5. Eli
Chapter 5
Eli
“ F or Christ’s sake, Eli!” my mother said from the front seat of my father’s truck. “Why did you have to hit him?”
“Quit badgering him, Margie,” dad said before I could answer. “A man has his reasons and his honor to defend.” He glanced into the backseat where Colt lay limply beside me, blood trickling from his nose. “Though I’m surprised he went out like a light so fast. He looks like a tough little bastard.”
“Well, I guess we know the famous Colt Dawson has a glass jaw,” I muttered.
My father nearly swerved off the road. “Colt Dawson?!” he cried. “You punched Colt fucking Dawson?!”
“Robert!” my mother warned. “Language!”
“Yeah,” I said. “So?”
“He’s one of the most famous bull riders in the region! Practically a celebrity! You can’t go punchin’ celebrities!”
“As far as I’m concerned,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “Colt is nothing more than some asshole I went to school with. I don’t care if he rides cows better than anyone in the USA. He’s a dick.”
“Boys…” Mom just shook her head. “There is a lady present.”
“You ain’t a lady,” my dad said quickly. “You’re my wife. I love you, but you’ve heard worse.”
“That’s besides the point?—”
“We gotta take him home now,” dad said, cutting her off. “It’s the only way to make it right. I’m sure he knows powerful rodeo folks and I don’t wanna go gettin’ on the wrong side of a rodeo clown gang.”
“That is the stupidest sentence I’ve ever heard,” I sighed. “Can’t we please just leave him outside the urgent care or something?”
“Elijah Daniels!” my mother hissed. “I’m surprised at you! You can’t just go hittin’ folks and then leave them out in the cold. I raised you better than that.”
All I could do was groan, sinking into my seat. Colt Dawson, the biggest fucking meat-headed idiot on the planet, was going home with me even though I was the one that knocked him out cold. All this thanks to my parents who, despite their good intentions, were being incredibly silly about the whole thing because of some stupid idea that Colt was famous. He rode cows for a living. How famous could he actually be?
The truck rumbled down the dusty road, the headlights illuminating the tall grass and fences on either side of the road. I glanced at Colt's unconscious form, a mix of guilt and irritation churning in my gut. His stupid, handsome face was slack, a thin trail of dried blood under his nose. Why was he so handsome? It wasn’t fucking fair.
“He's stayin' in your room,” Dad announced, breaking the tense silence.
“What? No way!” I protested. “Put him on the couch or something.”
Mom twisted in her seat to face me. “Eli, honey, you knocked him out. The least you can do is give up your bed for the night.”
I grumbled under my breath, knowing there was no point arguing further. As we pulled up to our farmhouse, Colt started to stir.
“Wha... where am I?” he mumbled, blinking slowly.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” I said sarcastically.
Colt's eyes widened as he focused on me, then narrowed dangerously. “You,” he growled, his hand balling into a fist.
“Now, now,” my father interjected, turning off the engine. “Let's all calm down. Colt, son, you're at our place. We couldn't just leave you there after... well, after what happened.”
Colt's gaze darted around, taking in his surroundings. “Your place?” he asked, confusion evident in his voice.
“The Daniels farm,” I clarified, unable to keep the edge out of my tone. “Welcome to your five-star accommodations for the night, Mr. Celebrity.”
“Eli,” my mother warned, but Colt was already struggling to sit up straighter.
“I ain't stayin' here,” he declared, reaching for the door handle. “I'll just?—”
But as soon as that door opened, he gasped in pain. And then he just plain fell out of the truck, landing nearly face first in the dirt, his cowboy hat rolling away.
“Jesus H. Christ,” I groaned, rolling my eyes. “This fucking guy…”
Meanwhile, Colt was making pained noises from the ground. Both my parents hopped out, rushing to his side. I took my time getting over to them, watching as he was gently rolled onto his back. He had one hand draped over his torso, hand clutching his side. The look on his face told me he was in a lot of pain, and it had nothing to do with my punch or the fall.
“Alright, alright, easy does it,” my dad said, carefully helping Colt to his feet. “Let's get you inside and have a look at you.”
I reluctantly moved to Colt's other side, supporting him as we made our way to the house. His body was warm against mine, and I could feel the tension in his muscles as he tried to hide his discomfort.
“I'm fine,” Colt grumbled, but his labored breathing said otherwise. “Just need to catch my breath.”
Mom hurried ahead to open the door and turn on lights. As we entered the living room, I caught a whiff of Colt's scent - a mix of leather, dirt, and cheap whiskey. It wasn’t like the phony cowboys I met at the bars back in Dallas. He was the real deal. And that realization, despite my best efforts, sent a shiver down my spine that settled somewhere in my groin.
“Set him down on the couch,” Mom instructed, already gathering first aid supplies.
As we eased Colt onto the worn leather couch, he let out a barely suppressed groan. His face was pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Where's it hurt, son?” my father asked, kneeling beside him.
Colt's jaw clenched. “I told you, I'm fine. Just need to?—”
“Cut the bullshit,” I snapped. “You're clearly in pain. Let us help you so we can all get some damn sleep.”
His green eyes flashed with anger, highlighted more by the red of his hair and beard. After a moment, he relented. “My ribs,” he muttered. “I cracked one at the rodeo last week and I think… I think I hurt it again falling off the mechanical bull today.”
Mom tutted disapprovingly. “And you've been riding bulls with cracked ribs? Honestly, what were you thinking?”
“Colt Dawson doesn’t think,” I muttered.
Colt's eyes flashed with defiance. “I was thinking I had a job to do, ma'am. Can't let a little pain stop me from riding.”
I snorted. “A little pain? You can barely move, you idiot.”
“Eli,” my mother chided, but Colt was already struggling to sit up straighter.
“I've had worse,” he growled, wincing as he shifted. “Just need to walk it off.”
“Oh no you don't,” my father said, gently but firmly pressing Colt back onto the couch. “You're staying put until a doctor gets a look at those ribs. I saw plenty of men go from limpin’ to dead back in Desert Storm, and all they had were cracked ribs to start. Ain’t nothin’ to joke around about.”
Colt grumbled but didn't resist as my mother carefully lifted his shirt. I sucked in a breath at the sight of his torso - all rippling muscles and tanned skin, marred by an angry purple bruise spreading across his side. Christ’s sake he was beautiful. But the more I looked, the more I saw the half-healed bruises and the scars. The man had been through hell.
Colt hissed as my mother gently probed the bruised area. I couldn't help but notice how his abs tensed, the muscles rippling under his skin. It was infuriating how attractive he was, even in this state.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” Mom said, her brow furrowed with concern.
“No hospitals,” Colt growled, shaking his head. “I can't afford it, and I've got a competition next month.”
“You can't be serious,” I scoffed. “You're in no shape to ride anything, let alone a bull.”
Colt's green eyes locked onto mine, filled with a mixture of pain and determination. “You don't know nothin' about me or what I can do, Eli.”
“I know you're being an idiot,” I shot back. “You're going to get yourself killed.”
Colt's jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with anger. “Better to die doing what I love than live like a coward,” he spat.
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I opened my mouth to retort, but my father cut me off.
“That's enough, both of you,” he said firmly. “Colt, son, I understand your passion, but there's nothing cowardly about taking care of yourself. And Eli, quit antagonizing him.”
I crossed my arms and looked away, trying to ignore the way Colt's words had stung. My mother sighed, shaking her head.
“Well, if you won't go to the hospital, at least let me wrap those ribs,” she said. “They don’t feel like they’re in the wrong place, so I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger. Still, it might help with the pain. And you’ll need to see a doctor first in the morning.”
Colt hesitated, then nodded grudgingly. “Fine,” he muttered, his eyes still locked on me. “But I ain't staying here all night. I'll call a cab once I'm patched up.”
“Nonsense,” my mother said, already beginning to wrap his torso with bandages. “You're in no condition to be alone tonight. What if something happens? Ain’t no cabs out here anyway.”
“I'll be fine, ma'am,” Colt insisted, wincing as she tightened the wrap. “I've dealt with worse on my own before.”
“That may be,” my father chimed in, “but not under our roof. You're staying put, and that's final.”
I couldn't help but smirk at Colt's frustrated expression. “Looks like you're stuck with us, cowboy.”
Colt's green eyes narrowed. “Don't look so smug, Eli. This is all your fault, anyway.
I rolled my eyes. “My fault? You're the one who started running your mouth at the bar.”
“Boys,” my mother warned, starting to wrap up Colt’s ribs. “That's enough. Colt, you're staying in Eli's room tonight. Eli, you'll take the couch.”
“What? No way!” I protested. “He can take the couch.”
“Elijah Robert Daniels,” my mother said sternly, using my full name. “This man is injured, and you're part of the reason he's here. You'll give up your bed and that's final.”
I groaned, knowing there was no point in arguing further. Colt, for his part, looked uncomfortable with the whole situation.
“Ma'am, I appreciate your kindness, but I really don't want to impose-”
“You shut up too,” she said, snapping at Colt. Clearly, she’d had enough of us both. “Eli, go get his damn hat.”
I sat there for a moment, surprised by this sudden turn. My mother was never one to swear.
“Son,” Dad said softly. “Your mother is cursing. I’d do what I was told if I were you.”
With a frustrated sigh I got up, stomping out of the house and slamming the door behind me. I went down the porch steps and located Colt’s hat after a moment, the dirt having little effect on the already worn-out leather. I had half a mind to stomp it into the dirt, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with anymore of my mother’s ire. Begrudgingly, I picked it up and dusted it off. It didn’t look like the hat of a famous rodeo star. It was ragged in places and nearly worn through in others. The ratty old thing looked like it belonged to an urchin.
The door opened and my father stepped out, jingling a set of keys. “We’re gonna go get Colt’s truck.”
“Fine with me,” I said. “Don’t wanna be near that dickhead, anyway.”
Dad sighed, shaking his head as he walked down the porch steps. “You two used to be such good friends. What happened?”
I scoffed, following him to the truck. “We were never friends, Dad. We just tolerated each other because we had to.”
“That's not how I remember it,” he said, climbing into the driver's seat. “You two were thick as thieves all through high school.”
I slammed the passenger door shut, my jaw clenched. “Yeah, well, things change.”
And that’s all I said. Dad didn’t know what had happened and the last thing I wanted to do was think about the past, especially anything that included Colt fucking Dawson.