she was slumped on the bench, arms tightly wrapped around her huge purse, but he thought she might be five feet seven or so to his six one. Tall enough to kiss without getting a crick in his neck.
Where had that thought come from?
And the accompanying spark in his veins?
At first he was jolted by it. But by his second heartbeat he welcomed it. It had been so long since he’d felt even a flicker of interest.
Gently blowing on that internal ember, he continued to examine her.
Her mink-brown hair shimmered in the bright overhead lights as it fell to her shoulder blades. It was the perfect length. A man could tangle his hands in that silky softness as they lay together, but the length wouldn’t get caught underneath her when they tangled arms and legs.
Jordan let that image grow, reveling in the way his nerve endings seemed to be waking up.
Hope. He’d despaired of ever feeling that emotion again.
She moved her purse, revealing the way she filled out her blouse.
No model-skinny skeleton here.
Ample.
Just the way he liked them.
A flame of interest burned through the apathy he’d been living in these last months.
It felt good, and not just in his groin.
Want. Desire. The burning sensation in the pit of his solar plexus was a very good thing.
Need.
Not so good. He didn’t need anyone.
“She said she was looking for Dr. Hart. When I pointed you out, she didn’t seem to recognize you. Do you know her?”
Jordan shook his head. “Nope.”
“Got any suspicions?”
Jordan ignored his cousin’s curiosity, giving a strong stare at Rusty’s bronc-riding vest instead. “You sure you want to do this?”
Not that Jordan didn’t want to climb on a bucking bronc himself. Only, as the older cousin, he felt duty-bound to make a token protest after Rusty’s last unsuccessful ride and consequent fall.
He refrained from rubbing his hand over his face.
He felt so old lately. And so numb.
“It’s what we do, right?” Rusty shifted under Jordan’s gaze. “Get thrown. Get right back on.”
Jordan shook his head. “Until you get smart enough to realize you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
Unwanted sympathy showed in Rusty’s eyes. “I guess you’ve had enough adrenaline rush to last a lifetime, huh?”
Jordan tightened his lips, neither confirming nor denying it.
He was supposed to be recovering from too much living on the edge. How could he admit to anyone that without that infusion of fight-or-flight-induced chemical his life was gray and deadly dull, bordering on meaningless?
His mare nudged him, clearly jealous when he should be paying attention to her. She didn’t need words to make herself clear.
Absently, he reached up to scratch behind her ears. “No need to worry, Valkyrie. You’re my best girl.”
Rusty punched Jordan in his shoulder.
Jordan welcomed the pain to bring him back to himself.
“That’s your problem, cuz. You’ve got women driving all the way out from who knows where to find you and you’d rather keep company with your horse.” Rusty gave him a serious stare. “Get thrown. Get back on. That’s what we do.”
“Or wise up and learn I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.” With conviction, Jordan repeated his earlier statement, knowing neither he nor Rusty were talking about anything close to bull riding.
Rusty jostled him. “I’ll say this about that city girl you brought us a few years ago. She tried. She really tried. You must have been doing something right for her to stay so long.”
“What I was doing right was being a doctor. She was really impressed with that.”
He ignored the worried look in Rusty’s eyes and forced a grin to lighten the moment as he answered, “When she found out the only store within a fifty-mile radius was a combination feed store/hardware store/ boot shop with a smattering of jeans, hats and pearl button shirts to choose from, she quickly become disillusioned with small-town living.”
Forcing those smiles was getting harder and harder.
“That was it? The lack of fancy department stores?” Rusty wasn’t the first to try to pry out more information.
But a gentleman didn’t kiss and tell. Jordan might not have a lot left going for him, but he was determined to keep his dignity.
He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “She loved boutiques more than me. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“And you’ve had plenty of offers of companionship from the buckle bunnies to sooth any man’s ego.”
Jordan had to admit he’d taken advantage of enough of those offers that his ego should be well soothed.
But afterglow didn’t last much past sunrise, did it?
He stole a quick glance at the woman in the stands. Should he recognize her?
“Old history.” He leaned into Valkyrie, taking comfort in how the mare supported his weight. “I’ve grown up a bit since then.”
As his shoulder throbbed where Rusty had punched him, he felt much older than his years.
Between the physical exertion he’d been doing to try to exhaust himself enough to sleep and the tossing and turning he’d done once he finally forced himself into bed, his bones hurt to the marrow.
Add that to his clinic schedule that had him working over sixty hours a week and he was starting to feel trapped in a dark tunnel as the light of the freight train bore toward him faster and faster.
What were the odds of finding a nurse practitioner who could take some of his load from him?
Over the loud