Healing the Quarterback (Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book 2)

by Leslie North

  "Nicholas, what do you think of this ridiculous operation?"

  "I think it's stupid," Nicholas stated. A bubble of shy laughter followed this revelation down the hallway.

  "I think you're right. I think it's dang stupid. Maybe even damn stupid."

  "Okay, I think that's enough for today," Trevor cut in. He played along with the little show as best he knew how, making it a point to grab one of Charlie's crutches and tow him along. The kids retreated into their rooms as the brothers passed, but their laughter was full-throated now. If there was one thing Charlie knew about relating to kids, it was that everyone could appreciate a good swearword.

  "That kid remind you of Andrew?" Trevor asked him once they were out in the parking lot, alone again. Maybe it was only the shadow of his hat deepening beneath the Lockhart sun, but Charlie couldn't identify the exact expression on his face. He imagined he must have been wearing one similar to provoke the question.

  "Yeah," he responded.

  "Yeah." Trevor shifted uncomfortably. "Me, too."

  Charlie had planned to treat his brother to a round of drinks at the Tin Horseshoe after his meeting, but Trevor politely declined; now that he was down one pair of hands to help him clear out the barn, he needed to put in a few extra hours of chores.

  "And there's been something I've been meaning to get off my chest," Trevor said as Charlie lowered himself down out of the cab of the pickup. "If your knee is as bad as that doctor says, you might start thinking about what the next phase is going to be. You're not going to be a football player forever, Charlie. Whether your career ends sooner rather than later, you should start taking stock of what you have and what you might want to look forward to."

  "Uh-huh. Duly and dully noted, cowboy," Charlie responded without his usual enthusiasm. Try as he might, he couldn't get Nicholas's drawn face out of his head. Trevor sighed and tossed his hat into the empty seat as Charlie shut the door behind him.

  He left his crutches in the passenger cab.

  The Tin Horseshoe hadn't changed much since the last time he had been there. In fact, he thought he identified at least one of Trevor's exes in a smoky corner as he made his way over to the bar. The tavern was still fairly empty this early in the evening, which was just fine by him. The more diners and drinkers, the more likely he was to be recognized.

  And for once, Charlie didn't want to be recognized.

  But maybe the stars over Lockhart tonight were aligned in his favor after all. He managed to put away enough drinks to give the lights of the Horseshoe a soft halo—and throw any intrusive memories of Andrew into warm focus—by the time he heard a name he recognized. To say he wasn't expecting it to follow him here was an understatement, but Charlie didn't resent its appearance now. On the contrary, this particular name made his heart pump his sluggish, inebriated blood that much faster through his veins. From the sounds of it she had called in a dinner order; any minute now, and she would walk through that door…

  3

  Dylan

  There was absolutely no mistaking the hulking figure seated at the bar. He might as well have the number twenty-seven emblazoned on the back of his T-shirt.

  Dylan abruptly decided she could get dinner elsewhere. The last thing she needed tonight was an off-hours encounter around alcohol with a too-sexy client. Charlie Wild turned in his stool, just in time to spot her leaving. "Dr. Rose!" he hollered out to her.

  Dylan winced. She was all too aware that everyone in the Tin Horseshoe was now looking at her. Could she get away with pretending like she hadn't heard him?

  "Leaving so soon?" Charlie held his beer aloft, like he was some sort of lighthouse beacon she required to find her way to the bar. With a frustrated sigh, Dylan approached him.

  "I'm just here to pick up some grub," she said as she slid onto the stool beside him. She signaled in vain to the bartender, but he disappeared back into the kitchen—leaving the white plastic bag she was certain was filled with her dinner on the back counter, agonizingly out of reach.

  "'Grub,'" Charlie echoed with a chuckle and shook his head. "Look at you. Fitting in already. You just moved here, didn't you? Bet you already got the number to this place on speed dial."

  "You're damn right I do." Dylan wondered if it would be totally out of line to just go behind the bar and grab her food. She was a local now, right? It would be a quaint, familiar gesture…not a complete step out of bounds…right? For once, she found herself wishing she could feel comfortable making her own rules.

  Like Charlie did.

  "It's too bad. About the takeout, I mean," Charlie clarified. "You should try sticking around and grabbing a drink some time."

  "I'd say you've grabbed enough for the both of us already," Dylan replied. "Out of professional curiosity, how much does a guy your size have to drink to get this way?" She gestured to him. Not that Charlie looked…bad. The opposite, actually. His hair was down, his posture loose and relaxed. He was still too big for the stool he sat astride, but he looked a lot more comfortable in his own skin sitting there than he had back at the hospital.

  "Six," the bartender offered. He had returned to plant what Dylan could only assume was a seventh beer down in front of Charlie.

  Six? Dylan managed to close her lips around a shriek. She wanted to grab Charlie by his stupid, sexy V-neck collar and shake it until his shirt split in two. "I said not to drink alcohol on pain killers, but if you're going to then at least drink in moderation," she hissed. "And you!" She jabbed her finger at the bartender. "Aren't you overserving him?"

  The bartender shrugged. "He told me you're his ride.”

  "What!?" she exclaimed.

  Charlie grinned. "Heard you placing your order over the phone."

  "You knew I was coming?" Dylan demanded. "Is that why you let yourself get this way? You assumed I'd just give you a ride?"

  "Hey, easy!" Charlie said as she yanked the beer away from him and took a long drink. "You're my designated driver!"

  "Either you or I call his brother." The bartender shrugged.

  Dylan was just thinking this wasn't a bad suggestion until Charlie leaned into her. "And he doesn't mean the one you met today," he muttered. "He means my other brother, Trent. The Lockhart Bend sheriff."

  "Ah." Dylan took another drink of their shared beer, trying to ignore the rock-hard outline of Charlie's immense bicep brushing against her own. "And I assume Smitty wouldn't like that?"

  "You know what they say about women who assume…" Charlie straightened once more in his stool and glanced behind her. "They usually have a nice ass."

  Dylan burst out laughing at this. She doubled over the bar, as Charlie stared straight ahead and took a resolute pull from the beer. "That was bad," he said finally. "Give me a minute and I'll come up with something better."

  "No! That…" For the life of her she couldn't decide what she meant to argue against. "That was so the opposite of smooth, it somehow looped back around again to actually being charming."

  "Effective," Charlie agreed on his own behalf. He couldn't keep the straight face going, and a sloppy, crooked smile inched up the corner of his mouth. The deep imprint of a dimple came out of left field. "So, are you going to give me a ride, Dr. Rose?"

  "Come on." She snatched her takeout from the bartender and dangled her keys in front of Charlie. "We'll see if you fit into the front seat of my car."

  She watched as the quarterback eased himself down gingerly from the bar. She wished she could offer him more physical support—not just because the thought of his arm wrapped around her sent tiny, unprofessional thrills sliding through her. She couldn't risk that connection.

  "I'm sorry." Dylan glanced around herself. "Where are your crutches? I don't mind getting them for you."

  "Crutches. Right." The sheepish look on Charlie's face told her all she needed to know. As her temper rose, his expression transformed to one of mild defiance. "What? Are you really going to chew me out right here? I've been getting around just fine at the ranch house without '
em."

  "I'm sure you have." Dylan didn't know what else to say. How could Charlie continue to flout the rules and be so irresponsible when it was his heath, his career on the line? Was he trying to impress those closest to him or prove something to himself? "But from now on, you go everywhere with those crutches. Imagine them as two supermodels; I want both of them in your arms just as often."

  "Why would I want a supermodel in my arm when I have you?" Charlie countered as she ducked beneath his shoulder. "You're always around when I need you to give me the support I need. And damn, you look good doing it."

  He's drunk, Dylan reminded herself, flame-faced, as they moved in tandem toward the exit. He seemed to be walking fine without her, but she wouldn't take the risk. No, she had determined that Charlie's drunkenness extended more to his comments than his injured gait. He didn't know what he was saying, or he was saying it just to mess with her.

  Things were going to change, Dylan decided as Charlie pushed the door open for the both of them. They had to. Tomorrow she would make the pivot and reestablish the boundaries between them. Tomorrow she would make sure that Charlie buckled down and started to take things seriously.

  But tonight…tonight, maybe for a moment, she would allow herself to enjoy the feeling of his body draped across hers.

  "Where are your crutches, Charlie?" Dylan found herself demanding again a week later.. "And don't feed me another line about 'forgetting' them, because we both know that's bullshit!"

  "Language, Doc. Please," Charlie said as he held open the boardroom door for her. Too many things about this morning had the distinct smack of déjà vu to them, Dylan thought as she passed beneath the bridge of his thick arm. And these weekly meetings about Charlie’s rehab progress stole time from her real job—seeing patients who did what she told them to.

  "All right then. How's your head feeling? Is that the sort of language you're looking for?" she whispered innocently as they took seats beside one another at the long wooden table. Charlie, while exhibiting no deficit of his usual energy, was red-eyed and unshaven.

  "I'm fine, thank you. Your concern is touching." His broad hand slipped under the table to give her knee a casual squeeze. The gesture was fleeting, but even a chaste touch from Charlie was enough to send a wave of heat flooding up her leg to pool in her stomach. She was determined not to let him catch her by surprise like that again—or at least, to hide the fact that he did.

  "Charlie! My man!" Smitty clapped him on the back as he took his own seat. "Good to see Dr. Rose has you off your crutches already! When can we expect you back on the field?"

  Smitty rarely spoke directly to Dylan about matters concerning Charlie's recovery. Dylan just rolled her eyes and flipped open her schedule. The next two weeks were critical; what's more, she was going to have to change a few things around. If Charlie insisted on leaving his crutches at home, she wasn't going to continue to fight him on it—okay, yes, maybe she would continue to bring it up—but she had dealt with plenty of stubborn sports celebrities in the past. If she wanted him to heal fully, despite his best efforts to the contrary, she was going to have to make adjustments to his routine. That meant limiting his time on the injured knee between sessions, so definitely no bars, barn work, or trips into the city without…

  “And we're happy to report that Dr. Rose's schedule is now officially freed-up," the hospital head was saying. Dylan's head jerked up from her clipboard. "Starting next week, her case load will be shifted so that she will be better able to provide Charlie the one-on-one care your organization has requested."

  "What do you mean, 'one-on-one' care?" Dylan deadpanned.

  Charlie's management team exchanged looks. "Dr. Rose, we mean exactly what we say," one of them said finally.

  There was something else going on here. Dylan glanced quickly between Smitty and the rest of the team. It was no use trying to gauge Charlie's face for an answer—he looked guilty as hell already.

  Shit like this was exactly why Dylan dressed down most of the time. She knew that she was a good-looking woman—the exact make and model that appealed to most of these athletes, in fact. She had learned that the hard way the year she had entered sports medicine. Dark hair, green eyes, and long athletic legs, coupled with an aloof, disinterested air, was like catnip to a muscle head seeking the thrill of a chase.

  And if the player himself didn't make a pass at her, someone on his management team inevitably did. Dylan had gone to war with innumerable of these little panels in the past to avoid being used as a pawn in whatever marketing scheme they had planned. It was always optics, optics, optics—to these people, appearances were everything. And appearances like hers were always in demand.

  "Dr. Rose." The manager addressing her steepled his fingers. His sleeve slipped down, revealing an expensive watch identical to the one Smitty wore. "Mr. Wild has been thriving under your careful care. At this time, we would like to push this relationship a bit further."

  Dylan didn't dare look at Charlie. She didn't dare anything. She was at the mercy of the lion, surrounded by jackals.

  Just what the hell are you asking of me?

  "As you know, Charlie is an invaluable part of the Teamsters' organization," Charlie's manager droned on. "He's a tremendous player. He pushes, and often exceeds, his own limits. However, with this spirited temperament comes a tendency to…press a little too hard."

  "I'll be the first to admit it," Charlie volunteered. "Give me a chance, Dr. Rose, and I'll show you exactly how hard." He winked at her, as if she could possibly miss his double-meaning.

  "Uh-huh. I'm sure." Dylan cast a desperate look toward the hospital head, but she appeared preoccupied with whatever she had scrawled on her legal pad. Dylan's eyes narrowed. There was conspiracy afoot.

  "What my colleagues are trying to say is that Charlie has promised to respect your professional guidance," Smitty added. "I'm sure you understand we're on an expedited timeframe here. We'd like to provide the opportunity for you to render more of the same care going forward. Starting now, I—we—think it would be ideal for you to remain by his side. Charlie may have some publicity events coming up, and it would sure put everyone's mind at ease if you were able to attend with him."

  Dylan didn't think she could shutter her gaze any more. She tried anyway. "I have no problem attending events," she responded coolly. If these suited goons tried to wrestle her into something skimpy, however, they were in for a fight. She privately vowed that if such an indignance came to pass, she would make them all wish they were dead.

  "You know, I think I've got the perfect solution to all this." Charlie leaned forward, as if struck by a sudden, wild idea. Dylan wasn't buying it. She crossed her arms and leaned back. "Why don't you start tonight? We'll keep it informal and just spend some time getting to know one another better. Come on by Wildhorse Ranch sometime after eight, and we'll watch a movie."

  "I don't like movies," Dylan stated. It was a terrible lie and an absurd excuse, but she was determined to stick to it.

  Charlie raised an eyebrow at this but continued down the same track. "The glamping coordinator's got loads of movies. We'll find one you like. And while we're at it, you can check out my digs and help me kid-proof it."

  Now it was Dylan's turn to cock an eyebrow. "Are you the kid in this metaphor?" she asked, all innocence.

  Charlie wouldn't rise to the bait; instead, he grinned in agreement. "I'll give you the tour, and you just tell me where and what to avoid in my delicate state. I'll take you in the kitchen…the shower…the bedroom…"

  A rush of heat at his words almost overwhelmed Dylan. No way in hell he didn't know exactly what he was doing by choosing those words. For the life of her, she couldn't decide whether anger or desire was the source of her blush.

  "I'll take you anywhere you want," Charlie promised. His grin curved into something more wicked. Someone on the management team coughed politely, but no one else came to her rescue.

  As if she needed rescuing from Charlie Wild.


  "Fine." Dylan rose and gathered up her briefcase. "Some time after eight."

  "Why not make it eight on the dot?" Charlie suggested.

  "Fine."

  "I'll let you bring the popcorn."

  "I'm sure you will."

  What the hell have I gotten myself into? Dylan wondered as she escaped out the door to her next appointment. And why do I get the feeling this won't be the last time I ask myself this question?

  Dylan had often driven by Wildhorse Ranch in the daytime. It was a modest assembly of low, open buildings organized at the end of a red-dirt road; she always rolled her windows down to enjoy the smell of ripening apples, fresh-cut grass, and yes, even horse sweat and manure. It spoke to her of a life so far removed from her own that it almost seemed exotic by comparison. Of course, she had no fantasies about the work that must be involved in running such an operation—still, subtract Charlie Wild from the equation, and it seemed like a simpler life.

  The closest Dylan had ever come to Wildhorse personally was last week’s drop-off—which had been more of a drive-by. She had barely parked in front of the porch steps before swinging the car for home. Not exactly the bedside manner she had been trained in, but she had spent the entire ride over imagining the moment she parked…imagining the way the lights would dim…imagining how easily Charlie might lean across the armrest and capture her lips with his.

  If Dylan was being honest with herself, it wasn't Charlie she was worried about. He may outweigh her, but she could fend off any flirtation he decided to take too far.

  She had been more worried about leaning across the armrest and putting an end to the tension between them herself…but she wasn't so stupid to think that just one kiss with Charlie would be the end of things. Spending time alone with the cocksure quarterback was becoming borderline unbearable. What the hell was she going to do now that it had been sanctioned by the hospital?

  Dylan pulled up to the main house and put her car in park. She recognized Trevor Wild's lean silhouette on the porch. The cowboy sipped from a mug of coffee and gazed out across the lawn toward one of the distant cabins.