Rough Road Home (The Circle D series) (2 page)

The clock on the wall read three.

Pain knotted the muscles across his shoulders as he cringed at the infant’s renewed shriek. If he endured the baby’s squalling much longer, the effects of the concussion might become permanent. Plastic slats sliced the afternoon sunlight into narrow strips across the tiled flooring. The lids of his swollen left eye remained sealed against the glare, the flesh tender from where he’d butted heads Saturday night with Flapjack. Nick hadn’t done hospital time in months, but he remembered the routine: check under his hat, measure his water and oil, tape up his loose connections, then slam him back into his boots and pronounce him road worthy. Lucky for him the tests had shown no swelling in his brain, otherwise he’d have been stuck here for who knew how long.

He expelled his next breath with a groan as his bruised ribs protested. The concussion and torso bashing would heal, but each time he bore a beating like the ride he’d had Saturday night, his muscles and joints reminded him he wasn’t a kid anymore. Shoot, he wasn’t a kid when he’d rejoined the circuit four years ago. A kid rode for competition.

He rode for retribution.

The familiar swoosh of the glass doors snagged his attention. A woman entered the lobby, her gait a study of pure presence. Tan plaid flannel molded from collar to cuff and tucked into faded jeans that ran a mile down to her worn, leather boots. She looked familiar. As he watched her cross the room he determined her demeanor reminded him of a commercial spot on television promoting a woman’s feminine side.

Feminine women and their artful ways. He chuckled without humor and turned away. His wife had them all beat.

A deep weariness replaced his derision as he shoved thoughts of Stephanie, and his conscience, aside. Life all melted together when you were on the road as long as he’d been. He checked billboards and storefronts to remind himself of the town and sometimes even the state. In his last ESPN interview, they called him a sex symbol, his occupation glamourous. He glanced around the all too familiar hospital lobby. His eight seconds of glory in the arena fooled them all. Someday, he’d grab the microphone and tell every misguided fan the truth about the grind of being on the road three hundred and fifty days a year. And as for being a sex symbol? Impressing women was the least of his worries anymore.

“Mr. Davidson?”

At the sound of his name drifting on a soft, feminine voice, every male fiber in his body hummed as tightly as new strings on an old guitar.

“Excuse me, Nick Davidson?”

The enticing blend of cowgirl and cover model he’d watched cross the lobby a moment earlier now struck a casual pose at his side. An unexpected warmth reached out to him, beckoning him to relax. Her walk earlier across the lobby might have exuded sophisticated confidence, but he could read women, and this one oozed cowgirl through and through. Just his luck, she had him cornered and helpless. The muscles in his bruised face protested his painful attempt at a grin.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no autographs today,” he drawled in the voice he saved for fans and interviews. Twitching his right shoulder, Nick ignored the pain that shot down his arm. “That ride Saturday night got the better of me.”

Her delicate features contorted into a frown. “I know, I was there.” She cocked her head, her gaze darting over his face as if assessing the damage herself, then offered a low whistle. “That shiner’s a beaut. Better to get beat up than killed, I guess.”

Nick swallowed the standard compliment he reserved for the female faction. On rare occasion did fans comment on the extreme nature of the sport. They either cooed over his great ride and asked for an autograph, or called him a jerk and told him to grow up. He’d grown accustomed to both, but having a stranger throw mortality in his face was something new. Through shards of pain, the swollen lids of his left eye parted as he met her bland gaze head-on.

“Shiner?” he parried, choosing to ignore the abstract and concentrate on the concrete. “Think that’s a bruise? I’ve got others to match. Wanna check ‘em out?” Riding the circuit had made him coarse; sassy women brought it out in spades.

She stared at him as if he’d spoken a foreign language, then pure pleasure lit her face. “In your dreams, cowboy. Save your lines for your fans. I’m only the help.”

Her green eyes sparkled and a faint dimple remained creased in her smooth cheek after her laughter died. That unexplained warmth from moments earlier re-ignited in his belly at her easy humor, even if it was at his expense. “What exactly are you here to help me with?”

Her smile faded and a crease formed between her brows. Gone was the dimple; gone was the sparkle. “Finding your way to Wyoming.”

Though her tone remained soft, Nick recognized resentment a mile away. He’d seen it, lived with it, and had enough flung at him years back to last a lifetime. He didn’t need any more, thank you. What did she want from a roughed up cowboy just trying to get on down the road anyway?

“Wyoming?” he repeated. “I know where Wyoming is.”

“I’m sure you do,” she replied. “But you need a driver, and I’m it.”

Her words sunk in, but for the life of him, he couldn’t make sense of them. Mitch would be here soon, he’d straighten everything out. But in the meantime, Nick decided he’d play it cool. He’d read about deranged fans abducting celebrities. Though he hardly qualified as one, he didn’t relish becoming a statistic.

“You must have the wrong cowboy, ma’am. My ride will be here anytime.” Fighting to keep his tone civil, Nick noted the headset draped about her neck. Maybe she needed a diversion while he signaled for help. “Why don’t you have a seat and just. . .plug in?”

At the mention of the headset, she reached up and fingered the earbud. A wooden smile curved her lips. She abandoned the device and extended her hand. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. Rachel Hill. Mitch Cauldwell is my uncle.”

Uncle? Mitch had never mentioned a niece, especially one that looked like this. Apprehension choked off Nick’s reply as he eyed the pert brunette in front of him. Niece. Now he remembered her hanging out with Mitch over the last few weeks, helping around the stock. She’d even handed out Bibles before the church services Mitch worked on Sundays. . .the ones Nick avoided at all costs.

Forget church; think brunette.

Quiet sort, this Rachel, compared to her uncle. Nick remembered thinking she’d looked a little lost wandering around behind the chutes when he first noticed her. Then just when he thought about asking her if she needed help, Mitch had ambled up and she hadn’t looked lost any longer.

“Nick?”

Her soft voice broke through his fog and made him want to lean closer and find comfort. It reminded him of better times. Reminded him of. . ..

Stephanie.

Alerted to disaster, Nick pushed all tender thoughts from his mind. The last thing he needed was adoration from any female. Relation or not, Nick had expected Mitch. His niece didn’t qualify as a substitute. “Where’s Mitch?”

Her concerned expression disappeared as she lowered her hand back to her side and gave him a look any old-fashioned schoolmarm would be proud. “His foreman went back to the ranch so Uncle Mitch had to go ahead to Casper with the stock. He couldn’t wait the extra day they kept you here for observation. He asked me to make sure you got to Casper for the Season Finale.” Her smile tightened even more as she bent toward him. The sweet fragrance of strawberries filled his senses. “Relax, cowboy. I’m not a buckle bunny, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” she said in a hushed voice. “You’re safe with me.”

Nick exhaled with a cough, clearing his head of her scent. Women. . .safe? Not in his lifetime. Besides, his dislike for female rodeo groupies hardly figured into the problem at hand.

He groped to fit the puzzle pieces in place. If Mitch had sent his niece to bring him to Casper, then chances were Nick’s family hadn’t been told of the accident. He drew a lungful of antiseptic lobby air. At least Mitch hadn’t jumped the gun and called Gabe while Nick was unconscious. A small blessing in life’s grand picture, if one believed in blessings.

Now, to rid himself of his escort. He’d go it alone.

“No need to waste your services on me, sweet thing.” He nodded toward the door. “I’ll see myself to the next state.”

Her perfectly shaped brows tilted together again and her already rigid smile became brittle. “Forgive me, I forgot I was talking to a bull rider who couldn’t tell the difference between a come-on and a come-along if it jumped up and bit him in the seat of his Wranglers. Look pal, I’ve got five hours to get you to Casper and be on my way back to Denver. Just enjoy the ride, okay?” She glanced toward his duffel bag containing a change of clothes and other practical belongings which Mitch had brought him days earlier. “That yours?”

Before Nick could answer, she snagged the light bag and flipped it over her shoulder. As her brown hair brushed into place over the canvas, red tints seemed to spit flames in the filtered rays of the sun. If Nick were a betting man, he’d wager a similar flame of fury burned in her eyes. But why? What had he done? Mitch had a lot of explaining to do when Nick got a hold of him.

As she marched away toward the front desk, his gaze settled on her precise gait. Even with the burden of his bag, her self-assurance remained evident. The same take-charge genes flowed in abundance through both uncle and niece. Small comfort considering the situation.

Rachel stacked his bag on a plastic chair in front of the charge desk as she talked to the nurse. Her laughter rang as the nurse slid forms across the desk. Rachel had a way with people. No one else had gotten so much as a lifted brow from the warden nurse in whose care he’d been placed. It had taken a lot of sweet talking, but he’d convinced the doctor and nursing staff he could sit in the lobby rather than his hospital room and wait for his ride.

As Rachel leaned forward and glanced through his release papers, the crease of a dimple reappeared in her smooth cheek. Irrational as all get out, he wanted to run his finger across her skin to see if it was as soft as it looked. At the next burst of laughter, thoughts of soft skin vanished, replaced with a familiar tightness deep in his chest. Chances were the joke was on him. Nick clamped his jaws together and glanced around the room.

He needed out of here, and fast.

The nurse opened a file and ticked off items with a pencil. Rachel nodded, the tip of her finger directing as she asked questions. Gathering the papers, Rachel rolled them together like a scroll and returned to his corner of the lobby. As she approached, a shadow of a frown replaced all traces of her earlier smile. He didn’t like surprises, and something about her expression told him she was about to slap a big one on him.

Handing him the rolled papers, she dropped to one knee in front of him. “Open your eyes.”

The request threw him and he couldn’t help raising his brows in compliance. “Why? Want to examine my shiner a bit closer?”

“Not really, cowboy.” Her gaze probed one eye, then the next. “I figure I’ll be seeing enough of your trophy bruises during our ride to Wyoming.” She stood again and shrugged the duffel bag back into place on her shoulder. “C’mon, we’ve got miles to eat up if I’m to deliver you to Uncle Mitch on time.”

Nick scribbled his signature on the release forms and handed them to the nurse. Release papers tucked under her arm, she grabbed the armrest of his wheelchair and pointed him in the right direction. Rachel fell in line behind him and chatted with the nurse about the cool weather moving in as they crossed the lobby. Nick had more to say, but his neck was too sore to turn and he wasn’t about to fight with empty air. The glass doors swished open and in a heartbeat, the stiff, late-October breeze cooled his heated face.

“I’ll bring the truck around--”

“I can walk,” he forced out between clenched teeth. He glanced at the nurse beside him. “I don’t need anymore help. Thanks for everything.”

“Sir, hospital policy states--”

“I don’t care what policy states. No one’s wheeling me anywhere, okay?” The nurse glared, but made no move to stop him.

That battle behind him, Nick held on to the arm of the chair, straightened and stood. Electric stars exploded in his vision linking a direct current to his head. The shrubs in front of him spun faster than his last ride on a bull until he plopped back down and sucked in a deep breath. Time crawled as he waited for his vision to clear, and when it did, he found wide green eyes not more than inches from his face.

“Maybe we should start with deep breaths and leave walking for the grad course.” She crouched down beside him and gripped his arm. “I’ll go get the truck.”

“No. Don’t.” The warmth of her palm burned against his bare forearm. The expression on her face mirrored her concern for him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she cared about his well-being.

The nurse hovered at his side. “Mr. Davidson, hospital policy states--”

“I’m fine.” He squeezed his lids shut. His arm muscles flexed with a mind of their own. He wished he hadn’t rolled up his sleeves when he’d gotten dressed that morning. The unaccustomed tingle of warmth from Rachel’s touch broke his concentration and focus. He just needed a few seconds to regroup and he’d have it all under control.

“Dizzy? The nurse told me that would happen for a day or two, yet. Did they give you anything for it?” She rubbed his arm and shoulder, her touch soft and gentle. “Would a painkiller help?”