Lockhart Bend was pretty much exactly as Charlie remembered it: a dusty town with a third lane for tumbleweeds, as preserved and unchanging as the locals, and that's exactly the way the locals liked it.

Lockhart Bend was too small for Charlie, and Lockhart General Hospital was even smaller. As Charlie stared up at its plain brick face, he felt the first faint stirrings of anxiety in his stomach.

"Been a long-ass time since I've been back here," he said to his half-brother Trevor. He shifted on his crutches, wincing more at the fact that they cramped his style than from any actual pain. It had been over a month since the accident, and he wouldn't be walking with them now if his brother hadn't insisted.

Trevor looked equally uncomfortable with their surroundings. Then again, the stern-faced cowboy almost always looked uncomfortable when confronted with someone or something that wasn't a horse, but this went beyond even his usual restlessness. Charlie decided to take pity on him.

"Look, I know we both hate this place. Why don't you wait out here?" Charlie suggested. "Once the meeting's over, I'll come and get you. You can look at all my fucked-up MRI scans. Get to know the most intimate parts of me."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." Charlie clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder, then his gaze zeroed in on a figure coming toward them on the sidewalk. "No shit," he muttered under his breath. Trevor turned to see what the matter was and went so far as to push the brim of his Stetson up to get a better look.

She might have been a mirage shimmering out of the Texas heat to torment him. Today she had shed the baggy clothes, but he still would have recognized her anywhere: she was all legs in those jeans, all easy confidence, as if the skin she wore was enough for her and anything else could be easily discarded as excess. The baseball cap was gone, and her dark hair flowed around her elegantly erect neck in soft waves. She was even more striking than he had remembered; those hallmark green eyes of hers were evident even from this distance, reflecting the light of the midday sun until they practically glowed amid the exquisite contours of her face.

"You know her?" Trevor sounded doubtful.

"That's the chick I was telling you about. The mystery brunette from the stadium." Charlie slapped Trevor's shoulder again. "Stand back. Watch and learn," he murmured as he turned to greet the mystery head-on.

"Uh-huh." Again, Trevor sounded doubtful.

The woman's eyes locked with Charlie’s as she mounted the front steps to the entrance. Recognition flickered in their green depths, but she kept walking as if she hadn't quite remembered who he was. That was the only explanation that made sense, anyway. What woman would have any reason to willfully ignore him?

"Well, hey there again, beautiful! Didn't expect to be reunited with you this soon!" Charlie said. He was all too happy to break the ice. "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't," she replied. His overfamiliar greeting didn't so much as cause a hitch in her stride. This new part of the equation he found puzzling, but it only made him more intrigued.

"You stalking me?" he asked as he jogged after her. Maybe jogged was a mistake. He shuffled as best he could on the crutches that had been custom-made to support a man of his size. Wounded warrior, he told himself. Don't worry so much about the crutches. Chicks love it.

"While it may come as a surprise to you to hear it, I actually live here in Lockhart Bend," the woman informed him curtly. "So, you're the one who is technically in my area code."

"Great. Maybe you can help me, then. I'm looking for my doctor—Dr. Dylan Rose." Charlie reached out to hold the door open for her, and she breezed right past him as if doors had never been an obstacle. "You don't happen to know where I can find him, do you?"

The woman finally turned around, but it was only to stare at him blankly. Before she could muster a response—or before Charlie could inform her getting her number would be his consolation prize for missing his doctor—a staff member quickly intercepted and ushered them both down a side hallway.

"Huh. So, since we're both going into the same meeting, I assume you work here." He intentionally allowed his eyes to linger on her as he asked. He wanted her to see his appreciation and guess the nature of his thoughts. The disgusted look she gave him in response wasn't as repellent as she probably wanted it to be.

They entered the conference room together, but before he could drop down into the chair beside her and dig a bit deeper, Smitty motioned for him to join his management team at the other end of the table. Charlie saluted her—earning himself a scoff, which was marginally better than the lip curl—as he joined his people. The meeting about his treatment plan and how the hospital would handle a patient of his notoreity commenced around him, but there wasn't a lot he was interested in focusing on. The mystery surrounding the woman at the end of the table was too intriguing to pull his attention away from it for long.

"So, we'd like to make a generous donation to the hospital," one of the nameless suits who represented him and the Teamsters head office said about ten minutes in. "A fifty thousand-dollar donation to Sports Med from the Teamsters will go over well, we think. Not only will it improve the charitable profile of our client, but it will also raise the profile of the hospital and likely bring you more business. We look forward to collaborating with Lockhart General to see this arrangement pushed forward."

"Pardon me, but wouldn't those funds be better allocated to the Critical Care wing?" His favorite dark-haired beauty cut in as she stood. "Sports Medicine is already generously endowed, and the patients in Critical Care are in desperate need of…"

"Out of the question," Smitty broke in. "The only way you're getting this donation is if it raises the profile of my client and the profile of his team."

"Are you seriously trying to tell me that a donation to Critical Care wouldn't—"

"Nobody is trying to tell any one individual in this room anything," the hospital head interrupted quickly, with a significant look toward Charlie's mystery woman. The brunette tossed her head in annoyance as she sat back down. Charlie shot Smitty a look—could we? being his unvoiced question—but Smitty just shook his head in exasperation. He probably sensed the inspiration for Charlie's telepathic question and wanted to nip it in the bud now.

Fat chance of that. As the meeting droned on, Charlie took turns watching the clock and watching the beautiful storm cloud brewing at the other end of the table. Finally, the hospital head dismissed them all. Charlie rose as quickly as he could on crutches and lumbered after the woman. If she thought she was going to escape from him a third time, she had a lot to learn.

"Hey. You." Not his best attempt at an overture, but in his defense, he had tried pretty much everything else. The woman paused, perhaps taking enough pity on him to allow him to catch up.

"Need help finding radiology, Mr. Wild? I'm sure one of the nurses will be happy to escort you."

“I was hoping for some more personal attention, actually. Your name would be a good start.”

The mystery woman stared at him for a long, weary moment. Then she inclined her head toward the front entrance of the hospital. "Who's the cowboy? He with you?"

"Yeah, he's with me. He's my half-brother, Trevor. He's the owner down at Wildhorse Ranch. I'm going to be staying with him for a bit." Whoever this woman was, it was likely she had at least driven by Wildhorse on her way in and out of town.

"Your half-brother? I thought you were from Austin," the woman muttered to herself. "That's what it says on all your stats."

"I am. And I'm flattered you were looking at my stats." Charlie leaned forward as casually as he could manage on his crutches. He was trying, with varying degrees of success, to crowd the approaching Smitty out of their conversation. "But I'm from here originally. Charlie Wild, of Lockhart Bend. Pleasure to keep making your acquaintance, Miss…?"

"Dr. Rose. Dr. Dylan Rose."

Smitty arrived just in time to hear. His eyebrows rose so dramatically his sunglasses nearly fell off his head.

"Shit," Charlie uttered.

* * *

"I guess my only question, Mr. Wild, is what the hell did you do to yourself in private after your more publicly broadcast injury?"

A pair of green eyes that had fast become familiar flashed at him like fire. Charlie winced. "That's some bedside manner you've got there, Doc. What makes you think I did anything to aggravate it?"

Female sports doctor Dylan Rose—his doctor, and the mystery woman who had haunted his thoughts since he first knocked a bucket of popcorn out of her hands—angrily indicated the wall where she had posted his MRI scans. "Because we're currently standing in radiology, Mr. Wild, in one of the best sports clinics in the country, and fortunately they taught me how to read these things when I was in school."

"It was my fault, ma'am." Trevor stood with his arms crossed beside Charlie. Charlie shot him a silencing look, but it had never been as effective on family as it was on his management team. "Charlie offered to help me move some equipment out of one of the barns. He told me he'd cleared it with you first."

"Really." Now Dylan was giving Charlie a look that would have melted his MRI results like cigarette burns on old film. "That's funny, considering he didn't know who I was until today."

"Look, Doc, I didn't think it was a big deal." Could this enraged woman be any hotter? Could her eyes be any greener? They reminded Charlie of the freshwater swimming holes he and his brothers used to leap into as kids…only these waters were slightly less welcoming at the moment. "I admit that I fucked up, okay? I'm not above doing that."

"Wow." Trevor whistled, and Charlie was seriously starting to regret inviting him to this appointment. Who knew how much more successful he would be in getting Dylan on his side—and maybe even into his bed—without his half-brother cock-blocking and providing her with more ammunition to use against him at every turn.

"Your ego aside, Mr. Wild—Charlie." Dylan corrected herself when she appeared to remember there were currently two Mr. Wilds in the room. "There won't be any more 'fucking up' now that I've been assigned to you. Your injury has now been aggravated to the point that a literal misstep could end your career. My expertise can only carry us so far—what I need you to do is start following my rules, whether I'm around to enforce them or not. An ACL injury of this magnitude isn't going to care whether or not my eyes are on you."

No, Charlie thought wickedly, but I might. I might want those eyes of yours on every inch of me, Doc.

Trevor elbowed him, and for a moment Charlie almost worried that he had said the words out loud. Then he remembered that he was Charlie Wild, the Teamsters' favorite say-anything, do-anything playboy, and he relaxed a little. If outside observers didn't automatically assume his thoughts were perverted, then he wasn't projecting himself right. Though he had some vague memory of Smitty suggesting he tone it down a bit.

For her part, Dylan didn't appear to notice the way his eyes climbed every inch of her appreciatively. The white coat and the sensible clothes she wore beneath it were only marginally better than the getup she’d had on at the stadium, but Charlie surprisingly found he approved of her modesty. It left him more to discover for himself—and damned if he wasn't prepared to explore.

"Do you have any more questions for me at this time?" Dylan asked him curtly.

"Yeah. Who the hell names their daughter 'Dylan?’"

A pen sailed toward him like a javelin. Charlie snatched it out of the air on instinct; the implement was capped, thank goodness, or he might have lost an eye if his reflexes hadn't been quick enough.

Dylan smiled sweetly. "Good. Your hand-eye coordination is still intact, so that's one less test I have to run." She flipped her raven hair back over her shoulders and dismissed him by turning away. "Stick with me, and you'll be back at the top of your game in no time," she said over her shoulder as she jotted down more information on his chart.

How many pens does one woman need? Charlie thought as he followed his brother out into the hallway. What he said out loud was, "Are all the beautiful ones crazy?"

"Around here they are." Trevor's slow-and-easy stride was better suited to navigating Lockhart General than Charlie's swinging gait. He had to dodge out of the way of a nurse pushing a trolley full of supplies past him and nearly took Trevor out in the process with one of his crutches. “She must be the new doctor people have been talking about. Seems like she’ll fit right in.”

"I hate these fucking things," Charlie hissed. "I swear she's doing this just to punish me."

"Now why would she want to do that?" Trevor asked wryly. "Can't be because you thought she was a man, can it?"

"We've met before," Charlie grumbled. "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 that swallowed him was the translucent quality of his skin.

"There are no vending machines in Critical Care," 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 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 a glance with a bemused Trevor. He wasn't used to not being recognized. "Yeah. Or something. You might have seen me on TV."

"Critical Care doesn't have any TVs."

"No TVs?" Charlie shouted, and the boy giggled. Other wasted figures were starting to turn up in the doorways down the hall; a few children even wheeled their friends out to see what the commotion was. The revelation of every new face was like a knife piercing Charlie's heart. Did you know Critical Care extended to kid patients? 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 this ridiculous operation?"

"I think it's stupid," Nicholas stated. 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."

"Okay, I think that's enough for today," Trevor cut in. He played along with the little show as best he knew how, making it a point to grab one of Charlie's crutches and tow him along. 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 swearword.

"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 deepening beneath the Lockhart sun, but Charlie couldn't identify the exact expression on his face. He imagined he must have been wearing one similar to provoke the question.

"Yeah," he responded.

"Yeah." Trevor shifted uncomfortably. "Me, too."

* * *

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 rather than later, you should start taking stock of what you have and what you might want to look forward to."

"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. 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 smoky corner as he made his way over to the bar. The tavern 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 managed to put away enough drinks to give the lights of the Horseshoe a soft halo—and throw any intrusive memories of Andrew into warm 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 didn't resent its appearance now. 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; any minute now, and she would walk through that door…