Riding the storm - By Julie Miller Page 0,27

in front of him, doing a cursory check of pupil reaction and inspecting him for any head injuries.

Deacon’s reactions were just fine, and he seemed more interested in the curve of her belly as her overalls stretched across her midsection than he did in his own condition. “How’s Joaquin, Jr.?” he asked.

Coherent thoughts and speech. A good sign. “He’s just fine,” Jolene answered, dropping her hand to cradle her tummy. “Though he was kickin’ up a fuss a minute ago because I haven’t fed him lunch yet.”

Deacon nodded. “Old grouses like me and little ones like J.J. like to keep a regular schedule. Get cranky if we don’t.”

Jolene smiled, as she was meant to, but her focus had already moved on to the bruising and awkward angle of his left forearm.

She seemed to be surrounded by cranky males today.

Nate came up behind her and set the med-kit on the ground beside her before he spoke. “That arm’s broken.”

“Duh, Sherlock.”

The sarcastic response leaked out before she realized that he wasn’t expressing doubt over her diagnostic abilities. He was simply stating a fact.

Shrugging in lieu of an apology, Jolene gingerly unhooked Deacon’s belt and inspected the break more closely. It took her a minute to realize that Nate had positioned himself in such a way as to block most of the rain that the truck couldn’t shield her or her patient from. That simple action gave her a chance to dry Deacon’s arm and work more efficiently.

“Where’s Buck?” She hoped the question about his horse would distract Deacon while she probed the injury.

He bit out a curse but didn’t complain. “Back at the barn, I expect, out of this mess. He got spooked by some lightning, dumped me down a ravine and took off. I hiked to the road instead of heading straight home, since I didn’t want to run into that bull on foot. Been walking about an hour.”

“And you haven’t checked in with Lily?”

“Not since this morning. Been riding over hell and yonder, looking for that dag-blamed, son of a…” His faded hazel gaze darted up to hers. “Sorry. Rocky broke out of his pen sometime last night.”

“Any luck finding him?” She opened the kit and pulled out the supplies to clean the lacerations on his arm.

Deacon muttered a graphic opinion about the bull’s behavior. “Sorry, ma’am. I found him, all right. If his stud fees hadn’t paid the bills during this drought, I’d have shot him for being such a pain in the ass. Whoops. Sorry.”

Jolene grinned. His salty language was a fair tradeoff for the pain she must be causing him. “I know Rocky’s reputation. Do you think there’s any chance of him wandering home by himself?”

Deacon shook his head. “The water’s starting to fill all the sloughs and arroyos leading into the Agua Dulce. That bull’s got himself stranded in between ’em—if he ain’t drowned himself yet. Wouldn’t see I wanted to help him. I was trying to get him up to dry land, herd him back to the corral. But all he saw was a cowboy fixed on telling him what to do, and he sure wasn’t gonna have none of that. Those danged Santa Gertrudis got too much stubbornness in ’em. Between Rocky and the storm, old Buck couldn’t wait to get back to the barn.”

Nate shifted on his feet behind her. “Santa Gertrudis. That’s a Brahma-Shorthorn cross, right?”

Huh? California knew about Texas cattle?

“Yessir.” Deacon tipped his hat back, a glint of admiration in his wrinkled face. “Rocky’s the number one S.G. in Texas. You new around these parts?”

“Just visiting. Helping out a friend. I’m Nate Kellison.”

“Deacon Tate.” Deacon shook his hand without hesitation. Nate had even used the proper pronunciation for Brahma—rhymed with tamer. Right away the old cowboy had recognized and respected Nate’s expertise.

Jolene was a little slower to come around.

“You know about cattle?” she asked, grabbing the scissors to trim away the remnants of Deacon’s sleeve.

“I know about a lot of things.”

Like surfing and Tinseltown and overcrowded highways. Right?

“You’ve been on a ranch before?”

“Yeah.”

Water splashed her cheek as he knelt down beside her. His tiny grunt gave the only indication of the strain the position must be putting on his knee. He took the scissors from her hand and tossed the soiled, bloody cloth into the bed of the truck, hurrying along her work. There was more to that yeah than Jolene could fathom right now. More to Nate Kellison than she’d given him credit for—more than she’d wanted to give him