Chapter Twenty
Jovie
The clinic door swings open hard enough to rattle the frame.
I look up from my notes and immediately drop my pen.
“Axle?”
Royce has one of Axle’s arms thrown over his shoulders, helping him limp through the doorway.
My stomach knots. He’s not bleeding. Not unconscious. But he looks badly hurt.
“I’m fine,” he grumbles. “Looks worse than it is.”
Royce snorts. “He’s not fine. He’s stubborn.”
Axle cuts his eyes to him. “I’m standing, aren’t I?”
“Barely,” Royce mutters before looking back to me. “Is Dr. Seth around?”
I shake my head. “He ran to grab lunch, but I can take a look. Come this way.”
They follow me behind the privacy wall, and Royce practically drops him on the exam table. Axle catches himself and settles onto the edge with a grunt.
Only then do I get a clear look at him. Dust coats his jeans. His flannel is stained with mud. His cowboy hat is missing. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt. And despite all that, he somehow still looks dangerously handsome.
“What happened?” I ask.
Axle waves a dismissive hand. “Got tapped by a bull.”
Royce shakes his head. “A fucking tap,” he mutters. “He got stomped halfway across the damn arena.”
“He’s exaggerating.”
Royce looks at me. “He blacked out for a minute.”
Axle points at him. “I just got the wind knocked out of me.”
I cross my arms. “All right. You,” I say, my eyes on Royce, “out.”
He nods, then glances at his brother. “Good luck. I’ll save you a plate.”
“I don’t need luck,” Axle quips.
Royce snorts and heads toward the clinic door, whispering to me as he passes, “You do.”
Then he’s gone. The door closes behind him and settles over the room.
I turn back toward Axle.
He flashes that crooked grin at me. “Hi, Doc.”
I roll the metal stool to the end of the table and take a seat in front of him.
“Tell me what happened,” I ask.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
The fact that he starts with that sentence tells me it was absolutely that bad. I plant my hands on my knees and wait.
He sighs dramatically. “I was coaching one of the bull riding students on a practice bull. She lasted about six seconds.”
“She?”
He grins. “Yep. Got a couple strong females this class.” The pride in his voice is impossible to miss.
I nod. “Okay. Then what?”
“The bull threw her, and the kid landed hard. It took her a few seconds to get to her feet. During that time, the bull circled back.”
My stomach drops.
“And you stepped in,” I surmise.
He shrugs. “Somebody had to.”
“Axle, aren’t there clowns or something for that?”
“Clowns?”
“Yeah, clowns.”
He grins. “This isn’t a real rodeo, Doc. Barrel men are entertainers who offer comic relief for the crowd, using a padded barrel. But bullfighters are the pros who protect fallen riders.”
I smirk. “Thanks for the rodeo lesson,” I say. “Were there not any bullfighters for that?”
“Yeah, but like I said, the bull circled back. Cody tried to redirect him but …”
“But you stepped between an angry bull and a teenager.”
“That’s part of the job.”
I stare at him.
He stares right back.
“And?”
“And I took a hoof to my side, just below my right pec.”
My eyes narrow. “A hoof to your ribs at full speed?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re telling me it wasn’t bad?”
“It wasn’t.”
“Okay, let’s see. Shirt off.”
His grin returns. “You’re always telling me to take my clothes off.”
I groan. “Axle.”
“What?”
“Take off your shirt.”
He unbuttons his flannel, and I can see where blood and sweat have seeped into the fabric of the T-shirt underneath.
I point at him. “The undershirt too.”
He quirks a brow. “I like this bossy side, Doc.”
I glare at him impatiently.
Sighing, he hooks his fingers beneath the hem and pulls it over his head.
I immediately wish I hadn’t looked, but now I’m looking, and that’s a problem—a very big problem—as I try to maintain my composed professional demeanor.
I saw his chest that first night, but it was dark outside. And then again at the river, but I was too cold to really pay attention.
It’s broad and powerful. Muscles chiseled from years of strength training and rodeo competitions. Covered with just enough dark hair to make my mouth go dry.
I want to run my hands through it.
Before I can control my thoughts, Axle notices, and his grin widens.
Oh God.
I want to crawl under the exam table and die.
“Doc?”
I blink.
Focus, Jovie.
“Should I remove my jeans too?”
The question snaps me out of it.
“No. I think we’re good. Unless the bull kicked your balls into your chest?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. My balls and all other equipment below the belt are working perfectly.”
My eyes drop lower for just a second, but quickly come back up when I notice the injury.
An ugly red mark stretches across his side, and a dark purple is already blooming around the edges.
Definitely not a tap.
I move closer. “Axle.”
“What?”
I gently press near the impact site, and he hisses through his teeth.
“There it is.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost jumped off the table.”
I probe again, and he winces.
I slide the stool back and stand. “Stay here.”
“You got it, Doc.”
A few minutes later, I’m wheeling the portable X-ray machine behind the wall.
He groans. “It’s a bruised rib, Jovie.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I know that.”
I position the machine. “You aren’t diagnosing yourself.”
“I’ve had enough broken ribs to know when I have a broken rib.”
I stop and stare at him. “That isn’t reassuring.”
“It should be.”
Ten minutes later, the images confirm exactly what I suspected. A fracture.
Not a clean break, but still serious. And one very angry contusion.
I wheel the machine away and return with an ice pack and wrap.
“Good news.”
“Told you.”
“It’s only a hairline fracture.”
The smug smile dies on his lips.
I place the ice pack against his side, and he sucks in a breath.
“Fuck, that’s cold.”
“Funnily enough, that’s how ice works.” I move behind him with the wrap. “Hold this.”
He obeys, and I begin wrapping the compression band around his back.
And suddenly, I realize just how close we are.
Chest to chest.
The smell of sweat and soap fills my nostrils. Beneath it, I notice the familiar cologne I caught on cool evenings when we sat on one of our decks, talking beneath the stars.
My pulse stutters.
I reach around him again. The wrap slides through my fingers as I repeat the motion. He’s so … big.
His arm comes up, and his hand settles on my waist.
My breath catches as I glance up.
Big mistake.
His eyes are on me, watching intensely, and my heart starts racing.
Neither of us moves.
The wrap hangs forgotten between us.
I swallow hard, and his gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Then lifts again.
One inch, maybe less, is all that separates us. One tiny inch.
“Axle …”
His eyes darken.
My pulse pounds so loudly that I’m convinced he can hear it.
My lips part.
Then his hand rises and slowly brushes a loose strand of hair that escaped my ponytail behind my ear.
The touch is brief, but it feels like lightning.
My breath catches.
“Lie back, Axle.” My voice comes out throatier than intended.
His eyes flash before he obeys, slowly lowering himself onto the exam table. Breaking the spell.
Air returns to my lungs.
Thank God.
I finish securing the wrap and step back. “Stay there.”
His grin returns.
I point toward the ice pack. “No moving.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want you to ice it for fifteen to twenty minutes a couple of times a day for the next few days to keep the swelling down. Other than that, no wrapping or taping. Take over-the-counter pain relievers. You’ll probably be sore for four to six weeks.”
“Probably.”
“No arena.”
His grin grows.
I narrow my eyes.
“I mean it, Axle. No bulls. If you get hit again before it heals, it could do some serious damage.”
He looks entirely unconvinced.
“Axle.”
“I’m listening, Doc. No arena. No bulls.”
I grab the chart. “I’ll get you some ibuprofen samples in case you don’t have any at home.”
“Thanks. I’m feeling better already.”
I pause at the door. “You’re welcome.”
As I walk toward the supply room, I already know exactly what’s going to happen.
Tomorrow, he’ll be back in that arena, around the bulls.
Because he thinks he’s indestructible.
Damn stubborn cowboys.
Especially this one.