Joanna Wayne - Cowboy Fever

Nineteen years after the fact, the brutal murder of Dakota’s mother was still being written and talked about in this area of Texas. She’d been shot at home, in a ranch house less than a hundred miles from where he stood right now.

His father, Troy, had been convicted of the crime. Dakota had been six years old at the time.

Luckily, questions about his past hadn’t come up today in his interviews with the local media. All they’d focused on was taking pictures and asking him about his success. He suspected that was because the competition’s organizers had told them any mention of Troy Ledger was off-limits.

Cockroach got the signal to head toward the chute. He looked over to the female cheering squad and tipped his hat before swaggering toward the bucking, snorting beast that was already fighting to clear the chute.

“Remember, it’s just you and the bull,” Dakota shouted after him. Six seconds into the ride, the bull bucked and veered to the left. Cockroach was thrown off. Fortunately, it was his hat and not his head that got entangled with the bull’s hooves. True to his nickname, the cowboy got out of the way while Jim Angle distracted the indignant animal.

Jim was one of the rodeo clown greats. It had been Jim Angle who’d saved Dakota from getting seriously injured back in Houston the night he’d met Viviana. The past attacked again, this time so strong Dakota couldn’t shut the memories down.

Images of Viviana filled his head. Dark, curly hair that fell to her slender shoulders. Full, sensual lips. Eyes a man could drown in. A touch that had set him on fire.

Damn. If he didn’t clear his mind, he’d never hang on for the full eight seconds, and he needed a good showing tonight to make it to the final round in this event tomorrow. A rider couldn’t rest on past laurels and the competition got tougher every year.

He’d drawn the meanest of the rough stock tonight. That was half the battle to getting a high score. The other half was up to Dakota.

He was the last rider of the evening and he worked to psyche himself up as the other contenders got their shot at racking up points. As his turn drew near, he fit the leather glove on his riding hand and one of the other riders helped him tape it in place. The resin came next, just enough to improve his grip. Then he climbed onto the chute. It was time for action.

A rush of adrenaline shot through him as he gripped his worn and trusty bull rope and felt the 1700-pound bull buck beneath him. It would be a hell of a ride. The crowd was with him. Their cheers pounded in his head, their voices an indistinguishable roar.

“Hey, Ledger. We don’t like murderers around here.”

Unlike the cheers, the taunt was distinct. Cutting. Jagged.

The gate clanked open and Devil’s Deed charged from the chute.

In what seemed like a heartbeat, the bull went into a belly roll and Dakota went sailing through the air. His right shoulder ground into the hard earth. A kicking hoof collided with his ribs as he tried to scramble to safety.

Pain shot through him like a bullet.

Yep. He was home.

“STAT. Ambulance en route.”

Dr. Mancini looked up at the male E.R. nurse delivering the news.

“And I so needed this cup of coffee.”

“I know. It’s been murder in here tonight. Must be the full moon.”

“More likely that I volunteered to pull Dr. Cairn’s shift for her.” She took a large gulp of the much-needed caffeine. “Nature of the emergency?” she asked, shifting her brain to work mode.

“Gunshot wound to the head. Critical blood loss. Vitals at life-threatening levels. “

There went her last chance of getting home on time and relieving the nanny tonight. “Any other details?”

“Caucasian male, likely early twenties, picked up in the back parking lot of a bar in the downtown area. Expected arrival …” He glanced at his watch. “Any minute.”

“Alert the nurse assigned to the shock trauma center and also Dr. Evans.”

“I’m on it.”

She was glad Dan Evans was on duty tonight. He was one of the top neurosurgeons in Texas. “Also alert the O.R.,” she called to the departing nurse.

Fatigue was forgotten as she hurried down the halls to the trauma unit. They’d already lost one patient tonight. Hopefully, they’d save this one.

“Dr. Mancini.”

She recognized the voice. Police Detective Harry Cortez, or Dirty Harry, as she’d come to think of him. Not because of his toughness—though she expected he was plenty tough—but because the front of his shirt always bore testimony to his latest meal.

“If you’re here about the patient with the gunshot wound, you’ll have to wait. I haven’t seen him as yet.”

His eyes narrowed. “You have a patient with a gunshot wound?”

“Arriving as we speak, but don’t even think about questioning him until I give you clearance. This is a hospital, not the police station.”

“I’m only doing my job, just like you, Doctor. Besides, I’m here to talk to you about Hank Bateman.”

Mention of the name filled her with disgust. “We’ll have to talk later.”

The squeak of a gurney’s wheels came from near the E.R. entrance. She raced toward the trauma center. The slap of the detective’s street shoes on the tiled floor signaled he was right behind her.

She was sliding her long fingers into a pair of sterile gloves when she heard the detective’s voice outside the examining room.

“Who shot you? C’mon. Name the bastard. He won’t come after you again. I’ll see to it. Just give me the name.”

She walked to the door as the patient was rolled in. She shot a stern warning look at Cortez, and he waved in surrender and backed away.

One look at the patient and her stomach rolled. She should be desensitized by now, but the sight of bloody tissue oozing from the skull was not the kind of thing she’d ever get used to. The victim’s chance of survival was next to zero. The miracle was that he had lived to make it to the hospital.

The young man coughed, and blood mixed with spittle spilled from his lips. His mouth kept moving. He was trying to say something. She leaned in close, but the gurgled murmurings were too garbled to understand.

“I’m Dr. Mancini,” she said as she helped the nurse get him hooked up to the heart monitor. “I’ll try to ease your pain.”

“And I’m Dr. Evans,” the young neurosurgeon said as he joined them.

The patient coughed again, this time choking on the blood.

“Shhh … Shell …”

She leaned in close. “Are you trying to tell me who shot you?”

Before he could nod or mumble a reply, the line on the monitor went flat.

“EITHER YOU GO TO the emergency room by ambulance or I drive you,” Jim Angle said.

Dakota shrugged, but winced as he tried to grab a gulp of bracing air. “I don’t need to see a doctor. It’s just a contusion.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I was wearing my protective vest.”

“You could still have a few cracked ribs. Butch Cobb was wearing a vest in Phoenix.”

All the riders knew about Butch. He’d been one of the best until a fractured rib had punctured his right lung. “A freak accident,” Dakota said.

He lifted a bottle of water to his mouth. His chest protested the movement with such vengeance that he grimaced.

Naturally, Jim noticed.

“You need to be x-rayed.”

“I needed to stay on that bull eight seconds.”

“You don’t always have to play the tough guy, Dakota.”

“Who’s playing? But if it makes you happy, I’ll stop by the emergency room, old man, and get checked out.”

“Watch who you’re calling ‘old man’ or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and haul your sorry ass to the hospital.”