Page 3 of Big Rowdy Cowboy

Dotty

“This one,” Zac says as he shoves his phone toward me.

I glance down to see he’s on a jewelry website, and he’s loaded a picture of an engagement ring. It has to be at least seven carats. The sparkle could blind a person up close.

“See what I mean?” I ask Martha miserably. I want to go back in time and undo this horrible mistake. I never thought I’d be the kind of person who hit someone else with their car.

Martha finally seems to the gravity of the situation because in her no-nonsense voice, she says, “Let’s take a seat in the back and get this sorted.”

Zac is swaying again so the two of us help into a room for patients. He settles onto the exam table when Martha tells him to sit, though she does have to tell him twice. Is he having trouble understanding people now? Which part of his brain did I damage?

Martha runs her fingers through Zac’s hair, feeling around his head gently. She talks as she works, “How is your head? Does it hurt?”

He pats his T-shirt, right over his heart. Something rattles with the slight motion. “There’s so much love in my heart. So much love.”

Martha glances down into the pocket of his shirt then snorts. “That’s not the only thing in there. Zac, can I talk to your girlfriend? Can I tell her about your health?”

He makes a circle with his fingers to indicate zero. “I have zero secrets from my soulmate.”

“That’s good. I’m going to talk to her over here,” she says and ushers me from the room.

We step down the hall, away from Zac’s room. When Martha speaks, there’s a thread of amusement in her voice. “He doesn’t have a brain injury. He’s high as a kite in a Georgia windstorm.”

I know I’m supposed to be a professional journalist and take everything I’m told in stride, but my eyes nearly bug out of my head. “Zac has a drug problem?”

“Not quite. He fell off stage two days ago. He’s pretty badly bruised, but Cash doesn’t think he broke anything. He prescribed him some painkillers and told him to stay off his feet for a week. Zac is a lightweight.”

I chew on my lip, processing what she said. “But how do you know I didn’t scramble his brain like an egg?”

She finally gives up trying to hide the amusement in her tone and full-on cackles. “Take it from me. The Maple boys are hard-headed.”

“But isn’t he supposed to go to the hospital for an evaluation or something?”

She shrugs. “I can tell him to go. You can too, but he won’t do it. He hates hospitals. Cash recommended he go for X-rays of his hip when this first happened. He’s probably got some nasty bruises by now.

Relief fills me. Maybe none of this is my fault. I happened to accidentally hit a cowboy when he was high. No, I’m probably still spending the night in jail. “You’re saying I didn’t hurt him?”

“How fast was your car going?”

“Maybe twenty miles an hour,” I offer. Jail is going to be miserable, but it’s the guilt that weighs heavy on me.

“Did he roll off the windshield or anything?”

I shudder at the thought. “No! He was standing there and then he kind of fell over. But I still hit him. Am I supposed to turn myself in? What’s the sheriff going to charge me with when we’re not even sure if he’s brain damaged?”

She thinks for a moment. “Well, his family and the sheriff are up the mountain, and cell service is spotty. He won’t go to the hospital no matter what we say, so don’t worry about that. Take your boyfriend home tonight. Watch over him. He’ll be fine by tomorrow morning.”

I nod, knowing she bought me a night’s reprieve. Babysitting the hot cowboy is a hundred times better than going to jail. Maybe tomorrow morning, he’ll even find this whole thing funny…or he’ll press criminal charges. “Right. I can do that.”

With far more confidence than I feel, I turn back to the patient’s room. When I push open the door, Zac is playing the drums on his leg with what appear to be tongue depressors. He looks up from his musical to smile broadly at me. “There’s my girl!”

“Where’s the pastor?” Zac frowns around his bedroom. OK, so maybe I got him back into my car by telling him a teeny, tiny fib.

Maybe I told him we were headed to the wedding chapel. It’s not my fault! It’s hard to maneuver a grown man into my tiny car so I bent the truth to get him to come along with me.

Now we’re back at his place, and I’ve convinced him to go into his bedroom. Martha insisted it was fine for him to sleep as long as I woke him every two hours.

“He’ll be here in the morning, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep,” I tell him. She said the painkillers should wear off sometime in the night and he’ll be good as new by the time the sun rises. Then I’ll apologize to him and hope he doesn’t think I’d look good in stripes.

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