Falling For The Rancher. Tanya Michaels

It was impossible to imagine Gavin Ross anywhere but at the Twisted R. Not sure how to respond, he paced restlessly around the office. Despite the many hours he’d spent here over the past month, it still felt like trespassing. As if his father should be the one sitting behind the desk making the decisions that would affect the family.

      “Your dad refuses to accept that he’s not in his twenties anymore,” his mom continued. “At the rate he’s going, he’ll work himself to death! And after the added stress of Vicki’s accident...”

      Guilt sliced through him. Was his dad’s heart attack one more thing to trace back to that night in July? His mind echoed with the metallic jangling of the keys he’d tossed to his younger sister. He hadn’t gone with her because a blonde named Tammy—or Taylor?—had been whispering in his ear, saying that as impressive as he’d been in eight seconds, she couldn’t wait to see what magic he could work in an hour’s time.

      Jarrett pushed away the shameful memory. “So you and Dad want to take a few days of vacation?” he asked, leaning against the corner of the desk closest to her.

      “A few weeks, actually. I haven’t discussed it with him yet, but Dr. Wayne agrees that it’s a good idea. My cousin has a very nice cabin near Lake Tahoe that she’s been offering to let us use for years, and Dr. Wayne said he could give us the name of a good cardiologist in the area. Just in case.”

      When you were recovering from open-heart surgery, “just in case” wasn’t nearly as casual as it sounded.

      “Your father is mule-headed. Now that he’s starting to feel a little better, he’ll try to return to his usual workload. I can’t let him do that. He may seem larger than life, but he’s not invincible.” Her gaze shifted downward. “And...without us as a buffer, Vicki would naturally turn to you for company and assistance.”

      The soft words were like a pitchfork to the gut. His sister, younger than him by almost seven years, had grown up idolizing Jarrett. Now his parents had to evacuate Texas just to force her to speak to him again.

      “She’s going to forgive you.” Anne reached over to clasp his hand. “The drunk driver who plowed into the truck is to blame, not you.”

      He wanted to believe her, but it was his fault Vicki had been on the road. They’d had plans to grab a late dinner. Between his travel on the rodeo circuit and her being away for her freshman year of college, they’d barely seen each other since Christmas. But instead of catching up with his kid sister as promised, he’d ditched her in favor of getting laid. Vicki had been trapped amid twisted metal and broken glass when she should have been sitting in some restaurant booth, debating between chicken-fried steak and a rack of ribs. She’d always had a Texas-sized appetite, but her athletic hobbies kept her trim and fit.

      Past tense. She no longer had much of an appetite. And although the doctors assured her that, with physical therapy, she would walk again, it would be a long damn time before she played softball or went to a dance club with her sorority sisters. She hadn’t even been able to return to campus for the start of the new semester in August, another consequence that ate at him. Unlike Jarrett, who’d earned a degree with a combination of community-college courses and online classes, Vicki had been accepted into one of the best universities in the state. How much academic momentum was she losing?

      Anne blamed Gavin’s heart attack on years of working too hard and his stubborn insistence that “deep-fried” was a valid food group. But it was no coincidence that the man had collapsed during one of Vicki’s multiple surgeries. The stress of his daughter’s ordeal had nearly killed him.

      “Jarrett.” Anne’s scolding tone was one he knew well from childhood. “I see you beating yourself up. You have to stop. If not for yourself, then for me.”

      “I’m fine,” he lied. She was shouldering enough burden already without fretting over his well-being, too. “I was just processing the logistics of running the Twisted R while taking care of Vicki. I’ll figure it out. You and Dad should definitely go.”

      “Thank you. Be sure to voice your support when he objects to the idea.” She pursed her lips, considering. “We probably have a better shot at convincing him if you’re not handling Vicki and the ranch by yourself. What if we found a part-time housekeeper who could act as her companion? Or, ideally, even someone with medical experience. My friend Pam’s a retired nurse. I can ask her about home health care.”

      “Are we sure that’s in the budget?” The mountain of medical bills was already high enough that Gavin had recently let go of their sole ranch hand after helping him find a job on another spread. Gavin insisted the Twisted R could function as a father-and-son operation if Jarrett was available to help full-time. No more rodeos for the foreseeable future.

      Or ever. He hadn’t competed since the night of Vicki’s accident, and it was hard to imagine enjoying it again. Everything he’d loved—the adrenaline, the admiration of the spectators—seemed shallow in light of what his sister and dad had suffered.

      “I’m not suggesting we hire a long-term employee,” she said. “Just some help for a month or less. We have plenty of space. Maybe with Pam’s help we can find someone temporarily willing to accept low pay in exchange for room and board. There could be someone young who needs the experience and a recommendation.”

      His mother made it sound almost reasonable, as if there were lots of people who would work practically for free and wanted to move in with a surly nineteen-year-old and a rodeo cowboy who’d taken early retirement. What are the odds?

      Then again, they had to be due for some good luck.

      “Okay,” he agreed. “Call Pam and see what she says.”

      Meanwhile, he’d cross his fingers that his mom’s friend knew someone who was truly desperate for a job.

      * * *

      “WHAT THE HELL do you mean I’m out of a job?” In her head, Sierra Bailey heard the familiar refrain of her mother’s voice chiding her. Unladylike language was one of Muriel Bailey’s pet peeves. I just got fired. Screw “ladylike.”

      Eileen Pearce, seated at the head of the conference table, sucked in a breath at Sierra’s outburst. It was too bad Eileen and Muriel didn’t live in the same city—the two women could get together for weekly coffee and commiserate about Sierra’s behavior. “The board takes inappropriate relationships with patients very seriously, Ms. Bailey.”

      “There was no relationship!” Except, apparently, in Lloyd Carson’s mind. Bodily contact between patient and physical therapist was a necessity, not an attempt at seduction. Sierra had never once thought of Lloyd in a sexual manner, but he’d apparently missed that memo. The man had unexpectedly kissed her during their last session. Which, in turn, led to his wife angrily demanding Sierra’s head on a platter.

      Taking a deep breath, Sierra battled her temper. “Patients become infatuated with medical professionals all the time. It’s a form of misplaced gratitude and—”

      “Yes, but in the year you’ve been with us, we’ve had multiple complaints about you. Granted, not of this nature, but your track record is flawed. Perhaps if you’d listened on previous occasions when I tried to impress upon you the importance of professional decorum...” Eileen paused with an expression of mock sympathy.

      Comprehension dawned. This wasn’t about Lloyd Carson and his romantic delusions. The board of directors had been looking for an excuse to get rid of Sierra. She felt foolish, not having seen the dismissal coming, but she truly believed she was good at her job.

      Was she mouthy and abrasive? Occasionally.

      All right, regularly. One might even argue, frequently. But sometimes PT patients needed a well-intentioned kick to the rear more than they needed to be coddled. Lord knows I did.

      At twelve years old, Sierra had been a pampered rich girl whose parents treated her with a much different standard than her three rough-and-tumble brothers, as if she were fragile. Dr. Frederick Bailey and his wife, Muriel, had raised their sons with aspirations of