Page 51 of One Last Chance

“I am a professional.”

“If I remember correctly, you’re a professionalswimmer. Not shoulder-setter.”

He leaned back. “Okay, from what I can tell, it’s an anterior dislocation. It can be reset. And the longer we wait, the more damage you’ll do to it. How long has it been?—”

“About three, maybe four hours. I don’t know. I fell about twenty feet, onto a ledge, and then sort of worked my way down the mountain. There might have been more falling. I was pretty . . . well, I did mention the shooting, right?” She tried to sit up and he caught her, one strong arm behind her back as she eased up.

The world started to spin again. She grimaced.

“I think I need to get a chopper in here.”

“No . . . no, I just need to rest.”

“Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind? You need a hospital!”

She looked at him. Smiled.

He frowned at her. “What?”

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in a hospital, recovering from hypothermia.”

“You can’t figure that out?” He leaned close to her, those blue eyes on hers. Then he smiled.

Oh wow. And just like that, she felt like she could fly.

Sheesh.She’d been knocked harder in the head that she thought. For Pete’s sake?—

“Now, let’s set that shoulder.”

Oh.

“Listen, there’s an old cowboy trick I know—a guy I used to swim with taught me. He was from Oklahoma—had an itch to live by the ocean. But he rode bulls for a while too and showed me how to self-set a dislocation.” He hopped off the porch, eased her legs out of the bag, grabbed her by the hips and turned her. “I’m going to help you stand up. Don’t fall.”

She nodded, wincing as her knee bent. But she let him pull her forward so her feet touched the ground.

“Okay, I got you.” He tucked an arm around her waist. “Now, lean forward and let your dislocated arm dangle down.”

“That’s going to hurt.”

“Yes, yes it is.” He leaned down. “But you’re tougher than you think.”

“Oh, I see where we’re going with this.”

“Lean over. I won’t let you fall.”

She grunted, grabbing her arm to ease it down until it dangled.

“Okay, bend your knees and tuck your fingers beneath your foot.”

“My knee is swollen. I can’t bend it.”

“Right. Okay, um . . .” He knelt in front of her, his face near hers. “I’m going to slowly pull down on your hand. Don’t stand up. Brace your other hand on me.”

She put her hand on his back—he had wide, firm shoulders—and closed her eyes as he started to apply pressure. Gritting her teeth, she bit back a moan.

“Almost there.”

Her muscles stretched and then—pop. Her shoulder moved back into place. She let out a gasp, then a whimper, and opened her eyes.

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