“I got her. I got her,” a man said.
“Careful, Lucky,” Swayzie said. “Her head’s bleeding.”
“Maverik, go get my keys,” Hunter ordered. “They’re hanging on the hook in the kitchen.”
“I’m calling Dr. Santana—she’ll meet you at the clinic.” Swayzie stepped away from the group.
“What happened to her?” Tom asked.
Hunter was off his horse in a flash, taking her from whoever it was that’d been holding her. “She tried to mount my Dalmatian bareback and got thrown.”
“But that horse isn’t proper broke,” Tom said.
Zoey groaned and tried to get out of Hunter’s grasp. Now they were all ganging up on her. Just great. “I can walk on my own,” she grumbled, but no one seemed to hear. She searched for Lucky’s face, hoping he’d back her up. The man took more than his fair share of lumps. Things were such a blur that she couldn’t focus on his face.
Maverik was back in a flash, accompanied by the sound of keys jingling. And the group followed Hunter to his truck.
“Do you want us to come, son?” Tom asked.
“No,” Zoey snapped. Hunter maneuvered her, and she wondered if this was what it felt like for Lucky to ride broncs. “I’m fine.”
Hunter buckled her in. “No, you’re not.” He called over his shoulder, “I’ve got her. Besides—” He lowered his voice. “She’s in a horn-tossing mood.”
Oooh! Was that a thinly veiled freight-train reference? He was so in for it.
