Dylan moved faster than he would have expected, lobbing her pen at him like a tiny javelin. Charlie snatched at it on instinct, and caught a handful of air. He whirled to see where the pen might have landed, and caught Trevor muffling a laugh in his fist. When he turned back to Dylan, she was still holding the pen.

  “Nice trick,” he muttered, feeling foolish.

  “Nice reflexes,” she responded, with a sweet smile. “Your hand-eye coordination is still intact, so that’s one less test I have to run. Stick with me, and you’ll be back at the top of your game in no time.” She flipped her dark hair back over her shoulders and dismissed him with a gesture.

  “So, uh…that’s it?”

  “That’s it,” said Dylan, without turning around. “Go home and rest. My office will be in touch to schedule PT.”

  Charlie thought about trying for her number—in case I need help getting comfy, c’mon, how about it?—but maybe she wasn’t into flirting at work. He’d try again when he caught her without that white coat. He left her to her charting and followed his brother out into the hallway. “Are all the beautiful ones mean?”

  “I’d call her honest, more than mean.” Trevor’s slow-and-easy stride was better suited to navigating Lockhart Bend General than Charlie’s swinging gait. When a nurse approached with a trolley, Trevor stood aside easily, but Charlie tried to dodge past, and nearly took Trevor out with one of his crutches.

  “I hate these fucking things,” he hissed. “I swear she’s doing this just to punish me.”

  “Now why would she want to do that?” Trevor asked wryly. “Let’s see, you’ve known her ten minutes, and so far you’ve ogled her shamelessly, made fun of her name—and let’s not forget, lied about her clearing you for ranch work when she’d done no such thing.”

  “I’ve known her longer than that,” Charlie grumbled. “We met at my game, right before my big fall. And I…might not have made the best first impression. Actually, I have no idea how I did. Usually I can read a woman like an open book.”

  “Maybe this one’s above your reading level,” Trevor volunteered. Charlie made a move to swing at the backs of Trevor’s legs with a crutch, but quickly aborted when he noticed a kid hovering in a doorway watching the brothers approach.

  Trevor paused first, but Charlie was the one who spoke. “Hey, bud. Know where I can find a vending machine around here? I’m starving.”

  The boy shook his bald head. He was thin and ghostly pale. The only thing that distinguished him from the hospital gown threatening to swallow him whole was the translucent quality of his skin.

  “There are no vending machines in the children’s ward,” he said. He spoke with the self-appointed authority of any kid, but his voice was a croaking whisper, like there weren’t enough glasses of water in all of Lockhart Bend General to quench his thirst.

  “What? No vending machines?” Charlie boomed incredulously. “I’m going to personally tackle whoever had that bright idea.”

  A wisp of a smile tugged up one side of the boy’s face. “Are you a football player or something?”

  Charlie exchanged glances with a bemused Trevor. He wasn’t used to not being recognized. “Yeah. Or something. You might have seen me on TV.”

  “We don’t have TVs, either, and I’ve been here a while.”

  “No TVs?” Charlie shouted, and the boy let out a giggle. More small, frail figures were poking out of the doorways, round-eyed and eager to see what the fuss was about. A few older children even wheeled out their friends. Every new face was like a knife piercing Charlie’s heart. So little…so sick. How is this fair? he wanted to ask Trevor. As if reading his thoughts, his half brother gave a light shake of his head.

  “What’s your name?” Charlie asked the boy.

  “Nicholas.”

  “Nicholas, what do you think of a children’s ward with no TVs?”

  “I think it’s stupid,” Nicholas said. A bubble of shy laughter followed this revelation down the hallway.

  “I think you’re right. I think it’s dang stupid. Maybe even damn stupid. How else can you pass the time, with no TV?”

  “Well, there’s still books.” Nicholas cocked his head. “But I miss my cartoons.”

  “You miss your damn cartoons! Of course you do!” Charlie bellowed his agreement like a coach calling the play. A chorus of giggles rippled up and down the hall, bringing a stern nurse bustling to check on the noise.

  “Okay, I think that’s enough for today,” Trevor cut in. He played along with Charlie’s antics as best he knew how, grabbing one of his crutches to tow him away. The kids retreated into their rooms as the brothers passed, but their laughter was full-throated now. If there was one thing Charlie knew about relating to kids, it was that everyone could appreciate a good swear word.

  “That kid remind you of Andrew?” Trevor asked him once they were out in the parking lot, alone again. Maybe it was only the shadow of his hat lengthening beneath the Lockhart sun, but Charlie couldn’t identify the exact expression on his face. He imagined he must have been wearing a similar one to provoke the question.

  “Yeah,” he responded, looking away.

  “Yeah.” Trevor shifted uncomfortably. “Me, too. Do you want to talk about it, or—”

  Charlie shook his head. He hadn’t thought about Andrew in a long time, but being back in that hospital, he couldn’t think of much else. Stepping through those glass doors was like stepping back in time, back to that summer day, the worst of his life. Worse than his injury, worse than leaving the ranch.

  “Let’s go,” he said, past the lump in his throat.

  Charlie had planned to treat his brother to a round of drinks at the Tin Horseshoe after his meeting, but Trevor politely declined. Now that he was down one pair of hands to help him clear out the barn, he needed to put in a few extra hours of chores.

  “And there’s been something I’ve been meaning to get off my chest,” Trevor said as Charlie lowered himself down out of the cab of the pickup. “If your knee is as bad as that doctor says, you might start thinking about what the next phase is going to be. You’re not going to be a football player forever, Charlie. Whether your career ends sooner or later, it’s time you took stock of what you have and what comes next.”

  “Uh-huh. Duly and dully noted, cowboy,” Charlie responded without his usual enthusiasm. Try as he might, he couldn’t get Nicholas’s drawn face out of his head. It just wasn’t right, kids facing death so young. Kids who’d just barely started their lives.

  “See you at home, then. Don’t stay out too late.” Trevor sighed and tossed his hat into the empty seat as Charlie shut the door behind him.

  He left his crutches in the passenger cab.

  The Tin Horseshoe hadn’t changed much since the last time he had been there. In fact, he thought he identified at least one of Trevor’s exes in a corner booth as he made his way over to the bar. The place was still fairly empty this early in the evening, which was just fine by him. The more diners and drinkers, the more likely he was to be recognized.

  And for once, Charlie didn’t want to be recognized.

  But maybe the stars over Lockhart tonight were aligned in his favor after all. He’d managed to put away enough drinks to give the lights of the Horseshoe a soft halo—and throw any intrusive memories of Andrew into dim focus—by the time he heard a name he recognized. To say he wasn’t expecting it to follow him here was an understatement, but Charlie wasn’t complaining. On the contrary, this particular name made his heart pump his sluggish, inebriated blood that much faster through his veins. From the sounds of it she had called in a dinner order, and any minute now, she was going to walk through that door…

  3

  DYLAN

  There was absolutely no mistaking the hulking figure seated at the bar. He might as well have the number twenty-seven emblazoned on the back of his T-shirt.

  Dylan abruptly decided she could get dinner elsewhere. The last thing she needed tonight was an after-hours encounter around alcohol with a too-sexy client, especially one with as few boundaries as Charlie Wild.

  He turned in his stool, just in time to spot her leaving. “Dr. Rose,” he hollered, and Dylan froze where she stood. She clenched her jaw tightly, all too aware that everyone in the Tin Horseshoe was now looking at her. Could she get away with pretending she hadn’t heard him?

  “Leaving so soon?” Charlie held his beer aloft, like he was some sort of beacon lighting her way to the bar. With a frustrated sigh, Dylan approached him.

  “I’m just here to pick up some grub,” she said as she slid onto the stool beside him. She signaled in vain for the bartender, who had disappeared back into the kitchen—leaving her take-out dinner on the back counter, agonizingly out of reach.

  “‘Grub,’” Charlie echoed with a chuckle and shook his head. “Look at you. Fitting in already. You just moved here, didn’t you? Bet you already got the number to this place on speed dial.”

  “You’re damn right I do.” Dylan wondered if it would be totally out of line to just go behind the bar and grab her food. She was a local now, right? It would be a quaint, familiar gesture, not a complete step out of bounds…right? For once, she found herself wishing she could feel comfortable making her own rules.

  Like Charlie did.

  “Their food’s good,” said Charlie. “But the crowd’s even better. You should try sticking around and grabbing a drink some time.”

  “I’d say you’ve grabbed enough for the both of us already,” Dylan replied. It wasn’t her responsibility, what Charlie did once he left her office, but she couldn’t stand by and watch him kill himself. “Out of professional curiosity, how much does a guy your size have to drink to get this way?” She gestured to him. Not that Charlie looked…bad. The opposite, actually. His hair was down, his posture loose and relaxed. He was still too big for the stool he sat slumped on, but he looked a lot more comfortable in his own skin sitting there than he had at the hospital.

  “Six,” the bartender offered. He had returned to plant what Dylan could only assume was a seventh beer in front of Charlie.

  Six? Dylan bit back a curse that would’ve made a sailor blush. She wanted to grab Charlie by his stupid, sexy V-neck collar and shake it until his shirt split in two. “What did I tell you about alcohol and painkillers?”

  “Not to mix them,” said Charlie. “But I didn’t. I took the pills first, then I drank my beer.”

  Dylan narrowed her eyes. “I know you’re not that stupid.”

  “Do you?” Charlie squinted down at her, and Dylan couldn’t read his expression. His brash grin had faded, and he wasn’t leering, either. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he looked…hurt. Then he smirked, defiant, and reached for his beer. “It’s fine. I’m a dumb jock, but hey. That’s okay. No brain, no brain damage.”

  “Right. That’s enough.” Dylan grabbed his beer and pushed it away. She rounded on the bartender, anger rising. “And you—you know better. Aren’t you overserving him?”

  The bartender shrugged. “He told me you’re his ride.”

  “What!?” she exclaimed.

  Charlie grinned. “Heard you placing your order over the phone.”

  “You knew I was coming?” Dylan demanded. “Is that why you let yourself get this way? You assumed I’d just give you a ride?”

  “Hey, easy!” Charlie said as she gulped his beer herself. “You can’t do that. You’re my designated driver!”

  “Who says I drove? Maybe I walked over.”

  The bartender shrugged. “It’s fine either way. Either you drive him, or I call his brother.”

  Dylan was just thinking this wasn’t a bad suggestion until Charlie leaned into her. “And he doesn’t mean the one you met today,” he muttered. “He means my other brother, Trent. The Lockhart Bend sheriff.”

  “Ah.” Dylan took another drink of their shared beer, trying to ignore Charlie’s rock-hard bicep brushing against her own. “And I assume Smitty wouldn’t like that?”

  “You know what they say about women who assume…” Charlie leaned back in his stool and glanced behind her. “They usually have a nice ass.”

  Dylan burst out laughing. “I think that’s the stupidest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  “But it made you laugh.”

  “Yeah—yeah, it did.” She doubled over the bar, still fighting giggles. Drunk, playful Charlie wasn’t so bad, but that didn’t change the fact he shouldn’t be drinking at all.

  “That was bad,” he said, when her laughter tailed off. “Give me a minute and I’ll come up with something better.”

  “Well, you couldn’t do worse.” Dylan went for a grimace and found herself smiling. “That was so far from smooth, it somehow looped back again and found its way to charming.”

  “Effective,” Charlie agreed. He couldn’t keep a straight face, and his mouth quirked up into a sloppy, crooked smile. A deep dimple appeared in his left cheek. “So, are you going to give me a ride, Dr. Rose?”

  Dylan sighed deeply. “All right. Come on.” She snatched her takeout from the bartender and dangled her keys in front of Charlie. “We’ll see if you fit into the front seat of my car.”

  She watched as the quarterback eased himself down gingerly from the bar. She wished she could offer him more physical support—and not just because the thought of his arm wrapped around her sent tiny, unprofessional thrills chasing through her. His face had contorted with genuine pain.

  “I’m sorry.” Dylan glanced around. “Where are your crutches? I don’t mind getting them for you.”

  “Crutches. Right.” The sheepish look on Charlie’s face told her all she needed to know. As her temper rose, his expression transformed to one of mild defiance. “What? Are you really going to chew me out right here? I’ve been getting around just fine at the ranch house without ‘em.”

  “I’m sure you have.” Dylan didn’t know what else to say. She’d had her share of patients like Charlie, determined to flout the rules no matter the repercussions for their health or careers. Some did it out of vanity, some out of fear, some from misplaced machismo, but the results were always the same. Words didn’t get through to them. Only pain did. But Dylan didn’t want to see Charlie in pain. “Listen,” she said, as gently as she could. “I know the crutches are awkward, and they chafe; they’re the worst. But if you want to play ball again, they need to be your best friends. Imagine them as two supermodels—ones you can’t wait to have in your arms.”

  Charlie’s brow furrowed. “Why would I want a supermodel when I have you?” He leaned on Dylan as she ducked beneath his shoulder. “You’re very supportive, always here when I need you. And damn, you look good doing it.”

  He’s drunk, Dylan reminded herself, flame-faced, as she steered Charlie’s impressive bulk toward the exit. His gait had evened out once he got his feet under him, but she wouldn’t risk letting him fall on his ass. Sadly, she couldn’t do much about his mouth.

  He doesn’t know what he’s saying, she reminded herself. Or he’s doing it to mess with me. Either way, he’s drunk.

  “You’re a good person,” said Charlie, hardly slurring at all. “Most folks would’ve left me here, but you…You’re sweet.”

  Dylan chose to ignore that. The truth was, she should have left Charlie at the bar. Left him to his sheriff brother. Helping him home wasn’t her job. Not only that, but it blurred lines between them that needed to stay sharp. He needed to understand she wasn’t his friend. She was his doctor, in charge of his health. If she let him treat her as anything else, he might not take her seriously when it mattered the most.

  Things were going to change, Dylan decided as Charlie pushed the door open for the both of them. They had to. Tomorrow she would reestablish the boundaries between them. Tomorrow she would make sure that Charlie buckled down and got to work.

  But tonight…just tonight, maybe she could be a friend. She could take him home and make sure he was okay. And she could enjoy the feeling of his body draped across hers, the heat of his cheek pressed to her forehead, the tang of his cologne mixed with his sweat. Just for tonight, and he’d never have to know.

  “Where are your crutches, Charlie?” Dylan found herself demanding again a week later. “And don’t feed me another line about ‘forgetting’ them, because we both know that’s bullshit!”

  “Language, Doc. Please,” Charlie said as he held open the boardroom door for her. Too many things about this morning had the distinct smack of déjà vu to them, Dylan thought as she passed beneath the bridge of his thick arm. And these weekly meetings about Charlie’s rehab progress stole time from her real job—seeing patients who did what she told them to.

  “All right then. How’s your head feeling? Is that the sort of language you’re looking for?” she whispered innocently as they took seats beside one another at the long wooden table. Charlie, while exhibiting no deficit of his usual energy, was red-eyed and unshaven. Either he’d been drinking again, or he hadn’t slept much.

  “I’m fine, thank you. Your concern is touching.” His broad hand slipped under the table to give her knee a casual squeeze. The gesture was fleeting, but even a chaste touch from Charlie was enough to make her jump. She felt herself flush with embarrassment and anger, but at the same time, heat pooled in her stomach. Charlie had one effect on her body and another on her head, and the contrast made her dizzy. His touch made her shiver. His smirk made her seethe. She wanted to smack him and kick his dumb ass, rake her hands through his hair and pull him down for a kiss.

  “Charlie! My man!” Smitty clapped him on the back as he took his seat. “Good to see Dr. Rose has you off your crutches already! When can we expect you back on the field?”

  Smitty rarely spoke directly to Dylan about matters concerning Charlie’s recovery. Dylan just rolled her eyes and flipped open her schedule. The next two weeks were critical, and what’s more, she was going to have to change a few things around. If Charlie insisted on leaving his crutches at home, she couldn’t do much about it—not that she’d stop bringing it up—but she had dealt with plenty of stubborn sports celebrities in the past. If she wanted him to heal fully, despite his best efforts to the contrary, she was going to have to get him to adjust his routine. That meant limiting his time on the injured knee, so definitely no bars, barn work, or trips into the city without…