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The Rancher's Promise
By Jodi O'Donnell Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Copyright © 2002 Harlequin Enterprises Limited
All right reserved. ISBN: 0373196199
Chapter One
Grasping the tarnished brass doorknob one more time, Lara Dearborn threw her hip into the wooden door with a burlesque bump that would have done Gypsy Rose Lee proud.
The door, no doubt warped from decades of the humidity that permeated south Texas, gave way with a jolt, sending Lara stumbling across the medical clinic's deserted waiting area. She managed to stop just short of plowing into the receiving counter opposite the entry, but in her desperate quest for balance dumped her armload of books and supplies across the scarred heart-of-pine floor. Her stethoscope, luckily protected within its case, went skidding under the sagging plaid sofa against one wall. The behemoth Physician's Desk Reference she carried, however, landed smack on her instep.
Lara wasn't one for using bad language, even when she was in pain. So, bending down to massage her throbbing foot, she let fly with not one, not two, but three of her favorite swearing alternatives from way back. "Shucky darn, suffering succotash and shootin' shine-ola," she exclaimed with relish, feeling much better for the effort.
The satisfying sensation lingered only a second - until a deep, masculine laugh came rumbling toward her from somewhere in the recesses of the clinic beyond the otherside of the counter.
"Oh!" Lara exclaimed in surprise, and not a little embarrassment. Since it was Saturday afternoon, she'd thought she would be alone in the clinic, have some time to explore and maybe even get a little work done before she started seeing patients at the start of the week.
She had little choice but to bluster her way through this. "All right," she demanded, "who's back there?"
There was not even a second's pause. "The name's Bond." The answer came in a killer imitation of Sean Connery. "James Bond."
Then the laughter again. Lara bent at the waist, feeling around under the sofa for her stethoscope, because once she found it - to heck with the PDR - she was hightailing it out that sticky front door. Not that she believed whoever it was she could hear walking toward the front of the clinic was truly dangerous. After all, this was Bridgewater, Texas, where everyone knew everyone else, making any stranger stand out like a sore thumb. But such a confirmation was best made in a venue where she felt a little less vulnerable.
She wasn't to be allowed even that bit of luck, either. Instead, she had just laid her hand on the black case containing her stethoscope when a cowboy stepped around the corner of the counter, saying, "May I help you, ma'am?"
At least she thought he must be a cowboy. He was dressed for the part in a pair of work-worn Wranglers, a rolled-up-at-the-sleeves, dark green Western shirt and dusty brown boots. All he lacked to complete the image was a beat-up Stetson and a lower lip stuffed with chewing tobacco.
"No. No, not at all," she said nervously, sitting back and slapping her thigh in a show of false bravado. "I - I just stopped in to, um ... but now that I'm here, I'll just be, you know, getting on my way. That is, if that's all right with you, Mr., um, Mr. Bond."
Her lame attempt at dissembling brought another not entirely unattractive rumble of laughter from the man in front of her.
"Actually, the name isn't Bond - and I'm really not a crackpot," he said, allaying her suspicions. "It's just the way you asked who I was, not to mention that I've always wanted to say that in public, just once, instead of in front of the bathroom mirror. That and 'Go ahead - make my day.'"
At her wary look, he waved a hand dismissively. "I'm sorry," he said, although the apology was filtered through yet more laughter. "Before you stands the product of an overactive imagination. Pay no attention to me, no attention at all."
The problem was, paying no attention to him would have been impossible, even if there were a law against it. That was why she stared. He was just about as handsome as all the movie heroes he claimed to imitate in front of the bathroom mirror. Topped off with a cherry.
He had deep-set eyes the color of rich, dark chocolate, and short hair the same rich brown. His jawline could only be described as chiseled. He was tall - over six feet - with the kind of broad-shouldered, slim-hipped cowboy build that had doubtless earned him a few frankly admiring stares in his time.
But it was his smile - wide and white and just a shade wistful - that had her heart galloping as if it wanted to outrun itself. The dimples carved into both his cheeks had to be a quarter of an inch deep. At least.
The smile faded as he noticed her easing her shoe off to rub her instep.
"Are you hurt?" In a trice he was kneeling in front of her and had her ankle in his hand and her shoe the rest of the way off before she could react to being touched by a total stranger. "Lord, here I am runnin' on at the mouth, not even thinking something had set off that string of inventive cussing."
Even through her thick athletic sock, she could feel the warmth of his large hands, which, instead of making her want to jerk away, sent a definite starstruck thrill through her. Up close she got the chance to note just how thick his eyelashes were. Very. His eyebrows were dark and thick, too, and punctuated his earnest gaze in the same way his dimples did his smile.
"I'm all right, really," she said. "I'd know if I'd broken anything.... I'm the new physician's assistant here at the clinic."
He let go of her ankle, causing a slight pang of disappointment to vibrate through her. "Of course. You must be Griff's cousin, Lara."
He said it the right way, she noticed, with two ah sounds.
"It's short for Larissa," she admitted, rolling her eyes. "Instead of 007 or Dirty Harry, I think my mother had a thing for Dr. Zhivago."
For the first time in her life she knew what it was like to see an actual twinkle come to someone's eyes. "Well, and a good thing, too," he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Those Bond girls, at least, went by some pretty racy names."
Now Lara laughed, which brought a look of such pleasure to his face that she dropped her gaze and fumbled with the stethoscope case. It occurred to her that she was no longer the least apprehensive, even though her voice was definitely breathless as she asked, "You know Griff?"
"Sure do. I'm proud to call him one of my best friends." He sat back on his heels. "That was why, when Griff mentioned he had a cousin in Dallas who'd gotten licensed as a physician's assistant and was looking for a job, I started bugging him to get you down here for the Bridgewater Clinic."
"You're Griff's boss?" His stock with her went up another ten points. Her cousin had told her it had been the idea of the rancher he worked for to fill the vacancy with a P.A. when Dr. Becker retired, instead of with a full-time doctor. To treat serious cases, a physician would drive out from Houston on a part-time basis. The arrangement would save everyone time and money. Most of all, though, it would provide less-well-off members of the community with better health care, since Griff's boss had also volunteered to pay her salary.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Rancher's Promise by Jodi O'Donnell Copyright © 2002 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
