Linda Goodnight - The Least Likely Groom

“I think you’re stupid because you ride bulls and risk killing yourself for a living.”

He looked down at the top of her head, bent as she seriously examined all the places where rods and wires poked through his hide. Her hair was parted in the middle, a little crookedly, and pulled into a smooth ponytail that hung to her shoulder blades. He wondered how it would look hanging loose around her delicate face, then smiled to himself. He’d find out. Women were an adventure and a heck of a lot of fun as long as they didn’t go getting serious on you.

“I don’t ride bulls for a living. I ride for fun.”

She harrumphed. “That’s even dumber.”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” He slapped a hand against his thigh. “Now there’s an idea. Wanna learn to ride bulls? I’ll teach you.”

“You won’t be doing much of anything for the next eight weeks.”

“Four weeks tops.” He didn’t tell the rest. That he really planned to make the Stampede over in Albuquerque during Labor Day weekend less than three weeks away. The bolts would be out by then, replaced by an air splint, and if he could walk he could ride. “I got rodeos to make.”

She tilted her head and looked at him. She had the most appealing golden flecks in her pale brown eyes. “You have a knee to heal. I’m a good nurse, Jett, but I don’t do miracles. According to Dr. Jameson you need at least eight weeks of rehab, six hours a day before you even think about riding again. Anything less and you may never ride another bull—or even a horse for that matter.”

“Then let’s get it on.” He motioned toward the PT equip. “Bring on the torture chamber.”

“Looks like one of those space satellites to me.”

He cocked his head sideways and studied the device. “Hey, you’re right. Think we could pick up satellite TV? The OLN channel carries rodeo.”

“Let’s point you toward the southern sky and give it a try.”

They both laughed as Becka went to work, easing his leg into a weird-looking harness, Velcroing him in, explaining as she went. He mostly ignored her words and concentrated on her efficient movements and on the way she smelled—which was pretty darn sexy for a woman who’d already worked all day.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

She glanced sideways without answering, and he wondered why he’d asked such a dumb question. She made one last adjustment, and turned the On dial, setting the machine into a slow in-and-out rhythm.

Jett gripped the side of the chair. The sharks were back. “Turn the stereo on, will ya?” he grunted.

“If that’s too painful, I can adjust it for less tension.” She reached for the power switch.

“I never said it hurt.” He was no baby.

“You sure?”

“No pain, no gain.” He sucked in a roomful of air and tried to relax. “Just turn the radio on and dance with me.”

She rose from her position beside the machine and stared at him as if he’d lost his reason. “Is the concussion still giving you problems?”

“Nah. I’m just in the mood to dance with a pretty girl. Come on. Humor me. I’m a poor wounded cowboy.” Angling his head toward the source of agony, he waggled his eyebrows in invitation. “One of my legs is already dancing. Might as well find a way to enjoy it.”

He held out his arms. She backed away, but he didn’t miss the leap of excitement in her eyes before she shook her head, and the uptight, rigid demeanor returned.

“I really have to be going.”

“Going? You can’t leave.” He would die of boredom sitting in this spot for six hours without anything but the television to distract him. “You’re my nurse. I hired you. You gotta dance with me.”

Summoning up his most persuasive smile—no small feat considering the sharks in his knee—he reached out and caught her hand.

“Really, Jett. This is a professional visit, not a social one.”

A horrible thought crossed his mind. “You’re not married, are you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Okay, then. No reason on the planet why we can’t dance.”

“As I said, this is a professional visit.”

“So? Dancing is therapy.”

Her lips twitched, and she didn’t remove her hand. He thought he might be making progress.

“Therapy? Now how do you figure that?”

Slapping his free hand against his chest, he pretended shock. “What? A fine nurse like you has never heard of recreational therapy?”

She made a snorting sound but he could see she wanted to laugh. He pressed the advantage. “I’m suffering terribly here, Nurse Becka-Rebecka. You can take my mind off the pain.” That much was certainly true. “Drag that chair over here.”

Though her expression was suspicious, she did as he asked.

“Now what, Mr. Idea Man?”

“Push in that Garth Brooks CD, then sit down and let’s dance.”

“Well…” Shaking her head, she turned on the stereo and sat down. “I suppose it’s harmless.”

Jett had never danced from a chair before but the idea intrigued him. He’d danced in bed, underwater, and on snow skis, so why not in a chair while sharks ripped his kneecap off?

Somehow he managed to maneuver his upper body sideways, and when Becka laughed, he purposely contorted his body a little more. He placed one of her hands on his shoulder and clasped the other one against his chest. The action unbalanced Becka and she pitched forward, landing with a surprised “ooph” against his upper body.

Man, she smelled good. Like clean sheets. And he did love the scent of a woman between clean sheets.

For a second Becka struggled to right herself, but he held on, swaying to the strains of the old Garth Brooks tune “The Dance.”

In too awkward a position to do otherwise, Becka rested her head against his shoulder. But where he’d hoped for a quick melting, she held herself rigid and restrained.

“Loosen up, Becka-Rebecka,” he whispered against her ear. “Muscles must be relaxed for healing to occur. Didn’t you teach me that?”

She tilted her face up toward his. “I thought you had a concussion that night.”

He grinned down at her and shrugged. She laughed, visibly relaxing as though by some inner command. Jett used the opportunity to snug her close. A dirty trick, he knew, but he was an invalid after all, in need of therapy.

He peeked over her shoulder. By now she was reclining on the arm of his chair and leaning into him. He could deal with that. Why hadn’t he tried chair dancing before?

“A little practice and we could take this routine on the road.” He gave a sudden tilt to the side as though to dip her. When he brought her upright, she held on, arched her body and tossed back her head. He followed her in a very distorted imitation of Fred and Ginger swinging from side to side, dipping up and back.

“I can see it now in neon lights. The newest fad. Chair dancing.” Her face was slightly flushed and her amber eyes sparkled.

“Guaranteed to cure what ails you.” He forgot all about his screaming knee. “Good for aches and pains, warts and athlete’s foot. Order now and get a second chair free.”

She picked up the spiel. “Send your check or money order for $19.95. Hurry, this offer ends soon.”

The music ended, much to Jett’s displeasure, and his dance partner pulled away, righting herself on the chair next to him. All the fun faded from her expression and she looked as though she regretted their few moments of silliness.

“Well.” Averting her eyes, she straightened her uniform. “I really do have to leave now. My son is in day care and Kati closes at six.”

“You have kids?”

Her faced softened. “Dylan. He’s nearly four.”

So she had a son but wasn’t married. He’d like to hear that story, but figured now, when she was about to run, wasn’t the best time to pry.