“Not normally. Jake raises his the right way, trainin’ ‘em from the minute they drop. Bill was just pure neglectful with this animal, and now he wants Jake to cure his problems for him.”
Another ragged cheer went up as the horse reared and then kicked, still not displacing Jake. Amanda’s chest was beginning to hurt.
“He’s going to kill himself,” she whispered.
It was an even more impressive spectacle than Jake on the gray. Man and animal battled this time, and the look on Jake’s face was fierce. His hat was crammed low as he bent his head toward the horse. His expression was pure steel, the line of his jaw rigid, his eyes focused like lasers on the animal beneath him, as if he could communicate with the animal telepathically, beating him into submission with just the force of his mind. One hand gripped the reins and the other flailed free.
“Don’t go to leather, Jake!” somebody crowed.
Amanda reached for the door without even thinking. Betty grabbed her hand.
“Stay here,” she suggested in a tone that brooked no comment. “Nothing you can do out there you can’t do here.”
Amanda looked over at the woman in surprise.
“Jake knows what he’s doing,” Betty assured her without looking her way.
But even Betty didn’t sound like she believed it. She’d said Jake had been in a temper that morning. Why? Why was he so determined suddenly to risk at least injury on a horse that looked at least three-fourths frothing crazy? Why did he look more driven up there than determined? Amanda didn’t go out the door. But she turned back to watch with her heart in her throat, sure somehow that she was responsible.
For a minute, it looked like Jake was going to win. The big palomino slowed a little, trotting around the corral and only launching into the air on every third step or so. Amanda could hear the surprised chatter from the hands. She could see the cautious straightening in Jake’s posture. Her own stomach eased far enough out of her throat to allow a decent breath, and even Betty seemed on the verge of a smile.
Then, suddenly, the horse bolted. Amanda wasn’t exactly sure what happened. It seemed almost as if he’d had a seizure. He lifted straight in the air and twisted at the same time, screaming in fury. Jake stayed with him until he hit the ground and tumbled over his own feet. Jake sailed right over the horse’s head. The palomino rolled after him.
Amanda made a convulsive move for the door. Betty held her back.
“He’s fine,” she chanted as the men jumped off the fence and began trying to restrain the horse and get to Jake. “He’s fine.”
But he wasn’t. He didn’t move when Clovis bent over him. Amanda could see his boot-clad legs and nothing else stretched out in the mud. Three men crowded around, all frowning and murmuring. Clovis lifted a very worried face toward the ranch house, and Betty let go of Amanda’s hand.
“All right,” she snapped. “Now go on out. Tell Clovis I’m callin’.”
Amanda ran. Now that he’d freed himself of his rider, the palomino followed quietly to the next corral. Clovis and José bent over the crumpled form in the mud, frozen and uncertain. Amanda made it to the corral and squeezed in through the railings.
“Don’t move him,” she panted, terror squeezing her throat.
“Wasn’t about to,” Clovis assured her. “Is Betty calling?”
Amanda nodded as she crouched down beside him. Jake was on his back, his hat off, his legs twisted a little beneath him. His face was ashen, and blood streamed from a cut over his eye.
“I think ole Sidewinder nailed him with a shoe on the way by,” Clovis commented, still crouched, his hands fluttering a little in impotence.
Amanda opened the top buttons of Jake’s shirt and yanked out his own handkerchief to stem the blood. He was breathing, she could see it. His pulse was thready. It suddenly infuriated her that she didn’t know enough to help him—that nobody on the ranch knew enough to help him. She was an author, not a paramedic, for heaven’s sake. She shouldn’t be the only one capable of action.
“Don’t any of you know first aid?” she demanded, shaking at the pallor of Jake’s skin.
Clovis offered a very weak smile. “Sight o’ blood makes me sick.”
José seemed to find the need to retreat to his mother language for solace. Amanda turned back to Jake, not sure whether to chafe his wrists or wring her own hands. “Well, I hope it was the paramedics Betty was calling in there.”
“Better not be,” Jake grated between clenched teeth.
He still hadn’t opened his eyes, and his color certainly didn’t look any better, but Amanda was damn near reduced to tears of relief.
“Are you all right?” she asked, thinking that it was the most stupid thing she’d ever said.
“Kind of a dumb question,” he answered, his voice faint and strained, his eyes still closed. “I just... fell off a horse.”
She wanted to grin. She wanted to touch him and couldn’t. “You hit the ground doing about sixty, I think. Betty called for help.”
