Not Just a Cowboy. Caro Carson

truck’s powerful motor turned a winch, metal cables strained, and an ambulance was hauled back into its upright position.

      There was a beauty to the simple solution. The ambulance had been on its side; the ambulance was now upright. If only her world could work that way...but Daddy Cargill had tangled the family fortune badly, and Patricia needed more than a simple winch to set her life back on track.

      The shade of the damaged building couldn’t be doing much to help the firefighters as they worked in their protective gear. Patricia barely tolerated the steamy heat by wearing knee-length linen shorts and by keeping her hair smoothed into a neat bun, off her neck and out of her face. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky all day, however, and the heat was winning. Thank goodness the administration’s tent had a generator-run air cooler.

      Unlike the surgical tents, her “office” was the more traditional type of structure, a large square tent of white fabric pitched so the parking lot served as the hard but mud-free floor. Before pushing through the weighted fabric flap that served as her tent’s door, Patricia caught sight of Quinn at the far side of the parking lot. Tall, dark and familiar, her friend stood by a green Volkswagon Bug, very close to the redheaded woman who’d stolen his heart—an apparently romantic heart Patricia hadn’t suspected Quinn possessed.

      Her name was Diana. Patricia knew Diana’s forty-eight hour volunteer commitment was over, and her career in Austin required her return. Quinn was committed to staying the week without her.

      Patricia watched them say goodbye. Quinn cupped Diana’s face in his hands, murmured words only she would ever hear and then he kissed her.

      Like the worst voyeur, Patricia couldn’t turn away. It wasn’t the sensuality of the kiss that held her gaze, although Quinn was a handsome man, and the way he pulled Diana into him as he kissed her was undeniably physical. No, there was more than just sex in that kiss. There was an intensity in the kiss, a link between the man and woman, a connection Patricia could practically see even as Diana got behind the wheel of her tiny car and drove away.

      The intensity in Quinn’s gaze as he watched Diana leave made Patricia want to shiver in the June heat.

      It was too much. She didn’t want that. Ever.

      Nitroglycerin.

      With renewed focus, she pushed aside the fabric flap and entered her temporary office, grateful for the cooler air inside. The generator that powered their computers also ran the air cooler and a spare fan. The tent was spacious, housing neat rows of simple folding chairs and collapsible tables. It was the nerve center for the paperwork that made a hospital run, from patients’ documents to volunteer’s contracts.

      Her administrative team, all wearing Texas Rescue shirts, kept working as Patricia headed for the card table that served as her desk. Only a few nodded at her. The rest seemed almost unnaturally busy.

      She didn’t take their lack of acknowledgment personally. She was the boss. They were trying to look too busy for her to question their workload.

      She was grateful, actually, to slip into the metal folding chair without making any small talk. She placed her clipboard and radio to the right of her waiting laptop, opened its lid, and waited for the computer to boot up—none of which took her mind off that kiss between Quinn and Diana.

      The kind of desire she’d just witnessed had been different than the kind she was generally exposed to. Her father was on his third wife and his millionth mistress. He was all about the pet names, the slap-and-tickle, the almost juvenile quest for sex. Quinn had been looking at the woman he loved in a totally different way. Like she was important—no, crucial. Like she was his world.

      That kind of desire would be demanding. Unpleasantly so. Burdensome, to have a man need her so completely. It would only get in the way of what Patricia wanted in life.

      She didn’t want the perpetual adolescence of a man like her father, but neither did she want the intensity of a soul mate. No, she just wanted a husband who would be an asset, who would efficiently partner her as she achieved her goals in life. A man who would slide as seamlessly into her world as one of her beloved sailboats glided through water, barely disturbing the surface.

      “Coming through!”

      A fireman crashed through the tent’s door, dragging another firefighter behind him. He pulled off his friend’s helmet and tossed it on the ground as he yelled “Water!”

      No one moved. Lined up in their matching polo shirts, Patricia’s entire workforce froze with their fingers over their keyboards.

      The next second, Patricia was on her feet, coming around her table toward the men. Clearly, the second guy was overheated and on the verge of passing out.

      “There’s cool air here,” she said, stepping out of the way as she pointed toward the side of the tent where the blower was located.

      The first man, a giant in his helmet and bulky uniform, hauled his stumbling buddy past her. He dropped to one knee as he lowered the man to the asphalt in front of the cooler, then took his own helmet off and set it lightly on the ground. He let his head drop as he took one long, deep breath. His black hair was soaked through and his own skin was flushed from heat, but then his one-second break was apparently over, and he was back in motion.

      To Patricia, the two men were a heap of reflective tape, canvas straps, rubber boots, and flashlights tucked into more straps and pockets on their bulky, beige uniforms. It took her a moment to make out what the first man was doing. He’d zeroed in on the toggles that held his friend’s coat shut.

      His friend fumbled at his own chest with clunky, gloved hands. “S’my coat.” His words were slurred. “I get it.”

      “Yeah, sure.” The black-haired fireman pushed his buddy’s hands out of the way and kept unfastening.

      Patricia knelt beside him, ignoring the rough asphalt on her bare knees, and tugged off the overheated man’s gloves. “Do you want me to radio the ER? We’ve got a back board in here that we could use as a stretcher.” She turned to speak over her shoulder to the nearest person. “Bring me my walkie-talkie.”

      “He’ll be fine once he’s cooled off.” The black-haired man tugged the heavy coat all the way off his friend, then let the man lie flat on his back in front of the cooler. “You’re feeling better already, Zach, right? Zach?”

      He slapped the man’s cheek lightly with the back of his gloved hand. By now, Patricia’s team had gathered around. She took her walkie-talkie from her staff member, and the black-haired firefighter took one of the bottles of water that were being held out. He dumped it over Zach’s hair. The water puddled onto the asphalt beneath him.

      Zach pushed his arm away, still clumsy in his movements. “Stop it, jackass.” His words were less slurred, a good sign, even if he spoke less like an admin clerk and more like a...well, like a fireman.

      The black-haired man turned to Patricia. Their eyes met, and after a second’s pause, he winked. “Told you. He’s feeling better already.”

      Patricia kept looking at his impossibly handsome, cheerfully confident face and forgot whatever it was she’d been about to say. He had blue eyes—not just any blue, but the exact shade that reminded her of sailing on blue water, under blue sky.

      He shook off his own gloves in one sharp movement, then shrugged out of his own coat. As he bent to stuff his coat under his friend’s head, Patricia bent, too, but there was nothing for her to do as he efficiently lifted his friend’s head with one hand and shoved his coat in place. She straightened up, sitting back on her heels and brushing the grit off her knees, but she stayed next to him, ready to help, watching as he worked.

      As the muscles in his shoulders moved, his red suspenders crisscrossed over the black T-shirt he wore. A brief glance down the man’s back showed that those suspenders were necessary; his torso was lean and trim, while the canvas firefighter pants were loose and baggy. The stereotypical red straps weren’t just designed to make women swoon....

      She looked away quickly when