Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
He tipped his hat back, then set his hand on my shoulder. “Yes, ma’am. Best ride of the night. So far. We can celebrate by you getting that coffee with me after.”
His quick grin and mild manner had me smiling. He was handsome. Courteous. But like Jett Markle, the local rancher who I’d had one bad date with the week before, he didn’t do anything for me. Like those romance novels I read in my spare time, I wanted spark. Heat. Attraction. Chemistry.
Jett was turning out to be a creep, so I couldn’t put Abe into the same category.
The announcer called the next ride, and I was distracted by Boyd’s imminent turn. When I looked his way again, he wasn’t focused on the thousand pounds of pissed off animal beneath him, but at me. His gaze was locked onto me, and I gasped. No, he wasn’t looking at me, but at Abe’s hand on my shoulder. Boyd’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was as pissed off by that action as the bull was to have a rider sitting on him.
Why was he looking at me? I wasn’t important. I was the short, dumpy doctor who had zero social life. Still, he stared. I tried to school my breath when he nodded his head. I realized it wasn’t for me when the chute was flung open.
Night Sweats came pawing out, snorting with fury over the rider on his back. I held my breath, stomach bunched up in a tight knot as he kicked his back legs up.
Even with the wild ride, Boyd seemed to take the body-snapping movements with ease, his thighs gripping the sides of the bull, his arm flung up, his back staying loose, his movements gracefully in sync with the animal.
It was mesmerizing.
Magical, even.
A wide smile stretched across his lips like riding bulls was a walk in the park for him. Oh God. Was that for real?
He scanned the audience… as he rode the bull.
What bull rider had the presence of mind to look for Mom when he was trying to stay on the back of a pissed off bull?
The crowd was going wild—cheering and stamping. Boyd had already been on the bull for eight seconds.
Nine.
I stood to see better, and he caught sight of me. Again.
That was impossible.
He might have glanced my way before, but now? On the back of a bull? He wouldn’t be looking for me in the crowd.
I shrieked, covering my mouth as he was thrown, flipped straight into the air like a frisbee. Oh God—no! Time slowed. I squeezed my eyes closed, then opened them again at the horror unfolding. As Boyd’s spinning body came down, the bull turned and tossed its head, landing a vicious horn right below the protection of Boyd’s vest.
He’d been gored.
Badly.
Possibly lethally.
“Oh shit,” Abe said. While I knew it wasn’t good, Abe’s words confirmed it. He’d seen more rides than I had, and this was worse than others.
I switched into medical mode, my training kicking in. I ran down the steps before I even knew my feet were moving, sprinting along with the EMTs for the arena.
“Hold up!” a manager yelled, barring our entrance while the rodeo clowns distracted the bull, and two riders rode out to rope it. “Now, go! Go!”
Boyd was on one knee, trying to get to his feet. Adrenaline was probably the only thing keeping him upright. Blood soaked his shirt and jeans, staining the dirt below him.
“Stop moving!” I yelled as I ran up. “Hold still, Boyd.” To the EMTs who followed with a backboard, I barked, “Get him on.”
Carefully, they transferred him to the board, strapped him to it and stood, walking quickly across the dirt ring toward where they’d left the gurney.
“I’m going to need a pressure bandage and an IV. And morphine,” I ordered, one of them speaking into the walkie talkie strapped to his shoulder, giving information, hopefully, to the ER. “I’ll ride along to the hospital.”
I wasn’t a trauma doctor. I was an ObGyn, but all my training as I did my rotations came rushing back. I jogged alongside the gurney, trying to gauge the depth, location and severity of the wound when a hand closed on mine.
My gaze flew to Boyd’s face. It was pale and sweat stood out on his forehead, but he grinned at me.
“Just a scratch, Doc,” he said, his voice raspy. His breathing was difficult, especially on inhales. I had to assume a punctured lung. “No need to worry.”
Was he actually comforting me? Now?
I squeezed his hand back, surprised at how relieved his upbeat attitude made me feel. As a doctor, I knew he was in a great deal of danger but was also aware the patient’s outlook could make the difference between living and dying.
“I usually do the reassuring, but I’m glad you’re staying positive. I’ll get you something for the pain as soon as we’re in the ambulance.”