Praise for Connie Cox:

‘Return of the Rebel Surgeon is an emotionally packed

reunion story … I would definitely recommend

reading [it].’

—Harlequin Junkie on RETURN OF THE REBEL SURGEON

Deseré nodded, acknowledging without replying except in the hope and gratitude her eyes reflected, making him feel like some kind of superhero.

He held the door open for her, giving it a good jerk behind him to make sure it had locked when it closed. She was a couple of paces in front of him, and as Jordan followed Deseré out to his truck he tried to look anywhere but at her sassy bottom.

But he failed.

Don’t think about her. Don’t think about that kiss. Don’t think about wanting to do it again. Don’t think.

Yeah, but not thinking would not be a good thing. That would mean he’d let his body take over, and frankly that would be a mistake.

Because he wanted her. And she wanted him. But there were too many reasons why that would be a bad thing—starting with the fact Deseré worked for him, ending with the fact he was not in the right place in his head for a relationship, and with a multitude of other reasons in between.

Not thinking, he reached for her elbow to help her in. A thrill went through him so strongly it made him shake in his boots.

Dear Reader,

Best wishes for a great Christmas holiday season!

Do you ever wish for your very own cowboy? Nurse Practitioner Deseré Novak left New Orleans for East Texas wishing for a job, not the jingle of spurs. Dr Jordan Hart, in his jeans and boots and hat, could give her both if she was only brave enough to open her healing heart as well as her healing hands.

But she has her hands full, carrying the in vitro child within her to full term and avoiding the man who would take that child from her, without adding the further complication of a strong, silent cowboy into her life. Especially a cowboy who refuses to open up to her about the guilt he has carried for too many years—the guilt that keeps him from living and loving to the fullest.

Jordan wants what is best for his patients. That’s why he hires Deseré Novak—so she can give the people of Piney Woods what he can’t: compassion and care. While he can competently treat their physical illnesses, he avoids the emotional aspect of their cases. How can he help them when he can’t even help himself?

But Dr Jordan Hart can’t avoid the joy Deseré adds into his days, or the dreams she adds to his nights.

And when he starts to care for her, to love her, he can’t avoid wanting to be a better man, a whole and healed man—both for her and for her unborn child.

All the characters in this novel are fictional, and are not reflective of anyone living or dead.

Connie

CONNIE COX has loved Harlequin Mills & Boon® romances since she was a young teen. To be a Harlequin Mills & Boon® author now is a fantasy come to life. By training, Connie is an electrical engineer. Through her first job, working on nuclear scanners and other medical equipment, she had a unique perspective on the medical world. She is fascinated by the inner strength of medical professionals, who must balance emotional compassion with stoic logic, and is honoured to showcase the passion of these dedicated professionals through her own passion of writing. Married to the boy-next-door, Connie is the proud mother of one terrific daughter and son-in-law and one precocious dachshund.

Connie would love to hear from you. Visit her website at www.ConnieCox.com

Christmas Eve Delivery

Connie Cox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This one’s for you, Deseré Steenberg!

Here’s to strong men and the brave women who love them!

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

DESERÉ WEDGED HER car into a parking place between a dual-axel diesel truck and a huge silver horse trailer as red dust swirled around her. East Texas dust.

So different from New Orleans pavement.

She put her hand over her stomach. New town. New life. “Here’s to us, baby James. To our future.” She hefted the bottle of milk she’d purchased at her last gas and restroom stop, toasted her sister’s unborn baby and chugged.

Reinforced by lukewarm milk, she gathered her purse along with her courage and opened the door.

The sultriness of the heavy, humid air hit her hard. One step behind was the scent of pine trees and the odor of horse manure.

The pine trees had towered over her as she’d travelled down the unpaved road leading to the rodeo arena. In the dusk, those tall skinny evergreens appeared imposing, like sentinels warning her that she wasn’t in the big city anymore.

For the baby’s sake, she wouldn’t let this alien landscape intimidate her.

“Everything will be just fine.” She said it out loud to force conviction.

A gaunt, stooped cowboy with a weathered straw hat shadowing his leathered face stopped on the way to his truck.

She knew he drove a truck even though she didn’t know which one. She knew it had to be a truck because she had the only car in the parking lot.

He put two fingers to the brim of his hat and nodded before asking, “You okay, ma’am?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

The old man gave her a strong look, half-wary that she might be crazy talking to herself and the other half suspicious of the overdressed stranger in their midst.

She tried to reassure him with the brightest smile she could muster after eight hours of driving with all her worldly goods crammed into her little compact car.

“I’m fine, really.”

He glanced at her stomach as if he knew. How could he? She was only four and a half months and had barely begun to show.

She was being fanciful. A fleeting look of no consequence was all it had been.

Working hard to shrug off her supposition, she blamed it on her sensitivity to the situation. On hormones. On paranoia from lack of sleep.

He couldn’t know her secret.

Because if he did, the man she had driven all these hundreds of miles to find would know, too. And then where would she be?

She couldn’t even think about a near future that bleak.

He had to say yes. There was no other option.

She’d called in the only favor she had and it had been a weak one. A doctor she’d once dated. A relationship that hadn’t worked out. What were the odds of that wildcard making the difference?

The odds were already stacked against her and her chances plummeted if the cowboy she was looking for realized she was pregnant.

In her open-toed sandals, she picked her way across the ruts cut into the dried mud and scarce grass sprigs that made up the entrance in front of the arena. Dusky shadows made the short distance seem treacherous.

Ringed by a tall wooden fence, the arena was hidden from her. Looking up, she could see only the glare of the tall lights and the wash of bodies in the stands. Cowboy hats on everyone’s heads made each person’s features indistinguishable from each other.

How would she ever find him?

With only nineteen dollars and twenty-nine cents in her wallet, she had to find him. She could sleep in her car again, but she needed a few gallons in her gas tank to keep her car rolling and a decent meal to keep the baby healthy.

Her stomach chose that moment to growl. Except for her daily dose of midmorning nausea, her pregnancy kept her continually hungry.

She circled the arena, looking for an opening into this world of rodeo that personified testosterone, muscle and mastery of will.

Carefully, she skirted the hitching posts where horses were tethered with only thin strips of rope or single leather reins. Didn’t these monsters know they could pull away with only a shake of their heads?

How far could they kick? A protective hand over her stomach, she gave them wide berth.

Pulling out her thin wallet, she prepared to pay admission, whatever it cost. She had no other choice.

“Excuse me?” She stopped a young girl in perfect make-up, painted-on jeans, embossed boots, long blonde curls and rhinestones in the band of her white cowgirl hat.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Another “ma’am.” This time it made her feel more old than honored.

Giving the girl the last smile she had in her, Deseré asked, “Where’s the entrance and how much is the entry fee?”

The girl gave a kind, sympathetic glance at her inappropriate tailored slacks, silk blouse and strappy sandals before she waved toward the end of the wooden fence. “All the events are free to watch. Just go right on in. But watch your step, okay?”

Deseré looked down to where the girl pointed. She’d missed a huge pile of horse droppings by scant millimeters.

“Thanks.”

As she minced her way toward the stands, she had to get a bit too close for comfort to the massive horses that were either tied to the backs of the stands or were being ridden in various directions from the barns to the arena.

No one else seemed concerned as the tons of muscle on delicate hoofs pranced by so close.

So this was Friday night in Piney Woods, Texas.

“We’re definitely not in New Orleans anymore,” she whispered to the baby nestled in her womb.

As she approached the full stands, several rows of observers started scooting over, packing themselves in tighter as they made room for her.

One of the cowboys on the end stood. He gave her an appreciative, if curious once-over as he touched the brim of his hat. “Please, ma’am, have my seat. I’ll stand.”

“Thank you.” Instead of sliding onto the hard wooden bench, Deseré took a deep breath. No turning back from here. “I’m looking for Dr. Hart.”

“Jordan will be first one out of the gate as soon as we get started again.” He drew his brows together in concern. “You’re not needing him, are you? Do I need to go and fetch him for you?”

It was more the other way around. She was hoping—counting on—Dr. Hart needing her. If he didn’t, she didn’t know what she would do.

Almost on instinct, her hand moved to cover her abdomen. At the last moment she diverted it to the strap of the purse slung across her body.

“No emergency.”

“After his ride, I’ll tell him you’re waiting for him.” He waved her toward his vacated seat on the bench. “Best seat in the house.”

“Thanks.”

“Rusty.” He touched his hat again. “Folks call me Rusty.”

He left the introduction hanging with his expectant look. What would it hurt to introduce herself?

“Deseré.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Deseré.”

Miss Deseré. She knew, even if she’d been wearing a wedding ring that was bigger than Dallas, Rusty would have called her “Miss” as a sign of respect. Among the gentlemen she knew in New Orleans, it was a sign of respect there, too.

The familiar custom eased the tension across her shoulders by the slightest of muscle twitches.

Before she could return the nicety a loudspeaker boomed, “Up next is Jordan Hart, points leader for this event.”

Distantly, she heard a deep voice call out, “Cowboy up.”

She looked in that direction, to see a calf burst from a narrow chute into the arena. Hot on its heels was a cowboy on a very large red horse.

With only the slightest flick of his wrist, Dr. Jordan Hart unfurled his rope. The stiff loop shot out and fell neatly over the neck of the running calf.

His horse stopped short, jerking the calf to a standstill.

Quicker than she could comprehend, Jordan slid out of his saddle and began taking big strides toward the snared calf as his horse backed away without direction to keep the rope taut, with its end looped around the saddle horn.

He grabbed the calf, tipped it onto its side and wrapped three of its four legs using the short 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 speaker, the announcer called Rusty to the gate.

Jordan squared his shoulders. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck. Just a bull that wants to buck. Skill will take care of the rest.” Rusty gave him a cocky grin then strutted toward the gates.

He watched his younger cousin with envy. What would it be like to feel alive again? To feel the blood rush through his veins? To feel his heart beat fast and his mind flash with lightning-quick thoughts? To feel a connection with another human being?

Although he tried to stop himself, he couldn’t stop from glancing over at the woman staring intensely at him as if she were looking inside his head.

What did she see?

He pulled the brim of his hat lower and turned away, determined to ignore the feeling of being evaluated.

CHAPTER TWO

DESERÉ TOOK HER time studying Dr. Jordan Hart. Under cover of this crowd, there was no way he would notice a single pair of eyes trained on him. That she kept thinking he was glancing in her direction was purely her imagination as she never caught his eye, even though she tried.

He stood at least six feet one or two. His cowboy hat and boots made him look even taller. With his hat pulled low, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes or hair, but thought they might both be dark brown.

He was rangy with a stringy kind of muscle that would make his movements graceful.

As he shifted his weight, the chaps he wore emphasized his package. Modestly, she tried to look away, but her raging hormones wouldn’t let her.

Something about being pregnant had kicked her libido into high gear. Whether it was because she no longer needed to worry about an accidental pregnancy or a release of hormones gone wild, or something else entirely, she couldn’t tell for sure. She just knew that she was noticing men even more than she had during her intensely boy-crazy teenage years.

And she didn’t want just sex. She wanted to be touched, petted, protected.

How many nights had she gone to sleep lately, pretending that her fantasy lover lay next to her, that he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, his big hand over her slightly softening belly?

Keeping this baby she carried hadn’t been the original plan. But, then, the plan hadn’t been for her sister to die, either.

Deseré pushed down her grief and straightened her spine. She was a survivor. Always had been. And always would be—especially now with her son to care for.

Her son.

Get a grip, Deseré. That’s what her sister would have told her if she were here. We do what we have to do to survive.

That’s what her sister had told her ten years ago as Deseré, acting as maid of honor, had arranged her sister’s wedding veil so Celeste could walk down the aisle into the arms of the rich and powerful neurosurgeon who would provide for them both.

Deseré had thought that being a surrogate for Celeste would make up for some of the sacrifices her older sister had made for her. And it had, until Celeste had run a red light while talking on the phone and had crashed into an oncoming eighteen-wheeler.

Even though Deseré knew it was too early, she imagined baby James moving deep inside her.

She would do more than survive. She would build a happy, healthy life for her son and for herself.

In the indigo sky, the first star appeared opposite the fading sunset. Feeling foolish, she made a wish. A miracle. Just a little one. Just a chance to prove myself, okay?

A feeling of be careful what you ask for washed through her.

She shook it off. Fanciful and unrealistic things had no place in her practical world.

The reality was that everyone would say the politically correct thing. They would say her pregnancy didn’t matter in her job hunt.

But the truth was no one wanted to hire a woman who would need time off to have a baby, not to mention time out of her workday for the morning sickness that struck like clockwork at ten a.m. each and every morning.

In less than a month her pregnancy would be evident. But by then she’d have had the job long enough to show her competence, long enough to make herself indispensable.

Her stomach lurched as she thought of how badly she needed this job.

With great willpower she stopped herself from staring at the man who could give her a safe, secure future.

Surely, her sister’s husband, the great Dr. Santone, didn’t have influence over every sleepy little town in Texas, did he?

What would a small-town country doctor care that a big-time surgeon who sat on the board of the largest hospital in Louisiana would be heartily upset if his sister-in-law found a job in the medical field?

Gathering her purse and slinging it over her shoulder, she pushed off the bench, remembering at the last moment to watch where she stepped as she walked toward Dr. Jordan Hart.

Feeling self-conscious, she looked up in time to see he was watching her every step of the way.

A challenge? Why?

Under the wide brim of his hat his eyes were too shaded by the darkening night skies to read. But his lips, so full and rich only a moment ago, were now set tight and grim.

“Dr. Hart?” Deseré called out.

“Just Jordan, ma’am.” Automatically, Jordan touched the brim of his hat, not even thinking about it until he saw her eyes follow the movement of his hand.

She held out her hand. “Deseré Novak. Your new nurse practitioner.”

Not a rodeo groupie at all. But she was an assertive little thing, wasn’t she?

Dr. Wong’s recommendation had seemed to contain a lot more between the lines than in black-and-white.

Dr. Wong hadn’t exactly said she’d worked for him. The letter had been carefully worded. What Dr. Wong had said was that Deseré Novak deserved a chance.

So Jordan would give her one. But he’d only promised an interview.

Or did she think Dr. Wong’s recommendations carried that much weight with him? Jordan was a man who made up his own mind about things.

“You’re early for your interview. We didn’t expect you until Monday.”

She gave him a smile. “I thought I’d check out the place first.”

“Makes sense.” He put his hand in hers. “Thanks for coming to Piney Woods. I know we’re a long way from New Orleans.”

Her grip was firm. No-nonsense. Assertive. With just enough give to suggest hidden softness.

Ms. Novak’s eyes flicked in worry before bravado had her lifting her chin. “I’ve already researched your practice. I’m sure it’s perfect for me. You won’t be sorry to hire me.”

If Jordan hadn’t noticed the slight quiver he would have been fooled into thinking she was totally confident that she had the job.

It wasn’t that he’d had any better-qualified applicants. How many experienced nurse practitioners wanted to move out to the edge of nowhere, taking room and board as a significant portion of their pay, when they could be pulling in the big bucks in any major city?

“We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He gestured to the open arena, still and quiet between events. “I’ve got other things going on tonight.”

She stood still waiting for—for what?

Something about her stillness made him notice the dark circles under her eyes.

“The closest hotel is back toward Longview about two hours away. You may want to head in that direction before it gets much later.”

She shook her head, shaking off his suggestion. “I understood room and board would be part of the deal. If you could point me toward this boarding house, maybe I could stay the night?”

“Boarding house.” Jordan’s smile was so tight it made his mouth hurt, way too tight to be reassuring, he was sure. “I guess, in a way, it is.”

His office administrator had drawn up the job description.

It would be just like Nancy to gloss over the details to get what she wanted.

And what she wanted was a local medical facility for the folks of Piney Woods, solving two problems at once. The town and surrounding ranches would have good medical attention.

The loudspeaker blasted over the explanation he was about to give to clear up his office administrator’s oversight.

Like everyone else in the stands, he turned to the gate to see his cousin poised over the back of a snorting and twisting bull.

Bull riding was a young man’s sport. Rusty was getting too old for this.

But, then, his bullheaded cousin would probably realize that in the morning when he was too stiff to roll out of bed.

Jordan had been there, done that, got the belt buckle—and the scars—to prove it.

The woman next to him winced as she saw Rusty drop down onto the wide back of the bull.

Rusty settled in—as well as a man could settle onto the back of an angry bull—and gave a sharp nod.

The gate opened, the bull rushed out, and Jordan silently counted in his head, one second, two seconds, three—

And Rusty was off the bull and on the ground.

The rodeo clowns rushed in to distract the twenty-five-hundred-pound, four-legged kicking fury so Rusty could roll away from the dangerous hoofs.

Jordan squinted through the falling light, looking for that first twitch that said Rusty was going to catch his breath, jump up and walk out of the arena any second now.

“Come on, Rusty, shake it off,” he murmured, as if saying it would send his cousin into action.

Dust hung in the air, as time stood still.

Rusty didn’t move.

But the woman next to Jordan did.

She rushed toward the arena, looking like she intended to climb through the iron-pipe fence separating her from the bull.

Without thought, Jordan reached out and pulled her close to him.

“No.” It came out harsh and uncompromising. It had been meant to. He’d been trained to give orders that were followed without question. He’d had too much practice to break the habit now.

There were a lot of habits he needed to work on breaking—like waking up in a cold sweat every night from his murky, twisted memory dreams. And jumping every time the barn door slammed closed, sounding too much like metal exploding.

And getting an adrenaline rush when he pulled a woman close to him to protect her from a non-existent danger.

Of course, she wasn’t intending to go over the rail into an arena with an enraged bull running loose. Who in their right mind would?

His stomach sank as he had a surge of doubt in his ability to judge a situation. His instincts, which had always served him so well, might be a tad on the twisted side now.

A tad?

Still, he held her tightly pressed against his body as she struggled to get free, something deep inside him telling him to hold on tight and not let go.

Under other circumstances Jordan would have tried to defuse the situation by making a joke at his own expense, along with an apology as he sheepishly laughed off his rash and inappropriate behavior.

But his cousin lay facedown in the dirt, too still for too long, and Jordan had no words, much less a laugh.

“Let me go.” She struggled against him. “Can’t you see he needs help?”

Maybe his instincts weren’t as far off as he’d thought they were.

Jordan gave a quick glance at the clowns as they herded the bull through the gate. One more second to make sure they latched it tight.

Then he let her loose, moved around her to put one boot on the top rung and vaulted over the fence racing toward Rusty with too many dire diagnoses running through his head for him to think straight.

As he knelt by his cousin’s side, Deseré knelt on the other side. Had she gone over the top, too? Or squeezed between the rails? Did it matter? All that mattered was Rusty, lying so still. He was never still. But now …

Jordan felt frozen, inside and out.

Deseré was on her hands and knees, her silk shirt and slacks getting filthy as she tried to assess Rusty’s state of consciousness.

Oh, God. Jordan thought it as a prayer, as cold dread started in the pit of his stomach, making its icy way to his heart. He hadn’t even considered that Rusty might be …

“Unconscious,” she said, her voice clipped.

She put her hand on Rusty’s back, noting its rise and fall.

“Breathing,” she reported.

Jordan nodded, realizing he’d been holding his own breath. Vacantly, he gazed down at his cousin’s body, trying to get his own breathing regulated.

Worn, dusty boots stopped next to Jordan’s knees. Jordan didn’t know and didn’t care who they belonged to.

With creaking knees Plato squatted down and touched Jordan’s elbow. “Emergency Dispatch says the ambulances and paramedic crews are tied up. A truckload of teenagers tried to beat a train across the tracks. They don’t know how long it will be. Do we need a chopper?” His calm voice, steady rheumy eyes and familiar wrinkled face piercing Jordan’s fog.

Jordan tried to make the words make sense. The only thing getting through to him was that Rusty lay still, too still.

He put his hand on Rusty’s back, willing him to take another breath.

“Dr. Hart?” Deseré prompted. “Authorize air transport?”

She nodded her head in the affirmative, giving him an obvious hint as to what his answer should be.

Jordan squeezed out a reply. “Yes.”

How long had it been between the time Rusty had hit the ground and now? It seemed like hours. Or years. But it could have only been minutes. They would have called emergency services immediately, right?

His brain seemed to be thawing—finally. He was applying logic and making assumptions. Now he needed to apply that brain to Rus—to his patient. Thinking of his cousin as his patient would help him put some distance between his panic and his personal pain.

Vacantly, he noted that Deseré was positioning herself flat on her stomach, almost nose to nose with Rusty, something he should have already done.

“I’ll stabilize his head while you check for spinal injuries,” she said, stirring the churned-up dirt of the arena with her breath.

Jordan noted her technique. Thumbs on collarbone, fingers behind shoulders, Rusty’s head firmly supported on her forearms. She definitely knew what she was doing.

She would be stuck like that until the emergency crew arrived with their cervical collar and backboard and trained crew to whisk Rusty to the hospital in Longview, the closest trauma center but still twenty-five minutes away by air.

If the last ten minutes had seemed to be a decade, the next twenty-five would pass like centuries.

The way Deseré lay flat on her belly with her arms extended, holding Rusty tight to keep him immobile, breathing in the thick red dust, each minute must be torture.

Running his hands over Rusty’s head then down, he started to check his cousin’s spine carefully.

No weird angles. But that didn’t mean much after the unnatural contortions Rusty’s body had gone through while airborne.

As he got to mid-back, Rusty stirred.

“Tickles,” he complained, as he tried to lift his face from the dirt.

But Jordan put one hand firmly on his lower hips and the other high on his back to hold him firmly in place.

“Be still,” he growled, not caring about his lack of bedside manner.

“Can’t. Back muscles are cramping.”

“You can and you will. Be still while I finish checking to see if anything’s broken.”

Rusty lay still, as ordered.

Distantly Jordan noticed that his voice sounded fierce and uncompromising. Distantly, he also noticed his hands were following the correct path, searching for injuries.

Distantly. As if he was watching himself from a place not here, not now. As if his heart and soul weren’t even connected to his mind or body. As if this wasn’t his one and only cousin who he’d grown up with, shared camping trips with, shared double dates with and had left behind when he’d enlisted so the army would pay for his education all those years ago.

“Can you feel my hand on yours?” Jordan steeled himself to hear the wrong answer, going into total thinking mode and leaving no room for mind-clouding emotions like fear.

“Yeah, I can.”

Holding his relief at bay, Jordan touched Rusty’s other hand then both his calves above his boots. As Rusty gave an affirmative to each touch, Jordan felt his emotions continue to detach themselves.

Stoicism and survival—at least mental survival—went hand in hand. It was a lesson he’d apparently missed during his time in medical school but had discovered quickly enough for himself while in the field. Combat conditions had made him a fast learner.

In a meek, scared voice, Rusty asked, “Jordan, am I okay?”

“Just checking you out, Rust Bucket.” From that place far remote from him where he’d left his emotions, Jordan knew calling his cousin by his detested nickname would be reassuring. Until the hospital’s helicopter arrived, soothing the patient was all he could do.

The patient. Jordan lumped Rusty in with the thousands of patients he’d treated. He wouldn’t allow himself to connect, wouldn’t allow himself to care. Not here. Not now.

Maybe that other Jordan, the one who seemed so far away from him right now, was caring. But all this Jordan felt was numb. And efficient.

Being efficient was critical.

Maybe later he could feel.

Or maybe later would never come.

But none of that mattered right now.

Finally, after he’d lost count of the breaths he’d begun to count in and out, he heard the helicopter land in the dark clearing where someone had set out flares.

As the paramedic crew got into place with their backboard and cervical collar and their professionalism, he heard himself give them a succinct account of the accident, of Rusty’s state of consciousness, of his initial findings of a possible broken arm and of Rusty’s pain level.

And the pain of Rusty, lying facedown in the dirt, hit him in the heart.

Too late, he remembered that numbness was better.

Still on his knees, he moved back, getting out of a paramedic’s way so he could do his job.

Desperately, he grasped for that numbness before it could slip away.

Instead, he could only kneel there in the dirt as he fought back the moisture that blurred his vision.

How many times had he knelt at the side of young men and women while he’d served his time in Afghanistan as they’d waited to be airlifted to safety? As if any place over there had felt safe.

Now was not the time to think of that.

Not now. Not ever, if he could keep pushing all those memories back.

Any second now he would find the strength, the motivation to stand.

He just needed to shore up his personal dam and everything would be fine.

Deseré stood next to him. When had she relinquished her position to the paramedic? When the paramedic had slipped the collar on and loaded Rusty onto the backboard, of course.

She put her hand on his shoulder, a firm touch followed by a squeeze.

And just like that he didn’t feel so alone, so isolated, so solely responsible.

As if Deseré’s voice had breached the invisible wall around him, he heard her tell the paramedics, “We’ll notify his family.”

That’s when he realized they had been speaking to him, asking him questions about next of kin, giving him information about where they were taking Rusty and how to contact the hospital for updates.

How many times had he spoken with families, giving them the same kind of information? Only he’d had to talk via phone to loved ones who had been continents away, speaking into an unsympathetic piece of plastic in his hand as he’d explained that their soldier had lost hands or eyes or legs.

He’d heard everything from silence to deep soulful keening over those invisible airwaves. Each response had burned itself into his mind.

How long would he fight the memories?

A paramedic knelt next to him, gently jostling him. “We’ve got the patient, Dr. Hart.”

How long had he knelt there, in the way?

Too long, even if it had only been for a few seconds.

He stood and backed away. From somewhere outside himself, he said, “I’ll follow in my truck.”

One of the rodeo clowns, who had been standing behind him and whom he’d been vaguely aware of, though he didn’t seem to belong in this scene with his brightly painted face, baggy clothes and suspenders, said quietly, “Jordan, you’re our medical professional on duty. We’ll have to shut down the event if you leave. I understand about Rusty and all, but there are some big purses and points on the line here.”

Jordan looked over at the woman with the ruined pants and blouse, filthy, too-delicate shoes and streaks of dirt on her cheek.

As if he were standing beside himself, watching, he saw himself lift his hand and wipe at a streak near her mouth with his thumb.

Her eyes deepened into a dark navy as she froze. She didn’t even blink. Just looked at him like a deer in the headlights, too stunned to run away.

Embarrassment dropped him back into himself as he realized what he’d done.

He clenched his fist as he focused on the problem at hand and made his decision. “My nurse practitioner will take over my duties here.”

He looked up, spotting Plato and Sissy, and motioned them over.

“Deseré Novak, meet Plato, my ranch help, and Sissy Hart, my sister and resident veterinarian. Ms. Novak will be taking over in my absence. Plato will introduce you around and show you the medical supplies. Sissy will make sure you have a place to stay tonight.” He paused, looking into each of their faces. “Any questions?”

Plato swiped his hand over his face. “You can take the officer out of the military, but you can’t …” He let the rest of his statement trail off under Jordan’s glare.

Beside him, Deseré was nodding her acceptance as if nothing could ruffle her composure.

Sissy frowned. “Jordan, where—?”

Jordan looked at the lights of the helicopter growing dimmer in the sky. “Call Nancy. This is her mess.”

“We’ve got this, Doctor.” Deseré gave him a calm, if tight smile. “Go do what you need to do.”

As if two massive boulders had fallen from his shoulders, Jordan felt energy course through him, the energy he needed to make it through tonight.

“Thanks.” Emotion had him sounding gruffer than he had intended.

Deseré didn’t seem to mind. “You’re welcome. Now go.”

Ignoring the shocked expressions on Sissy’s and Plato’s faces, Jordan took long, quick strides toward his truck as the helicopter lifted off, strobing bright light into the darkening sky.

As he climbed into his truck, he thought he should have nagging guilt about deserting his post. Instead, he felt comfort, deep down from the place where his instincts were born.

He was no longer alone.

For the first time in a very long time he could feel the tight, invisible bands around his chest loosen enough to let him draw in a deep breath.

The feeling of relief was seductive and he wanted to breathe in more.

But he couldn’t forget—wouldn’t forget—that letting down his guard created a sure-fire path to disappointment and bone-crushing pain.

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