Page 117

“Thanks.” He took a bite, eyes on the arena. They announced Chip on the intercom, and they all focused on the far gate. The hat brim dipped and the gate flew open, Chip marking out, no problem.

The ride went well, Chip’s free arm up, if a little stiffer than normal.

Tank frowned. Someone must have hurt his shoulder. Too bad.

Dalton rode up, grabbed hold of Chip and hauled him up and off, jerking suddenly before easing the man to the ground.

“Looks like you made your money, man.”Good on Buick.

“Looks like Chip mighta grabbed your man in a sensitive place.” Buick frowned, and Tank looked up to see Dalton rubbing his ribs.

“Yeah, looks like.”

Chip ran out of the arena with a wave, and Dalton began to ride back to his spot, when Tank felt a clap on his back.

“Hey, y’all. How’s it hanging?”

Chip Frederick in his street clothes, not a chap in sight.

Tank blinked. “Chip? Who was that riding?” Panic began to set in, even if Tank couldn’t pin down why.

“Some cowboy who paid me a thousand bucks to let him wear my hat and chaps. Fucking weird, huh?”

Tank saw the dawning horror on Buick’s face, and he turned back to the arena, jumping down over the fence as fast as he could fucking move.

He saw the blood drip from the tip of Dalton’s boot, the red drop hitting the dirt with a dusty plop before Dalton began to tilt, sliding off the saddle.

He ran, digging his shoes into the dirt as if a bull was headed right at a rider’s head with a horn. He got there just in time to keep Dalton’s head from hitting the dirt as hard as the rest of him did.

“Buick! Get the EMTs in here!” His bellow filled the arena, the sound ringing out like a whip.

The crowd went silent, and Tank felt the people hold their breath like they always did when someone was hurt on the arena floor.

Dustin skidded in next to him like a baseball player sliding into third. “What—”

Dalton blinked up at him. “Rocket. It was….” Dalton coughed and blood sprayed.

“Jesus!” Tank knew a lung injury after all his years in bull riding. He pulled open Dalton’s shirt as gently as he could, hunting the injury. “Where the hell is that EMT?” There was at least one guy at every rodeo, even the ones too small for sports medicine.

“Here. Here. What happened? Can you tell me where you’re hurt, sir?”

“Get him off the dirt,” Dustin snapped.

“What?” Tank and the EMT spoke together.

“Don’t you give that motherfucker a show to watch. Let’s get him off the goddamned dirt. This is our rodeo, our show.”

Tank glared, but Dustin stared his ass right down. He wasn’t waiting for a stretcher or a backboard. Dalton could bleed right out. Instead, he lifted Dalton up, supporting all his weight, but making it look as if he was walking. “Get his other side, Dustin.”

“On it.” Dustin grabbed Dalton’s arm, faking a wave, and the crowd went wild. They muscled their way out, and Deb was waiting right there, her mouth in a thin line.

“What the ever-loving fuck?”

“Not now,” Dustin snapped. “In the fucking bus. Now. I want you to work on him and your partner to drive without the sirens until the crowd can’t hear him. Deb, the rest of you, get back to work. Now.”

Tank shook his head. “I need to go with him, Dustin. The boys can work it without me.” He helped get Dalton in the ambulance and onto the stretcher.

The EMT immediately started Dalton on oxygen and placed an enormous, heavy-looking bandage over Dalton’s wound, which was obvious now, blood coming from it too damn fast.