“Goddamn gophers.” Martha Gale Jenkins adjusted the tree limb she’d found to use as a crutch. She limped alongside her horse as they made their way back to the barn, her ankle hot and throbbing. “Hate ’em, hate ’em, hate ’em.”

Rascal, her chestnut gelding, limped along with her. Both of them had fallen victim to a couple of new gopher holes in the lower pasture. Better she fall in than Rascal. Hell, he was probably more valuable to the ranch than she was.

She was still a ways out when Pedro, one of the young ranch hands, came riding toward them.

“Seen ya limpin’, Marti. Need some help?”

Martha, aka Marti, was in a right fine mood, ready to pick a fight with anybody just to take her mind off the pain in her left leg. But Pedro was too nice a guy for her to use as her personal punching bag. “Thanks, Pedro. Rascal and me had a run in with a couple of rattlesnakes followed up by new gopher holes.” She pointed to two lifeless rattlesnakes draped over her saddle. “Won one battle, lost the other.”

The eighteen-year-old shook his head. “Can’t believe you brought those snakes home with cha.”

“You’ve been here long enough to know that Grisham loves rattlesnake meat. It’ll put him in a good mood for days. Here,” she said, trying to hand him the snake carcasses.

“No, ma’am. Me and snakes don’t like each other.”

She laughed. “Know what you mean.” She returned them to the saddle and gave a dramatic shiver. “If it didn’t make our grumpy foreman so happy, I’d have left these for the buzzards.”

“Why you limpin’? Did one of them snakes bite cha?”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. If one of these snakes had bitten her, even through her heavy boots, she wouldn’t be in a bad mood. She’d probably be dead.

Pedro had come to the ranch on a work-release program four years ago but he’d grown up in Kansas City. His abhorrence of anything dealing with snakes was, unfortunately, a continued source of jokes from the other hands with a multitude of rubber snakes showing up in unfortunate places.

In a joint program with the Whispering Springs Police Department, the Flying Pig Ranch had agreed to take non-violent teenage offenders to work off minor offenses, paying the police department for the man labor. Marti’s grandfather had started the program when he’d served as Chief of Police while still being a rancher in need of hands. Over the years, hundreds of teens had mucked out stalls, brushed horses, and even helped with feeding the livestock. Busted for selling marijuana at fourteen, Pedro had been one of those non-violent offenders and was sent to the ranch. Hostile when he’d first arrived, he’d found his home and calling among the ranch’s animals.

“No snake bites,” Marti said. “Rascal has a stone bruise and possibly a slight sprain from stepping in one of the gopher holes. I didn’t want to do any further injury. I, on the other hand, fell into a hole when one of these snakes decided he wanted to strike out. His mistake. Shot his head off.”

Pedro kicked his left foot free of the stirrup, then bent to hold out his hand. “Climb on, and I’ll give you a ride back.”

“Appreciate the offer, but I can barely stand on my left leg. No way can I lift myself.” She tossed him Rascal’s reins. “Take Rascal on back. I’ll walk.”

He hesitated, and then said, “It don’t seem right, leaving you here.” He swung off the horse with ease that showed years of riding. She smiled. He’d changed so much since the first time he’d tried to dismount from a horse and, instead, fell off.

“Now, don’t get mad at me,” he warned seconds before grabbing her around the waist and throwing her up onto his horse’s back.

She gasped in surprise and grabbed for the saddle horn before swinging her right leg over the beast.

“Sorry, ma’am but Foreman Grisham would have me muckin’ stalls by myself for a month if I left you here.” He collected Rascal’s reins and remounted his horse behind her. “Hold on. I’ll go slow.”

* * *

“Don’t look good to me,” Marti’s father said. Patrick Jenkins frowned as he turned his daughter’s leg side to side.

Marti gasped. Hot, stabbing pain radiated from her ankle up her leg. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. The swelling from day one spread downward to her toes and up to just below her knee. She’d found her grandfather’s cedar wood cane and had been using it for the past four days, hoping that, with the cane supporting most of her weight, she’d be back to normal by now. “It’s just a bad sprain. I’m sure,” she said.

“Carla, come here and look at your daughter’s leg.”

Carla Jenkins entered the living room drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “Still swollen?”

“Yup,” Patrick said. “But your daughter thinks if she ignores it, it’ll go away.”

Carla grinned. “Your daughter is a bullheaded as you.”

“Your daughter is sitting right here you know,” Marti muttered.

Her mother kissed her forehead. “Like we could forget.” Carla pressed on the front of Marti’s left leg just below her knee. Her finger sank into the swollen flesh. When she released pressure, the indentation remained. “Sorry, honey, but your father’s right. It’s time to see a doctor.”

Marti sighed and pounded the back of her head on the pillow behind her. “I hate doctors.”

“I know,” her mother said. “But I don’t think we have a choice.”

Marti held out her hand. “Fine. Fine. Hand me my phone.”

Her mother give her a sideway look and chuckled. “No way, honey. I know you. You’ll put off the appointment as long as possible. I’ll make the call.”

Marti swallowed a couple of acetaminophens and gave up the fight. She knew when she was beat.

To no one’s surprise, her mother pulled strings and got Marti an appointment at Riverside Orthopedic clinic for that afternoon. Marti didn’t grouse too much. The last time Marti had gone out with the girls, she’d heard about a hot new doctor at that clinic. Couldn’t remember the name. Didn’t really matter anyway. She’d probably end up with the physician assistant.

After some fast talking, she convinced her parents that she could drive herself since it was her left leg that had the sprain. Her right was perfectly fine to push the brake and gas pedals.

At four o’clock, she parked outside a three-story building. She stubbornly opted to leave her grandfather’s cane in the car, not wanting to even suggest she was badly injured. A mistake on her part. Walking without the cane was excruciating. With each weight-baring step, searing hot pain shot up her left leg, making her hobble her way across the parking lot. By the time she made it into the building, up one floor to the medical clinic, and stood in front of the receptionist, her head and jaw ached from clenching her teeth.

“Good afternoon,” the receptionist said. “You’re limping.”

Marti grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter and dapped at the sweat on her forehead. “No kidding.” She shook her head. “Sorry. It hurts.”

The reception pulled out some papers and clipped them to a board. “How bad’s the pain?”

“On a scale of one to ten, about fifteen.” She lacked words to adequately describe what she was feeling, but fucking hell seemed the closest. She decided to keep that to herself.

The receptionist winced in sympathy. “Ouch. It won’t be long.” The reception pushed the papers toward Marti. “Fill these out. Be sure to sign here and here.” She pointed to the relevant places.

After completing paperwork and waiting twenty minutes, she was taken to an x-ray room. Marti was pretty sure the young technician was a sadist. That could be the only rationale for how many times and ways her foot and ankle were positioned for pictures.

Finally, she was allowed to limp down a hall and into an exam room. She collapsed into a chair, her leg throbbing.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the nurse, who looked about twelve-years-old. “I should have told you to have a seat on the table.”

After a long sigh, Marti transferred to the table.

“Excellent,” the child-nurse said. “Dr. Boone will be here in just a minute.”

The door closed and Marti sagged against the wall. She suspected her sprained ankle might be in worse shape than she wanted to admit.

Dr. Boone? Was that the name Delene had said? Maybe, but Marti had been a few beers in that night and the name her friend had spoken could have been Johnson for all she remembered.

She waited what seemed like forever, but was probably about five minutes, before a tall, dark-haired man stepped into the room, his long white lab coat flapping around his knees.

“Sorry for the wait.” He held out a hand. “I’m Elias Boone.”

Marti hoped he didn’t note the fact her jaw fell just a fraction as she reached out to shake his hand. “Marti Jenkins.”

He had to be the good-looking doctor Delene had gushed about because holy moley, he was gorgeous. Dark-haired. Chocolate eyes that made her melt. Broad shoulders that stretched his white doctor-coat tight. Totally yummy.

He rolled a stool over and sat. “So, Ms. Jenkins, how long have you been walking around on this ankle?”

She shut her eyes with a shake of her head, embarrassed to admit how stubborn she’d been. “Four days.”

“Well, that must have been painful,” he said. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” He rolled the stool backwards to a computer hanging on the wall, tapped on some keys and pulled up the digital x-rays of her foot. One key stroke and the picture flashed on the wall monitor. He pointed to the monitor. “See right here?”

She leaned closer but it looked exactly like the skeleton she’d played with in her high school biology class. “That’s your ankle.”

“Is it broken?” she asked with a wince.

“Today’s your lucky day. It doesn’t appear to be. If it is, it’s only a small crack, small enough we can’t see it.”

Marti frowned, feeling irritated that she’d made the trip to town just to be told what she already knew. “So what you’re telling me is all I have is a sprained ankle.”

Despite her grumpy tone, he smiled, and she felt as though she’d been hit upside the head. That smile should carry a warning.

“I wouldn’t say it’s just a sprained ankle. You have what’s known as a Grade 2 ankle sprain.”

She blew out a breath. “English, Dr. Boone.”

His mouth twitched. “It’s a partial tear in your calcaneofibular ligament.”

“Yikes, if that’s English, then let’s try French.”

He laughed and a small area behind her navel tugged.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “You do have a partially torn ligament. With an ankle sprain, the ligaments are stretched when the person falls or twists the foot. Sometimes, the ligaments can be stretched to the point they tear a little or even tear in half. In your case, you have a small tear. That must have been quite a twist. If I understand the story correctly, you were in a fight with a rattlesnake?”

“Nothing that brave,” she answered with a chuckle. “The bared his fangs to strike and I flailed backwards, out of his way and landed in a gopher hole.”

He shook his head. “I have to admit that’s a different slant on how to sprain an ankle. It’s usually cheerleading, or basketball, or some activity that requires moving from side to side. So no cheerleading, huh?” He grinned.

“Yeah, no. Those days are long behind me.”

“Hmm.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “What does that mean?”

“Just trying to picture you in a cheerleading outfit.”

A loud laugh burst from her. “Not going to happen, Doc.”

He smiled. Her gut tugged again. He had a beautiful smile. Full of white teeth and a pair of dimples. If she’d run into him at Leo’s Bar, she’d have figured out a way to make sure they met. But in this situation, she didn’t want to like him too much. She was pretty darn sure she wasn’t going to like where this appointment was headed.

“Well, I have to admit a rattlesnake story is a first for me. I didn’t see many rattlesnakes during my ortho residency.”

“Where you from?”

“New York.”

“And you moved from New York to Whispering Springs, Texas? Why would any sane person do that?”

He laughed again.

And that tug pulled again, almost taking her breath. His brown eyes sparkled with delight. Whew. Wait until the single ladies of Whispering Springs saw those eyes. Catfights would abound.

Not the time and not the place, she warned herself. Her engagement had ended badly six months ago. She wasn’t looking for, or needed, another guy in her life. She’d sit on the sidelines, eat her popcorn, and watch the others slug it out over him.

Too bad, though. He did make her heart sigh.

“I’ll be here for the next four months while Dr. Kelley does a fellowship in knees. Apparently, people in this town blow out knees regularly.”

She snorted. “Oh yeah. Working cowboys and ex-rodeo cowboys. Hard on the body.”

“Now, about you…”

Sighing, she frowned. “Yeah, about me.”

“You are a very lucky lady. Nothing broken, but you’ll need to rest your ankle for it to heal properly.”

“For how long?”

“Not horribly long. Maybe three weeks. Four at the worst.”

“I have to be off my feet for three to four weeks?” She immediately began shaking her head. “Nope. No can do. I’m a rancher. My parents are leaving on their dream vacation. I can’t lay around for a month. Do you have another option?”

“For a Grade 2 sprain, I usually recommend an air cast. Light. Removable for showers.”

There was a knock on the door, and a woman’s head popped around the corner. “Need me?”

“In a minute, Debbie.”

The door shut and he paused. “What was I saying? Oh right. Air cast. It’ll make walking easier, but you’ll still want to baby that ankle. Rest, elevation and ankle exercises should fix you up in no time. I’ll have my nurse come back and go over some dorsiflexion-plantar-flexion range-of-motion exercises I want you to do at night.”

“Great. No problem.”

“Rancher. Is that what you said you did?”

She nodded.

“Your problem will be riding a horse for the next couple of weeks. Even though your foot is in a stirrup, your leg hanging down like that will cause your ankle to swell. So, I suggest you stay off horses for a couple of weeks. Is that doable?”

“I can take the ATV when I need to go in to the pasture.”

She would have sworn he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t do that either. Try to keep off your feet unless necessary.”

“Will I need crutches?”

“I don’t see the need. The air cast will support your ankle. If you still have a great deal of pain after a week to ten days, call me.”

She’d love to call him but not because she was in pain.

And, she reminded herself, he was first, her doctor, and second, she wasn’t looking.

But if she were….

She blew out a long frustrated sigh. This sucked. She had two new juvenile offenders coming out on Monday as part of the joint program. She’d assumed responsibility for the program and its teens last year from dad. The last thing she wanted was to disappoint him by being unable to do her job.

Damn gophers.

“Fine. Fine,” she muttered. “Whatever.”

“I’ll send my nurse in with all the instructions. I know I’m throwing a lot of information at you, but everything is written down. Call me if you need anything.” He squeezed her knee. “Good luck.”

There was nothing sexual about the touch. It was a doctor comforting a distressed patient but her heart shot off in a gallop nonetheless.

Nope, nope, nope. She would not be attracted to a short timer, especially a Yankee.