Slow Hand (26 page)

“Who said anything about mattress dancing?” Grady smirked. “I'm only offering you a drink after the rodeo—Dirk will be buying of course.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.”

“Then how 'bout another wager? One just between you and me?”

“What kind of wager?” She knew better than to commit to anything Grady came up with without hearing all the details first.

“If I beat his ride you'll go to the party with me after the rodeo.”

“Isn't it a private event, only for the team members?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “But I'm on the team and I'm inviting you.”

“I'll think about it, Grady.” Janice eyed the bull, hoping to hide the sudden flush in her face. Mag appeared deceptively docile, but there was a dangerous fire blazing in his eyes. Her gut told her the bull was gonna blow.

As the daughter of a stock contractor she'd seen more rodeos than she could remember, and more wrecks than she could ever forget, but no matter how hard she tried, she'd never become desensitized to the gory aftermath of any bull ride gone bad—usually resulting in lots of blood and mangled bones twisted at unnatural angles.

Up to this point, the finals had been surprisingly free of injuries, but the bull riding was where most of them happened. The last seconds in the chute never failed to send Janice's heart into her throat. She'd kept a close tally of Dirk's points and knew just covering this bull was all he needed. She hoped he wouldn't slough off her advice about spurring. Her fingers closed tightly around the cold steel of the chute panel as Dirk raised his right arm and nodded at the gateman.

* * *

Straddling the rails above the bull, Dirk focused solely on his routine. Releasing one foot at a time from the steel rail, he stepped lightly onto the bull's back, testing Mag's reaction and then easing himself into position behind the animal's massive shoulders. The bull snorted, pawed, and then tensed, a dangerous shiver of awareness rippling through the three-quarter-ton beast.

Wrapping his gloved hand around his rope, he gave a few swift jerks up and down and then pulled the sticky, rosin-coated rope through his hand in a suicide wrap. Closing his fist, Dirk sidled his hips up closer to his hand and then pounded his closed fist to cement his hold.

Although he'd spent plenty of time backing broncs, nothing on earth compared to the addictive rush of a bull ride. The sensation of backing a bull was a heady shot of pure adrenaline that coursed through his body, exciting every nerve. Just like a junkie seeking the next “fix,” hundreds of cowboys risked life and limb grasping for the elusive eight second high.

It was balls to the wall every time the chute opened.

He inhaled deeply and then slowly emptied his lungs. In these final seconds his senses were hyperaware. Everything seemed magnified—the noise of the crowd buzzing in his ears, the familiar smells of dirt, sweat, and cow shit. Dirk shut his eyes, and closed his mind to everything but the snorting mass of muscle and sinew under him. “Fuck Grady,” he murmured. “This is between you and me, Mag. It's just us.”

With his jaw set in fierce concentration, Dirk opened his eyes, raised his right arm, acutely aware of his own heartbeat, of the sensation of his blood pulsing through his veins, of the metallic click of the gate latch echoing in his ears, as he gave the nod to the chuteman.

The gate swung free to the last gong of AC/DC's “Hells Bells,” and Mag exploded out of it like a derailed freight train. With his body jerking in all directions at once, Dirk countered the frenetic and frenzied fits of jumps, kicks, dives, and spins in the battle of domination with the bull.

With his right arm ever reaching for that precarious sweet spot of equilibrium, Dirk rose into his riding hand on each kick, and pushed his fist deep into the bull's shoulder on every rear, following the bull's lead in the deadly dance. Hell bent on hurling him through the air, the bull snorted and grunted with the jarring force of each buck and kick.

Heeding Janice's advice, Dirk held off plying his heel—at least for the first five or six seconds, but with only a second or two remaining, he raked his spurs upward into the bull's hide hoping to score extra points. Just as Janice had warned, Mag kicked up with a furious toss of his horned head that narrowly missed Dirk's face. Undeterred, he dropped his heels back into position for another go—but the buzzer sounded.

Dirk fisted the air to proclaim his victory, but a millisecond later when he grabbed the rope tail to release himself, the bull dropped his head and ducked off into a hard right that threw his body hard left. And in the blink of an eye he was cast into the middle of a slow motion nightmare. Time seemed suspended as Dirk flailed for balance—completely at the mercy of a raging bull.

Mag bucked, leaped, and jackknifed in midair only to land in a clockwise spin that pitched Dirk over the bull's right side—into the well of the spin. He struggled to keep his wits about him and his feet on the ground long enough to free himself, but the bull had other ideas, hooking him with his horns, and tossing him into the air and onto the other side ... now the outside of the spin.

White hot pain seared through his arm and shoulder while Mag spun with enough momentum to turn Dirk into a horizontal propeller blade. Twisted the wrong way in the bullrope, his left hand had gone completely numb, while his right arm that he needed to free it, jerked helplessly in the air in rhythm with the bucking bull.

The first bullfighter appeared in the periphery of his vision, but with his feet dragging and scrambling for purchase, Dirk was powerless to help himself. With his attention now fixed on the bullfighter, Mag whipped around the other way to harrow the fighter across the arena like a super-charged John Deer.

Horses, ropes, and two more blurry bodies appeared, but true to his name, Mag was a force to be reckoned with—bucking, charging, and dragging Dirk helplessly along with his body flailing like a rag doll. Dirk's chest was heaving and sweat poured off his body in his effort to prevent his complete mutilation, but he was losing it fast.

“Hang on, cowboy! Stay on your goddamn feet until we shut this motherfucker down!” Grady's voice was the last thing Dirk heard before the bull's horns struck again, slamming into his head and then ramming his ribcage. Pain, blinding and deafening exploded inside him, wiping his mind and sucking him down into its black void.

* * *

“Fucked that one up but good, din't ya, cowboy?” Grady's face came slowly into focus.

“Made the whistle, didn't I?” Dirk grunted back through the racking spasms in his ribcage. His head pounded like hell and it hurt like a sonofabitch just to breathe. He spat a mouthful of blood and then searched with his tongue for any missing teeth. Satisfied they were still intact, he performed a tactile survey of his face, squinting at fingers that came away smeared with blood. “Holy shit! How bad is it?”

“Coulda been a lot worse. Looks like the cocksucker only broke your nose. Don't sweat it though, pretty boy. It's an improvement.” Grady grinned. “'Sides, chicks dig scars.”

“Not Rachel,” Dirk groaned. “She's gonna be pissed.” That was for damn sure. They were supposed to have photos taken together at the after party for her Miss Rodeo America campaign.

“Talk about pussy whipped,” Grady mumbled with a head shake.

“How many points?” Dirk asked, eager to know. It had been a hell of a ride. Roughest ever, but at least he'd covered the bull. The hang-up afterward wouldn't count against him.

“Eighty-eight,” his buddy answered with a scowl. “But that motherfucking bull did all the work. He scored forty-nine of it.”

A grin broke over Dirk's blood and muck-smeared face. “Beat your last ride by two points, didn't I? Looks like you're gonna be buying the drinks.”

“I still have another go, but even if I don't out ride you on the next one, you owe drinks to the whole damned team for that dinked up performance.”

“A bet's a bet, Grady.” Dirk tried to sit up and hissed with pain.

“Hold on there, cowboy.” A hand landed firmly on Dirk's shoulder. “Gotta check you out first.”

“Says who?” Dirk tried to look up but a foam cervical collar restricted his movement.

“Says me. I'm Josh, the chief medic here. It's good that you've revived so quickly, but a loss of consciousness suggests a concussion. How do you feel?”

Pretty fucked up.
“Fine, except my shoulder,” Dirk lied. He knew for a fact
that
was screwed up, but the bone-jarring pain that jolted him with every breath told him he'd probably busted a couple of ribs too. He hoped he hadn't punctured a lung but wasn't about to volunteer anything that might put him on an ambulance.

Josh palpated his left shoulder.

“Sonofabitch,” Dirk groaned.

“Looks like you've got an anterior dislocation. Have you ever had one before?”

“Yeah. Once. Long time ago.”

“That makes repositioning the bone back into the joint a lot easier.”

Dirk gritted his teeth. “Just do it, all right?”

“A few questions and we'll take care of it. What's your full name?”

“Justin Dirk Knowlton.”

“What's the date?”

“June…”
What day was it anyway?
Dirk squeezed his eyes shut. It was right on the tip of his tongue. “Thirteen…
shit, no
…fourteen.”

Josh's mouth tightened. “Where are we?”

Dirk gazed up at the stands again, blinking several times to force his vision back into focus. This one was easier. “The rodeo.”

“Which one?”

“What the hell does it matter? They all look the same from down here.” He grimaced. “They smell the same too.”

The medic frowned and scribbled some notes. Grady squatted beside him with a muffled cough that sounded a lot like “Casper.”

“We're at the Finals,” Dirk blurted. “In Casper. Will you
please
put this damn shoulder back in now?” Dirk looked up into the stands where spectators leaned over the rails for a better look. He despised being on display all sprawled out in the dirt.

Janice had now joined Grady and a number of others crowded behind her to gawk. “C'mon,” Dirk insisted. “Don't make me lie here like a jackass.”

“Please, Dirk,” Janice pleaded. “Just let him check you out and make sure you're ok.”

“Look,” Dirk protested, “my brain's not scrambled. I just need my shoulder put back in.” He raised his right arm and ripped off the Velcro collar. “If you won't do it for me,” he challenged the medic, “Grady will.”

“It'd be my pleasure.” Grady grinned.

Dirk reached a hand up to Grady who hauled him back to his feet, actions that incited a wave of spectator applause, whistles, and cheers. “Where's my hat?” Dirk demanded.

“Here.” Janice handed him the dirt-covered Stetson with a look of mixed concern and disapproval. “Are you sure you should be on your feet already?”

“I'm standin', ain't I?” Dirk placed the hat solidly back on his head. “I've held up this show long enough.”

“All right. All right,” the medic grumbled in defeat. “We'll finish this up back in the med trailer.”

Leaning heavily on Grady, Dirk staggered out to the mobile triage unit. Moments later, he was lying on the paper-covered exam table, bracing himself for the inevitable.

“Relax your left arm and don't fight me,” Josh said. “This is gonna hurt pretty bad for a minute or two, but then it'll feel a whole lot better.”

Dirk dropped his left arm by his side as instructed, grinding his teeth as the medic raised, rotated, and then jammed the bone back into place with an audible pop.

“It'll hurt much worse tomorrow. You'll need to wear a supportive sling for a few days. No drinking or riding of any kind for at least a couple of weeks.”

“Weeks? Yeah. Right.” Dirk laughed and then winced in pain. His left hand was swelling up like a friggin' balloon. He couldn't make a fist and hoped it wasn't destroyed. His ribs were probably cracked but there was nothing to be done for that and he wasn't about to stand for any more poking around when Grady was about to ride.

“I mean that about the drinking, Dirk. Especially tonight. The body responds unpredictably to alcohol following any kind of head trauma. The injury lowers tolerance and reduces cognitive function, not to mention impairing the brain's healing abilities.” Josh's gaze met Dirk's and held. “It could even trigger a seizure.”

“Right. No drinking. Heard ya the first time,” Dirk replied.

Favoring his left side, he pushed up into a sitting position and then slowly stood, pausing only long enough for the world to stop spinning. He rolled his shoulder forward and then backward, finding his agony had been almost completely alleviated. “Thanks.” He tipped his hat and made for the door.

“Hold on, cowboy,” Josh protested. “I'm not finished.”

“Then you'll have to continue without me. Gotta go now,” Dirk shot over his shoulder. “My buddy's up next.”

* * *

Dirk emerged from the med trailer on his own, albeit a little unsteady. Janice watched him out of the corner of her eye as she flanked the next two bulls. With his arms over his chest and one booted ankle crossed over the other, he leaned against the chute to watch the last two rides. It was a deceptively casual pose that might have fooled anyone who didn't know him, but she could tell by his pallor and shallow breathing that he hurt far more than he was willing to show. A moment later the medic brought him a sling, but he didn't put it on.

“C'mon, Dirk. Don't be a dumb-ass. Let me help you with that.”

“Don't need it,” he growled.

“Then why are you favoring the arm?”

He released it instantly from his chest with a scowl.

“Please,” she cajoled. “No one's gonna think less of you for wearing the sling. Everyone saw how that bull freight-trained you.”