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.Thisis 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 theother 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.
I didn’t anticipate being alone with my ex-boyfriend when I signed up to provide medical assistance at the local rodeo. Thank God for the paperwork keeping me occupied. And for the potholed road which requires me to take my time, struggling to keep my printing legible as the rickety vehicle careens down the highway away from Wells Canyon. Without something to keep my hands and mind busy, I might make a stupid choice, like trying to talk to the man lying in front ofme.
He looks older, but so many years have passed, it makes sense.When was the last time I saw him?A cursory glance at the café when I was home for Christmas a few years ago, I think. He didn’t see me.
When was the last time he saw me? How much older do I look?
For a long while, the only sounds are rattling equipment and our driver, Johnny, singing along to a Creedence Clearwater Revival cassette tape. The way his voice cracks during “Fortunate Son” is veryunfortunate, but I welcome the distraction.
Denver’s eyes are boring into the top of my skull long before he speaks. “So, you’re back in town.”
“Seems so.”
“Since when?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Few weeks.”
“For how long?”
I sigh. “Don’t know.”
I didn’t want to move back to my hometown in the first place. In fact, I’ve avoided Wells Canyon as much as humanly possible for the last decade. But now, thinking about leaving means thinking about my mom’s Alzheimer’s disease progressing beyond what my dad and I can handle ourselves. It means thinking about moving her into long-term care or hospice. So, as much as I don’t want to be here, I can’t stand the thought of what the end date of my stay means.
“Are you capable of answering with more than two-word sentences?”
I glance up to catch him smirking at me. I tap the pen against my clipboard and consider telling him I havemuchmore than two words I could say to him. There are so many unorganized thoughts in my brain, I don’t know where to begin.
“Yeah,no.” I count the words on my fingers, shaking my head as I return to the incident report on my lap. Filling out the paperwork only serves as a reminder that I used to know every single detail about this boy. Now my knowledge is restricted to full name, birth date, and blood type.
“Is your girlfriend your emergency contact?”
“So youarecapable of more than two words. I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Does the blonde you were with behind the chutes know that?”
