Chapter 1
1
Colt Bishop, Present Day
“ G oddamnit!” Huffing out an aggravated breath, I sit down on the edge of my bed, letting my boot drop to the ground with a clunky thump . This is such bullshit. I’m a grown man; putting on my shoes shouldn’t be this much of a challenge. Yet here I am, unable to do so, and based on the footfalls getting closer outside of my room, I’d say help is on the way—much to my utter annoyance.
“Colt?” my mom calls out before pushing open my door and peeking her head inside. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, out of breath from my failed attempt at getting out the door without assistance.
Her eyes catalog everything, finding the discarded boot on the floor. “Do you need help, honey?” Without waiting for a response, already knowing I need help I’m not going to want to admit to, she enters the room, a red-and-white checkered apron wrapped around her waist and her hair tied up into a messy bun on top of her head. She helps me slip my foot into one boot, and then the other, before sliding my jeans over the top of them. Smiling up at me, she asks, “Do you need a ride?”
Blowing out a breath, I shake my head. “No, I got one already, but thank you.”
It’s been just over a week since I had shoulder reconstructive surgery for a torn labrum and torn rotator cuff. On top of that, I have a fractured wrist and a few cracked ribs, so moving around isn’t as easy as it usually is, and driving myself is completely out of the question.
As if on cue, my phone lights up with a message from my buddy, Whit, letting me know he’s about two minutes out. I don’t bother responding. It’s too much effort. Instead, I stand up and grab an all-black hat off my dresser, putting it firmly on my head before shoving my wallet and keys into my pocket using my non-injured hand. Thankfully, both my shoulder and wrist injuries are all on the same side, but unfortunately, it’s my dominant side.
Learning how to do everything I need to do left-handed has been a challenge I haven’t quite mastered yet. I keep trying to remind myself that it’s only been a week, and it’ll probably get easier as time goes on, but I tend to be an instant gratification type of man, so patience isn’t necessarily my strong suit. To say the past week has been something straight out of hell would be an understatement.
“Whit’s here,” I mutter to my mom as I brush past her. “Thank you for your help.”
“Of course, honey. Are you coming back here after your appointment?”
Nodding, I say, “I’m grabbing lunch with Whit, but after that, yeah, I’ll be back.”
My mom grins, and I know she’s trying her best to cheer me up. It’s what she’s been doing all week, and it makes me feel like shit that I can’t pretend a little better for her sake. “I’m making your favorite for dinner tonight.”
Forcing a smile, I lean in and give her a hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be back.”
“Tell Whit I said hello,” she calls out from behind me.
Stepping out onto the porch, it’s a warm, sunny day. Sweat pricks the back of my neck, and I’m reminded that we’re smack dab in the middle of summer in Copper Lake, Wyoming. Had it not been for the accident and subsequent surgery, I’d be somewhere in Colorado with my friends, getting ready to kick some ass on the rodeo circuit. As a professional bull rider, I spend about four months out of the year traveling and competing with the best of the best in my division. All of this shit cut my season short by almost half, and who knows if I’ll even be healed enough by the start of next season to compete.
Climbing into Whit’s truck, I give him a chin nod. “Hey, man.”
“Hey, how’re you feeling?”
“Just peachy,” I drawl, as that fake smile comes out to play again.
Whit puts the truck into drive. “Seatbelt,” he mutters, glancing over at me, not moving even an inch until I’m safely secured in his vehicle.
Thankfully, I’m able to click the belt into place without too much trouble. “Thanks for driving me. I hope you weren’t too busy at work.”
As Copper Lake’s resident veterinarian, Whit is typically up to his ears in furry patients of all shapes and sizes. Our town is your typical cliché small town. We’ve got one main doctor’s office, one dentist, one vet, and only a handful of places to eat on Main Street that include one to-die-for diner, a dive bar, and our version of fine dining, which is really only about one step up from an Applebee’s.
“It’s no problem,” he says, turning onto the main road. “It’s a rather slow day, and I was able to schedule around this.”
Today’s the first day I’m seeing my primary care doctor since my surgery. He has to refer me to a physical therapist, and I’m hoping I can get started on it as soon as possible, so I have the best chance I can at returning to the circuit next spring. Dr. Roger Andino has been my family’s doctor since I was little. His clinic is right in town, about three blocks down from the diner Whit and I are going to for lunch afterward. Parking the truck in one of the spots out front, Whit and I both climb out and head inside.
“You don’t have to wait here for me if you don’t want,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “It’s this or wait in my truck.”
After I check in with the front desk, it’s only about ten minutes before I’m brought back into a room. The nurse checks all my vitals and lets me know the doctor will be in soon. In all the downtime I’ve had over the last week, I’ve taken to Google to find out how soon I realistically could get back to training. My wrist shouldn’t take long to heal; maybe six weeks at most. It’s my shoulder that’s going to take the longest. There’s varying answers; some websites stating I can get back to most activities within six months, but some indicating it could be longer. Six months puts me at around the beginning of the year. We leave for the circuit in mid-May, so if that’s the case, I think I could make that work. But honestly, the sooner I can get back to training and working out, the better. The thought of missing out on next season, after already missing half of this one, makes me want to scream .
The door opens, and when I glance up to take in the man walking into the room, my heart sputters in my chest as a familiar pair of sapphire eyes meet mine. Confusion clouds my mind because while Dr. Andino is standing before me…it’s a version of him that’s about twenty years younger than I was expecting.
“William?” I ask, head cocked to the side.
Jaw clenching, he takes a seat on the round swivel chair in front of the computer in the corner of the room. “Hello, Colt.”
Hazy memories of his hot mouth all over my neck flash through my mind before I can stop them. “What are you doing here?”
A crease forms between his thick brows. “My father retired several weeks back,” he announces. “The office sent out notice to all the patients letting them know of the switch well over a month ago. Didn’t you receive it?”
My eyes widen, and I breathe out a laugh. “I’ve been on the road since May,” I explain. “Wait, so you’re telling me you’re my doctor now?”
About a dozen inappropriate jokes and comments zip through my mind, but I manage to keep them to myself. Based on his narrowed eyes and the hard set of his mouth, I’m willing to bet he’s not in the mood to joke with me about our drunken tryst two years back.
“That is correct. I’ve taken over the practice in my father’s absence,” he states matter-of-factly before using his key card to unlock the computer. “Now, tell me, Colt. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” I huff plainly, not bothering to sugarcoat it. This week has been hell. Between the shoulder reconstruction surgery to fix the torn labrum and rotator cuffs, the fracture in my wrist, and the cracked ribs I walked away with after I was bucked off the back of a bull, and then stepped on by said bull, the rest of my year is looking a whole lot different than I thought it would. Being a professional bull rider, it comes with the territory. We all know it’s a risk, but nobody ever thinks it’ll be them.
Lifting a brow, he glances over at me. “A lot of pain?”
I shake my head. “Not too bad. I’ve been doing the exercises the physical therapist at the hospital told me to do. You know, to help with stiffness and mobility and all that. It kind of hurts during that, but she said that was to be expected for at least a few weeks.”
“Any swelling?”
“Not much,” I say. “I’ve been taking the anti-inflammatories they gave me. How soon can I start physical therapy?”
William raises off his chair and walks over to me, gesturing to my shoulder. “Do you mind if I take a look at it?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“Go for it.” I shimmy my arm out of the gown the nurse made me put on, wincing and gritting my teeth as a bolt of pain radiates through my limb.
Stepping into my space, his eyes flick to meet mine for a brief moment before he directs his attention to my incision. A faint mahogany scent reaches my senses, and it makes my heart race a little faster. It’s a good smell all on its own, but accompanied by the memories that come along with it make it even more delicious. That night is the very last thing I should be thinking about, especially in this setting, but I can’t help it. Especially when he’s looking the way he does, all professional and serious.
His facial structure is unreal. I allow myself a moment to admire him while he’s preoccupied. There’s a furrow to his dark, thick brows as he examines my shoulder, elbow, and wrist with the utmost gentleness. A beauty mark sits below his right eye next to his prominent Grecian nose. His strong jawline is hidden beneath an impressive short, thick beard that’s well on its way to being more salt and pepper than just pepper. He’s in his mid-forties, but I don’t know his exact age, only that he wears it well. William is a strikingly handsome man, and he always has been. If anything, he’s aged like fine wine.
“Let me see your range of motion,” he mutters, crossing an arm over his chest and resting his elbow on it as he rubs along his jaw with his thumb and forefinger.
I grit my teeth, showing him the small exercises I’ve been doing every day since leaving the hospital. It’s not much, but I know it’s helping in the long run. I’m ready for more, though.
“Good,” he grunts, then resumes his seat in front of the computer. “That’s looking great, Colt.”
“When can I start physical therapy?” I ask again, firmer this time, as I readjust the gown to cover my shoulder again. “I know I’m already out the rest of this season, but I’d like to get back to it by the spring.”
William’s expression hardens. “Colt, this is going to be a process. It takes time to get back to full mobility. Rushing or overexerting yourself can make things worse. This is a marathon, not a sprint, and I need you to understand that.”
“I do understand that.”
He nods. “I think you’d be okay to start physical therapy right away. There’s a physical therapist who is based out of Cheyenne, but once a week, she comes down and she works in this building. I’ll send over a referral, and if she has openings here, great, but please keep in mind, you may have to travel to Cheyenne if not.”
“Noted,” I quip .
“Wonderful.” Standing up, he walks over to the door. “I’ll get that sent through today, so you should hear from her office this week. I’d like to see you back here in four weeks to check your progress.”
“You got it, Doc.” A smirk spreads on my lips as I toss him a wink. “I’ll be the perfect patient.”
His lips purse. “I’ll be the judge of that.” With a quick check of the time on his watch, he adds, “Four weeks, Colt. In the meantime, do what the physical therapist says. Wear your sling, no heavy lifting, and no activities that force your elbow away from or in front of your body.”
Arching a brow, I say, “No activities in front of my body, huh?”
William looks at me, deadpan, and reaches for the doorknob. “Goodbye, Colt.”
Well, this could be fun.