Page 8 of Stockman's Stormcloud

‘No. It’s a ginger cat. Hold for the count of three.’ Safely behind the screen, she watched through the protective window as the machine took the X-ray images.

‘Are cats allowed in hospitals?’

She put him into a side position, his manly scent strong. ‘Mr Purrington is a therapy cat.’

‘For who? You?’

She frowned at the man, who was in a lot of pain, as he stood still for the X-rays. ‘It’s for the patients.’ Although, Mr Purrington had a gift for showing up in times of need.

‘Right?’ He shrugged, only to wince. ‘Flip it.’ His hand went to his ribs. ‘All I need is a strong painkiller so I can leave.’

‘We’ll be going back to the emergency ward to wait for the doctor. In the meantime, I’ll clean you up.’ He had wounds on his face and lots of bruising.

‘Can you do that in another room?’

‘Why?’

‘I’d like to avoid the redhead.’

‘Sadly, all the good stuff is stashed in that emergency room where your friends are waiting for you.’ She grinned at him, not normally this playful with a patient in the wheelchair, as she pushed him back to the smallest ER she’d ever worked in.

‘Where’s Bree?’ Dex asked the old man leaning against the wall.

‘She’s in the car park calling your brothers.’

How did his brothers look? If they were anything like Dex, she was going to lock herself into the nurses’ station for the rest of her night shift to stop having heart palpitations.

‘Oh, man, no.’ While gripping his left ribs, with the other hand Dex raked his fingers through his hair that was long on top, with closely trimmed back and sides, exposing his strong thick neck. ‘What did Bree do that for?’

‘Because your paperwork needed the name of your next of kin.’ Bree returned to the room and dropped the clipboard on the examination bed.

So the redhead wasn’t family, which meant Bree had to be Dex’s girlfriend to get away with talking to him like that.

‘Don’t worry, your brothers aren’t about to stampede the place.’

‘Probably too drunk to drive,’ Dex mumbled as he climbed onto the examination bed, while Sophie slipped on some gloves and set about sterilising the various wounds on Dex’s handsome face.

‘Hey…’ Bree frowned, grabbing his arm, forcing Sophie to step back from the determined redhead. ‘All of your brothers are worried about you. And I told them as soon as we know something, I’ll let them know. Or do you want me to call them and see how crowded they can make this place?’

‘No.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Bree let go, allowing Sophie to get back to wiping antiseptic over his wounds.

‘Will I need stitches?’ Dex asked Sophie as she moved on to his cut eyebrow. His brown eyes were so harsh looking, as if angry with the world.

‘No. I wouldn’t want to add to the collection.’ He had scars, and a slightly squashed nose, and ears that had a slight deformity known as wrestler’s ears, or cauliflower ears. A redness spread on his chin, across his jawline and up to his cheeks and eyes. He’d been through a fight. A big one. ‘Who won?’

‘Excuse me?’ He looked at her as if she’d said something wrong.

Ripping off her gloves, she recorded her examination notes on his chart. ‘I’ve worked in the city ER and I’ve seen enough of the after-effects from pub brawls, familyfeuds, and sibling rivalry especially around Christmas to know the signs of a fight.’ But that usually went with alcohol. Yet Dex, even Bree, didn’t smell of alcohol. ‘Who won?’ She swallowed. How dare she ask such a harsh man that sort of question.

Dex didn’t smile. Instead, he smirked ever so slyly, with his eyes finally showing a spark of something almost sinister to them. But then he winced. ‘Got anything for the pain?’

‘I’ll wait for the doctor to give you the good stuff.’

‘Not good.’ He got off the bed. Holding his side, with his breathing laboured, he paced the floor. Each step was fluid, smooth even, and in his snug-fitting dark jeans and boots, he paced the floor like a jaguar, lethal and lithe and gloriously sexy.

She’d never been interested in cowboys, and certainly not anything male in a long time. But she couldn’t stop watching this man.

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