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“Oh, okay.”
“The longhorns, too.” He moves his finger out toward the meadow where a bunch of those big-ass cows with even bigger horns stand around. “And you’re gonna be the one to feed ’em.”
“Wait…I’m feeding them?” I ask, and I don’t miss the way his lips fight the urge to lift up into amusement.
The horses, I can sort of understand, even though I have no idea how you feed a horse. But the cows with the horns? What the hell? Aren’t they supposed to just munch on the meadow grass? Pretty sure, unless you want to lose a limb, it’s smart to keep your distance from those big fuckers…
“Yeah. You’ll be feedin’ them. You know, since I’m the one with the bad leg,” he answers and makes a show of searching my eyes. “You have a problem with that, darlin’?”
He’s fucking goading me. And truthfully, I kind of do have a problem with it, especially with those beastly horned cows, but I know Rhett wants me to have a problem with it, so that leaves me with only one response.
“Nope. No problem at all,” I lie, and he grins.
“Well, that’s real good news, Dr. Leah. Because there’s a lot of important work that needs to get done today, and my injured leg means you’re the perfect woman for the job.”
The stubborn jackass. He’s doing this on purpose. A big master plan on how to push me to the brink of throwing in the towel and leaving the ranch.
Which is not going to happen.
Seven days of this tracking-him-down bullshit means I’m all in. Fucking laminate that shit because I won’t be backing down.
His eyes look over at me like I’m the most entertaining thing in the whole fucking world. Though, I’m certain it has nothing to actually do with me. It all revolves around the things he’s planning to throw my way.
Too bad for him, I never back down from a challenge.
I only strive to use whatever I can to tip the scales in my direction.
“Sounds like a perfect plan,” I lie again. “And you know what’s great?”
“What?”
“While I do the feeding, you can elevate and ice your leg.”
He flashes a sly smile. “Don’t got any ice out here, darlin’.”
Lucky for me, I planned ahead.
“I guess it’s a good thing I brought my bag full of medical tricks, then, huh?” I retort with a sugary-sweet smile.
He just stares at me, furrowing his brow, and I go in for the kill.
“You know, since treating that leg of yours is the whole reason I’m here.”
Suck on that, cowboy.
Come hell or high water, I will find a way to do the job I’ve been asked and make sure Rhett Jameson’s knee is fully healed and rehabilitated before I leave this ranch.
The instant I managed to get the stubborn bastard to take off his knee brace so I could properly elevate and ice his leg, I realized just how poorly he’s been taking care of himself since his surgery.
Severe swelling stretched from his upper thigh all the way down to his ankle.
I told him as much when I placed the disposable ice pad on his knee.
Although, he appeared to give exactly zero fucks, only offering an irritated grunt and an “Enough of the chitchat, darlin’. Them horses need feedin’.”
It was more than apparent that his focus was more fixated on getting me started on my day of fun.
And by day of fun, I mean day of hell mixed with hard fucking labor.
I have no idea how long I’ve been out here, working my ass off, but with the way the summer sun is beating down on my shoulders and sweat is making my sports bra stick to my boobs, I’d say at least six hundred hours. Maybe seven hundred.
I grimace as I shovel fresh horse shit out of one of the empty stalls and just about gag when the lovely aroma hits me straight in the face.
Goodness. What have they been feeding these horses?
I know they ate some special kind of feed this morning because I had to drag heavy barrels of it out to their troughs, but I’m starting to wonder if they let these horses binge on Taco Bell at night.
Once the stall is crap-free, I add a cozy pile of fresh hay across the ground and move on to the last and final stall.
Thank everything.
Never in a million years did I think this is where I’d end up when I told Frank Kaminsky I’d fly out to Shaw Springs Ranch and help the owner’s son rehab a patella fracture and tendon tear.
But why in the hell would I? Cleaning horse shit isn’t a typical job responsibility for an orthopedic doctor. There certainly wasn’t a single question about it on the MCAT.
I only have to gag fifty more times before I finish up on the last stall, and by the time I head back out into the sunshine, I’m grateful to find Rhett where I left him—sitting cozily on a pile of hay with his leg still propped up on a blanket.
