Authors: Mandy Hubbard
There’s a commotion at the other end of the arena, and it’s obvious the guys are loading the chutes, because I see a white-faced steer pop into view as he crow-hops inside the little box. Landon climbs aboard his horse with his usual practiced ease, settling into the saddle before turning away and starting his warm-up.
Either he doesn’t notice us or he’s ignoring me, because he stays at the other end of the arena, trotting in lazy, large circles rather than hugging the rail and coming all the way around, to where Bailey and I are sitting.
“He’s totally ignoring you,” Bailey says, voicing my thoughts.
“Good,” I say. “I really don’t want to talk to him.”
“We can’t possibly nail him with ball-exploding devices all the way over here,” she says.
“A real tragedy,” I say, smiling. Somehow when she’s by my side I feel less like I’m about to come undone.
“Why’d he toss his rope?” she asks, gesturing to where he hooked it over a post.
“Maybe he’s practicing steer wrestling first,” I say. “It’s his best event.”
“Because he’s just psycho enough to hurtle himself from a horse at a full gallop and hope that the cow will break his fall?” Bailey says.
“Pretty much.”
I watch Landon as he circles around one more time, then slows to a walk and heads over to the big boxed area. Then he turns Storm, who is prancing like it’s his job, and backs him up into the box.
The horse’s muscles quiver and he snorts, trembling with excitement. The other rider—the guide horse—backs into the box on the opposite side of the chute. This guy’s job is just to run in a straight line, ensuring the steer has to run directly to the other side of the arena.
I was right, it’s steer wrestling. The same configuration as team roping, but neither of them has a rope.
Despite my loathing of all things Landon, I can’t help the jump in my pulse as he nods, his cowboy hat bobbing to indicate he’s ready.
A guy on the ground yanks a lever and the steer bursts from the chute, and Storm jumps forward, going from a dead stop to a full-blown gallop in a single stride. The rider on the opposite side of the steer leaps forward, and the two gallop ahead, the steer between them, looking tiny in comparison to the giant horses.
Halfway down the arena, Landon lets go of the reins, leaning in low. He slides from the saddle, positioned just right. …
And then the steer makes an odd little hop of sorts … and Landon’s sliding down …
Until he slams into the ground.
I’m in the dirt and running toward Landon before I even process what I’m doing. The other rider has his back to Landon, loping after Storm in order to keep the horse from running too long and letting the reins droop low enough to catch in the horse’s hooves. The guy is clearly unaware that Storm’s rider is lying completely immobile in the dirt. Meanwhile the steer, unscathed, trots back the way it came.
I slide to my knees when I get closer, my stomach climbing into my throat as I realize his eyes are shut and he’s not moving.
“Landon!” I say, afraid to touch him. His hat landed back at least a dozen feet, and his arm is sort of jacked underneath him.
Stupid, stupid boy
. He should have followed the helmet rule, but he’s too busy trying to be one of the ultra-tough cowboys.
“Landon!” I reach out to touch his shoulder, but then I stop, unsure if that would make it worse. What are the rules with
falls? What’s more important, spinal injury or making sure he’s breathing? It’s gotta be the breathing, right?
Bailey falls to her knees beside me just as a few people call out, followed by the clanging of the gate and footsteps as the other guys flood toward us.
Landon’s eyelids flutter, but he keeps his eyes shut as he moans, shifting just enough that he’s not lying on his arm anymore. “Oh thank God,” I say, finally touching his shoulder. “Landon, wake up.”
I exchange a worried glance with Bailey and then Landon’s eyes open, but he’s blinking, again and again and again, like he’s having trouble focusing. I lean in, planning to take his pulse, but when my fingers touch his throat his eyes find mine, and I freeze.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice a little breathless and pained.
“Um …” Is it bad to tell him he just crash-landed on his head? Would that be too jarring or something?
“Be honest, babe.”
I recoil, my fingers leaving the warmth of his throat as I look up at Bailey’s furrowed brow and parted lips.
“Uh,” I say, and then swallow. “You just kind of bit it while you were steer wrestling. Like, totally missed and landed. You know, on your head.”
He’s silent for a heartbeat. Maybe I’m not supposed to tell him about a traumatic event if he doesn’t remember it. Maybe I was supposed to make up some crap that wouldn’t sound too scary.
“Can I sit up?” he asks.
The other two cowboys just shrug.
Awesome, great support, guys
. Then again it’s not like either of them would expect much assistance. They’re the type who don’t believe in crying and think whiskey is the cure to just about anything. They’d never drink on the job, but that’s about the only place they draw the line.
“Um, I don’t know,” I say, honestly. Is he allowed to sit up or should I force him to lie in the dirt until we know the extent of his injuries? I turn to Bailey. “Can you go grab Dr. Phillips from the spa?”
She narrows her eyes. “He’s a cosmetic dentist. I really don’t think now is the time for an emergency tooth-whitening procedure.”
I wave my hand around. “Oh, no, not that one. The other one. Dr. Franks or whatever.”
“Dr. Franc. He’s an acupuncturist. I don’t think Landon’s in need of stress relief. …”
“Seriously, Bailey, just go to the spa and grab the first person you see with ‘Dr.’ on their name tag, please? Our options are a little limited.”
“Okay, okay,” she mutters, putting her hands up in a surrender pose. I watch as she jogs across the arena and then slips between two iron railings.
“And you two. Go find Marshall,” I say. The barn boss must know what to do in case of an accident, right?
But once they’re all gone, I’m alone with Landon and more uncertain than ever.
“Can I
please
sit up? I think my ears are full of dirt,” Landon grumbles.
I glance back toward the spa, wondering how long it will be before Bailey returns. Landon
does
look a little ridiculous
sprawled out in the dirt. “Uh, I guess,” I say. “But don’t stand yet. We need to wait for the doctor.”
He reaches for my arm and I can’t help but assist him, until he’s sitting up and oddly … leaning on me. I guess he forgot about our fight last night, or maybe his head is pounding so hard he just doesn’t care.
We sit there for a second while he gains his bearings, and then he frowns, rubbing his temple. “I feel like I got kicked in the head by Twister.”
“Uh, except they got rid of Twister, like, a year ago.”
He laughs and then grimaces. “I saw him yesterday,” he says. “Out in the west field with the heifers.”
I open my mouth to argue, because there’s
no way
he saw a bull that’s been gone for almost a year, and the heifers aren’t even in that field right now, but then realize it’s stupid. Who cares about a bull? He probably just rattled some screws loose, and he’ll remember soon.
“You’re really cute when you’re worried,” he says, wincing again.
What the? Is he so focused on playing me he’ll do it even over a major head injury? I don’t know what to say to him, so I just snap my mouth shut and grit my teeth, looking forward to moving away from him once he’s been taken care of.
“Oh good, she’s coming back already,” I say as I spot a little white golf cart approaching the side of the arena, Bailey riding shotgun beside a guy in a silver button-down shirt and baby-blue tie.
We wait as Bailey jumps out, followed by the guy I hope is a doctor, despite his lack of white coat or stethoscope. The man
kneels in front of Landon, and I get to my feet, standing next to Bailey.
“Bailey tells me you took a spill,” he says. “I’m going to check your pupils for dilation, okay?”
Before Landon can react, the man shines a bright light directly into Landon’s eye, causing him to blink rapidly before pulling back and rubbing his eyes.
Without saying anything, the doctor runs one of his hands into Landon’s thick blond hair, as if to check for bumps. When he pulls his hand back, Landon’s hair is sticking up on one side. “Any dizziness?”
“A little.”
“That’s normal. If it persists or gets worse, then you should be worried. Headache?”
“Pounding,” Landon says, rubbing at his temple.
“Also normal.”
Marshall ambles over then, not looking at all in a hurry. He stops next to me just as the doctor stands. “If he starts breathing unevenly, becomes confused and disoriented, or slurs his speech, take him to the hospital. Otherwise it appears to be a standard concussion. Keep him off the horse for a few days, because you don’t want a second concussion on top of this one—that can get serious.”
I nod. A standard concussion. Right. “He didn’t remember what happened,” I say.
“Eh,” Marshall says, unimpressed. “I got thrown from a stud ten years ago. Still don’t remember untacking him or turning him out afterward, but I’m told I did. Landon’s a tough dude.”
And I swear Landon actually smiles at the praise.
The doctor narrows his eyes. “Right, uh, a little memory loss is common. Some get it back, some don’t. It’s our mind’s way of coping. Don’t stress it.”
I nod. Right. Okay, then.
“Someone needs to check on him throughout tonight just to be sure he’s still feeling okay. Wake him up every hour or so, ask him a couple of mundane questions to be sure his condition hasn’t changed.”
“Gotcha. I can handle that,” I say.
The doctor nods, as if satisfied, and then dusts his hands off. “All right then. You should be fine.”
And then the doctor is gone, crossing the dirt.
I turn to Bailey. “Who was that?”
She cringes, her nose wrinkling up.
“No seriously,” I whisper to her, just out of Landon’s earshot. “I have never seen that guy before.”
“Technically he’s some kind of nurse.”
“I told you to get a doctor!” I whisper-shout, no longer sure it matters, since Landon is so out of it.
“He practically is one!” Bailey says, throwing her hands up. “He does the Botox.”
“Bailey!”
“What? I figured he had some kind of training. I mean they let the man stab people in the face with a needle.”
I’m chewing on my lip so hard it starts to hurt.
“He seemed like he knew what he was talking about,” she says, softer now. “And Marshall’s not worried and the dude has probably been bucked off a hundred horses. We watch Landon for symptoms. If he doesn’t get worse, he’s probably fine. I’ll find Dr. Franc later and confirm with him, okay?”
Landon, still sitting near our feet, clears his throat. “So … can I get up now? I think I’m sitting on a rock.”
I crouch down beside him. “Um, okay, yeah. Let’s get you up and to your cabin. You need ice and aspirin and then we can decide if you should hit up the ER.”
“No ER,” he says adamantly. But I don’t miss the way his eyes flick up to Marshall. “I really just want to lie down for a while.”
I try not to roll my eyes, wondering if that’s really it or if he wants to impress his hardened boss. I mean, going to the ER is so not something cowboys do around here, and even I know it. Upper management would support it, of course, but around the barn it’s like a code of honor that you take your licks and keep on kicking. And if it’s really just a normal concussion anyway, maybe that’s okay for once.
He accepts my hand and that of Marshall as he climbs awkwardly to his feet, swaying. Marshall and I steady him, until he’s standing upright. I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until a heartbeat later, when I exhale, long and slow. Maybe we’re out of the woods.
“You’re so good to me,” he mumbles, wrapping his arm more tightly around my shoulder and leaning in to kiss my temple. I shoot a panicked look at Bailey.
“What the heck?”
she mouths.
“I don’t know
,” I mouth back. His brain is obviously scrambled if he thinks I’m okay with him being all lovey-dovey after last night’s blowout.
We escort him down the pathways, Bailey leading the way to cabin 10, a row behind our own. “I’m that way,” he says, pointing to a small cluster of cabins across the yellowing lawn. “Cabin six,” he says.
“No, you’re not,” I say. “That was last year.”
“I know where I’m staying,” he says, leaning the other way, pulling me with him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, barely keeping him on his feet. Does this count as disoriented, like that Botox dude said? Or is it the totally normal part of memory loss? “We, uh, moved your stuff this morning. There was, uh, a rat infestation in your original cabin.”
I don’t know what’s up with him, but I’m not about to let him drag me across the ranch when his cabin is a dozen yards away. Not to mention, Grant Porter, one of the oldest ranch hands, is living in cabin 6 this year, and he’s grouchy as all get-out. He’d be ticked if we strolled into his cabin just to prove a point to a concussed teenager.
We stumble through his cabin door and I lower him, with considerable effort, onto the couch, dropping him the final few inches. “Owww,” he says, leaning back into the armrest. “You owe me one of your shoulder rubs now,” he mumbles.
Yeah, right! That is so twelve months ago.
“You be sure to check in with me later and let me know how he’s doing,” Marshall says as he heads to the door. I guess I knew not to expect much nursing. He’s not exactly the type.
“Have you really landed on your head as hard as he did?” I ask, looking up at my boss.
“Sure.” He snorts. “He’ll bounce back.”
I nod. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
“Yep. And like I said, touch base with me later. I’ve gotta call in the feed orders.”
I watch him go before walking back over to where Landon is sprawled across the couch.