Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Warrick
I felt my head hit the packed dirt…and a pure fear of that thick hoof slamming into my head.
I was numb and hyperaware of everything at the same time, a roar, the crowd screaming, the fellow riders yelling, my body contorted in a fucking pretzel, pain radiating up my spine.
I felt hands grabbing at me.
Pain.
Screaming people.
More hands yanking me.
A scream—mine.
Then I heard the screech of a paramedic’s siren and more hollering from people.
Bip…
Bip…bip…bip
Beeeeeeep…
I’d heard myself flatline.
The shrill shriek of whatever machine keeping me alive let out one long sound, and everything I’d ever known vanished. I didn’t feel anything, saw nothing, I had no body, I did not exist…
Then there was nothing except lying motionless while that infernal beeping told the world that Warrick Donovan was—except I wasn’t.
Next to my bed, someone was crying. A woman. My mother? No. She never cried when things were bad. The wife of a rancher and mother, tough to the core, Nessie Donovan did not shed tears. It was not a girlfriend either; I had no lover.
Beeeeeeeppppppp…
I was dying.
Bright, hot fire blasted through my body, streaking along every nerve ending and setting me aflame. My body bowed off the bed, my legs jerked, down to my fingertips burned. Pain seared through my chest and shot up into my brain.
The machines suddenly stopped their long scream and started a rhythm of soft bips overlapping and pulsing like a living heart.
Bip…
Bip, bip, bip…
“What the f—?” I jarred out of my nightmare, half-memory. I slammed back to the cold plastic chair in the waiting room of the hospital in Helena. The air around the almost empty room was cold and dry; it grated my lungs.
Rubbing my face, I sat forward, remembering why I hated hospitals. The nose-burning smell of bleach and disinfectant, the somber air of fear and death. I checked my watch, grimacing. It was 12:47 am. The accident had been at 8:16 pm. We’d gotten to Helena at 8:32.
Staring down at the grout, I swallowed over my bitter fear. Four hours ago, we’d been happy and smiling—until that damned bull had lost its head. I remembered racing down the steps before I even knew my feet were moving; blood soaked Santos’s shirt and jeans, staining the dirt below him.
“Stop moving!” I’d yelled as I ran up, sprinting along with the EMTs. “Hold still, Santos.” I barked to the EMTs who followed with a backboard, “Get him on.”
They carefully transferred him to the board, strapped him to it, and stood, walking quickly across the dirt ring toward where they’d left the gurney.
The EMTs were shouting for medicine, morphine, drips, bandages, and a scalpel—I ignored them as I jogged alongside the gurney, trying to gauge the severity of the wound, when a hand closed on mine.
My gaze flew to Santos’s face; it was bloodless, and sweat stood out on his forehead, but he grinned at me. “I’ll be all right.”
I wanted to say "you were fucking stupid"—but I couldn’t. I couldn’t push my fear onto him. As we got to the ambulance, I told the EMTs, “I’ll ride along to the hospital.”
Now, as I stared at the sterling white tiles, I felt Zoe press a hot cup of coffee into my hand, and I looked up. She crouched at my side, her eyes worried. “How are you?”
“I feel like shit,” I said, staring into the dark depths of the drink. I blinked around me. “Where are the rest of the guys?”
“I sent them home,” she said. “Frankie was getting agitated, and poor Isaac had his college credits to take care of. Connie and Marie came to get them, and they should be home by now. I assured them that we would stay and look out for Santos.”
Sipping the bitter coffee, I confessed, “I have to admit, seeing him fly off the bull like that brought back some of the worst memories of my life. I don’t want to see any of my guys going through the same hell I did.”
She sat near me and held my hand. “Do you know why the bull suddenly went so mad? I mean, he was already a mean bastard at the beginning, but it felt as if he went ten times madder in a second.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Anything could have set it off, a wrong grip, a flashing light from a cellphone, a bright color, who knows.”
“Mr. Donovan for Santos Sullivan.” A doctor called while entering the room, and I damn near spilled the coffee in my haste to get up.
“Yes?”
“My nurse has told me you were a bull-rider yourself, so I know you understand how some of these injuries go, which is why you must know Mr. Sullivan is extremely lucky. He came in with a?—”
The doctor began spouting off a long line of medical terms that went right over my head. I stopped him. “English, doctor, please.”
“He got a small injury to his small intestine and left kidney,” the doctor said. “Minimal surgery was done to fix the perforation. He has a hemothorax, which is an accumulation of blood within the pleural cavity, that is, blood around his lung space, so we’re keeping him in to watch it.
"Maybe a few days, two or three, would let us see the trajectory. But for now, he is alive, and we expect he will make a full recovery. You can go home.”
To say relief washed through me was an understatement. I shook his hand, “Thank you, doc.”
“Safe drive home,” he clicked his pen and wrote something off on a clipboard before hurrying down a corridor.
I swallowed a mouthful of the tepid coffee and dropped it into a garbage can as we left the waiting room and headed to the car park. It was a silent drive home, and I had to force myself to concentrate on the road instead of going over the events of the night.
When we did arrive at the ranch, I parked and turned to her, “I don’t give a damn about what anyone else is going to say tomorrow…I want you in my bed tonight.”
I knew she had pulled away, and I knew her hesitation about getting deeper into this, but I did not want to be alone tonight, nor would I imagine she wanted that either. “I don’t want to be alone tonight, and it's just sleep, Zoe. I don’t have the energy or desire for anything else.”
She turned to me. “I don’t want that either.”
We left the car and headed inside; the house was dead silent as I assumed most of the other guys who had been to the fair would probably be fast asleep. We got to my room, and I tugged her gently through a doorway into a luxurious bedroom with soft white bedding turned down and ready.
Instead of flickering on the light, I used the moonlight to undress. There was no finesse in how I yanked my shirt and boots off, but I took more care with her. My big fingers fumbled with the buttons on her button-up blouse, and she let me. I unzipped her jeans and slid them down over her thighs with a sigh.
“Sit on the edge,” I said, kneeling. “I need to take your boots off.”
I pulled them off one by one and tossed them behind me, then pulled her jeans the rest of the way off. Now, she wore only her bra, a lacy nude bra that coordinated with her matching panties. I handed her a spare t-shirt and boxers before I slid into the bed with my dark grey boxers, head pounding.
She pressed her naked body against mine, and I stopped at the feel of her close to me. She was soft and warm, her curves fitting against my harder lines; she smelled so good that I couldn’t stop pressing my nose into her hair.
“He’ll be all right,” she whispered. “Santos is a fighter.”
“I hope so,” I replied, “I felt my heart crumple into rubble when that bull threw him. I know that pain, sweetheart, it's fucking horrible, but I am grateful he has no broken bones or a concussion. That bull was a mean bastard.”
Zoe got up on her elbow and met my eyes. Instead of speaking, she gave me a soft kiss, and damned if I didn’t feel that to my toes. Stroking my jaw where my beard was coming in, she said, “Try to get some sleep tonight, Warrick.”
“Yeah, baby,” I turned onto the pillow and closed my eyes. Pulling her into my front, I replied, “We’ll get a little sleep.”
I must have cursed myself by saying a little sleep because that is all I—we—got. About four a.m., my phone started ringing off the hook. At first, I ignored it, but when I remembered that one of my men was in the hospital, I leaped off the bed and snatched it off the bedside table.
Half-asleep, I was still afraid the doctor was calling to say something unexpected had happened, and Santos was gone. I saw Laura’s name flashing, and I frowned. Why was she calling me?
“Laura?” I asked, sitting up. “What’s going on?”
“Warrick,” her tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “I heard about what happened to Santos, and I am sorry, but that is not what I’m calling about. It’s about Miss Harrington’s car that she left here.”
“What happened to it?” I asked, sliding my legs out from under the covers and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t know if it’s—” she broke off. “I don’t know what to tell you, Warrick. It’s best if you come and see for yourself.”
Now, I was getting worried. “What is it?”
“Please just come see for yourself,” she said. “I know it's late, but I cannot sleep on this.”
Grimacing, I told her I would be there in twenty minutes. As I hung up, Zoe stirred and sat up. Resting a hand on my arm, she asked, “What is going on?”
“We need to go see Laura,” I told her. “Get dressed.”
We threw on some clothes and headed out. The night was as dark as a goddamn tomb, as the moon was descending to the west. Thank God the street lights were on to cut through the gloom as we went to the inn. It was getting close to five in the morning as we met a pacing Laura.
“I am sorry to wake you, but this is—” she shook her head and wrung her hands worriedly. “I don’t know what to make of it.”
Following her, we went to the garage where Zoe had left her car. We bypassed the three cars the inn workers used and got to hers—only for me to jerk in place. Zoe’s gasp was filled with horror—of course it was—the car was wrecked.
The windows were busted, the tires were pancakes, and spray painted on the sides, wrapping around the damn car, were the words: we know who you are.
I turned just as Zoe’s legs gave out from under her, and I grabbed her right before her knees hit the ground. Lifting her into my side, I whispered, “Hold onto me.”
“They know, Warrick.” Her voice was strangled. “They found me.”
They? I thought it was one man.
I wanted to disagree with her, but the words splashed in neon red spoke for themselves. We went to the car, and while Zoe leaned against a wall, I plucked the driver's door open, mindful of the busted glass shards, and looked inside. Had they left a message for her inside, too?
I didn’t see anything, even after rifling through the glove compartment and looking under the seats. I didn’t see more menacing words. Exiting the vehicle, I went to Laura. Resting a hand on her arm, I said, “There is something we need to tell you about how Zara came here. C’mon, let's get into your office and talk.”
Laura’s face fell inch by inch as we told her—well, I told her—about Zara’s stalker. She kept shooting aghast looks at Zoe and looked as horrified as Zoe must have felt by the end. At some point, Laura made tea for us.
“I’m sorry,” Laura said while setting the cups down. “I always take hard news with a cup of tea. Zara, dear, would you mind telling me how long this stalker has been harassing you?”
“I don’t know,” she kept her head down. “I never even knew I had one until the man broke into my apartment and tried to kill me.”
That didn’t sound right.
I hadn’t had any stalkers myself, but back in my heyday, I’d had some super obsessive fans. “Back in the day, I’d had dozens of buckle bunnies send me letters, photos, and even their underwear. I’m surprised you never got anything like that.”
“I—” she sighed, then finally looked up. “—it took me by surprise too.”
“Are the police in your old town looking into it?” Laura asked.
“As far as I was told before I came up here, they are,” she replied. “But I can’t figure out how they followed me here. That car is not registered to me, the plates are not mine, I left without notice, and the only person who knew I was coming up here is my handler and the guys who sent me here.”
Laura and I shared a look, and I didn’t know if she was thinking the same thing I was. “Is there someone here that has any connection with the man you’re running from? How—how could that happen? No one knows you here from Adam.”
“That is strange to me, too,” Laura murmured. “We’re all an extended family here. Who would throw someone under the bus like that?”
“Maybe we don’t know everyone like we think we do,” I replied, while keeping an eye on Zoe.
“But who?” Laura sounded aggrieved. “I hate to think someone here is a traitor.”
Shifting the empty cup to the side, I sighed, “I think we need to go home, Laura. Thank you for letting us know about the car; I’ll deal with it in the morning.”
Laura checked her watch. “In forty-three minutes?”
“Whatever I need to do, I need to do it,” I said. “And do you have a tarp to cover the car with? The police might need to see it.”
“Before we go, I’d like to see it, too,” Zoe replied. “I need to take a couple of pictures and send them to the police in New York.”
That made sense, so we did so. She snapped the pics and a video before we headed back to the ranch, just as dawn was breaking over the treetops. Zoe looked completely defeated, and I didn’t want to push her. When we got to the ranch, I asked her, “Do you want to go back to my room or stay in yours?”
Lifting her head from the frosted window, she replied, “I’d prefer to stay in mine. I need to think a few things over.”
Before she popped the inner handle, I tugged her into a one-armed hug and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be out all day. And don’t worry, I’ll check on Santos too. Get some rest.”
We parted ways in the corridors, and as she went to sleep, I went to shower, dress, and make the blackest coffee I’ve ever had in my life. Marie came in after me—something that was incredibly rare—and greeted me. “Off to the hospital?”
“Yes,” I didn’t need to tell the length and breadth of the situation I had found myself in. I needed to see Tom Callahan, the town sheriff, and take it from there.