A figure stepped into the room.
She was wearing gray scrubs and a white coat. Her hair—dark, thick, curling—was pulled back in a severe bun, but a few strands had escaped to frame her face. Her eyes were dark, intelligent, and currently wide with shock as they landed on the bed.
Elena.
Ryder felt his stomach drop through the floor.
"No," he breathed.
Elena stopped at the foot of the bed. She gripped a clipboard so hard her knuckles were white. She looked at Cole, then at Ryder.
She didn't smile. She didn't say hello. She looked at him the way a coroner looks at a body that has unexpectedly sat up.
"Hello, Ryder," she said. Her voice was ice.
Ryder tried to speak. He tried to summon the charm, the "Cowboy" persona that worked on the buckle bunnies and the reporters.
"Hey, Lena," he managed. It came out as a whimper.
"Don't call me Lena," she said, stepping forward. "I'm Dr. Rosales. And I'm the only thing standing between you and a permanent limp. So shut up and let me work."
She walked to the side of the bed. She smelled of antiseptic and lavender soap.
Ryder closed his eyes.
The bull hadn't killed him. But this? This just might.
II. The Triage
Cole stood up. The chair creaked, breaking the standoff.
"I have cows to feed," he announced, moving toward the door. "And I think you two have... protocols to discuss."
"Cole, don't leave," Ryder said, panic flaring in his chest. He didn't want to be alone with her. Being alone with Elena meant facing the silence between the words.
"I'll check on you in two hours," Cole said. He looked at Elena. "He's all yours."
Cole walked out. The door clicked shut.
The room shrank instantly. It felt like an elevator with the cables cut.
Elena didn't move. She stood at the foot of the bed, her clipboard held like a shield. She was studying the chart Cole had left on the dresser—the discharge papers from Billings.
"Comminuted fracture of the left femur," she read aloud, her voice flat. "Open reduction, internal fixation. Titanium rod inserted. Four screws. Grade 2 tear of the right rotator cuff. Three broken ribs. Concussion."
She looked up over the top of the clipboard.
"You really tried to kill yourself this time, didn't you?"
"It was a bad bull," Ryder muttered, looking at the ceiling. "He stumbled."
"It's always the bull's fault," Elena said. She set the clipboard down on the bedside table with a sharpclack. "Or the ground's fault. Or the town's fault. It's never Ryder Stone's fault."
She stepped closer. She reached for the blanket covering his legs.
"I need to check the cast," she said. "This isn't social. Don't make it weird."
She pulled the sheet back.
