Randall Riches. Judy Christenberry

managed to reply. “The black truck over there,” he added, nodding at the line of vehicles to the right.

      “Thank God you didn’t park down the hill,” she said, still smiling.

      Rich was amazed at her good nature, but then she wasn’t in pain like him. Her life wasn’t in disarray like his. Her future couldn’t possibly be as bleak as his.

      “Here we go,” she announced, her grip around his waist tightening.

      Just a few more steps and he could rest. He gritted his teeth and hopped.

      Five minutes later, he slumped against the side of his truck, exhausted.

      “Your keys?”

      “In my pocket,” he said, panting but not moving.

      “You mean you want me to get them out?” she asked. No more good nature. She sounded cold and unfeeling. “Look, cowboy, if this is just a come-on, you’d better find a better approach.”

      Rich stood there, his mouth hanging open, as she started walking away.

      “Wait! I’m not—I didn’t—” He reached out and lost his balance, falling, his cry hoarse with pain.

      She came back to stare down at him.

      “Damn it, do you think I could fake this? I’ll find the damn keys,” he assured her. She waited, saying nothing. He rammed his hand into the tight jeans pocket and found the keys, dragging them out. “Here. Satisfied?”

      An agonizing moment passed before she bent over and helped him up. Then, without a word, she unlocked the passenger door of his truck. “Are you going to be able to get in there?”

      He nodded. Even that movement brought pain. But he pulled himself up and in with his arm muscles. As he slid onto the seat, he was surprised when she lifted his right foot and gently placed it on the floorboard.

      She disappeared around the truck, unlocked that door and climbed in. With ease, she slid the key in the ignition and shifted into reverse.

      “You okay?” he muttered, fighting to stay conscious. The pain had gotten worse. He feared he would break into tears at any moment, and he’d be horribly embarrassed.

      “How did you hurt yourself?” the lady asked after she had them on the road.

      “A bull.”

      “You’re a bull rider?” she asked. After he nodded, she said, “You’re crazier than I thought. You landed wrong?”

      “You could say that,” he muttered wryly.

      She pulled into the hospital parking lot and around the side to the door marked Emergency Room. Instead of parking, she stopped at the door. “Stay put. I’ll get a wheelchair.”

      He thought about it, but finally he nodded. There wouldn’t be anyone here he was afraid would see him being wheeled into the hospital.

      In almost no time, Samantha reappeared with a big, burly orderly and a wheelchair. The man pulled him out of the cab of his truck and eased him into the chair. Rich missed the waitress’s feminine touch.

      “I’ll go park the truck,” she said and got behind the wheel.

      It occurred to Rich that the woman could drive off with his truck and he’d never see it again. “You’ll come back, right?”

      She chuckled. “Right.”

      SAM HAD PLENTY of time to think about her future. When she returned from parking the truck, she’d discovered the nurses had taken the cowboy, her cowboy, to X ray. Forced laughter came out. She didn’t even know the name of the man who’d cost her her job.

      No, that wasn’t true. Well, it was true she didn’t know his name. But she wasn’t going to remain in that job much longer anyway. Brad, her boss, had been married four times, his most recent wife had died only a month ago. Suspiciously.

      The sheriff had been hanging around. He’d warned her to stay away from Brad. She’d already figured that out. Brad, however, had been making noises about her stepping into the role of wife number five.

      So now she had to decide where to go next. Flagstaff was a nice place, but she didn’t want to be that close to Brad. It would be her luck that he’d turn out to be a stalker.

      Motion nearby caught her attention. Two nurses were wheeling her cowboy down the hall.

      “Hey! Is that you, cowboy?” she called.

      He didn’t answer, but one of the nurses did. “This is the man brought in a few minutes ago with a broken ankle.”

      Sam jumped up and stepped to the side of the wheel-chair, walking with it. “Broken?”

      “Yes. His walking on it didn’t help the situation.”

      Slowly those brown eyes she’d seen earlier opened. “Too much noise,” he muttered, obviously on pain medication.

      Sam smiled faintly. He was most autocratic. She looked at the nurse. “What happens now?”

      “That’s for the doctor to say,” the nurse said, suddenly prim and proper.

      “Yes, it is,” a man behind Sam said mildly as they pushed the wheelchair into a curtained-off area and moved the heavily sedated cowboy into a bed.

      “Are you the doctor?” Sam asked the handsome man who looked about forty.

      “Yes, ma’am. And you are…?”

      “Samantha Jeffers.”

      He smiled. “Welcome to our hospital, Miss Jeffers. You did say Jeffers, not Randall?”

      Sam shot a quick look at the cowboy. “Um, no, not Randall.” Okay, at least she knew his last name. “Um, I’m his fiancée,” she hurriedly added, afraid she would be thrown out if she wasn’t related to him.

      “I see. Does he have any family here?”

      Sam hoped she was doing the right thing. “No, none. We were here with the rodeo. He’s a bull rider.”

      “Not a great career choice,” the doctor said, sounding like he thought the man was an idiot.

      She hadn’t thought the cowboy was brilliant, either, but for some reason, she felt compelled to defend him. “He’s very good!”

      “Well, it will be a while before he gets up on another bull.”

      “How long?” She knew Mr. Randall would want that question answered.

      “Just a minute and I can tell you.” The doctor turned his back on her and took a large envelope from the foot of the bed. He removed the negatives and put them on a lighted background. “Hmm, he got lucky. It’s a clean break.”

      “So he can leave right away?”

      “No. Because he walked on the ankle, the swelling is particularly bad. We’re not going to put a cast on until the swelling goes down.”

      “How long?” Sam asked, feeling more concerned than she should have.

      “A day or two. He’ll need to keep the cast on for six weeks, probably. Then he’ll be good as new. You worried?” the doctor asked.

      “A little.”

      The patient groaned. Sam bent over him, brushing back the dark hair that had fallen across his forehead. “You okay, cowboy?”

      “It hurts,” he whispered.

      Sam looked up at the doctor. “Can’t you give him something more for the pain?”

      The doctor gave an order to the nurse and she hurried out of the room. “She’ll be back in a minute with something to put him to sleep. He should stay asleep until morning.”

      “Thank you,” she said, turning back to the patient. This was an