Grumpy Cowboy (Single Dad Collection)

When the front door opens, my excitement crescendoes, and I reach forward to the dangling keys and crank the engine without thought.

It roars to life, and unfortunately, so do the headlights, beaming Rhett in the face so hard that his body jerks to the side and he loses his balance on his good freaking leg.

He goes down, and I scream inside the cab of the truck like a banshee.

“Shiiiiit!”

Scrambling, I grab the handle and shove the door open with my sneaker-covered foot, jumping down to the ground with a thud. I don’t bother with shutting the door as I rush toward him, my hand at my mouth and my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. Please let him not have injured himself even more. That would so be the definition of failing at my job.

Come heal this guy, Leah, they say, and then I proceed to break him even more?

Gah. Talk about a freaking disaster!

As fast as my Adidas running shoes can take me, I run across the gravel of the driveway and up the stairs of Rhett’s front porch. The whole way, my mind repeats, Please, let him be okay! Please, let him be okay!

When I reach him, he’s sitting up in the doorjamb with his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the wood. I hesitate to speak, given the fact that this is all my fault, but I really doubt touching him without permission is going to make this any better.

My gaze moves over his body in a panicked rush, searching for anything abnormal.

Jeans, a lot of bulging muscles beneath his white T-shirt, cowboy hat, boots, leg brace…

Instantly, I’m thankful his injured leg is at least protected.

After another minute or two goes by and he doesn’t budge from his spot, I decide to take a more vocal approach.

“Uh…are you okay?” I ask softly, hoping not to startle him again.

“I’ve been better,” he says with an edge of pain in his voice, and I wince.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to blind you. I just got excited about succeeding in our deal, and well…yeah, I’m sorry.”

His eyes pop open and meet mine. “Our deal?”

“Yeah,” I confirm. “I found you.”

“No offense, Doc, but it’s been so long since we made that deal, I thought you’d already left.”

“It was only a week ago,” I correct. “And I’m not stupid, Rhett. I know you’ve been doing your best to avoid me. But obviously, you’re not as sneaky as you thought.”

“Darlin’, you do realize I’m at my house, right? This is about as un-sneaky as a man can get.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I smirk down at him. “The fact of our situation remains, I found you.”

“Are you expectin’ a congratulations or somethin’?”

“I mean, kind of?” I shrug. “I figured you’d be across the border by now.”

“Pretty sure you’ve got that twisted.” He laughs. Though, it’s without humor. “I’m not the one who should be running away from this ranch.”

Hold up. Is he insinuating that I should be the one running?

Instantly, my guard goes up and I narrow my eyes. “What are you trying to say?”

He just flashes a smirk in my direction, and with his muscly biceps bulging, he pushes himself to standing. A small grunt leaves his lips when he bears weight on his braced leg, but he swallows back the discomfort. “How much do you know about ranch life, Leah?” he eventually asks, and I tilt my head to the side.

“What do you mean?”

“Before arriving here a week ago, had you ever been on a ranch? Seen how shit goes on a ranch?” he queries and doesn’t hesitate to take inventory of my attire. His scrutinizing gaze moves from the laces of my running shoes up to my favorite neon-pink Lululemon leggings and doesn’t stop until it reaches my formfitting tank top embellished with a flowery flair. “From the way you’re dressed right now, I’m going to guess that’s a big fat no.”

Uh…excuse me?

It’s not like I’m in my preferred high heels. This morning, when I got ready, I purposely dressed in my most reliable athleisure—that I was super thankful to find in my suitcase, mind you. I’m basically Sporty fucking Spice out here, ready to chase Rhett Jameson around these wide-open spaces until I can treat his leg.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Other than the amused chuckle that leaves his lips, he doesn’t respond.

I furrow my brow and open my mouth to ask him again, but he just heads inside his house, leaving me standing there on the porch.

What the hell?

I hesitate at the threshold, trying to decide if private property trespassing laws apply to physicians trying to treat stubborn patients, but before I can come to a decision, Rhett is back out the door and hobbling down the porch steps and toward his garage.