Harlequin Superromance May 2016 Box Set

by Janice Kay Johnson

  When he touched under her right breast, she sucked in air. “That...hurts,” she said in surprise.

  Ian nodded, mentally noting the spot. He finished checking the left side and then said, “I’m going to check your sternum, okay?”

  She nodded. He put his hand between her breasts and forced himself to think about the muscles and bones—not her skin or her bra. She was almost painfully thin around the waist. He wanted to remind her to eat, but now wasn’t the time. “Does that hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “Are you breathing?”

  She managed a look that was almost normal. “I’m trying. But this is...”

  “Awkward, yeah.” He tried to grin at her. He didn’t make it. “I’m going to touch where it hurt again. Tell me how it feels.”

  He put his hands back underneath her breast and felt along the rib cage. She tensed at the same spot. “That’s sharp.”

  “Take a deep breath.” She did as she was told and winced. Ian closed his eyes and pictured the human skeleton. “You have a fracture here,” he said as he felt the sore spot. “That’s my fault. I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

  “No—I mean, I can’t,” she quickly corrected. “I can’t afford it. And what are they going to do, anyway? Take an X-ray, maybe wrap it?”

  “Probably not even wrap it,” he admitted. “But I’m the one who broke your rib. I’ll pay for it.”

  She shook her head. He supposed he should be glad she was getting back to normal—prickly and ready to throw down. That was a good sign that the shock had passed. “No hospital.”

  He sighed. “I need to check for a concussion, though. Does your head hurt?”

  “No. Well, I mean, yes—but that’s because I was crying.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and lifted her chin so he could study her eyes. They focused on him clearly. “Where are you?”

  “In a medical tent in Clinton, Oklahoma.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lacy Evans.”

  “How old are you?” Not that he’d know if she answered correctly or not, but these were the questions he’d been asked a few times after a few hard hits.

  “Twenty-three.”

  “How much is seven times eight?”

  “Fifty-six.”

  “Good.” She hadn’t hesitated. He let go of her face and looked around. He didn’t see a flashlight anywhere, but the light in the tent was muted. “Here.” He pulled her to her feet and walked her over to the tent flap. Then, watching her pupils, he opened the flap and let the light hit her in the face.

  “Hey!” she yelped in surprise.

  He leaned forward and stared at her pupils. They’d both contracted at the same time and were even. “Does the light hurt?”

  “No, you idiot—it’s bright!” She socked him in the shoulder. “I’m okay now.”

  He let the flap fall behind them. “Are you sure? I’d feel better if you got checked out.”

  This got him a half-worried look. “And you’re not a medical professional?”

  “I have a degree in kinesiology,” he told her. “If I’d stayed in school, I could have been a physical therapist. I know enough to patch myself up when I do something stupid like wrestle bulls to the ground.” He smiled, hoping she would smile back.

  She made a face that might have started out as a grin but was quickly buried under a cloud of gloom. “I need to check on my other bulls.” She took a deep breath and reached up to cram the hat that wasn’t there back onto her head. “I’m sorry I fell apart.”

  “What?”

  She tried to step around him, but he wasn’t letting her go. So she stopped. “I need to make sure Rattler’s okay. I can’t let anything happen to him. If I lose him...” She shuddered.

  “Lacy, you don’t even have your boots on.”

  She looked down at her feet in surprise. “Oh?”

  Damn. Maybe she hadn’t managed to avoid a knock to the head, after all. He led her back over to the cot and sat her down. “What’s my name?” he asked, watching her reaction.

  “Ian. But I’m fine.”

  “My full name?” he insisted. He reached up to brush her hair away from her ears so he could check for bruising along the side of her face.

  As his fingertips stroked over her skin, she tensed. Her pupils dilated again. “Ian Tall Chief. Everyone else calls you Chief. You’re a bullfighter. You used to play football, but now you don’t.” Something in her voice changed. It wasn’t a huge difference, but suddenly there was a husky quality to it that hadn’t been there a minute ago. “You promised to help me out and I didn’t let you. I should have.” Her eyes began to water. “I should have. It’s my fault.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Lacy,” he told her. Lacy wasn’t in charge of setting up the pens. But that didn’t mean that other mistakes couldn’t have been made. He didn’t see any bruising or knots that would indicate she’d hit the ground hard. “Does this hurt?” Slowly, he pressed his fingers along her scalp.

  “No.” The huskiness was stronger now. He honestly couldn’t tell if she was about to cry again or not. “My hat...”

  “It came off when I tackled you. If you want, you can wear mine until you get yours back.”

  She reached up and took his hands in hers, and then lowered them until they were resting on her lap. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

  “Because we’re friends,” he told her truthfully. “I’ve done this whole workup on Jack—he’ll tell you.”

  He disentangled his hand from hers, then lifted his hat off his head and put it on hers. It sank down until it was covering her eyebrows. “There,” he said, brushing a stray curl back up under the hat. His fingertips skimmed over her jawline. He was having trouble breathing, he realized—and he couldn’t blame it on the bull. “All hidden.”

  She moved again. This time, instead of pulling his hand away from her face, she pressed it against her cheek. “Why are you doing this for me?” she demanded, her voice soft and hard all at once.

  “Because we’re friends,” he repeated. He was vaguely aware that he was leaning closer to her, but he couldn’t help himself. “Because I like you.”

  He wanted to kiss her and he didn’t want to kiss her. She was having one hell of a bad afternoon and she’d already been disorientated and anything he did that crossed the line would be jerky.

  But she was holding his hand to her cheek and she was soft and warm and looking at him with huge eyes—eyes that focused and moved at the same speed—and damned if she didn’t look like a woman who wanted to be kissed.

  He couldn’t. She had to make the move.

  “Will the owner of the Straight Arrow please come to the stage?” The announcement boomed over the loudspeaker, the voice distorted by static and echo.

  Lacy started. “Oh,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I should go.”

  Yeah, she should. Ian stood back and watched as she jammed her feet into her boots. “Promise me that, when the EMTs get here later, you’ll get checked out. And if you feel a sneeze or a cough coming on, try to hold a pillow or a stuffed animal to your chest. It’ll take the pressure off your ribs.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but then appeared to think better of it. “I will,” she promised. Then she was up and moving—thankfully, her steps were quick and sure.

  When she reached the tent flap, though, she paused and turned back. “You won’t—you know—tell anyone I had a breakdown, will you?”

  Ian walked over to her. “You should know me better than that by now,” he said. He picked up one of her hands and pressed a kiss to her palm. She gasped as he then pressed her hand over his heart—right over the ink of Eliot’s heart. “I swear that all your secrets are safe with me, Lacy.”

  She exhal
ed the breath and gave him a curt nod. Then she was walking away from him with her head down and her arms wrapped around her waist.

  All he could do was watch her go.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MORT, THE RODEO PROMOTER, was sitting in a folding chair behind a folding table up on the stage behind the arena. He was already sweating, but it was only late April. Lacy fought the urge to step away from him and his sweat-stained shirt.

  Mort was pinching the bridge of his nose. “What happened?”

  “One of my bulls got loose. It charged me. The bullfighters were right there and pulled me out of the way. The bull...” Her voice stopped working. She tried to swallow down the lump that had taken control of her throat, but nothing happened.

  Ian stepped up next to her. She startled. Unlike Mort’s repulsive sweating, Ian smelled of leather and sawdust. She fought the urge to lean into him. “The bull hit a trailer, broke its leg and had to be put down.”

  Lacy tensed at the bare recitation of facts. But she would not cry—not again, that was. She supposed she should be thankful that she’d been alone in a tent, safely hidden behind canvas walls when she’d lost it.

  Well, she hadn’t been alone. Ian had been there. Just as he was now.

  Mort gave her a cautious look. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” She didn’t even cop to the busted rib, which was throbbing more every minute.

  She could still feel Ian’s hands moving over her body with a kind of gentleness that she wouldn’t have given him credit for. She’d seen him throw a bull, tackle men—hell, she’d been tackled by him. And yet, when he’d touched her chest, oh-so-carefully avoiding her breasts the whole time—when he’d threaded his fingers into her crazy hair—

  When he’d stroked her face and looked at her with something that hadn’t been just concern?

  She swallowed. She didn’t know what to think about right now. She didn’t want to think at all, because if she thought about Wreck, she might lose control again. She didn’t know how she was going to fall asleep tonight without seeing Wreck charging or hearing his screams of pain—or the gunshot that ended him.

  And that was bad enough. Worse were the long-term problems she was looking at now. Without Wreck, her ranch would be teetering on the brink of bankruptcy and no doubt Slim Smalls was waiting in the wings to take the Straight Arrow away from her.

  But if she thought about Ian, she might do something totally irresponsible like ask him to spend the night having sex with her so she wouldn’t have to think about it. Any of it.

  No strings, Ian had said. And given the way he’d kissed her palm and held it against his heart? They were friends. Because he liked her.

  If she wanted to spend the night getting lost in his body, he’d say yes. He’d make sure she didn’t think anymore; that much she was sure about. It’d be a relief, frankly. Instead of nightmares, Ian would make it good for her. She knew he would.

  But it wouldn’t last. If she lost herself in him tonight, what new problems would she have to deal with in the morning?

  Would they still be friends if they slept together?

  A bead of sweat on Mort’s forehead slid down his face. She focused all of her attention on it. It would keep her from making a fool of herself with Ian.

  Mort sighed wearily. “Which bull was it?”

  “Wreckerator.” She got the name out without her throat catching, so that was pretty good.

  “Hell,” Mort muttered. “This puts us down one bull for the show.” He scrolled through his phone. “Hopefully someone local has a bull they can get out here...”

  The last voice she wanted to hear right now spoke from below the stage. “Mort, now you know I like to come prepared. I have an extra bull.”

  Lacy stood stock-still. She would not react to Slim Smalls. She would not wonder out loud about the coincidence of Slim having an extra bull available mere minutes after one of hers mysteriously got loose and died. And no matter what, she would not show weakness in front of that man, because she knew he’d twist it around.

  She would not give in to him and that was final.

  Next to her, Ian growled. She felt the noise deep in her chest and winced. She didn’t remember any pain when he’d tackled her, but she sure as hell felt it now. Which was good. The physical pain was something she could feel without having to think about it. She took a deep breath to feel that sharp jab again. It kept her in the here and now.

  Mort looked up in surprise. “Well, Slim, that’s good news. Who’d you bring?”

  “Brother-in-law,” Slim said, climbing onto the stage. He didn’t look at Lacy, but she felt his sneer, anyway.

  Mort wrote it down. “Okay, we’ll go with our standard terms. Evans, I’m sorry but we won’t be able to pay for that bull since it didn’t die during the show.” He wrote something down on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. “Call them about the carcass.”

  No, of course they wouldn’t pay for the bull. She’d have to cover the cost of the removal. Where was she going to get the money?

  She’d have to start selling off some of her heifers ahead of schedule. That’d get her through now, but this fall, she’d come up short again.

  She nodded. She wasn’t ready to think of Wreck as a carcass. He’d been her bull and he could have been a damned good one.

  No—no crying. She would not cry. She’d think about...

  Slim turned to her, a slimy grin on his face. “I know it’s been a lot for you to handle since your folks died, sweetie,” he said in a voice that was probably supposed to sound caring but was only patronizing condescension. “I wish you’d let me take some of that burden off your shoulders. That ranch and those bulls are too much for a darlin’ like you to handle on your own.”

  She felt Ian bristling with anger next to her, but Mort was the one who spoke first. “Which trailer got tipped?”

  Lacy blinked at him for a moment. A trailer had tipped over?

  “The Straight Arrow’s,” Ian answered when Lacy didn’t.

  “We’ll see about getting it righted,” Mort said in a way that made it pretty clear the conversation was over.

  “Much obliged,” Lacy managed to get out. She turned and headed for the stairs, Ian right behind her.

  Neither of them said anything as they walked back to the scene of the accident. Her rib poked at her and she wondered dimly if maybe she should have let Ian take her to the hospital. But God only knew what Slim would have done with that. She had no choice. She had to prove to that man—to all of them—that it wasn’t “too much for a darlin’” to handle this.

  Ian had been telling the truth—Jack, his partner, stood next to the pen that still held Peachy and Rattler. At least it hadn’t been Rattler, she tried to tell herself. She really would have been screwed if it’d been Rattler.

  This attempt at optimism did not work.

  Several other cowboys were standing around what was left of her bull. The hum of male conversation washed over her. She caught a few words here and there, words like, “a damn shame,” and “check on my bulls.”

  And, yes, there was her trailer, flipped on its side with a massive dent where Wreck had slammed into it.

  “Hey,” Jack said, tilting his head to indicate that Ian and Lacy should join him. “The panel right there?” Jack pointed with his chin. “Someone’s jacked it up. The connector pole’s been cut.” Ian started toward the panel, but Jack grabbed him by the arm and said, “Whoa. No one else has seen it yet. Wait to see who shows their hand.” Ian nodded, his face unreadable.

  The pole had been cut? That meant the pen panel had swung open like an unlocked gate without that pole to hold the panels up.

  Swirling rage and pain and those stupid tears all ran headlong into each other, seemingly colliding in the back of her throat until she had trouble breathin
g again. This wasn’t an accident. Someone had done this on purpose.

  She glanced over at the upended trailer, careful not to let her eyes fall on Wreck’s body. She could have been trapped between her animal and her trailer. She would have been—if Ian hadn’t been there.

  She might be sick.

  “I tried to tell Mort she couldn’t handle her animals, but you know what a soft touch he is for anything sweet.” Slim’s voice was pitched so that everyone in attendance could hear him loud and clear. “That girl has no place at this rodeo.”

  Lacy cringed. She didn’t know what part of that statement was worse—that she was nothing more than “anything sweet” or that now everyone would think the accident was her fault.

  She turned and started for him. Whatever his problem was, it stopped now.

  Except she didn’t make it to Slim. Someone grabbed her arm and said, “No,” in her ear. Then Ian put himself between her and Slim. “Smalls,” he said in a booming voice, “you best move on down the line right now.”

  The hum of male voices died away as Slim turned to face Ian. “You don’t scare me, Geronimo.”

  “Slim,” one of the other cowboys said, trying to lead him away. “Maybe...”

  “Maybe nothing. She’s busy hiding behind her boy toy. What’s the matter, Evans? Can’t fight your own battles anymore?” He turned his attention back to the other cowboys. “I want to know what the hell she’s been doing instead of taking care of her animals. Well?” he sneered at Lacy. “Been too busy with your Indian Chief here to pay attention to your job?”

  Ian went very still. “I’d be a might more careful if I were you, Smalls.”

  Slim snorted. “Or what? You don’t scare me one bit.”

  Lacy had to do something because if all hell broke loose, she knew she wouldn’t be able to handle it. But Slim was right about one thing—she couldn’t let Ian fight her battles for her. Not every situation was best solved by a flying tackle.

  So she did the only thing she could do.

  “Why’d you bring an extra bull?” she announced into the tense silence.