Page 57 of Courting the Country Miss

He’d be alone forever.

Maybe he should get involved in some kind of cause, something to occupy his time instead of all these meaningless pursuits.

“Ready, Barrett?”

He glanced at his opponent. “Ready.” He slipped a foot into the stirrup at the outer edge, took the second small step, and swung the rest of the way into the open curricle. He checked to ensure the top was folded all the way back and securely fastened.

A rush of nervous energy filled him, clearing his thoughts, sharpening his mind. He focused on the road, the motion of the horses through the reins in his hands. Each breath the horses took, each stomp of their hooves, crackled in his head. He sat forward and braced his feet into a wide stance. He nodded at Palmer holding the gun in the air.

“Gentlemen, ready.”

Excitement swept through Tristan and his muscles tensed. A gunshot split the air. Tristan snapped the reins. Two pairs of horses leaped forward, their hooves moving in a blur. Trees and people flew past him in a colorful smear like an impressionist’s painting. Aware of every movement of the team, he eased them into a flat out run. Born winners, they responded, their necks stretching out and their legs moving in unison.

Over the rutted highway they flew. Exhilaration replaced Tristan’s blood until he was born of wind and speed. He slipped into a state of tranquility where he lived to move at one with his team, where leather and metal and animal blended with man until they were one, unified force.

A shout to his side snapped him out of his nirvana. A sickening bump shuddered through him, then an ear-splitting crash. His carriage lurched to one side. The horses stumbled and went down. All the world slowed into one horrifying motion.

The horses dragged down the pole attached to their harness, converting the two-wheeled curricle into a springboard. The curricle launched Tristan into the air. Helpless to stop himself, he flew, limbs flailing. He landed hard on the ground and rolled.

Tristan disintegrated in an explosion of pain.

Chapter Seventeen

Mute with dread, Leticia stood, her hands over her cheeks, as the curricle racing against Tristan spun out of control. Horse and carriage and rider went down in a tangled mass right in the path of Tristan’s team. Tristan’s lead horse stumbled and went down, dragging the other with it. The entire curricle tipped forward, throwing Tristan out and upward.

Leticia screamed. Disbelief swirled with horror into a dark maelstrom.

Tristan’s body sailed through the air, his arms thrashing as if he were trying to swim. He hit the ground with a sickening thud and rolled a few times. Leticia’s heart dropped. He lay still. Stunned silence fell over the crowd.

Leticia ran. Focused on the motionless form in the road, she raced as if her body became pure motion. She dodged the other curricle, trying to shut out the screaming of the horses, and stayed focused on Tristan. Others in the crowd snapped out of their shock and moved to aid injured men and horses.

A crowd formed around the twin wreckages. Leticia pushed through the people and dropped to her knees next to Tristan. He lay on his back, still and pale. Dirt and blood smeared his white face.

“Tristan?” Kneeling next to him, she reached for him but her hands stopped mid-air.

What to do? What if he were…

Urgent, she called again. “Tristan!” She bent over him and put a hand on either side of his face. “Open your eyes.”

His eyelashes lay close to his cheeks, fanned out dark and long like a child’s. Still no response.

She pressed her hand on his chest over his heart but the thumping of her own racing heart prevented her from finding a heartbeat. Oh, please let there be a heartbeat!

“Is he breathing?” asked someone in the crowd.

She held her cheek next to his nose and closed her eyes, concentrating, searching for any sign of breath. “Please, Tristan. Give me some hope.”

There. A tiny movement of air. She held her breath, hoping she hadn’t imagined it. Once again, a puff of air blew across her cheek. She sucked in a gasp and rested her forehead on his chest. He lived.

One of Tristan’s friends pushed through the crowd. He stopped short at the sight of Leticia’s head on Tristan’s chest.

He gasped a few times before speaking. “He’s dead?”

She lifted her head. “No. He’s breathing.” She stroked Tristan’s dark hair as she had when they were very young. Still as thick and silky, but this time blood matted his hair.

The other man let out his breath. “All right. Let’s get him back to his rooms.”

“No,” Leticia said. “We’ll take him to his brother at Averston House in Mayfair.” She looked back down at Tristan’s face. If he weren’t so pale, he might have been sleeping but for the awkward angle of his limbs.