Page 8 of Down in Flames

Dr. Stevenson cleared his throat. “Yes, well, the X-ray was clear enough. The humerus is almost completely separated from the glenoid cavity. What did you say your pain scale was?”

“He didn’t,” the nurse interjected. She was already pulling little plastic-wrapped packages from a cabinet.

“On a scale of one to ten,” the doctor supplied helpfully. He gripped West by the shoulder and elbow and began to slowly rotate his arm in the socket.

Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he swallowed hard. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

“Huh.” The doctor sounded as if he’d heard that more times than he could count. It was a farming community, after all. He applied sudden downward pressure, and with a sickening pop, West’s shoulder slid back into place. The relief was overwhelming, leaving him weak and clinging to the edge of the exam table.

Dr. Stevenson turned to his computer and made a note. “It says here that your friend brought you in. I can give you something for the pain if he’s driving. It shouldn't interfere with your condition.”

“Naw. It already feels better.” It wasn’t technically a lie. Compared to what it had been, the pain he still felt was a light summer breeze. A dull background throb rather than bone-crunching agony.

“He’s also been pestering my staff to let him back here. For some reason, my nurses seem hesitant to put him in his place.” The doctor eyed his nurse with reproach, and she blushed.

West chuckled. “He has that effect on people.” On every woman he’d ever come across, but he didn’t add that. And on me, he thought with helpless amusement. “You can let him in—uh, but I don’t want to discuss my medical history around him.”

“Of course,” the doctor said smoothly, and when Michael had finally wheedled his way back into the room, he added, “You’re fortunate. This subluxation was a hairsbreadth from becoming a complete dislocation. As it is, you’ll only need the sling for a couple of weeks.”

“Going to be hard to work one-handed,” West said, hissing as the nurse strapped his arm to his chest with something stretchy and neon.

She was the only soft thing in the entire room, and she kept glancing furtively at Michael from under her lashes. She smelled pleasantly of floral soap, a nice change from the reek of disinfectant and failure that surrounded them, but the scent turned bitter on the back of his tongue when he noticed the way Michael returned her interest. Michael leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the curvy sway of her hips as she moved. He’d left his hat in the truck, and his thick, dark hair curled at his temples, just exactly where silver touched it. He’d always been movie star handsome, but that hint of age somehow humanized him and made him even more outrageously appealing.

The doctor didn’t bother glancing up from his computer screen as he continued his litany of instructions. “No raising your shoulder above a ninety-degree angle, and no lifting anything more than twenty pounds.”

“But—”

“The interscapular pain is referred from the whiplash. I’ll prescribe some anti-inflammatories, but you’ll need to alternate heat and cold therapy at least three times a day. No driving for at least forty-eight hours.”

“That ain’t happening,” West said, laughing tightly. “I’ve got seven hours behind the wheel as soon as I walk out of this building.”

“Well, what do I know? I’m just the doctor.” A twitching mustache was the only sign of the man’s annoyance.

West went to rub the back of his neck, only to realize his dominant hand was now bound to his chest in a powder blue sling. He cursed softly, shooting the nurse an apologetic look, and she smiled back. “Look, I’m not trying to be argumentative. It’s just that I can’t afford to hang around here twiddling my fingers.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You have a busy life to get back to, one that doesn’t involve strapping yourself to heavy animals that can crush your bones in an instant.” Dr. Stevenson held out a paper script between two fingers, eyes gleaming behind the smudged lenses of his bifocals. “You think you’re the first rodeo yahoo I’ve seen? Son, you’re not even the first tonight. Drive, don’t drive. Lift, don’t lift. Makes no difference to me. But it darn sure will make a difference to you if you ever want to ride again."

Michael reached between them, plucking the prescription from the doctor’s hand. “I’ll take care of it, Doc.”

“Like hell you will. What about Abby?” West grouched, but his big show of leaping nimbly off the exam table was ruined when every aching muscle in his body loudly protested. His jeans stuck to the vinyl tabletop, and in the end, he was forced to awkwardly shamble to his feet. He threw out his one good hand and braced himself on the wall, glaring at the way Michael’s lips twitched as if he knew exactly how he felt.

The doctor sighed heavily.

“Abby will be thrilled to spend a couple extra nights with Celia and Zoe,” Michael said smoothly. Celia was the Triple M’s foreman, and she had her own little girl a few years older than Michael’s daughter. She was Michael’s right hand, and they all loved her.

When West still didn’t agree, Michael reached for his shoulder. He glanced at the sling and hesitated before settling a gentle hand on the center of his back instead. West stiffened, and the touch immediately dropped away. You didn’t hurt me, he wanted to say. Anything to get that reassuring warmth back. But that was the problem, so he kept his lips sealed.

Michael cleared his throat and glanced away, saying roughly, “I’ll take care of it with Gus, if you’re worried about work.”

“Gus isn’t the problem,” West muttered.

You are.

Michael’s eyes darkened, and even though West hadn’t said it out loud, he felt certain Michael heard him anyway.

CHAPTER FOUR

“What do you mean you’re stuck there?” Derek’s voice was like his personality: sharp and abrasive. Sometimes West wondered how their mother had delivered him without getting sliced to ribbons.

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