Her Forever Cowboy

by Marie Ferrarella

  He shrugged off her reasoning. “It’s just easier to go with what you know, with the familiar. There’s a sort of unconscious comfort about that—as long as the doctor is competent and doesn’t mess up. Give them time, Alisha. The good people of Forever will get used to you, see you for the dedicated doctor that you are.”

  He’d just called her Alisha, she realized with a sudden inner start. That was the first time he’d used her name instead of calling her Lady Doc.

  Had he just done that on purpose? Or was it just a slip of the tongue?

  “How would you know I was dedicated?” Alisha challenged.

  She wanted him to see that she wasn’t going to be taken in by platitudes. If he meant what he said, he was going to have to prove it by convincing her of his reasons.

  “For one thing, if you weren’t dedicated,” Brett said, taking a long drag of his beer, “you wouldn’t be out here. And for another, if you weren’t good, you wouldn’t have all those letters of recommendation to present to Dan at your interview.”

  Alisha blinked, stunned. The interview had been a private one, conducted between two professionals. “How did you—”

  “Small town,” Brett reminded her, thinking she really didn’t need to be told much more than that to understand what he was saying.

  Since he was building his case about her qualifications on her references, she pointed out something she felt was rather obvious. “The letters could have been faked.”

  How simple-minded did she think the citizens of a small town were? Brett silently marveled, trying not to take offense. Someone like Alisha should have known that brain size had absolutely no real correlation with the town’s boundary lines.

  “One, Dan’s not an idiot. He called some of the doctors whose signatures were on those letters just to make sure everything was legitimate, and two, he’s had a chance to observe you in action and he seems to be more than satisfied with you. Dan’s not a hard taskmaster, but he’s not exactly known as a pushover, either. And he wants the best for his town.”

  It was growing noisier in the bar again, and Alisha found that she had to raise her voice to be heard, a fact that didn’t exactly make her happy.

  “Dan told you that?” she asked, torn between being pleased and being less than thrilled that she would be the topic of discussion for the doctor and the bartender, something that sounded like the beginning of a joke recited in a grade-B movie.

  “Not exactly,” Brett corrected. “Dan told Holly that. Then she told Ray—her husband,” he explained in case Alisha didn’t make the connection. “And Ray told me when he stopped in for a drink and to catch up. Bottom line, our Dr. Dan is more than satisfied with your efforts, and on top of that, the town’s satisfied because they’ve come to trust Dan’s judgment.”

  It was then that she noticed that Brett had poured her a drink and had eased it in front of her. She gazed down at the glass but refrained from picking it up. “What’s this?”

  They were back to their customary relationship, and he laughed at her question. “If I have to explain a drink to you, you really do need to get out more, Lady Doc—and to pay attention.”

  “Yes, I know it’s a drink,” she replied patiently. “And I know that it’s the drink you made for me when we sealed the rental deal for the apartment upstairs. But that doesn’t explain why you just made me another one.”

  Brett’s smile was swiftly getting to her. It was almost as if it was actually burrowing under her skin. She explained away the increased heat around her as being the result of the extra bodies that were packed into Murphy’s—but if she was being honest with herself, she knew that wasn’t really it.

  Brett was undoubtedly like that with every woman he served, she reminded herself. The man was a charmer from the word go, and she knew all about charmers—they were as shallow as a puddle on a city sidewalk.

  “Same reason as the first time,” Brett told her easily.

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the drink, then at him. He hadn’t cleared up the situation. “I’m renting another apartment?” she asked drolly.

  “No, that drink’s yours so we can properly celebrate your very first patient,” he told her. He raised his own glass in a toast—to her. “The first of many who will come through the doors of the clinic, asking for you and seeking out your expertise as well as your delicate touch.”

  “How would you know if I had a delicate touch or not?” she asked, amused, after she had taken a very long, bracing sip of her drink.

  My God, she thought as awareness slipped in. Was she actually flirting with him? Flirting with her landlord? With the bartender? Hadn’t she learned her lesson about men like Brett?

  She really was giddy, wasn’t she? Alisha thought in conflicted wonder.

  “Now, that’s just something I intuitively know,” Brett answered, looking down at her hand resting on the bar. He had to tamp down the desire to simply stroke her hand, to run his fingertips over her skin. As he recalled from the all-too-brief contact he’d had with her hand the evening he’d shown her the apartment, it was as smooth as silk to the touch.

  “However, if you want to prove me wrong, here I am. Touch me,” he invited in a voice that was as seductive as it was gentle.

  The look in his eyes was the very definition of mischievous—with a very healthy dose of sexiness thrown in to boot.

  Had Liam’s band just played “Taps”? Or was she hallucinating? Her money, sadly, was on the latter. In either case, she was losing ground, and she knew it.

  Chapter Ten

  He was daring her. And maybe, just maybe, a part of Brett was laughing at her, as well. Not cruelly—instinct told her that Brett Murphy was not cruel by nature or design—but he was laughing at her in amusement. Amusement that still, no matter how it was sliced, was at her expense.

  If only the man didn’t look so damn sexy while he was doing it. But even that incensed her, reminding her how vulnerable she’d once been by being attracted to a man’s looks.

  Now, at least, she knew how to look beneath the veneer.

  “Afraid?” Brett asked, his mouth curving.

  Her eyes narrowed into small, flashing slits. Brett had inadvertently said just the right thing to galvanize her resolve.

  To Alisha, to show fear had always been equal to showing weakness, and to be perceived as weak ripped independence right out of a person’s hands. Once lost, independence was incredibly difficult to win back—the same way that trust was difficult to win back once a person was caught in a lie.

  She refused to ever be that weak person, and worse, to be perceived as a weak person.

  Keeping that thought foremost in her mind, Alisha defiantly placed her hand on top of Brett’s, her eyes never leaving his.

  “Satisfied?” she fairly bit off.

  She watched, her body growing even more heated, as the corners of Brett’s firm mouth slowly, seductively, wickedly curved upward. She could almost feel the impression of his smile within her being. It took her a full second to realize that she’d stopped breathing. Air found its way into her lungs with effort.

  “Not by a long shot, Alisha,” he whispered, making sure that she was the only one who heard him. Making his response that much more intimate.

  Alisha.

  He’d called her Alisha again. Not the flippant nickname he’d awarded her—Lady Doc—or her title—Dr. Cordell—but her given name. And by using her name the way he did, he made this exchange between them extremely intimate despite the fact that there had to be upward of at least fifty-five people milling around the inside of Murphy’s.

  As if her ability to react was set on some sort of a five-second-delay program, Alisha suddenly pulled back her hand.

  “Well, you’re going to have to be satisfied,” she retorted. Pushing her empty glass back toward him on the bar, Alish
a rose from the stool. “Thanks for the drink,” she told him stiffly.

  “My pleasure, darlin’,” he said, deliberately incorporating a whimsical Irish brogue into his voice. When she shot him an exasperated look, he winked at her. He watched as she became flustered, then turned her back to him.

  “By the way,” he called after her as she started to hurry away, “when’s your next day off?”

  The question, coming completely out of nowhere, struck her as incredibly odd.

  “Why?”

  Brett was the picture of nonchalance as he shrugged carelessly. “Thought you might like to get a look at a ranch—or what used to be a ranch,” he amended.

  Curious, she retraced her steps. Just what was the man up to? “Used to be?” she repeated uncertainly. “What is it now?”

  “Deserted,” he answered.

  He was talking about that property he’d inherited, wasn’t he? she suddenly recalled. Exactly what was this charmer’s angle? He had to have one because all charmers had an angle.

  “You want to take me to a deserted ranch?” she asked incredulously, then came back to the same question she’d already asked. “Why?”

  Brett shrugged again as he dried off a section of the bar, his broad shoulders moving like a restless mountain lion surveying the lay of the land before him.

  “I thought that maybe you might have some input you’d want to share about the property,” he told her. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  She stared at him. He was kidding, right? “I’m from New York,” she reminded him as if that little fact had slipped his mind.

  Was she trying to say that since she was a city girl, she had no idea how to view a ranch? “Doesn’t mean you can’t have a vision, or that you’re incapable of ultimately inspiring some good input.”

  That wasn’t why he wanted her to come with him. Alisha looked at him knowingly. “And this has nothing to do with getting me alone on a deserted ranch?” she challenged.

  “I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind,” Brett told her, with the appearance of sincerity. “But I’m not looking to put you in a compromising situation,” he continued. “And if I do anything to make you pick up and leave, Dan, as well as half the town, will have my head mounted up on a pike as a warning for any other shortsighted Lothario. I just thought you might want to get away from everything for a while, that’s all.”

  Alisha laughed at his flawed reasoning. “Brett, being here in Forever is getting away from everything,” she emphasized.

  “Okay,” he allowed, “point taken. More away from everything,” he amended, this time with a heart-pumping, engaging grin.

  Alisha debated back and forth for a few seconds, then told him, “Sunday.” With that, she began to walk away from him in earnest.

  The noise was once again putting a wall up between them. He knew she’d answered him, but as to what that answer was, he couldn’t say for certain. Losing no time, he circumvented the counter, quickly emerging on the other side in order to take a few steps after her and actually hear her response.

  “What?” he asked, his hand on her shoulder to temporarily stop her in her tracks before she could disappear into the mass of humanity filling up his family’s establishment.

  Startled, because she hadn’t heard him call after her a second time, and she wasn’t expecting anyone else to try to get her attention, Alisha attempted to shrug off the masculine hand she felt on her shoulder. She swung around quickly, a confrontational look on her face.

  Her features softened the moment she saw who was behind her. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Me,” he agreed, then explained why he’d stopped her. “I didn’t hear your answer.”

  “Sunday,” she repeated. “The clinic is closed on Sunday—but I’m on call should anything come up,” she deliberately added.

  It wasn’t just a safety net for her in case she changed her mind about accompanying Brett to this deserted ranch of his; it was also true. When she had become a doctor, she had knowingly agreed to be on call for the rest of her life—or until such time as she was no longer of any useful benefit to the medical community.

  For her, becoming a doctor wasn’t just a profession; it was also a calling. And, if she was being completely honest, out here she felt there was even more use and need of her skills than in the city where she’d received her training. In New York City, she was a general surgeon. Here, that was still her specialty, but she also got to bandage knees, treat upper respiratory issues and diagnose stomach ailments.

  Every day was a challenge the second she crossed the threshold. She had to give 110 percent of herself and apply the same percentage of her skills because she was working in a small town that had no community of physicians for her to fall back on or consult with.

  As if reading her mind—the man gave her an eerie feeling that he was capable of doing just that—Brett nodded. “Sure, I understand. If something comes up, that takes precedence. But if there are no medical emergencies, how about I pick you up at nine—or is that too early?” he asked.

  Even after being in Forever a month, she was still basically running on New York time, which meant that Brett’s nine o’clock was actually more like eleven o’clock for her.

  She was accustomed to getting up early and not wasting the morning in bed. “You can make it earlier if you’d like.”

  She got up early. He liked that. He was an early riser himself. Running Murphy’s as well as having had to raise his brothers at one point had trained him to do with a minimum of sleep. His lifestyle encouraged him to get a jump start on each day.

  “Eight, then,” he said, moving the pickup time up by an hour. Then, with what felt like almost a private smile, he added, “If you change your mind about the time—or about going—you know where to find me.”

  That Brett had given her an escape clause went a long way in his favor. The next moment, she couldn’t help wondering if he was aware of that and had given her a way out for just that purpose.

  You’re getting way too cynical, ’Lish.

  That, too, was due to Pierce, she thought with more than a trace of annoyance. Like the lyric of a song she’d heard on the radio the other morning at Miss Joan’s—these people listened to way too much country music, she couldn’t help thinking—Pierce had actually stolen her happy.

  Though she couldn’t warm up to country music in general, that lyric, at least, rang very true. Pierce had stolen her happy, her usual sunny way of looking at everything. These days, she weighed everything, took everything apart, searching for the trap, the bad within the good.

  She had to do something about that. Otherwise, even though she had broken off her engagement to the philandering surgeon, Pierce had actually won that round—because he had ruined her ability to view things in a positive light when it came to any other man.

  And yet, despite everything, there was something about Brett...

  “So, Sunday at eight is all right?” Brett asked, peering into her face. The look in her eyes told him that at least for a moment, she had gone somewhere far away in her head. He wanted to make sure she hadn’t just answered him in the affirmative because she wasn’t really listening.

  Rousing herself, Alisha said, “It’s all right.” Then she glanced at his hand, which was still on her shoulder, still anchoring her in place. “Are you planning on releasing my shoulder anytime soon?” she asked, her voice deceptively light.

  He hadn’t realized that he still had his hand on her shoulder. Probably because he liked making a physical connection with her. He lifted his hand now in a show of compliance.

  “Sorry,” he told her. Brett took a couple of steps backward, away from her and closer to the bar.

  Inclining her head, she silently took his apology and absolved him. The conversation abruptly ended at the same time.

&n
bsp; Alisha felt exhausted, just the way she felt every night. The difference being that tonight, along with the exhaustion, there was a host of butterflies, spreading their wings and colliding with each other inside her stomach.

  As quickly as she could, she made her way across the crowded room until she finally reached the rear and the staircase. Once there, she paused for a moment, letting out a long breath to steady herself and reclaim her bearings.

  She’d agreed to accompany Brett to this so-called property of his. But she could always say no.

  At this point, Alisha realized as she took the stairs up to her tiny apartment, she didn’t really know if she would go with him on Sunday—or not.

  * * *

  “YOU AND THE lady doc an item?”

  The sleepy-sounding question came from Nathan McLane, one of Murphy’s steadiest regulars. Married for longer than he could honestly remember, Nathan had for years found his way to the saloon’s counter every day after his hours as a clerk at the general store were over.

  Now that he was retired, Nathan spent even more time seated at Murphy’s, nursing a beer—when he wasn’t sleeping off the effects of all those beers in the town’s jail.

  To the random observer, Nathan appeared to be indifferent to the world around him. But closer scrutiny inevitably showed that the exact opposite was actually true. Nathan absorbed everything that happened around him much the way he absorbed the alcohol in his glass. Slowly and completely, usually without comment.

  Brett looked at the man who had occupied that same stool when his uncle Patrick had owned and run Murphy’s. Nathan was practically a fixture at the saloon. For a moment, he really thought that he had imagined the regular asking the question.

  As much a part of Murphy’s as the very bar itself, Nathan at times just seemed to blend into the background despite his unique features. Resembling nothing so much as a sun-bleached haystack tossed atop a rumpled man carrying way too much weight around for his five-ten frame, he was a hard man to take seriously.

  But Brett had always accorded Nathan the same amount of respect he gave all his patrons. To that end, he took to heart any question or comment that Nathan made.