Bushmaster rushed at them like a freight train, and he could feel the blow of hot breath and snot on his back when the weirdest thing happened. The bull turned right off him, hooves brushing his ribs, Coop’s arm.
What the fuck?
He lifted his head, staring right at Dillon, who was waving his arms furiously, just inches away from the bull. “Dillon! Run! Nattie! I need you!”
Up!
Up, god damn it, Coke!
Dillon’s eyes cut to his for less than half a second before Dillon turned and ran. Shit, that boy could run like the wind, had been all-star in track. Bushmaster caught up with him, though. Took about two steps.
Jason’s last ride flashed into his head, Danny’s boy caving to the ground, crumpled and broke and blind and… He roared, launching himself at Bushmaster as that head lowered.
Just about the time he reached for that leathery tail one more time, Dillon shot up in the air, spinning like a kung fu movie character. Dillon hit the dirt like a rag doll, out before he even landed.
“No!” He whipped around, coming eye-to-eye with that sorry bastard, and bashed the bull in the nose, hard enough that he felt something in his hand crack.
“Coke, move!” Nate shouted, and Adam’s rope came down, wrapping around the bull’s neck. That cow horse wheeled, Adam’s quick fingers wrapping the rope around the saddle horn. Suddenly it was all over, Bushmaster running along head down, trying to get the rope off, heading right out of the arena one more time.
He got to Dillon, one hand moving to shake the man before he thought. “Dillon!”
Blue eyes popped open, Dillon’s hands coming up to ward him off, like he was the bull, still there. “Shit. Shit. Coke?”
“Yes. Yes, what hurts?” Can you fucking see me?
“Uh.” Laughing a little, Dillon grabbed his arm and levered to a sitting position. “My butt, for one.”
“Get the doc out here!” He wasn’t laughing, not at all. “Coop? You good?”
He could hear David, the arena announcer, calling for a longer break, asking the crowd to be patient and not worry, could hear the murmur of the crowd. Nate was creaking over to Coop, touching the man’s back.
“M’okay. Just get me out of here,” Cooper grunted, barely audible.
He looked over, closing his eyes, praying a second.Please, Jesus. Keep ‘em whole. Please, Jesus, watch your cowboys. Please.“Nate? You?”
“Fine, boss.”
Doc Madding and the sport medicine team sprinted intothe arena, heading for Coop first, since he still wasn’t up, wasn’t moving.
“Come on. Can you stand up?”Coke’s hand was throbbing, his head swimming like nothing going.
“Stand.” Dillon contemplated that for a couple of seconds. “Yeah. I can if you can. Are you okay? Is anything broken?”
“I’ll live. Up.” The crowd was watching them all like hawks. “Come on, before Ace comes down here.”
“Oh, God. Not Ace.” Dillon unfolded, standing up, a little unsteady but not busted. Only bleeding a little.
“Wave to the crowd.”
“My headset’s gone.” Dillon nodded to the crowd, one hand going behind his back to check for his battery pack. “So’s my pack. I need a… I need. Coke, your hand is purple.”
“Wave to the motherfucking crowd, Dillon.” He got Dillon moving, knowing they had to get things going again.
“I am! Don’t you yell at me!” Maybe Dillon thought he was waving, but that arm was barely moving.
“Look. You fucking get in here and play with us? You play by our rules. You smile and wave and pretend it don’t hurt.” Dillon could have died—no safety gear. No vest. No pads.
Dillon stopped a moment and stared at him, hurt flashing in those watery blue eyes. Then the man pasted on a smile and stepped away from him, raising the other arm and giving the crowd a big wave.
