Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jesus, Fort Worth was loud.
Coke shook his head, bouncing back and forth on his toes. Christ. They’d had two hang-ups, and little CB got his ass trounced. He glanced over to Nate—the man sported a huge black eye. “Love Texas dates.”
“No shit. The bulls are fresh as daisies.” Nate leaned from one side to the other, stretching his legs.
“Yep.” He waited for the gate puller to walk by, then bent at the waist. Stretching. “Who’s up next?”
“Beau Lafitte.” Nate winked, then rolled his eyes.
Yeah. They’d have to be on top of their game because Beau was in the lead now that Jason was out, having blown by Kynan like nothing going.
“Lord love a Cajun.” He jogged over to the chute, grinning up at Sammy. “Get him out of the chute quick, Sammy, huh?”
Sam Bell, Beau’s traveling partner, grinned his amazing little grin and nodded. “Yeah. Won’t do to have him in there too long.”
“Nope.” He winked and jogged back, shoulders moving. There was something in the air, always was at this event.
Nate was still bouncing, and behind in the back-up position, Cooper Riley was back with them, stretching and rolling his neck.
“Okay, boyos. Three more on this group, then we get a drink.” The gate open and Beau went spinning, little bitty legs spurring like mad.
Five, six, seven… Score. Beau flipped off to the rear, and Coke and Nate moved in, waving and shouting. Bossman was a bull who knew his business, though, heading right for the gate.
“You go, Cajun.” He hooted, clapped Beau on the back, grinning at Sammy who was hollering as the ninety-two and a quarter score came up.
Dillon came be-bopping over to give Beau a punch on the arm, and Beau grinned at all of them, taking off his hat and waving to the crowd. Man had manners, after all.
Things went a little easier after that. Hell, even Sammy rode for a respectable eighty-eight and three-quarters. The crowd was with Dillon, waving signs and singing, a sea of cowboy hats bobbing along.
Dillon was really having at an old Bon Jovi song, stalling a little for Don, who couldn’t seem to get out of the chute. Bushmaster wanted to go over the top, not out the gate. He walked over, grabbed one horn and jerked it. “Come on, you ass. Look over here.”
Don grinned at him, teeth missing. “Thanks, Coke.”
“Anytime.”
They got the bull straight in the chute, which mattered not one whit, because Don came down in less than two seconds. Wham, bam, thank you Bushmaster.
Coke grabbed hold of Don’s collar as Bushmaster turned back, horns lowered. He swacked at the big snotty nose. “You get back.”
Bushmaster snorted, but flipped his tail and headed for the gate. Don popped up like a rubber ball, laughing like a loon.
“Lord have mercy. Get on and wave to your fans, son.” He chuckled, swinging back to grin at Nate. Lord, those bulls.
Don nodded and waved to the clapping crowd, watching the playback on the big screen. The kid grimaced when he saw how close that old bastard’s hooves had come to his head.
“You gotta watch that, man. You need that brain.”
The exit gate swung open again, Adam Taggart’s horse backing up quick, head tossing. Bushmaster came whirling back out into the arena, heading right for Nate, whose back was turned. “Nate!”
Coke jumped in, grabbing ahold of Bushmaster’s tail, pulling hard to give Nate that extra second or two.
His heels dragged but hard through the dirt, and for a second it was like he was surfing the floor.
Then those hind legs came up, catching him in the chest and sending him whirling in a somersault. Oh, he did not think so.
He rolled up, banging into Don with a slap. “Git out! Are you stupid?”
Bushmaster roared, the sound more lion than bull, and turned back to go for Adam’s horse. The safety man spurred out of the way, and Nate shot through the middle, drawing the bull after him. But Nate wasn’t going to find the pocket.
God damn motherfucker.
He dug in, slamming against Bushmaster’s side, enough to make the bull stumble and glare toward him, eyes rolling. Come on, big boy. Play with the cowboy. Right here. You look right here. “Bushmaster! Come on! Here I am, now.”
If he waved his arms any harder, one was gonna pop off.
Coke heard the whistle of Adam’s rope, but it only hooked one horn, just enough to make Bushmaster kick back and turn the other way. Which pushed that hard-assed hind end into him.
He landed hard on his backside, bones rattling inside him, breath going out in a whoosh. Damn it.
Nate was hollering, screaming really, but Coke couldn’t make out the words.
His bell was rung, chickens scattered like a pen after a spring tornado and he could taste blood in his mouth.
Sucking copper pennies, Lefty woulda said.
Their third bullfighter, Cooper, flew through the air, spinning like a rag doll, landing six feet to his right then laying dead still.
“Fuck me.”
He got up on his feet—or really his knees, because his ankles weren’t cooperating a bit—because there wasn’t a choice.
Coop was down, and Coop was one of theirs, and Coke had to get to him.
He crawled across the dirt, then threw himself over Coop’s body, hunkering down over the hooking that was coming.
Bushmaster rushed at them like a freight train, and he could feel the blow of hot breath and snot on his back when the weirdest thing happened. The bull turned right off him, hooves brushing his ribs, Coop’s arm.
What the fuck?
He lifted his head, staring right at Dillon, who was waving his arms furiously, just inches away from the bull. “Dillon! Run! Nattie! I need you!”
Up!
Up, god damn it, Coke!
Dillon’s eyes cut to his for less than half a second before Dillon turned and ran. Shit, that boy could run like the wind, had been all-star in track. Bushmaster caught up with him, though. Took about two steps.
Jason’s last ride flashed into his head, Danny’s boy caving to the ground, crumpled and broke and blind and… He roared, launching himself at Bushmaster as that head lowered.
Just about the time he reached for that leathery tail one more time, Dillon shot up in the air, spinning like a kung fu movie character. Dillon hit the dirt like a rag doll, out before he even landed.
“No!” He whipped around, coming eye-to-eye with that sorry bastard, and bashed the bull in the nose, hard enough that he felt something in his hand crack.
“Coke, move!” Nate shouted, and Adam’s rope came down, wrapping around the bull’s neck.
That cow horse wheeled, Adam’s quick fingers wrapping the rope around the saddle horn.
Suddenly it was all over, Bushmaster running along head down, trying to get the rope off, heading right out of the arena one more time.
He got to Dillon, one hand moving to shake the man before he thought. “Dillon!”
Blue eyes popped open, Dillon’s hands coming up to ward him off, like he was the bull, still there. “Shit. Shit. Coke?”
“Yes. Yes, what hurts?” Can you fucking see me?
“Uh.” Laughing a little, Dillon grabbed his arm and levered to a sitting position. “My butt, for one.”
“Get the doc out here!” He wasn’t laughing, not at all. “Coop? You good?”
He could hear David, the arena announcer, calling for a longer break, asking the crowd to be patient and not worry, could hear the murmur of the crowd. Nate was creaking over to Coop, touching the man’s back.
“M’okay. Just get me out of here,” Cooper grunted, barely audible.
He looked over, closing his eyes, praying a second. Please, Jesus. Keep ‘em whole. Please, Jesus, watch your cowboys. Please. “Nate? You?”
“Fine, boss.”
Doc Madding and the sport medicine team sprinted into the arena, heading for Coop first, since he still wasn’t up, wasn’t moving.
“Come on. Can you stand up?”Coke’s hand was throbbing, his head swimming like nothing going.
“Stand.” Dillon contemplated that for a couple of seconds. “Yeah. I can if you can. Are you okay? Is anything broken?”
“I’ll live. Up.” The crowd was watching them all like hawks. “Come on, before Ace comes down here.”
“Oh, God. Not Ace.” Dillon unfolded, standing up, a little unsteady but not busted. Only bleeding a little.
“Wave to the crowd.”
“My headset’s gone.” Dillon nodded to the crowd, one hand going behind his back to check for his battery pack. “So’s my pack. I need a… I need. Coke, your hand is purple.”
“Wave to the motherfucking crowd, Dillon.” He got Dillon moving, knowing they had to get things going again.
“I am! Don’t you yell at me!” Maybe Dillon thought he was waving, but that arm was barely moving.
“Look. You fucking get in here and play with us? You play by our rules. You smile and wave and pretend it don’t hurt.” Dillon could have died—no safety gear. No vest. No pads.
Dillon stopped a moment and stared at him, hurt flashing in those watery blue eyes. Then the man pasted on a smile and stepped away from him, raising the other arm and giving the crowd a big wave.
“Good man.” He patted Dillon and headed for Nate without looking back, his hand a ball of agony. “You okay, bud?”
Nate nodded, looking like he’d been run over by a bus. “I’m all right, Hoss. You ought to have Doc look at that hand.”
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dillon head over to the announcer stand, getting suited up with a handheld mic.
“Shit, he sees it. You’re working without me and Coop.” He knew better than that. He couldn’t leave Nate on his own. “It’ll keep till after.”
“Yeah. Okay, yeah, boss. We don’t have an alternate anywhere closer than tomorrow.”
“Hey, you know what we need? We need you guys to get behind the next rider. Come on and pump it up!” Dillon was smiling, shouting, starting to jog around the arena.
Oh, good. Not hurt. Coke might beat the beautiful son of a bitch with a shovel.
The crowd began cheering, the music started playing again, and things started to get back to normal. Troy came walking over, clipboard in hand. “You boys ready?”
“Bring it on.” The sooner they started, the sooner the fucking short go would be over.