He shot me a sideways glance. “What are you, the Howard Hughes of country music?”
“Who?”
“Playboy. Entrepreneur. Aviator. Ended up a recluse and had a paranoid personality disorder, among other things.”
I stared at him blankly.
“Leonardo DiCaprio played him in The Aviator.”
“Oh,” I said, finally realizing who he meant. “I hardly think I’m going to start peeing into jars and storing them around the cabin. I might have issues, but I’m not insane.”
His lips curved into a wide grin. “The jury’s out on that one.”
“Thanks a bunch.” Slightly irritated, I pursed my lips and frowned.
“Look, if anyone starts sniffing around, me and the other guys at the ranch will take care of them.”
Annoyance at his inability to grasp the seriousness of my situation stuck in my throat. “They won’t leave me alone until they get what they want.”
“And what’s that?”
“Another clickable breakdown. It’s all about views and likes. What I did was unforgivable. In the media’s eyes, I’ll never be able to redeem myself. I’m a monster.”
We pulled up to a stop sign, and he glanced in my direction. “You’re not a monster. Like you said, you have some issues. Who doesn’t?”
“Do you?”
“A few.”
“Like what?”
His dark eyebrows drew together in a sexy scowl. “Is this a therapy session or something?”
“Just trying to figure you out is all.”
“What you see is what you get.” He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, and when the light turned green, he turned his focus back to the road. “No one from the clinic will sell your whereabouts to anyone. The GP Mason is my best friend.”
“Why didn’t you ask him to come to the ranch to treat me?”
“Today’s the day he spends at the old folk’s home.”
“Still doesn’t mean the nurses won’t post about me on Facebook.”
“They won’t. They’d lose their jobs for breaking client confidentiality if they even thought about it. One more thing, you’re not going anywhere till you’re all healed. I take full responsibility for you falling, and I take full responsibility for helping you heal. I should have been watching and not lost in my thoughts.”
“What had you so preoccupied?”
“Damn, girl, you ask a lot of questions.” His eyes snapped in my direction then back to the road. “You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?”
“I’m naturally curious.”
“How about nosey.”
“Potato, potahto.” Since the cowboy wasn’t willing to tell me anything about himself, my friend Google would. As soon as I was on my own, I’d search the crap out of him.
“Long story short. My doc told me I should quit riding. He’s overreacting. I hit the back of my head when I dismounted and got a concussion. The bull wanted to teach me a lesson, so he kicked me around some.”
My hands flew to my mouth. “Holy Mother of God. None of my business, but a doctor telling you not to ride doesn’t sound like an overreaction.”
“It was a mild concussion. I’m fine,” he said, acting like a concussion was nothing more than a stubbed toe.
“Getting bumps and bruises comes with the territory. I’ve broken my jaw once or twice, dislocated my shoulders, separated my ribs, once had a ruptured kidney. Had my tibia stepped on and broken a few times, too. Mason, who’s also my doctor, is being overly cautious.”
“How many concussions?” I asked with a grimace.
“A few.”
“Geez, Louise. And you think I’m insane. Do you enjoy pain? Like does it turn you on or something?”
He threw his head back and belly laughed. “Hardly. There’s no sexual gratification from being trampled on by a bull. You get addicted to the rush and will do anything you can to ride. To feel that high. It’s almost like a competition between you and the bull, not the other riders. Eight seconds of pure adrenaline. You know it could kill you, but you can’t stop.”
“Believe me, I can relate.” I wanted to add that I’d stopped my addiction before I’d done any permanent damage to my body, could he say he’d be able to do the same? There had to be more to his story than simply riding for the glory. Something else drove him. Why else would he put his life at risk?
“There’s a rodeo in Nashville coming up. Doctor’s orders or not, I intend to ride.”
“What if you still have a concussion? What if you hit your head again? You could get permanent brain damage or die.”
“I won’t. I know I won’t.” I couldn’t help but wonder who he was trying to convince—himself or me.
“I don’t know much about rodeos, but I’m guessing bull riders and broncs have to wear helmets for protection like footballers.”
He shook his head. “Not mandatory unless you were born after ‘94. Since I was born in ‘83, I don’t have to.”
I blinked several times, confused at his reasoning. “Even though you know it would protect your noggin.”
“You sound like my mom and sisters. A helmet would knock me off balance. Ruin the ride.”
“Wow. Just wow.”
“Unless you’re a bull rider, you wouldn’t understand.”
“I guess not.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence. Dylan lost in his thoughts, and me lost in mine. Once we made it to the ranch, he pulled up to the main house.
“Can you drop me at my cabin?” I asked, not making a move to get out of the truck.
“You’re going to stay with me till you’re all better.”
“Who the fuck made you the boss?” I bristled. “I want to go to my cabin and climb into my bed. I need to get online and do a thorough search.”
“You’ve been checking your phone nonstop since we left town. How many more times do you need to search for yourself? You’re like an
