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Harlequin American Romance
ISBN: 978-0373753567
April 2011
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Rodeo Daddy
He's Nothing But Eight Seconds Of Heartache...
The day Hallie Sutton dreaded has finally come. Drew Rawlins has found out the secret
she’s been keeping--and he’s spitting mad! But rodeo is Drew’s whole world and Hallie
needs a full-time dad for their boy. Still, how can she deny the injured bronc rider
the chance to get to know his son?
All Drew wants is to carve out a place in his son’s life. Sorting out his feelings
for Hallie isn’t as simple. The emotion simmering between them is just as strong—so’s
the red-hot desire that got them into trouble five years ago. Winning the world
championship is still number-one on Drew’s list. But he figures he can have it all.
The title and the chance to prove he’s the man Hallie and Nick need.
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Chapter One
"The Bastrop Homecoming Rodeo must be a hell of an event.
You're the third cowboy today who's fallen off his horse."
Drew Rawlins glared at the ER doctor as he sucked in a lung full of sterilized air.
Not smart. A burning band of pain squeezed his injured ribs, and the words escaped his
mouth in a long wheeze. "I was bucked off."
"I'm Doctor Feller." The doctor flipped on the light box mounted against
the wall and studied Drew's x-ray.
Drew prayed he wouldn't draw another crazed bronc like Demon the day after tomorrow
when he competed in the final round of the saddle bronc competition. He'd been lucky
today to escape with a kick to the chest.
"Your ribs are badly bruised. I recommend taking a few weeks off before you ride
again."
Drew's body broke out in a sweat that had nothing to do with pain. In order to make
the National Finals Rodeo in December, he needed to be among the top fifteen saddle
bronc riders in the country. Today was August sixth—he was running out of time.
"You've got callus new bone formations on five of your ribs." The doctor pointed
to several spots on the x-ray.
So he'd fractured a few ribs over the years—Drew had fared better than most cowboys
who'd competed at the sport as long as he had.
"You're lucky you didn't break a rib."
"I don't need luck, doc." Drew chuckled, then winced as a flash of fiery pain
snaked around his middle.
"Rib injuries are nothing to joke about." Feller leaned against the wall.
"A fractured rib can puncture a lung, liver, spleen or worse."
Worse. The word sent a shiver down Drew's spine. He'd been Ten years old when
the famous bull rider Lane Frost had died at the Cheyenne Frontier Days Rodeo. After
Frost had ridden Taking Care of Business and dismounted, the bull had turned and hit
him in the side with his horn, breaking the cowboy's ribs. Frost had gotten up and
headed toward the chutes, but had stumbled. When he'd hit the ground, a broken rib
had severed his pulmonary artery, ending his life.
"Keep testing fate, cowboy, and you'll die with a mouthful of dirt or end up
connected to a ventilator the rest of your life." The doctor waved his hand in the air.
"Either way, the horse comes out the winner."
The solemn warning spawned a flashback… Drew struggled to block out today's
eight-second ride, but the image of the crazed gelding's hoof coming at him while he
lay unprotected in the dirt had been branded on his brain.
"No worries. I don't plan to let another bronc stand on my chest." Drew was thirty-two.
No longer in the prime of his life—physically. He'd been bustin' broncs for fourteen years
and time was running out. If he ever had a chance at becoming a world champion, this was
the year.
He needed the damned title to prove his dead father wrong—that Drew Rawlins hadn't
wasted half his life chasing a crazy dream. His father had been a rising star in
bareback riding when he'd gotten Drew's mother pregnant. In order to support Drew
and his mother, his father had given up rodeo and helped manage his father-in-law's
small-town grocery store. To this day Drew believed his father had resented him
because having a family had kept the old man from achieving his dream of making
it to the National Finals Rodeo.
When Drew had graduated from high school and announced he intended to ride the circuit
his father had scoffed, insisting Drew didn't have what it took to be a champion.
Drew ignored the old man, his focus solely on winning the grand daddy of 'em all.
But the big one had eluded him. Drew had made it to the NFR the year his father
had died—a decade ago—but he'd placed last. Last wasn't good enough. Most cowboys
with half a brain would have retired by now, but Drew had never forgotten his father's
dying words before the cancer had taken him.
You ain't never gonna be as good as I was.
Angry at himself for allowing the memory to resurface, Drew inched closer to the edge
of the examining table. He had plenty of experience with injured ribs. As long as he
moved carefully and took shallow breaths, he could tolerate the pain.
"No rodeos for three weeks." Dr. Feller scribbled on a pad of paper.
Drew kept his mouth shut. Bruised ribs would not prevent him from competing
in the final go-round on Sunday. He needed the thousand dollar jackpot to boost his
earnings.
The doctor handed him a prescription. "For pain."
Pain was good. If he focused on the pain, there would be no room in his head
for his father's taunts. "My boots are missing," he said, after spotting his shirt
thrown across the chair in the corner.
Ignoring Drew, the doctor rambled on. "You have a chance of developing pneumonia
after a rib trauma. Take deep breaths and cough every hour to keep your lungs clear.
An ice pack will help you feel more comfortable." He handed Drew his shirt.
"Does a nurse by the name of Hallie Sutton work here?" Drew clenched his teeth against
the heat searing his side when he slipped his arm into the shirtsleeve.
"How do you know Ms. Sutton?"
Ms. Hallie hadn't married? "She put a dozen stitches in my head five years ago."
Every year Drew competed in the Bastrop Homecoming Rodeo. And each time he searched
for Hallie in the stands. Once, he'd driven to the hospital to look her up but had chickened
out at the last minute and left town.
Just because you never forget your one night with her doesn't mean she hasn't.
He remembered walking into Cozie's bar and spotting Hallie sitting at a table with her
co-workers. When their gazes met, he'd been struck by the sadness in her brown eyes and
had wondered what had happened to the cheerful, talkative nurse who'd stitched his head
earlier in the afternoon. The abject misery reflected in Hallie's expression had drawn
him to her. Before he'd realized his actions, he'd asked her to dance. At first, she'd
refused, then at the prodding of her freinds she'd allowed him to lead her onto the dance
floor. Drew closed his eyes as the memory swept him away...
"Want to talk about it?" he'd whispered in Hallie's ear.
"No." She'd burrowed into him as if seeking protection from whatever had tormented her.
He'd held her close and they'd danced forever—at least eight songs. Then the band had
taken a break and so had Hallie's friends—they'd left the bar. Hallie's forlorn
expression had yanked Drew's heartstrings. "Need a lift home?"
"I don't want to go home." Her brown eyes had shimmered with tears.
"We could keep dancing," he'd offered.
"No."
"Hungry?"
"No."
"Wanna talk?"
"Not here."
"C'mon." He'd grabbed her hand and led her outside. The August night had been warm and muggy.
"There's a coffee shop down the road." When she hadn't taken him up on the suggestion he'd
thrown caution to the wind. "My camper's parked a few blocks away. We could talk there."
Hallie had stared at him for the longest time before she'd slipped her arm through
his. "Okay."
The one word had sent Drew's blood thundering through his veins. They'd walked
in silence—Drew preparing for anything once they reached the camper—anything except
Hallie jumping his bones as soon as they'd stepped inside.
Twice, he'd attempted to take the high road and put a stop to her advances. Hallie might
not have been drunk, but she hadn't been herself, either. He'd been no match for her
persistence. Her touches and kisses had been edged with desperation, and her urgency
fueled his desire for her. Their union had been as combustible as a four-alarm fire.
"These will hold you over until you fill the prescription." The doctor held out
two pain pills and a Dixie cup of water.
"Thanks." Drew tossed back the medicine.
"If you suffer nausea, dizziness or have trouble breathing—"
"I know the routine."
The noise out of Feller's mouth sounded like the snort a bull gives when a
cowboy settles onto its back. Shaking his head, the doctor left the cubicle, white
coat tails flapping in his wake.
Drew closed his eyes and focused on the pain. Pain, he could handle.
Giving up rodeo, he could not.
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