Page 15 of Saddles and Snowstorms (Sagebrush Cowboys #4)

Rowan

T rying to drive a truck down a road I couldn’t see was a feat in and of itself.

The fact that I found Brooks’ driveway was even more of a miracle.

It had taken me nearly twenty minutes to drive the four miles out to Brooks’ farm.

Everything was a whiteout with only tiny breaks in the snow here and there where I could gauge my progress.

They never lasted for long though. Still, I managed to make it there.

I just hoped I wasn’t too late to help that calf.

I’d spent the previous night kicking myself for giving Brooks my number in the first place.

I knew I was barking up the wrong tree. Clearly Brooks wasn’t interested in me.

And yet, there was something about that handsome face, his stubbly chin, and the touch of gray at his temples that had me hook, line, and sinker.

He’d worked his way under my skin and now, no matter how mad I got at him or how much I told myself it would never work, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

My only saving grace was my work that kept me so busy and exhausted that I didn’t have time to fantasize about him.

Still, that didn’t stop him from visiting my dreams where he did things to me that would make a porn star blush.

Those kinds of thoughts were the ones I pushed away because they were what got me in trouble last time.

My ex had been a horny fling turned situationship that eventually evolved into something more.

Or at least I thought it had, anyway. I told myself when I left Austin that no matter how horny I got, I wouldn’t date a hookup again.

So, in that way, I was avoiding thinking about sex with Brooks in order to keep him on the table as a dating option.

However, even I realized the amount of mental gymnastics I was doing for a guy that wanted nothing to do with me was a red flag.

Clearly, I needed to get a life, or get laid, or both so I could stop obsessing over something that was never going to happen.

So, instead of thinking about Brooks while I wound my way up his driveway, I tried to focus on the calf.

If things were as bad as he’d claimed, I’d need to do stitches.

I had the supplies for that. But if the calf needed a transfusion or something like that…

I could probably pull it off but the chances of it surviving were less than half. Hopefully it wasn’t that bad.

But when I pulled up to Brooks’ cabin at last, my heart nearly stopped, the calf driven from my mind in and instant. There, lying at the base of the covered porch, was a figure half buried in snow. The moment I saw the brim of that beat up brown hat, I knew exactly who it was.

“Brooks…” I whispered, my eyes going wide in shock.

In a flash I was out of my truck, running up toward the cabin.

The wind and snow stung like needles everywhere it touched bare skin, but I ignored the pain.

I dropped down into the snow next to Brooks’ still body, ripping one of my gloves off.

With my bare hands I brushed away the snow, searching for his neck where I pressed my fingers against his carotid artery.

It took me a moment to will myself to calm down enough to search for a pulse.

There was one thankfully, but it was faint.

“Stay with me Brooks,” I said, brushing more of the snow off him.

It was clear that he’d hit his head and probably knocked himself unconscious.

And he was cold. The likelihood of a concussion was high, and the cold wasn’t going to make that better.

However, it wasn’t until I tried to move him that I realized his leg was tangled up in the balusters of his porch railing.

Pulling his pantleg back I saw a dark bruise on the skin, but not where I’d expect one if he’d broken his ankle.

Either way, it would have to wait until I got him inside.

With a grunt, I freed his leg from the porch railing and hoisted him up. Brooks was a big man—all hard muscle and dense bone—and it took everything I had to carry him up those three porch steps and into the cabin. The door wasn’t locked, thank God for small-town Texas habits.

Inside, the cabin was cold but not freezing.

A dying fire smoldered in the hearth, telling me that Brooks hadn’t been out there too long.

Hank, his border collie, bounced around worriedly, dragging his casted leg.

It was going to exacerbate his condition, but I didn’t have the time or the energy to pay attention to the dog at the moment.

I kicked the door shut behind me and made my way to what I assumed was his bedroom, laying him down on a queen-sized bed with a worn quilt.

“Brooks,” I said, tapping his stubbled cheek. “Brooks, can you hear me?”

He stirred slightly, a low groan escaping his lips. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.

I ran my hands over his body, checking for injuries beyond the obvious head wound and ankle. His clothes were damp with melted snow, and I knew I needed to get him warm—fast.

“I’m gonna have to undress you,” I said, more to myself than to him. “Don’t you dare wake up while I’m doing this.”

My hands were unsteady as I began unbuttoning his flannel shirt.

Each button revealed more of his broad chest, dusted with dark hair that tapered down his stomach.

I swallowed hard, trying to focus on the medical necessity of the situation rather than the way my body reacted to seeing him like this.

“Just stay professional,” I muttered to myself, peeling the damp shirt from his shoulders.

His skin was cool to the touch but not dangerously so.

The solid muscle beneath my fingertips made my breath catch.

I’d spent many nights imagining what Brooks might look like beneath those worn work shirts, but the reality was something else entirely.

Years of ranch work had sculpted him into something that belonged on the cover of a romance novel, not passed out in a cabin during a blizzard.

I moved to his jeans next, my fingers hesitating at the button.

This felt like crossing a line, but hypothermia wouldn’t care about my moral dilemma.

With a deep breath, I undid his belt and jeans, carefully sliding them down his powerful thighs.

I kept my eyes averted as much as possible, focusing instead on grabbing the quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around his lower half .

His skin was still too cool, but at least he was out of the wet clothes. I tucked the quilt around him tightly, then hurried to the fireplace in the main room to stoke the dying embers. Hank followed me, whining and limping.

“I know, boy. He’ll be okay,” I murmured, though I wasn’t entirely convinced myself.

After getting the fire roaring again, I filled a pot with water from the kitchen pump and set it to heat on the woodstove. While it warmed, I rummaged through his cabinets until I found a first aid kit.

Back in the bedroom, Brooks had started to shiver—a good sign, actually. His body was fighting back. I sat beside him on the bed and gently cleaned the wound on his head. It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared—a nasty gash, but not deep enough to need stitches.

“You stubborn fool,” I whispered, applying antibiotic ointment to the cut. “Why’d you go after that calf in the first place?”

As if in response, his eyelids fluttered open. Those deep brown eyes, usually so guarded, now looked dazed and vulnerable. He blinked several times, confusion washing over his face.

“Rowan?” His voice was rough, barely audible. “What are you...?”

“Don’t try to talk,” I said, pressing a hand to his chest when he attempted to sit up. “You took a nasty fall. Found you half-buried in snow on your porch.”

Brooks winced, raising a hand to his head. “The calf,” he muttered. “In the barn...”

“Forget the damn calf for a minute,” I said, more sharply than I intended. “You nearly froze to death out there.”

His eyes widened slightly at my tone, then narrowed as he seemed to become aware of his state of undress beneath the quilt. A flush crept up his neck that had nothing to do with warming up.

“You undressed me?” His voice was gruff, somewhere between embarrassment and something else I couldn’t quite place.

“Had to. Your clothes were soaked through.” I busied myself with the first aid supplies, avoiding his gaze. “Standard procedure for potential hypothermia.”

“Didn’t know vets treated humans too,” he mumbled, then winced again as he shifted.

“We don’t usually, but the principles are similar enough. Legs, shoulders, neck. It’s all the same.” I risked a glance at his face. “How’s your head feel?”

“Like I got kicked by a bull.” He tried to sit up again, and this time I didn’t stop him, just adjusted the quilt to keep it covering his lower half.

“The calf was caught in the fence line. Managed to get him free and into the barn. He was tore up pretty bad. I knew I needed to warm up but then... everything went sideways.”

I nodded, relieved the calf was at least sheltered. Still, it would have to wait. “You probably slipped on the ice. Your ankle looks pretty swollen. I should take a look at it.”

Brooks tensed as I moved toward the foot of the bed. “It’s fine.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” I carefully pulled back the quilt just enough to expose his injured ankle, trying desperately to keep my eyes from wandering up his muscular legs.

The bruising had spread now that he’d warmed up slightly, painting his skin in shades of purple and blue. “I need to check if it’s broken.”

He hissed through his teeth when my fingers probed the tender area. Even in pain, he was gorgeous. His jaw clenched, a vein standing out on his neck. I forced myself to focus on the injury.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” I said after a thorough examination. “Probably just a bad sprain. You’re lucky.”

“Don’t feel lucky,” he muttered, pulling the quilt back over himself.