“Sienna. Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open. His hat was gone, lost somewhere in the chaos. His blue eyes locked onto mine, darting across my face, checking my head, my neck, my shoulders.
“I—I think I’m okay.”
Something warm and wet dripped onto my collarbone.
I reached up and touched his shoulder. My fingers came back slick and red. His shirt was torn open. Under it, a wide gash split his skin, blood soaking into the fabric.
“Brock, you’re bleeding.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve had worse.”
He pushed himself off me with a harsh grunt and got to his knees, swaying slightly before he reached for me. I took hishand. His calluses felt rough against my palm as he pulled me up.
The alley was pure chaos. Handlers ran everywhere. Down by the far gates, the bullfighters already had the loose bull corralled, while three men drove the panicked horse back toward the holding pens with ropes and waving panels. Someone screamed into a radio.
“Move! Let us through!”
Two medics pushed down the alley with a kit between them. One of them saw Brock’s shoulder and stopped short.
“You need to sit down.”
“I’ve got a ride.”
“You’re dripping blood.”
It flowed faster now, soaking through his torn shirt and running past his elbow into the dirt.
“Brock,” I pleaded. “Go with them. Please.”
He finally gave in. With one medic on each side, they walked him toward the medical bay behind the announcer’s tower. He looked back at me one last time before they turned the corner.
I stumbled to the metal rail and gripped it with both hands. I leaned my full weight against it and breathed. The dust was still settling in the alley where we’d hit the ground. Marks scarred the dirt—the long drag where his body had covered mine, and the deep gouges where the horse’s hooves had crashed inches away.
If he hadn’t jumped when he did…
I pressed a hand to my stomach, the spot where his weight had driven into me still aching from the impact.
My heart was still hammering. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the horse’s hooves slamming into the dirt inches from his head. I kept replaying the moment he’d thrown himself over me, the way he hadn’t hesitated.
Twenty minutes later, Brock walked out of the medical tent. He wore a clean sponsor shirt and had his hat back on. Hemoved at his usual unhurried pace, though his left side remained stiff. A bulky bandage sat thick beneath the fabric. His riding glove was strapped tight to his right hand.
I stepped into his path. "You can't ride like that."
"I’m fine."
I grabbed his good arm before he could take another step. “Look at you! Is one ride really worth tearing your shoulder apart?”
He tried to pull away, but I held on tight. He went still, staring hard at the chutes for a long moment.
“Yeah.” His voice was flat. “It’s worth it.”
Something in the way he said it knocked the fight out of me. I understood it, even if I hated it. My grip loosened, and I let my hand fall from his arm.
“I’ll be at the rail,” I said, my voice hollow.
He met my eyes. It was the same steady, searching look he’d given me before, just slower.
