Eighteen months later

Megan Fuller, M.D. paused outside the exam room door, smoothing her white coat out of habit, patting her pocket to check that the stethoscope was still there. She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. They needed an adjustment. They’d been slipping all day.

Last patient.

Based on how her day was going, inside she could expect to find a crotchety grandpa or a talkative mom with a toddler. She hadn't had an appointment end on time all week.

She glanced at the patient chart in her hand, squinting at the tiny type. Dan Evans. Crotchety grandpa it was.

She only let herself breathe for a moment, then pasted on a smile, knocked softly, and opened the door.

A man looked up from where he sat on the exam table. But this was no grandpa.

He was shirtless, and his muscled shoulders stretched for miles. His abs were defined, and she pretended her quick perusal was simple professional interest even as heat suffused her cheeks.

"Hello. I'm Doctor Fuller," she said quickly.

He nodded, his chocolate eyes darting away, lashes a dark smudge against his cheekbones as he stared at the floor.

His jaw was hidden by two days of scruff, but he had an elegant nose that defied the ruggedness of his features. His hair was... a mess. It looked as if it'd been shorn, buzzed almost to his scalp, but was now growing out—that awkward stage in between two male hairstyles.

It did not detract from his appearance.

As she stepped into the room, she saw the cowboy hat atop his button-up shirt, both lying on the chair in the corner.

A cowboy.

She pushed back the instant flare of attraction—how anyone could not be attracted to the man was beyond her—and let her physician's eyes catalog. His tension was obvious in his grip on the exam table and the muscle ticking in his jaw. Had she offended him with the perusal she couldn't help? Should she apologize? Pretend it hadn't happened?

"To what do I owe the honor of your visit today?" she asked, hoping a bit of humor might ease them both into the appointment.

"Stitches."

He twisted his torso and gave her a glimpse of the gash across his ribs, beneath his arm.

"Uh-oh." She set the chart down on the counter and moved to the sink to scrub her hands, putting her back to him momentarily. "Please don't tell me you got it doing something reckless like bull riding."

He didn't respond.

She glanced over her shoulder to see his eyes cut away. As if he'd been watching her while her back was turned.

"Or a farm implement gone rogue?" She grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and leaned her hips against the counter to dry her hands.

The cowboy didn't look up, didn't crack even a hint of a smile.

"I tried to butterfly it, but the bandages wouldn't hold." He spoke to the floor. As a former ER doctor from Houston, she was used to all different reactions from patients. From talkative to comatose, from patients handcuffed to the bed screaming obscenities, to laboring mothers. In Houston, the cowboy's reaction wouldn't have blipped her radar as unusual. But she'd taken over the family practice in Taylor Hills two weeks ago, and every single person she'd seen had chatted her ear off. From the grandmothers who detailed their entire medical histories, to the men in their mid-forties who questioned her credentials because she looked younger than her thirty-five years, they all wanted to talk.

Not the cowboy.

Fine. She needed to get home to Julianne and Brady anyway.

"Let's take a look." She stepped to the exam table, unable to douse her awareness of his muscled form.

Ignore it. Pretend he's a grandpa.

Her internal instructions didn't help. Especially when she touched the corded back and he startled.

"Sorry," she murmured. "Cold hands are a hazard of the profession."

She had to gently shift his muscled arm forward, out of her line of sight with another touch. He remained frozen, barely breathing.

Maybe the attraction zinging through her veins was one-sided. Maybe he was married, though she didn't see a ring on his finger.

The laceration wasn't deep, but she could see how the location would be difficult to treat without help. It was surrounded by a fading yellow bruise. Curving along his upper ribcage, every time he moved, the bandages would pull.

She stepped back, relieved for the momentary distance. "I can stitch you up, but you'll need to take it easy for several days."

He shook his head very slightly, still not looking at her.

"If you lift too much weight or haul... I don't know, bales of hay or a baby cow or something, you'll rip out the stitches, and we'll be right back here."

His gaze flicked to meet hers for the briefest second. Was that a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips? It disappeared too quickly to be sure.

"I'm serious."

His eyes were downcast again. "I can't afford time off."

"I can have the office phone your boss," she offered.

He immediately tensed up, shoulders rigid.

She glanced down at the counter, at his chart. "Oh. I have a sticky note here from Rene at the front desk. I think it says"—she squinted at the loopy handwriting—"you put down that you're a cash pay but normally the bills are sent to the... Triple H? I think she wanted me to find out if it was a mistake." She looked back up at the man.

His stare was hard, any hint of humor gone behind a blank mask. His eyes narrowed, his hands clenched. If she’d thought him tense before, she hadn’t met tense. She figured any second, he’d vibrate right off the table.

"I'm a cash pay." The words were said with deadly seriousness. And then she saw his throat work as he swallowed. Looked away again. "I'm good for it. I can make installments."

Pride was a funny thing. So he didn't want this Triple H to pay for the appointment. He still held that tension in every line of his body. The charge would only be for an appointment and sutures. She didn't know the ins and outs of billing—that's what an office manager was for—but how much could it cost?

She cleared her throat, forcing false brightness. "I'll make sure she gets it billed correctly." She reached up to the upper cabinet, pulled out a syringe. "Let me just get a local to numb the—"

"That's not necessary."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Are you sure? Most patients find the needle uncomfortable." Uncomfortable was an understatement. Most people freaked out just looking at the curved surgical needle.

"I'm sure."

"Okaaaay."

She assembled needle and thread and washed her hands again for good measure.

He kept his focus on the floor as she moved close to the table.

"Can you hold your arm away for me?" she asked quietly.

He obliged, holding the limb aloft.

Several inches below the laceration was a fading scar she hadn't noticed on the first pass. Farming must be more dangerous than she’d thought.

"You'll feel a stick," she warned.

But he didn't jump at the first prick of the needle. She couldn't even be sure he was breathing.

"Deep breath," she said.

And then his chest expanded beneath her hand.

She kept stitching. Three. Four.

"Tetanus can be dangerous," she said. "I'd recommend a booster—"

"I'm current." His words were bit off, but when she adjusted her stance and glanced up at his face, he showed nothing of the pain he must be feeling. Good poker face.

She refocused on her task. Seven. Eight.

"I didn't see it on your chart—"

"I'm current." This on an exhale, the words would've been a howl if they’d been louder than a puff of air.

"Almost done." She just needed to tie... her opposite hand brushed his back as she manipulated the needle, and this time he did jump—away from her touch.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Hold still."

He went back to not breathing, and she tried to stifle the nerves. He was clearly not attracted to her. What was her problem?

"It's been a long day," she said. "Packed with appointments. It seems like every person in Taylor Hills wants to meet the new doctor. We could do a church potluck or something, but they all just want to book appointments…"

She forced the rambling words to a stop, snipped the end of the thread, and found her hand shaking slightly.

"Okay, you're done."

He was already off the table, his broad back to her as he reached for his shirt.

She backed toward the door. She hadn't been this flustered since her residency.

She didn't get it. She'd treated plenty of men. Handsome men.

The cowboy had barely looked at her. What—twice? Obviously, the flare of attraction she'd felt had been only in her mind. He couldn't wait to get out of here.

And then, his head turned as he shrugged into his shirt. Not all the way, as if he didn't dare look at her square on. "Thanks."

She saluted with his chart, which was silly because he couldn't see her, and ducked out, closing the exam room door behind her.

She rubbed a hand over her face. She was exhausted. Long days and interrupted sleep had worn her clear out. That's what the problem was. This had been an anomaly.

Maybe she'd imagined the whole thing.

She'd go home, feed the kids dinner, and get to bed early.

Except it was summer. And Friday night.

The kids would be wired for the weekend. Not for the first time, she had the thought that she wasn't cut out for this life.

But it was hers now.

Lady Luck was right there. Beckoning him.

Daring him.

Dan looked away from the gas station's lottery ticket display. Even from across the room, it had power over him. He hated that.

He slurped his fountain drink, trying to divert his attention. He waited while the attendant checked out the woman at the counter while his drink sweated almost as much as he did.

He'd only left the ranch a few times since his release. The first time, he'd gone to pick up a load of feed, and the store owner had made it very clear he wasn't welcome. Taylor Hills had a long memory, and he could see judgment in folks' eyes. He was still the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Still the screw-up.

Only worse now.

A screw up with a record.

He'd only come to town today for the stitches. He'd been driving back to the Triple H in Matt Hale's truck when he hadn't been able to resist the urge to stop off for a soft drink.

But he wasn't walking out of here with a lotto ticket. Even if the late afternoon sunlight was beaming down on the display like an angelic halo.

The woman leaned on the counter, chatting. Giving him a clear view of the display beside her.

One lottery ticket wasn't real gambling.

At least that's what the little devil on his shoulder would have him believe.

One lottery ticket wouldn't do much to scratch the itch between his shoulder blades. But it would do something.

Make him forget the last hour spent in the doctor's office, even if only for a momentary gambler's high.

He'd expected Doc O'Leary. Eighties. Failing eyesight. He’d been patching Dan up since he'd been a toddler.

Instead, the door had opened and she'd walked in. Wavy brown hair in a ponytail down her back. The crisp white coat and smart black slacks. She'd looked like a big-city doctor, so different from Doc, who wore Wrangler jeans to the office.

And those dark-rimmed glasses that had only highlighted her intelligent hazel eyes, which sparkled with curiosity.

Shame had poured over him, hot and thick. Everybody in town knew his history.

He'd given up on hoping that a single soul in Taylor Hills might not know that he'd been incarcerated. And what he'd done to deserve it.

For one wild moment, he'd hoped she didn't know.

And then she'd brought up Rene, the office manager. He'd gone to high school with Rene. There was no way she hadn't told the doctor to steer clear of Dan.

The doctor had been professional and polite, and all he'd wanted to do was run out of there with his tail between his legs like a pup.

He was what he was. No chance of changing it now.

But the shame threatened to eat him alive.

Made the voices in his head, the ones that begged him to hit up the nearest casino, just buy one lotto ticket, that much louder.

He didn't dare, even if the cost was only a buck.

Because if he could justify a buck, he could justify five. And if he could justify five, what was twenty, or fifty or a Benjamin?

Every dollar he socked away in his meager savings account was a dollar toward paying back the enormous debt he owed the Hale family.

Today, his savings had shrunk from the doctor's visit.

What a disaster, on so many levels.

A bell above the door chimed, throwing him out of his scattered thoughts. Someone else was coming in to the gas station.

He grimaced, turning away to stare at the display of candy bars.

Now it would be even longer before he could get out of here. Unless he just left, just faced whoever had come in and their judgment.

That he deserved.

Crap.

"Please?" said one child.

"Yeah, me too,” said another child. “I want one, too."

The two children continued to beg, talking over each other.

"A hot dog is not an adequate source of nutrition for your supper."

Goose pimples traveled up his arms as he recognized the female voice.

He glanced up at the mirror that ringed the ceiling. It was meant to deter shoplifting, but it gave him a blurred view of the good doctor and two kids. Hers?

Of course she was married. Somebody pretty and smart like that. Of course she was.

"I see that pout, young lady." The doctor sounded tired, worn out in the way he'd come to recognize in Nate, his boss and former best friend. Nate had two kids now.

"It's going to take forever to get home and for you to make dinner," a girl whined.

"I have my own money," said a boy. "From raking Mr. Owen's grass cuttings. I'm gonna get a Snickers Bar."

"You can buy it,” the doctor said, “but that doesn't mean you can eat it for supper."

"Aw, man!"

Dan realized where he was standing—next to the candy rack—just as they came around the corner.

The doctor pulled up short, but the two kids were oblivious as they rushed the candy.

"Oh,” she said. “Hello."

He saluted her with the Big Gulp. "Ma'am."

And had to force himself not to wince. Lame. He was so lame.

She didn't bother to hide her wince. "I didn't look that closely at your chart, but you can't be more than one or two years younger than I am. Megan will do."

Megan.

The boy of ten or eleven with dirty blond hair and hazel eyes like the doctor's looked up. Dan saw the measuring gaze he threw his way. Nothing to see here, kid. A peon next to your mom.

The girl was cute. She had dark hair and a splash of freckles across her nose. It was she who spoke, looking up from her Crunch bar. "Are you a real cowboy? Like from the rodeo?"

"Something like that." He'd been in his share of rodeos in his younger years, before he'd busted a knee and realized taking his chances in casinos wasn't as hard on his body.

"Are you riding in the rodeo tomorrow?" the girl pressed.

"No," Doctor Megan said.

He raised one brow at her. Couldn't help it.

"Not with..." She gestured to his ribs. "No way."

It was kinda cute that she thought she could tell him what to do.

"I'm not riding," he told the little girl.

And then, "You should come,” he said. “To the rodeo."

Where had that come from? He hadn't meant to issue an invitation. The Triple H ranch rodeo was a new annual event, one that had come about during his incarceration. He'd be working with the stock behind the scenes.

Both kids lit up before he could rescind the invite.

"Bring your mom, too," he said lamely.

And both kids shut down.

"She is not our mom," the boy spat.

He caught a glimpse of pain as it crossed the doctor's expressive face before she masked it. She stepped forward and reached for the boy's shoulder, but he jerked away, stalking off to the endcap of beef jerky. His crossed arms and general body language revealed a big ol’ chip on his shoulder.

That's what Dan got for sticking his nose into their business. He'd stepped right into a manure pile in their family dynamic.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

He turned and approached the checkout counter, interrupting Mrs. Mallory, who'd been his fifth-grade teacher. He plunked a dollar on the counter for his soda pop.

Kept his shaking hand away from the lotto tickets.

And got outta there.