Tempted by a Texan Page 2

  “It might be broken.” Carefully, he ran his hand from her shoulder to her wrist, then over the delicate structure of her hand.

  She yelped and he jerked back, the sound affecting him like a blow to the solar plexus. Whoever the bastard was, he’d taken more than one swing.

  Not only was her head bleeding, but her wrist and hand were red and beginning to swell. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

  “Don’t be going overboard, Colby. I’ve got ice and bandages upstairs.” She started to sit up. Her face went ashen and she grabbed his forearm for support.

  He quickly slid his arm beneath her shoulders, gently pushed her back down and resumed pressing his shirt against her head. “Just be still, would you?” Palming his cell phone, he flipped through the stored numbers until he reached the one for the sheriff’s office. He had enough presence of mind to know that dialing 9-1-1 would connect him to a dispatcher in Austin, who would then have to reroute his call to Hope Valley, and he wasn’t in the mood to waste time.

  He punched the button and waited for the sheriff’s office to pick up, still keeping one hand pressed to Becca’s forehead. His gut was in fist-size knots, and he was livid that someone had hurt Becca.

  The strength of his protective feelings as he gazed down at her stunned him.

  “Hope Valley sheriff’s department.”

  “Margo, this is Colby Flynn. I’m over at Becca’s Attic. There’s been a break-in—”

  “Is anyone hurt?” the dispatcher interrupted. “Becca Sue...? Is she all right?” Margo Reed ran the sheriff’s department like a drill sergeant, yet governed herself by a set of rules she made up to suit any given situation. She also knew and loved just about everyone in town.

  “Becca’s a little banged up, but I’ll be taking her to the clinic.”

  “Okay, hon. I’ll get Skeeter right over there. And I’ll call Storm at home. He’s off duty tonight, but he’d skin me alive if I didn’t let him know what was going on.”

  Colby knew the sheriff wasn’t working—he’d passed by Anna’s Café earlier this evening and seen Storm Carmichael and his family having a meal. Becca had been there, too.

  Maybe it was because he was in the middle of packing to move, but Colby had suddenly felt like an outsider, and instead of stopping in to join the group of friends as he might have done at any other time, he’d kept on going.

  “Thanks, Margo. Tell Storm not to come down this late. The perp’s long gone. I’ll file a report with the deputy, get Becca over to the clinic and call Storm tomorrow.”

  He ended the call and dropped the cell phone back in his pocket, then lifted the corner of the makeshift pressure bandage and inspected Becca’s cut.

  “The bleeding has slowed. Do you know what you were hit with?”

  “I only remember the blow to the side. I think I might have hit my head on the corner of the book rack when I fell. Self-inflicted injury,” she said, sounding embarrassed. “A bandage and some ice and I’ll be as good as new.”

  “I don’t think so, sugar pie. Getting knocked down is not self-inflicted. And I’m a pretty decent judge of broken bones, since I had my share as a kid. This wrist needs X-rays and a cast.”

  “Doggone it, Colby, I don’t have time for a cast. I have a business to run and it takes two hands.”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, darlin’.” She’d always been stubborn and argumentative. If he hadn’t been so upset, he might have even admired her pluck in this instance. But he was upset. More than he wanted to admit.

  And having her right under his hands wearing thin cotton pajamas wasn’t doing much to improve his mood. The pale yellow fabric was soft to the touch. The sleeveless top dipped in a fairly modest V-cut, and the pants hem hit about shin length. Nothing terribly erotic about the ensemble, yet judging by the way his body was responding, she might as well have been wearing a sheer negligee.

  He reached for a magazine off the shelf, then grabbed a spool of orange ribbon. He had several yards reeled off and cut with his pocketknife almost before she could get her mouth open to object.

  “What in the world are you doing? That ribbon’s pure silk. And it’s expensive.”

  “Put it on my bill,” he snapped.

  “As if,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Ouch!”

  “Sorry.” He cupped the magazine around her arm, forming a makeshift splint, and secured one end of it with some ribbon. “I’m trying to be gentle. You could cooperate, you know.”

  With her free hand, she gripped the ends of the Country Homes magazine, bringing the page edges close together so he could get the rest of the ribbon wrapped around it and tied. “This just seems like overkill. Some ice and aspirin are all I need.”

  “No, you need to see a doctor, and I’d just as soon have your arm stabilized before we make the trip so you don’t sustain any further injury.”

  “Since when did you become a medical expert?”

  “Since I represented a woman in a domestic violence case. Husband was a repeat offender. I’d finally convinced her to leave him, but then she let him back in the door. She called me, and I got to the house in time to stop the worst of the attack. She insisted she was fine, but she stumbled against the wall, and the bone that was merely cracked before became badly fractured. The ER doc said if we’d immobilized the arm, the damage wouldn’t have been as severe. Now, do you want to take the chance of standing up, getting woozy and falling, doing yourself more damage?”

  “It annoys me when you take that condescending ‘I’m right’ tone.”

  “I know, darlin’. It always did.”

  Reminders of the past. He knew he shouldn’t be going down that road, and thankfully, he was saved the trip when the deputy’s cruiser pulled up out front.

  “Help me sit up,” Becca said, gripping Colby’s wrist with her good hand. “I don’t want Skeeter calling an ambulance or something.” She was grateful for Colby’s strong arm across her back. She just hoped he didn’t make any more little innuendos about their past.

  “You get any paler, and I’m going to call Mason and Damian myself.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. Typical of small towns, they knew their paramedics by name. Of course Becca had gone to school with the two men and Tracy Lynn had dated both of them before she’d married Lincoln Slade. In light of the friendship, she didn’t particularly want Damian Stoltz or Mason Lowe checking her over while she was wearing her pajamas. That would be too weird.

  “You’d just be wasting the county’s resources,” she said, noting that Skeeter was approaching the front glass door.

  “Stay put,” Colby said and rose. He crossed the shop to meet the deputy.

  Becca wasn’t about to stay put. For some reason, being injured and being the center of attention embarrassed her. She’d always taken care of herself, never had to rely on others. Now here she was with her head, her arm and her side throbbing, the pain making her nauseous. But she’d be darned if she’d lie on the floor as if she were a victim, never mind that she actually was one.

  Slowly, she got to her knees and, using the wall to steady herself, she stood.

  Colby was at her side in an instant. “I see you’re as hardheaded as ever.” He assisted her over to one of the bistro chairs by the coffee service bar, and made her sit.

  “Not too hardheaded,” Skeeter said, indicating Colby’s bloody T-shirt in her hand and the oozing wound at her head. “Want me to get the medics?”

  Becca dabbed at the cut and applied pressure. It seemed to hurt less if she pressed hard. “No. I’m fine.”

  “I’m fixing to take her over to the emergency clinic,” Colby said.

  “Good idea.” Skeeter nodded. “Either of you get a look at who did this?” He turned to Colby for an answer, but Becca was too tired to make an issue of it. Never mind that it was her shop and she was the one who’d been clobbered.

  Colby shook his head. “When I got here, the alley door was forced open and Becca was in here on the floor. U
nconscious.”

  He glanced at her, and Becca wondered why his tone held that hint of accusation. Sheesh, you’d think she’d done this on purpose just to irritate him!

  “How’d you happen to just show up?” Skeeter asked.

  “I was working late across the street, saw what looked like the beam of a flashlight and got suspicious. I didn’t run into anyone on the way over here, and since you just came in through the front entrance, I assume whoever was in here heard me come around back and went out the front door. Once I got inside, I heard a car engine—sounded like it was coming from around the corner.”

  Skeeter was writing on a pad of paper as Colby talked. “Was there anything about the vehicle’s sound you can tell us? Did it sound like a diesel? An older car? Souped up?”

  “Hard to tell. But I’d say the car may need a new muffler soon. I could clearly hear the engine turn over and the acceleration.”

  Becca was impressed with Colby’s attention to detail. Good thing he’d been close by. She glanced around the shop, trying to see if anything obvious was missing. A round display rack had been tipped over, spilling paperback books across the floor. The beaded and faux gem bracelets that normally hung from the jewelry tree on the counter were in a tangled heap on the carpet.

  It creeped her out that she’d been unconscious and some crazed idiot burglar had been pawing through her prized possessions.

  And how long had Colby been hovering over her? she wondered. Had she done anything strange in her unconscious state?

  She sighed. The knock on the head was making her think like a crazy person. It was just that she hated being vulnerable.

  “Listen,” Colby said, “do you mind if we do this report later? I need to get Becca to the clinic.” Becca wasn’t going to argue now. Her hand was beginning to ache deep in the bone. And despite her sleeveless cotton pajamas, she was sweating.

  But making it out the door anytime soon didn’t seem to be in the cards.

  A red Chevy Tahoe pulled up at the front curb. Donetta Carmichael hopped out of the SUV almost before it had come to a stop and came barreling through the front door of Becca’s Attic. Her long, wildly curling red hair was scraped into a fashionably messy ponytail that somehow looked as though she’d spent hours making it look that way. Then again, Donetta owned the only hair salon in town, just two doors down from Becca’s Attic, so she should know how to fix her hair all cute at a moment’s notice.

  “Lord, Becca Sue! Are you all right? My God! What happened?” Donetta knelt in front of Becca, touching her face and patting her thighs, as though she didn’t quite know what to do or how to do it. “Skeeter? Have you called the paramedics?” She didn’t wait for Skeeter’s reply. Instead, she blasted her husband as he came through the door carrying an infant swaddled in a fluffy pink blanket. “Storm, call Mason and Damian. Becca Sue’s hurt.”

  “Netta,” Becca soothed, putting her hand on Donetta’s shoulder, “I’m okay. It’s just a little bump on the head. The way everyone’s acting, you’d think I looked like a bloody corpse.” Maybe she should go have a look at herself in the bathroom mirror, Becca thought.

  “Oh, don’t even talk about corpses at a time like this!”

  Becca rolled her eyes and was instantly sorry. An invisible demon was having a heyday jabbing a pitchfork at her temple. “You didn’t have to drag your family out in the middle of the night, Donetta.”

  “As if I’d stay home snug in my bed when my best friend is bleeding all over the floor. Who would come in here and attack you like this?”

  “Lord, you’re as big a drama queen as Colby.”

  “Colby?” For the first time since she’d charged through the front door, Donetta looked around the room. Her gaze landed on Colby—who was shirtless—then shifted back to Becca. Now, instead of stark worry, there was an impish spark of feminine appreciation that seemed to say, Well, well. Lookie here.

  “Don’t start,” Becca whispered. “He was working late and saw a flashlight beam in my store. I think he scared the intruder away.”

  “Um, sweetheart?” Storm said. The sheriff now stood just behind his wife, holding the deputy’s notes in one hand, the baby in the crook of his other arm. “I’m the one who should be asking questions. If you’ll take the baby, perhaps I can at least try to act like the sheriff?”

  “Actually,” Colby interrupted, “I’d appreciate it if we could handle any reports and statements tomorrow. I’d really like to get Becca to the clinic.”

  “Yes,” Donetta said, standing, “that’s exactly what you should do. Storm can wait.” She blithely took over, dismissing her husband’s attempts to do his job. Storm merely gazed down at his wife with loving indulgence.

  “Do you want me to follow you to the clinic?” Donetta asked. “I’ve called Tracy Lynn and Sunny—”

  “Call them back!” Becca demanded. Realizing she’d practically shouted, she spoke in a more normal, rational tone. “Please, Netta. There’s no reason for everyone to be burning up the highway for nothing. You go home and get the baby back to bed.”

  She couldn’t resist standing on tiptoe and taking a peek at the sweet little girl sleeping in her daddy’s arm. Amanda Skye Carmichael was four months old, and if the scant hair on her soft head was any indication, it looked as though she would be a redhead like her mommy.

  “Besides.” she continued, “Colby’s already awake and apparently fairly traumatized, so he may as well drive me over to see the doc. Maybe they’ll give him a shot of something to calm him down.” She glanced at Colby and her stomach flipped when she saw the amused tug of his lips—not to mention his bare chest.

  She grabbed a clean dish towel from the drawer behind the coffee counter, then apologetically passed him his bloodstained T-shirt.

  The thought of spending more time with Colby was seriously taxing her nerves. If it weren’t for the baby, she would have definitely taken Donetta up on her offer to go to the hospital with her.

  Colby put his arm around her. “Before I get even more traumatized,” he drawled, his eyebrows lifting, “shall we go?”

  “Let me just change my clothes.”

  “Forget it, darlin’. You’re not stalling another minute.”

  “I’m wearing pajamas!” And he still hadn’t put on his darn shirt. Although she couldn’t really expect him to wear it now with her blood all over it.

  “I’ll run upstairs and get your robe,” Donetta said. Before Becca could object, Donetta was heading for the stairwell.

  “Call Tracy Lynn and Sunny,” Becca shouted after her. “And grab my purse while you’re up there. Sheesh,” she said, glancing at Colby. “All this fuss. I hate having people do stuff I can easily do myself.”

  “Easily is the operative word, sugar.” He glanced pointedly at the hand she was cradling close to her chest. “Let us fuss a little. Makes us feel better.” His Southern drawl certainly made her feel...something. She just wasn’t sure if it was better.

  3

  “I don’t know why this sling thing is necessary.” Leaving the clinic, Becca adjusted the material that was chafing her neck and stepped aside as Colby opened the door of his SUV. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “Quit being a baby, sugar pie, and get in the truck.” Without waiting for her to comply, he tossed her purse into the cab, then put his hands at her waist and hoisted her into the seat. “You’re damned lucky your injuries weren’t worse.”

  He shut the passenger door, preventing her from leveling a comeback. So, okay, she was being difficult. But darn it, she didn’t have time for this nonsense! She never got sick or hurt.

  And the last thing she needed was this slow-talking, Matthew McConaughey look-alike hovering over her, making her long for the elusive, grand passion that had once burned red-hot, yet had sputtered out, smothered by a blanket of youth and opposing goals.

  She hadn’t realized until just now that she was holding a grudge.

  Still, she had gotten a kick out of him carrying her purse through the cli
nic. He hadn’t batted an eye, showing he was completely comfortable with his masculinity. Thankfully, he’d had a clean shirt in his truck that he’d pulled on, saving her and the clinic staff from drooling.

  At 2:00 a.m. the Hope Valley Emergency Medical Clinic had been practically deserted, so it had only taken about forty-five minutes to get X-rays and treatment. The bone on the side of her right hand just below her wrist appeared to have a hairline fracture. For something that was hardly visible on the X-ray film, Becca thought, it sure hurt like the devil.

  In place of the magazine Colby had cribbed from the store, she now wore a splint that covered her from knuckles to elbow. The foam-and-fiberglass contraption was held in place by a wad of Ace bandages that made it look as though she had a hugely serious injury. The doctor hadn’t felt she needed a cast at this point, but would reassess in a few days after the swelling had subsided.

  Meanwhile, her hand ached and she felt like a cranky bird with a broken wing. Heck, the eight stitches in her forehead were hardly worth a mention. Granted the gash stung, but at least that injury didn’t get in the way of anything.

  “This sling’s gotta go,” she remarked when Colby slid into the driver’s seat and started the truck.

  He shot her a look of exasperation and didn’t bother to argue. Instead, he leaned over, pulled the seat belt across her chest and buckled it at her hip, taking extra care to make sure the belt didn’t press against her injured arm.

  Becca shivered and wondered if he’d deliberately let his fingers linger against her skin, or if she’d just imagined the caress. Colby had been acting strangely lately.

  She turned her head and reached across her body, using her left hand to lower the window a couple of inches.

  Main Street was quiet and dark as they traveled the short distance from the clinic back to Becca’s. A warm summer breeze wafted in through the crack in the window, perfumed by the scent of alfalfa fields in the distance and fresh earth, still damp from an earlier rainstorm that had dumped just enough moisture to turn the streets steamy and bring out the mosquitoes.