Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(3)
The animal bucks and I tighten my core, gaze unbroken. When our eyes lock, I lose sense of everything around me. Forgetting where I am, what I’m supposed to be doing. Then I’m moving in the wrong direction and…
Blair
Bile rises in my throat as Denver climbs into the chute. It doesn’t matter that I grew up here, that I’ve watched rodeos hundreds of times, or that I used to be sitting atop his bucking chute when he rode. The stress of watching anybody willingly put themselves in danger wears on my heart a little bit, but I can’t deny that my anxiety’s skyrocketing now. Seeping into every muscle, ligament, fiber of my being. It’s different watching him.
Licking my lips, I wait with bated breath for the nod. For the release of the unruly bronc. The gate’s flung open and Denver’s feet are up, dulled spurs hitting above the shoulder blades, marking out his legal ride. For a qualified ride, he has to exit the chute in this position, and hold there until the front hooves hit the ground for the first time. Once he’s marked out, the eight seconds are about showmanship just as much as staying in the saddle. And, fuck, Denver Wells has always been great at putting on a show.
One second. His form is perfect—heels firmly held high, arm unmoving, ass barely leaving the saddle. So much better than I remember him riding as a kid.
Two seconds. His heels drag down the horse’s side with impeccable timing, before shooting back up to the shoulders.
Three seconds. The horse turns in my direction. The quiet corner of the arena where I’ve been strategically hidden, avoiding locals. Avoiding him.
Four seconds. I swear his eyes meet mine, though I know there’s no way he’s paying attention to anything except staying on the bucking animal. Tell that to my skipped heartbeat, though.
Five seconds. The horse veers right midair, nearly tossing Denver out of the saddle with the unexpected, jarring turn. Suddenly, he’s struggling to keep his seat, death grip on the bronc rein, free arm fighting for balance. His sand-colored cowboy hat flies in the opposite direction, floating through the air before settling on the ground.
Six seconds. Another sporadic turn, directly toward the fence. Denver is flung off the horse’s side, his back and shoulders slamming into the metal rails, head ringing against a sponsorship sign from Al’s Hardware. He hits the ground with a cloud of dust and emphatic silence from the crowd.
My stomach drops, breathing stops. Stillness hangs over the arena—both the event clock and the overall concept of time stopping as everyone waits for him to get up. Seconds pass, the pickup men get the bronc safely down the alley, and Denver’s still motionless.
Slipping between the rails, I sprint through the thick arena sand, every muscle in my legs burning as I fight to get to him. I throw myself down to the sun-warmed earth, and my right hand clutches the identification around my neck.
“I’m the medic. Stop touching him,” I yell at the cowboys attempting to jostle him back to life. “You want to be useful? Go grab the neck collar and spine board.”
Two things I would’ve brought out myself, had I been in the right mindset at the time of the accident. Had I not been so caught off guard by something as stupid as my high school ex-boyfriend looking in my direction. I’m supposed to be a trained medical professional, not a silly, hormonal teenager. This is why providing medical care to family or friends was against policy at my old job. Except now I’m a nurse practitioner in my tiny hometown, and a policy like that would mean being unable to help pretty much everybody.
“Denver.” His name leaves my dry mouth in a whisper. Then a second time as a plea. “Denver. Denny.”
His long dark eyelashes flutter slowly over his cheek, Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. “Bear?” he whispers.
“Hey. Don’t move, okay?” I place my hand on his tanned forearm to keep him still, catching a glimpse in my periphery of a cowboy running toward us with the equipment I asked for. “How are you feeling?”
“Never been better,” he says with a wincing smile as I delicately slip the collar around his neck.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I stare at him, telling myself I’m only watching for abnormal pupil dilation. But I’m drowning in the molasses of his rich eyes—struggling to pull myself out of the hold they’ve always had over me. A brown hue so many overlook, assuming they’re plain. Except his are flecked with amber and gold, an array of color only visible when you’re close enough to kiss him. “All right, let’s get you into the ambulance and head to Sheridan.”
I motion at the cowboys to grab the spine board, and together we shift him onto it. He’s not a lanky, thin teenage boy anymore, and it takes four of them to carry him out of the arena. Always the life of the party, Denver gives the crowd a small fist pump, which makes them wild. Raucous cheers ring out, and the announcer broadcasts well wishes for the hometown cowboy over the loudspeaker. A smile lights Denver’s face, despite his glassy eyes giving away the intensity of his pain.
By the time we reach the rodeo ambulance, he’s laughing with the guys about having a vendetta against Al from Al’s Hardware now. They load him up while I check in with the other medical volunteer, then I slip onto the small bench seat next to Denver, fighting the urge to look into his eyes again.
It’s a retired ambulance—significantly older than I am, and lacking most current medical equipment. But at least it provides a safe way to transport the many rodeo injuries to the nearest hospital an hour away. The heavy back doors shut with a thud and, less than a minute later, we’re pulling out of the parking lot.