by Mary Calmes
He glared at me. “You cannot consort with the enemy.”
“Take a pill,” I laughed at him. “Oh hey, I need your advice. Should I ride the saddle bronc or ride the horse without a saddle?”
He turned his head to Chris, who had joined us. “Am I still drunk?”
“No, why?”
He looked back at me. “Tell Chris what you just said.”
I put the same question to him that I had asked Everett. He grabbed for the fence.
“Okay.” Everett pressed his lips together, turning to me. “Are you drunk?”
I had to explain fast, over Everett yelling and Chris looking like he was going to be sick, about the provision in the rights agreement.
“You can’t ride saddle bronc or bareback!” Everett yelled at me. “You can’t, Stef, you just can’t. You’ll get thrown off, and you’ll die.”
“I can’t die. I have to go to the White Ash after.”
“I’m sorry, I really am drunk,” Everett deadpanned. “Did you say you were goin’ to the White Ash after the rodeo?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“Absolutely not,” he laughed at me. “If I have to tie you up and throw you in the back of the trailer with your damn horse, that ain’t happenin’. It’s bad enough we did this without Rand knowing. If we go home and you ain’t with us… might as well dig our graves ourselves.”
“It’s not like that. Rand will be fine.”
“The hell you say! Rand Holloway is gonna string us all up by our balls!”
But I had bigger plans. “He won’t. I’m just going for a visit with his family.”
“Wait, look at me.”
I rolled my eyes.
“What the fuck happened to your eye?”
“Gil Landry punched me.”
His face drained of color.
“Everett,” I chuckled. “Breathe.”
“Are you kidding? Rand will—oh holy shit.”
“I’ll just wear these,” I said, pulling the oversized sunglasses from the top of my head and putting them on. “See, no harm, no foul.”
“He’s gonna fuckin’ kill us,” Chris gagged.
“He can’t actually do that.”
“But he can make me want to kill myself by working me close to death.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“If I was Gil Landry, I would be shitting bricks right about now.”
“Why?”
“’Cause just ’cause you’re a guy, don’t mean that Rand don’t see you as any less than any man here sees his wife. Gil forgot that and took a swing at you. You don’t hit a man’s spouse and walk away. The man should hide.”
“Rand’s not like that.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You ain’t never seen Rand Holloway really, truly angry, but I suspect you will soon.”
“I’ve seen him mad plenty of times.”
“You ain’t never seen him in a fight.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I have. It’s scary as hell. By the time he’s that mad, somebody’s fixin’ to die.”
“Well, let’s not tell him then.”
“He’ll see the damage, Stef.”
“Not if I’m out at the White Ash.”
He growled at me.
“All of you guys need to learn to use words,” I teased him.
Hands were thrown up in defeat. I loved to win.
Bull riding looks cool on TV and in movies, and if there is anything as romantic as a bull rider, I don’t know what that is, but really, it’s scary as hell to watch. An hour later when Everett was thrown from the back of the bull and then nearly trampled, my heart stopped for just a second. But once the man was standing behind the fence, I could breathe again.
Glenn was up after him, and he was thrown off as well, but he had stayed on the longest, so the announcer called out that he had probably won. That was the good part. The bad part came seconds later when the bull charged him.
I yelled a warning, lots of people did, but it was too late for him to do anything but turn. The bull caught him, and he was thrown into the fence. I heard the sickening snap of bone from where I was.
I ran for him, falling to my knees beside him. I saw the bull and curled over him, shielding his chest and head, I waved my arm and the bull stopped, whirling, before charging again. I yelled and was relieved to see the rodeo clowns. Three of them were there, circling, keeping the bull off me and Glenn.
“Stef.”
I looked down at him. “Just lie there. We don’t know what’s broken.”
“Get,” he gasped and his voice broke, “out of here before you get yourself killed.”
“Me. Who gives a damn about me,” I grumbled, reaching for him. “Lay still.”
The ambulance was there fast, and as they were loading Glenn in the back, I darted over and shook each man’s hand who had saved my life. I guessed that the guys dressed as clowns didn’t normally get thanked from their bemused expressions. They seemed genuinely pleased that I had taken the time to express my appreciation. I ran back and got into the ambulance, and we whipped out of the arena.
“What are you doing?” Glenn barked at me as the paramedic checked him over.
“Going with you, of course.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up, Glenn,” I ordered.
“I—”
“Let’s shut up, Glenn,” the paramedic told him.
He shut up.
The ride to the hospital took a half an hour, and when we got there, they rolled him into the back with me following, after I explained that I was his brother.
“You don’t have to stay here,” he grumbled as the nurse took his temperature.
“Yes, I know.”
“Don’t fuss at your brother,” the nurse cautioned him.
He rolled his eyes, but stopped talking when I smirked at him.
“Do you ever listen?”
I waggled my eyebrows. “You should ask Rand.”
EMERGENCY room time is like basketball time; it’s endless. After the preliminary exam, he had to get X-rays and then back to the room, and as I sat and filled out paperwork, I had to wonder where his father was or any of the men from the ranch. Why was I the only person there?
They gave him a shot, and he fell asleep after that, but he woke up when the doctor was setting his arm. It wasn’t nearly as bad as they had first thought. It was a clean break above his wrist, so he was expected to make a full recovery.
“He’ll be in this probably eight weeks considering he’s a rancher and he’s gonna want to use it,” the doctor was telling me when Glenn’s eyes fluttered open.
“So your brother here chose dark blue for the cast,” Doctor Charles Patel told him. “And as I was just telling him, eight weeks in this easy.”
Glenn groaned.
“How ya feel?”
“Like I got trampled by a bull,” he grumbled.
“You’re right.” The doctor grinned at me. “He is funny. I’ll be right back.”
He left and I was alone with Glenn.
“Why are you still here?”
“Because you’re still here, idiot.” I smiled at him. I was sitting beside him on the bed, but apparently he hadn’t noticed that yet.
He closed his eyes, resting his broken arm on his chest. “Why dark blue?”
“So the cast will set off your eyes,” I cackled.
“I really hate you.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I gotta fill out the insurance forms.”
“I did that already.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How’d you do that? You go through my wallet?”
“Yep.”
“Christ.”
“At least they let you keep your underwear.”
“You checked, did you?”
“Of course,” I teased him, patting his chest, shifting to move.
He
put his hand over mine, pressing my palm down into his chest. “Thank you for staying.”
“You’re welcome.”
His eyes rolled open, and I saw how bright and shiny they were, how glassy. The man was really out of it.
“Glenn,” I chuckled. “Close your eyes, rest for a little bit.”
He was just staring up at me.
“Glenn?”
He made a noise in the back of his throat.
“What’s wrong?”
“Rand’s a lucky man.” His eyes drooped, but drifted back open.
“That’s very nice of you to say.”
“You hate me, huh?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” I assured him as his fingers slid between mine.
“Good,” he said, losing the battle to keep his eyes open.
IT TURNED out that I didn’t need to call a cab because Rayland Holloway showed up an hour later to collect his son. He was not that excited to find me there with Glenn, but he appreciated it. Glenn sat between us on the ride back to the fairgrounds, and promptly passed out, his head bumping my shoulder when he fell asleep.
“He seems comfortable with ya.”
“He’s not the homophobic asshole I thought he was.”
“And I am, is that it?”
“I didn’t say that, but you’re awfully defensive.”
He grunted at me.
“You know, it’s funny, but did you ever think about what’s going to happen to your ranch when you die?”
“Well that’s a fine thing to say.”
“I just mean, you can’t abide sodomites,” I said softly, using his word. “But you have no way of knowing who any of your sons will end up loving.”
His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
“Love is a funny thing, Mr. Holloway.”
He was silent.
When I got back, I found out that the bareback riding had begun in my absence. I went quickly to the registration tent and made sure they had me down for the saddle bronc. It turned out that Hud Lawrence already had me riding in that event, and had my number ready and everything. As it had been the only category that none of my hands had signed up for, it was the one he had put me into.
“Thank you, Mr. Lawrence.” I smiled at him.
“You’re very welcome,” he said, like it made all the sense in the world to him. “You know, Rand normally rides the bull, but you’re built more for saddle bronc.”
I wasn’t built for anything, but I smiled and nodded instead of arguing.
“The event starts in an hour. You best go get ready, grab your rope and chaps.”
I ran back to my trailer to try and find something else to wear. I was out of cowboy clothes, and so was rooting around in Pierce’s clothes since he was the closest to my size, when the door opened and Everett and Dusty walked in.
“Hey.” I smiled big at them. “Mr. Lawrence says I need a rope and chaps. Can one of you guys explain the mechanics of this to me?”
Dusty went white as a sheet, and I made him sit down, put his head between his knees, and breathe while I got him some water. Everett was yelling again.
“Goddamn it, Stef, you don’t run into a ring with a bull!” He was yelling about earlier when I had tried to save Glenn from being turned into guacamole.
I shrugged as I fanned Dusty with my People magazine.
“Where is he?” I heard someone yell from outside the trailer.
“Seriously,” I told Everett as Chris and Tom pushed their way into the small space.
“Who’s riding bareback?” I asked.
“Pierce,” everyone said at once.
“And Chase is watchin’ out for him,” Chris told me.
“Okay,” I said, “who’s got chaps I can borrow?”
You would have thought I was asking to borrow a jock. The looks on their faces were just outright horror.
NEVER, ever, in a million years would I have ever thought that I would be up on a horse in a bucking chute. It was just so far out of the realm of possibility. But so was the fact that when I was up there, looking out across the arena and to the side, I saw Rayland Holloway walking toward me. When he reached me, Dusty moved so the owner of the White Ash could take his place.
“I’ll give you a pass on this, Stefan,” he told me, and I was surprised that we were on a first-name basis. “I never thought you’d have the balls to be up on this animal.”
“You mean Widow Maker here?” I tried to chuckle, but my mouth was too dry. The horse was antsy and stamping its feet and not helping me get my nerves under control even a little bit.
“The horse’s name is Argent,” he told me, “and he belongs to my neighbor Waylon Taylor who owns the Triple Sage.”
“I thought broncos were wild.”
He scowled at me. “That horse is worth ten grand, and it’s no more wild than your dog. All ranchers have some rough stock. Rand does, too, I’m sure.”
“What’s rough stock?”
“Like horses that don’t get rode ’cept at the rodeo,” Everett translated for me. “Just mind what you’re fixin’ to do here and don’t worry ’bout nothin’ else.”
He did not want my mind wandering, didn’t want me distracted.
“Okay.” I nodded, trying to remember everything he and Dusty and Chris had been barking at me.
“So get on down,” Rayland suddenly ordered. “I’ll let you keep the grazing rights.”
“But that’s not just your call,” I argued. “It’s you and all the other ranchers, and if they don’t agree, then we’ve come this far to fail, and I can’t have that.”
“It’s me. I own more of the land than anyone, and if I say you’re fine, then you’re fine, you pigheaded piece of crap!”
Unfortunately, it was the last thing he got to say to me because the chute opened then, and the horse, with me on it, charged forward.
Eight seconds. You can count it on your fingers. It seems like nothing. Anything can happen in eight seconds. It’s over in a heartbeat. Eight seconds is a completely forgettable amount of time, unless you’re on top of an animal.
I had seen Everett on the bull that morning, Glenn as well. It didn’t look that hard from the ground. When I flew into San Francisco from Hawaii four years ago, the plane hit a serious patch of turbulence. Off-roading in a jeep had been bumpy, and I had even been in a car accident once, with Charlotte, where the car had flipped over. But nothing at all in my life prepared me for riding a psychotic horse with no other desire than to have me off of him.
I understood why there was no horn on the saddle; my balls would have been smashed into goo if there was. The free-swinging stirrups made my legs feel like a marionette. I felt like I was doing the splits. I had tried to remember what Dusty said about making sure that my feet, my boots, were close to the horse’s shoulders before his front legs hit the dirt. I tried to do everything my men had told me. I tried to hold on to the rein that was attached to the halter on the horse. God, I really tried. And eight tiny little seconds seemed like cake in my head. How long could eight seconds possibly be?
Eight seconds is the magic number because the animal, bull or horse, gets tired after that. So they say. For me, the horse went up, I went up, the horse came down, I did too, and then once more up and then I was free, and I felt like a balloon sailing through the sky. If only I were as light as a helium-filled piece of plastic and didn’t have the whole gravity thing to worry about.
I hit so hard, dust came up, and I couldn’t breathe because my lungs imploded on impact and my back was broken. And my last conscious thought was that people did it for a living on purpose and for the love of God why? And then there was thunder and nothing else.
Chapter 7
IF I was dead, everything would not smell like manure. This was my logic, so I figured I was still breathing. When I opened one eye, I heard a gasp.
“Oh God, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
My o
ther eye opened, and I saw Everett. “Hey,” I said, but my voice sounded bad, scratchy and rough.
“Just lay there and don’t move and try not to scare the shit out of me anymore for one day.”
I nodded.
“Don’t move!” he barked at me. “The ambulance is coming.”
“No, I don’t wanna go to the hospital.”
“We’ll see,” he said, hovering over me.
But I knew my body better than anyone else, so when he turned to look, for the paramedics or the ambulance or whoever he was expecting, I rolled sideways and got to my feet.
“What the fuck?” he yelled at me as a cheer went up from the stands and Dusty and Chris and Tom and Pierce and Chase joined us in the ring.
Dusty was all over me, and I put one arm across his shoulders and the other on Chase and let them help me from the middle of the arena. They walked me to a gate, lifted me off my feet and carried me through. On the other side, the paramedics were there on standby, and I was put on the back of their truck so they could check me over.
I told them my name and the name of my ranch, Dusty explained what had happened since apparently they had not seen my spectacular ride for themselves, and Chase told them how I had fallen and how hard and how fast. He was worried about my head.
Dusty was worried about my neck.
Chris was concerned about my ankle because I couldn’t put any weight on it.
Everett was with Chase and worried about my head. He felt that my pupils were way too big.
“Did I win?” I asked Glenn Holloway as he reached us.
“Fuck no,” he growled at me. “You were only on the horse like two seconds.”
“Really? It felt like so much longer.”
“I expect so,” he said, reaching out and curling a stray lock of hair around my ear. “Jesus Christ, Stefan, my father said you didn’t have to ride.”
“He was late.” I smiled at him as the nice lady paramedic shone a light in my eyes.
“Okay, Mr. Joss,” she said softly.
“Stef,” I corrected her.
“Stef.” She smiled, gesturing behind me. “We’re gonna have you lie down, all right?”
“Why?”
“Because I think you have a concussion.”
