"I was driving too fast. He'd pulled over, checking his trailer lights, I think. I came around the curve and didn't have time to stop." The words came out mechanically, rehearsed-sounding even though I'd never said them before. "I hit the trailer."
"How fast were you going?"
I closed my eyes. "Ninety. Maybe more."
Officer Daniels' pen stopped moving. He looked up at me, and recognition flickered across his features. "You’re Easton Henley from the Shadow Wolves."
Not a question. A statement.
"Yeah."
"You know the speed limit on this road is forty-five, Mr. Henley."
"I know."
This was real. This was happening. And no amount of money or fame or skill on the ice would undo it.
The paramedics tried to guide me toward the ambulance, but I shook them off. "I'm fine. Help the horses."
"Sir, you're bleeding."
"I said I'm fine!" The words gritted through my teeth, coming out harsher than I intended. The female paramedic stepped back, hands raised in a placating gesture.
Officer Branson moved between us. "Mr. Henley, I understand you're upset, but you need to let them do their job. And you need to cooperate."
I forced myself to breathe. To unclench my fists. "I'm sorry. I just…the horses are more important."
"Like I said, the vet's with them now. Let these folks make sure you're okay."
The paramedics were professional and efficient. Checked my pupils with a light that made my head throb worse. One of them took my blood pressure, and the other examined the cuts on my face and the bruising across my chest from the seatbelt.
"You should really go to the hospital," the male paramedic said. "Possible concussion, definitely some bruised ribs. You took a hard hit."
"No hospital."
"Sir—"
"No. Hospital." My voice came out flat, final. "I'm refusing treatment."
He exchanged a glance with his partner, then pulled out a tablet. "Then I need you to sign a waiver acknowledging that you're refusing care against medical advice."
I signed it without reading. What did it matter? My body would heal. The damage I'd done wouldn't.
From inside the trailer, I heard the vet's voice. "Easy, girl. Easy now. I've got you. That's it. Let me see that leg."
I could hear fear creeping out of the other driver’s voice. "How bad is it, Dr. Lane?"
The vet didn't answer immediately. I stood, ignoring the paramedic's protest, and moved closer to the trailer
Officer Branson caught my arm. "Mr. Henley, you need to stay back."
"Please." The word came out broken. "I need to see."
Something on my face must have convinced him, because he nodded slowly and released my arm. But he stayed close, ready to intervene if needed.
I stopped just short of the trailer when the veterinarian and the driver led the three horses out of the trailer, the scent of hay and horse mingling in the air. One stood on three legs, the fourth held gingerly off the ground. Blood matted its coat. Another had a deep gash across its shoulder, and a third was trembling violently, eyes rolling white with fear.
Looking inside the trailer, a fourth horse remained. The vet went back inside and worked carefully, her movements precise despite the urgency.
