“Like hell you are.” I help him behind the cover of our truck and take a quick look at the wound. The bullet went through the meat of his shoulder, missing the bone but tearing up a lot ofmuscle and probably nicking an artery based on the amount of bleeding.
“We need to get out of here,” he says, trying to push himself up.
“We need to get you to a doctor.” I press my hand against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. “Carson! We need to go…now!”
More gunfire erupts around us, and I can hear Denver shouting something about getting the trailers moving. The cattle that are loaded are bellowing and trying to break down the trailer walls, spooked by all the noise and chaos.
“Jesse, just leave me and get the cattle,” Truett says, his voice getting weaker.
“Not happening.” I key my radio with my free hand. “We’re pulling out now.”
“Negative,” comes Devlin’s voice. “We can still get the last of them loaded if we?—”
“I said we’re pulling out!” I cut him off. “That’s an order!”
The next few minutes are a blur of gunfire, shouting, and controlled chaos. Carson and Denver manage to get their trailer loaded with about half the intended cattle, while Austin helps me get Truett into the passenger seat of our truck before he leaves in his own.
The bleeding isn’t stopping, and Truett’s getting weaker by the minute. I need to get him help, and I need to get it fast.
We peel out of there with bullets still flying, our trailers bouncing over the rough ground as we race back toward the main road. I can see headlights in my rearview mirror. Morrison and his boys are giving chase.
“How you doing, brother?” I ask Truett, who’s slumped against the passenger door.
“Been better,” he manages, but his voice is barely above a whisper now.
I push the truck harder, taking corners that I probably shouldn’t at speeds that would make my insurance company weep. The trailer behind us fishtails on a particularly sharp turn, but somehow stays upright.
The chase doesn’t last long. We lose them after about ten miles, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about Truett’s condition.
His breathing is getting shallow, and the makeshift bandage I’ve pressed against his shoulder is soaked through with blood. He needs real medical attention, and he needs it now.
I grab my phone with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel as we race through the darkness. I know I shouldn’t be calling her—bringing Aubree further into this mess is the last thing I want to do—but she’s the closest thing we have to medical help.
The phone rings once, twice, three times. Come on, Aubree, pick up.
“Jesse?” Her voice is slightly slurred, and I can hear music and laughter in the background. I recognize the noise. She’s at the Rusty Spur, probably with the girls.
“Aubree, I need your help.” I try to keep the panic out of my voice, but I’m not sure I succeed. “We need help, and we need it quick.”
The background noise fades as she moves somewhere quieter. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“It’s Truett. He’s been shot, and he’s losing a lot of blood. We’re heading back to the ranch now, but I don’t know if I can get him to a hospital in time.”
There’s a pause, and I can almost hear her mind working. “How bad is it?”
I look over at Truett, whose eyes are closed and whose breathing is getting more labored. “Bad. Really bad.”
“Okay, listen to me. I’m bringing Nora, and we’ll meet you at the ranch. Do you have anything to stop the bleeding?”
“I’ve got pressure on it, but it’s not enough.”
“Keep the pressure on and try to keep him conscious if you can. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”
“Aubree—”
“Don’t,” she cuts me off. “Don’t you dare apologize or try to explain right now. Just get him home alive, you hear me?”
The line goes dead, and I toss the phone aside. Ahead of me, I can see the lights of the other trucks. Carson’s voice crackles through the radio.
