Next they sorted a much bigger steer out of the group. Obviously irritated, the steer charged the horse. Gizmo didn’t give ground, instead rapidly placing himself, cross bodied, in between the steer and the herd. Confused, the steer stumbled and stopped. Gizmo took advantage of the other animal’s hesitation to push him farther from the herd.
The big steer sprinted one direction, then spun and sprinted the other, trying his best to get by Gizmo. The horse wasn’t having it. He met the steer’s every move with a countermove that kept the animal separated from the herd.
Then on a particularly hard turn, one of Gizmo’s leg splints came loose.
Kenzie’s stomach dropped.
The horse ignored the support failure, charging forward to stop the steer. He slid to a stop and whirled to meet the other animal’s next move.
Gizmo pushed off with his front feet, forced to make a rapid change in direction to head the steer off. The unsupported fetlock flexed and twisted in a totally unnatural manner. The cannon bone bent and the horse screamed, the sound sheer agony. The horse’s momentum was unstoppable, and both Ty and Gizmo went down, the horse’s right front hoof flopping sickeningly as he rolled over Ty.
Kenzie didn’t think, didn’t listen to her father’s protests as she rose, refused to heed his restraining hand on her arm. She shrugged him off and vaulted the pipe fence, heading across the arena as fast as she could. Soft, ankle-deep dirt pulled at her feet like quicksand. The sound of her breath swamped her awareness as she pushed forward. She had to get to Ty now.
On some level, she was aware of onlookers shouting and the announcer’s voice booming and the herd holders trying to keep the yearlings back so they didn’t create more chaos. None of it mattered. What mattered was the horse groaning and unable to get up, his shredded fetlock already swelling. Even more? His rider. The man. Lord have mercy, the man...
Tyson.
His hat had been crushed in the fall and then flung several feet from the spot where he’d hit the dirt and gone completely still. She fixated on the hat as she ran. She knew Ty was within feet of the hat but couldn’t bear to look at him too closely. One glance, one single glance, had dragged up memories that darkened the periphery of her consciousness, reminding her of Michael and the way he’d lain, preternaturally still in the dirt after his fall. She’d silently urged her brother to get up as he always did, to dust himself off and curse his horse and start again. But he hadn’t risen. Not ever again.
No. No, no, no! her mind shrieked as her lungs worked harder than industrial bellows to provide her with air, to keep her moving, to keep her focused on that damned hat.
She couldn’t lose someone else, couldn’t watch another man she cared about die doing what he loved. She’d wouldn’t recover from that a second time.
Move, Ty. Just once. Move.
Her heart hammered out a frantic rhythm in her chest. She stumbled, fear making her clumsy. Landing on her hands and knees, Kenzie crawled the last half-dozen yards to the unmoving man.
No! Her singular denial translated to a silent wail.
The closer she got, the easier it was to see he wasn’t quite right. His eyes were closed, and his head... His head was canted at a strange angle. Dirt packed one ear and caked the near side of his face. And his chest failed to rise and fall.
Ty wasn’t breathing.
“Please, God, no.” Her broken plea was lost to the sounds of the announcer, official personnel and the crowd’s frantic buzz. She ignored it all, kneeling next to him and grabbing his hand.
Ty’s chest shuddered as he gasped, seizing a short breath. For ages, nothing followed. Then another short, gasped breath.
She squeezed his unresponsive fingers. “Ty? Tyson? Tyson!” she yelled, scared to touch him anywhere else even as she longed to shake him hard enough to rattle his teeth. “You answer me, damn you!”
Nothing.
“Don’t you dare do this to me,” she whispered. The harsh words brimmed with anger, demand and fear.
Sirens chirped and forced her to look up. The ambulance and EMTs were headed their way. The vet’s emergency truck and flatbed trailer followed.
Gizmo...
Still gripping his hand, she leaned forward. “You fight, Covington. You. Fight.”
His fingers spasmed against her hand. One booted foot flopped to the side only to lie perfectly still again. Then his eyelids fluttered. The deep mink of his irises showed for a split second before his eyes slipped closed.
“You stubborn man! Gizmo needs you. Wake up and deal with this catastrophe. I’m not cleaning up after you. Do you hear me?” she demanded. Hysteria’s sharp claws scrabbled their way up her spine as the seconds passed and he didn’t answer. “Tyson!” She squeezed his hand hard enough to grind the bones together.
His fingertips pressed into her hand, the movement faint but undeniable.
A man and woman raced up to her, and she recognized Cade Covington before he skidded to a stop. Eyes wide, he fixated on Ty, and when he spoke, his deep voice trembled. “Tyson.” He grabbed his female companion’s hand, uttered a pained sound and then pulled her against his body.
She wordlessly folded into him, her eyes fixed on Ty and brimming with tears.
The ambulance stopped a few feet away, and two EMTs hopped out. One grabbed a body board as the other, already gloved up, approached. He crowded her out, the act far from gentle. “I need you to leave the ring, ma’am.”
“Like hell,” she snarled. She had to stay, couldn’t leave him, not like this. Wouldn’t leave him. “He’s mine.” The lie emerged without conscious thought.
The man shot her a sharp look even as he pulled on blue nitrile gloves. “Your husband?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “He’s. Mine.”
He scrutinized her before lifting one shoulder and getting to work. “Fine, but stay out of my way.”
Cade stared at her, skepticism filtering through his initial shock at her declaration.
She ignored him, ignored everyone but Ty and the EMT. Terror wove its way around her heart and up her throat, stopping just shy of spilling out her mouth on a keening wail. Focusing on the EMT, she managed to rasp out a desperate “Help him.”
She heard raised voices behind her. Eli Covington and a woman she assumed was his new wife stood with rodeo vet. The three of them were arguing as Gizmo lay there, his sides heaving, hide slicked with sweat.
“The animal is in pain,” the vet said. “Putting him down would be the humane thing.”
“I’m about to hit you so hard your dentist won’t need to worry about which teeth to keep. I guarantee that’ll result in pain. Yours.” The woman, tall enough to look at the man eye to eye, stepped close enough to invade his personal space. “You suggesting I put you down then, too? As a matter of ‘humane’ treatment?”
“That’s different,” the man objected. “I’m human.”
She pointed at Ty’s still form. “You euthanize this horse, you might as well put him down, too, because you’ll destroy him and everything he’s worked for.”
Eli said something low to his wife.
She rounded on him. “Don’t you dare tell me not to get worked up! I don’t care if I’m six weeks’ or six months’ pregnant. Neither my hormones nor the baby responsible for them changes right and wrong.”
Ty squeezed Kenzie’s hand again, stronger this time but still far weaker than he should have