Sweet on You (Sweet on a Cowboy)

by Drake, Laura

  “Am I too early?” His voice echoed in the painted cinderblock room. Katya’s head popped up. She closed the fridge door, straightened, and walked toward him. She was wearing another of those bright full skirts, all the color swirling with the sway of her hips. The contrast against the mannish tailored shirt sent mixed messages. Her face was foreign: high, slanted cheekbones, smooth tawny skin, and big, green eyes. Exotic.

  With personality issues. She doesn’t think much of us. Don’t forget that.

  “Hello, Cam. You ready to get started?” She stepped beside the table and patted the padded surface.

  Since his right shoulder was too tight to get his T-shirt over his head, he used his left to peel it off. She helped him, her fingers grazing his back, trailing lines of heat. She didn’t seem to notice. When she leaned in, he caught the scent of the exotic oils she used on her skin.

  Potent stuff.

  Her eyes moved over him in a professional perusal of his body, her face a mask of detached concentration. Doc Cody and other sports medicine employees had done that a million times. Why did it seem, all of a sudden… personal?

  He made the mistake of leaning on his bad leg when he raised his butt cheek on the table and his knee wobbled. Wincing, he grabbed the edge with his right hand.

  Her brows pulled together. He swung his feet up and lay back.

  “Do you mind if I check out your knee first?”

  “Be my guest.”

  She pulled his sweats up over his knee. Her touch was light, but sure. “You’ve got some arthritis. Have you had arthroscopic surgery for cartilage tears?”

  “Twice. I blew it out seven years ago—ACL, MCL, PCL.”

  This time, she winced. Her fingers ran down the back of his knee, testing, prodding. “Are you doing exercises to tighten the tendons?”

  “Yeah. Doc Cody gave me some.”

  “There’s not much there that massage will help. But the tiniest bit of swelling will make the instability worse. Let’s ice it.”

  She was back in a moment, wrapping a towel around his knee, then sliding a cold pack under his leg, and settling one on top. The cold was a shock at first, but then felt good. Or maybe it was her hands on his body that generated the heat.

  “I’m sure Doc Cody told you that you’re going to need a replacement somewhere down the line.”

  “Maybe so, but not this season.”

  “Are you taking something for the pain?”

  “Ibuprofen.”

  “I’m sure if you ask, he’d prescribe—”

  He opened his eyes. “Nope.”

  She grumbled under her breath, something about stubborn men, then got to the part he’d been looking forward to. Those hands on his chest.

  She poured oil into her palms, rubbing them together to warm it. As he’d seen her do before, she raised her hands to her face, and breathed in. There was nothing sexual in her demeanor, but her enjoyment was private, sensual.

  Not that it mattered. He was here to get ready to ride. And she was the best they had, the best he’d had. He closed his eyes, anticipating. He now understood the nickname, Magic Hands. Her fingers seemed to know right where the pain hid, deep.

  The rhythmic massage warmed the joint and he sighed, relaxing. If his body trusted her, he did. For this, anyway. He’d learned the hard way not to trust anything else to a good-looking woman. He was close to snoring by the time she finished.

  “Okay, cowboy. You’re good.” She patted his shoulder before reaching for the alcohol and a cloth.

  “I’ll leave the oil on there, if it’s okay with you.” He liked the exotic smell on his skin. It reminded his shoulder of her hands, relaxing it. Maybe it was only in his head, but he’d take comfort where he could find it.

  The sun came out in her delighted smile. “Smart man. The aromatics will prolong the benefit. I just thought that a big bad cowboy wouldn’t want—”

  “I want what works to help me ride. That’s it.” He slid off the table and tested his shoulder. “Thank you, ma’am. That helped.” The shoulder now allowed shrugging into his T-shirt unaided.

  “You’re very welcome. Good luck today.”

  He looked up, but her attention was already on her next patient waiting. He headed for the locker room to get dressed, stung at her impersonal dismissal. From the drift of his thoughts lately his head wasn’t far behind his body’s reaction to her. Maybe he’d think about revising that vow.

  You’d better focus on your ride, Cahill.

  CHAPTER

  8

  By some evil twist of fate, Doc Cody asked Dusty to work the arena with him. That left her with Edward. All night. Lucky for her, he seemed in a good mood, chatting up the cowboys before the event and whistling between tasks. Good thing too, because she had enough to worry about.

  She overheard the riders talking. Two events without a bad wreck was apparently remarkable. She pushed down the butterflies bumping the walls of her stomach. That meant they were overdue. Her ears stayed perked for every muffled roar of the crowd. And even more for the silence that followed a wreck.

  You’re a professional, Katya. You studied for five years and you’ve been in the field for seven. You know how to do your job.

  True enough. But could she do it under pressure?

  She splashed alcohol on a washcloth and wiped down a treatment table. They’d have a lull until the first injured rider showed up.

  “Everyone who can walk goes to a bar after the event.”

  She spun around. This time, Edward didn’t loom. He stood a few steps behind her.

  His eyes, sliding away, told her he’d been checking out her butt.

  “You know, to blow off steam.” He slouched, thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, a car salesman’s smile on his handsome face.

  Why did his sexy smile give her the willies, when Cam’s had the opposite effect?

  “I’d be proud if you’d allow me to escort you, Smitty. We could dance.”

  “My name is Katya.” Only people she loved could call her by her army nickname. The muscles in her forearms already throbbed with the beat of her heart. No way she’d be up for a night of dancing, even if she did want to go with Edward.

  Which she didn’t.

  She swiped the back of her hand over her sweaty forehead. She was a hot mess. When she dropped her hands to her sides, air puffed from her collar into her face. Make that a hot, smelly mess. “Thank you. But all I want after this is a rest.”

  “I’ll give you time to get a shower. You’ll perk up. I’ll see that you enjoy yourself.”

  What an arrogant ass. “I don’t date people I work with, Edward. So, again thank you, but I’ll have to decline.” She forced her lips to a smile.

  The movie-star twinkle in his eye winked out. When he scowled, his bottom lip protruded just a bit. “Suit yourself, kitty cat.” He spun on his heel and stalked away.

  What kind of karma plopped me in a job full of two-year-olds masquerading as grown men?

  Silence. Her muscles snapped to attention, reacting to what her ears didn’t hear. An arena full of people, by definition, could not be silent. Unless… shit! She shot a frantic look around the room. Everything was in place. The echo of shuffling feet came from the hallway.

  She shouted to Edward, “Incoming!” She tried to force her feet to move to the door. They wouldn’t. Horrific photos of ER trauma flashed in her brain, interspersed with useless snippets of procedures. P-R-I-C-E—protection, rest, ice, compression, elevation.

  Still, nothing would help her deal with the tremor in her hands or her shaking guts.

  The door swung in, pushed by Doc Cody’s back. The stretcher followed, with Dusty on the trailing end. The bright yellow cervical collar flashed in the lights as they carried the backboard by. The rider’s head was strapped in place between two foam blocks. They laid the stretcher gently on the table. She couldn’t recognize the cowboy’s blood-splashed face.

  Move, goddamn it, they need you! She managed one step. No more.r />
  Edward sifted through the medical supply bag. “What do you need?”

  Doc Cody’s movements were unhurried. He leaned over the stretcher and flashed a penlight in the cowboy’s eyes. “He’s out. Let’s clean him up, see what we’ve got. Katya, get some ice on him, to try to get a handle on the swelling.” His voice was calm, almost slow.

  Dusty glanced up at her. His eyes widened. Seeing that she wasn’t moving, he hustled to the refrigerator for ice.

  She stood, limbs shaking as if she were seizing, swallowing the bile that surged into her throat. You need this job. Move, dammit!

  “His nose is broken.” Edward gently sponged the blood. “Maybe more.”

  “Armando. Come on, son. Wake up, now.” Doc scrubbed a knuckle over the injured man’s sternum.

  Two riders came in the door. They stood, hats in hand, heads bowed. Were they praying?

  Uniformed ambulance drivers shouldered through the door. “Do you want transport?”

  Doc Cody didn’t look up. “Give him a minute. I think he’s coming around.”

  Dusty laid a small bag of ice across the rider’s nose.

  She saw the cowboy’s arm twitch. He moaned.

  This is not Kandahar. You don’t know this guy. He’s just a bull rider. Her hands stilled. Her feet moved. She walked to the refrigerator and pulled out two bags of ice.

  “Armando, do you know where you are?” At Doc Cody’s slow, relaxed voice, the tension in the room came down a notch.

  “Dember.”

  A collective sigh went around the room. Katya put the ice bags on the sink.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “Crap, I broke my node, din’ I?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll make you as pretty as new.”

  “Id dat the best oo can do?”

  The onlookers’ chuckles broke the tension. Katya returned to the fridge.

  Doc Cody looked up at the ambulance attendants. “I think we’re okay, for now anyway. But don’t go far, boys.”

  Doc addressed Edward and Dusty. “You guys had better get back to the arena, in case you’re needed.”

  Dusty shot her a worried look, then followed Edward out the door.

  The two praying cowboys stopped staring at her, donned their hats, and slipped out the door to the hall.

  Oh, I am so fired.

  Doc Cody pulled the ice bag from the cowboy’s face. “Okay, Armando, you know the drill.”

  “Yeah, Doc.”

  “One… two—”

  Crunch.

  Doc pinched the bridge of the rider’s nose, holding a washcloth to stem the blood. He looked up. “I think we have enough ice, Katya.”

  She looked at the teetering pile of bags on the counter.

  “Could you hand me some cotton plugs out of that bag, please?”

  The pulse pounding blood to her face was proof that you couldn’t actually die of embarrassment. She dug through the bag and double-checked the package before stepping to the table. She handed it over, relieved to see that, though her stomach quaked, her hands were steady.

  Doc crammed the plugs into the cowboy’s nose. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “He pulled me down on hid head.”

  “He sure did. Good thing you didn’t hit anything important. You could have hurt yourself.” Doc spoke in his calm-a-spooked-horse voice, his hands running over the cowboy’s neck, checking his skull, his facial bones. “Does anything else hurt?”

  “No. Cad I get up now?”

  “Why don’t you just relax for a few, then we’ll see.”

  “Katya, will you remove the C-support?” He walked to the locked cabinet that he’d stocked with drugs earlier.

  She stepped up and pulled the Velcro strips that anchored the cowboy’s head to the backboard. “Do you feel dizzy?” She gently lay the ice bag over the bridge of his nose and swollen eyes. He was going to have legendary shiners tomorrow.

  “No, ma’ab.”

  Leaving the cervical collar in place, she removed the blocks, then ripped apart the Velcro that bound his arms and legs to the backboard.

  Doc Cody was back with two pills and a plastic cup of water. “Elevate his neck and shoulders please.”

  When that was done and the cowboy was resting comfortably, Doc Cody tipped his chin, indicating that she should follow him.

  She didn’t have long to wait in purgatory; he only walked to the other side of the room. Still, it was enough time for her to think about what job she’d apply for next. Nothing came to mind.

  He turned and assessed her, much the way he had the cowboy on the table. “At ease, soldier.”

  Her spine popped as she forced it to curve. “Old habits. Sorry.” She took a deep breath.

  The doc continued his study. “You know, these men deal with fear every time they get on a bull. You keep your eyes open you could learn something from them.”

  He straightened and stepped past her.

  She stood, stupid with surprise. Did she still have a job? “Doc?”

  He turned. “Eddie Rickenbacker was the first World War One flying ace. He said, ‘Courage is doing what you’re afraid to do. There can be no courage unless you’re scared.’ ”

  “I froze—”

  “Yeah, you did. But then you did something. You’re good at your job. For right now, that’s enough. Keep working at it.”

  Relief, like a tropical breeze, blew over her freeze-dried spirit.

  She’d dodged a bullet today.

  But for how long? Her ears perked, listening for the silence that would signal the next wreck.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Katya surveyed the weathered plank walls of the rustic restaurant. She’d planned on spending the last evening of the weekend in her hotel room, tucked in with the TV and takeout. But when she’d run into Max and Bree on her way out of the arena, they invited her for dinner. She didn’t want to miss the opportunity to get her questions answered, so she asked them to pick her up after she’d showered and changed.

  Bree said, “I love your outfit. I could never pull off that style, but it looks so natural on you.”

  Katya decided on full Gypsy regalia tonight for courage. Her coin cascade earrings swung as she glanced down to her black suede slouch boots, turquoise broomstick skirt, full-sleeved white blouse, and fitted tapestry vest.

  Bracelets tinkled as she raised her hand to tuck hair behind her ear. “It’s me. What can I say?”

  Katya only picked at her salad. Today’s failure weighed on her stomach, as well as her mind.

  “I tried to tell you not to order a salad at a steakhouse, girl.” Bree pointed her fork at the chicken breast in front of her. “Do you want some of this?”

  Her stomach rolled. Katya tried to twist her wince into a smile. “No, thanks, I’m good.”

  Max eyed her over his cooked-to-leather steak.”You’re not one of those veeegan people, are you?”

  “Evolve a bit here, dear. If she’s a vegetarian, that’s her business.”

  “Hon, I only—”

  “You can relax, Max. I’m an omnivore.” Katya’s smile eased to a more natural version. She enjoyed watching the couple spark off each other, but bone-tired hovered not far away, waiting to pounce. She pushed her plate to the side. “Do you mind if I keep asking you dumb questions?”

  “Have at it.” Max took a pull on his beer.

  “Do the spurs hurt the bull?”

  Max chuckled. “Do you have any idea of what a good bucking bull is worth?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ve had offers of over a million for Beetle Bailey and I’m not selling. Between his event earnings and semen sales, I’m going to make a lot more than that in the long run. Even if I didn’t care about the animal, which I do, do you think I’d allow an investment like that to be abused?”

  She swallowed. I massaged a million dollars on the hoof?

  Bree spoke up. “A bull’s skin is ten times thicker than ours. Spurs don’t h
urt him more than a stiff loofah hurts you. The rowels—that’s the part at the end that spins—are regulated by the PBR to be sure they can’t injure the bull. The cowboys use their spurs to hang on and to impress the judges that they’re in a strong enough position to afford to take their leg off the bull.”

  “What about that strap around his… back parts?”

  Max swallowed a bite of steak. “That’s a flank strap. It’s just an irritant. It makes them kick out their back legs, to try to get rid of it. If you didn’t use it, the bull would still buck but he might not kick.” He demonstrated with his hand, showing the angle of a bull on his front hooves. “That’s what helps keep a rider on his rope.

  “In spite of old wives’ tales, it goes nowhere near the bull’s ba—reproductive parts. No contractor would risk injuring a future sire.” He picked up the sweating beer bottle. “In your job I’m sure you’ve seen that a two-thousand-pound bull can hurt a cowboy a lot worse than the other way round.” He took a swig.

  “That’s another thing. Why do some of the riders wear helmets and others wear only cowboy hats?”

  Bree frowned. “Some of them value what’s inside their heads more than others.”

  “Now, Bree, don’t get on your soapbox. It’s a personal preference, Katya, and a hot topic on the circuit. Old-school cowboys grew up riding without a helmet. They didn’t exist then. They see it as a distraction that restricts their vision.”

  Katya couldn’t imagine a football player taking the field without a helmet and they only got run over by humans. “Why doesn’t the PBR simply require it?”

  Max shrugged. “It’s the cowboy way. Grit it out, take whatever the bull dishes.”

  Bree said, “It’s going to be a moot point once the old guys retire. The high school and youth rodeos all require kids to wear helmets, so as they come up the ranks, it’ll be a habit for them.”

  Katya’s guts squirmed, remembering Armando, lying unconscious on the exam table, covered in blood. “I hope that happens soon.”