Page 31 of Braving the Storm

For so many years of my life, that was the measure by which everything was counted. The adrenaline of busting out of that chute, gripping tight to the heaving, snorting beast beneath me.

The entirety of my world would narrow down, zeroing in on an infinitely small circle of focus. Posture. Core. Arm. Grip. Chin. Ultimately, a trivial assortment of shit that is entirely irrelevant in regular life.

No one willingly gets on the back of an angry bull. You’ve gotta have a certain type of fucked up motivation, be it for the money or the glory or the infamy, or purely having an unhealthy relationship with the meaning of life.

But then again, I’ve never been one to do what others expect, or want.

So I’m intimately familiar with the way eight seconds can feel like an eternity when, to most people, it’s hardly the blink of an eye. A meaningless pause between breaths.

Right now, I’m back in that arena, heart pounding, brain zeroed in on a sight that makes my blood turn cold. My legs carry me the short distance between the truck and the hopelessly small,terrifyingly still body lying flat on the ground, and each second turns to molasses.

Each tick of the clock seems to pass in a thick and sticky and terrifyingly slow pattern. It feels like an eternity from the moment I fling myself out of the driver’s side, to when I reach her fragile figure.

“Briar. Fuck. Can you hear me?” I hit my knees beside her and nearly slide off balance myself on the black ice. Her face is so goddamn pale; there’s wood everywhere, tumbled on the ground in a haphazard arc.

“Briar?” Repeating her name louder, more panicked, I’m desperately searching her face for a flicker of recognition. There’s no blood on the ice that I can see, but I’m reluctant to shift her head in case something happened to her spine as she fell. Straight onto concrete. Fucking fuck.

It’s like every nightmare I used to have about not making it to safety and ending up trampled. Not that those dreams were frequent occurrences, but if they ever happened, I’d wake up with soaked sheets and a throat raw from hollering with no one to hear me.

Which is how I feel now.

No cell coverage.

Miles away from medical care.

My radio unit is inside the cabin. I can contact mountain rescue and Sheriff Hayes, fuck, I could easily radio Colt to get his ass down here. But I don’t want to leave her side, and I’m terrified of hurting her more, of making an injury worse if I try to move her myself.

Could I live with the guilt of doing more harm if there was spinal damage? A busted disc or vertebrae? Nerves that could so easily be severed if I shift her even an inch.

“Fuck. Briar. Please wake up for me.” I gently brush her hair back off her forehead, and just as I’m steeling myself to check for a pulse, her eyelashes twitch.

Thank fuck.

My heart is in my mouth as I brush one thumb over her soft cheek. Seeing her so ghostly, with all the life drained from her features, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this nauseous before.

“Can you hear me?” God, every instinct I have is to scoop her up, and it’s killing me not to. But the pure terror of causing more harm is what holds me back. Barely.

She lets out a croaky sound, groggy, followed by a slow groan. Her eyes flutter open with a struggle.

“Take it easy.” I’m still stroking her cheek, but at least she’s conscious and breathing, and there’s a torrent of relief flooding my veins at those two little details.

“I’m sorry. The wood.” She winces, as if talking out loud is an effort.

“Fuck the wood. I’m going to move you inside, out of the cold, ok?”

“I wanted to help.”

“Well, let me help you right now.”

“Everyone hates me.” Her nose scrunches while those brown eyes of hers shift around a little unfocused.

Hearing that, how forlorn she sounds, makes me stiffen. But I’m guessing since she must have cracked her head pretty hard, things might not make a whole lot of sense right now.

“Can you sit up for me, darlin’?” Sliding a hand beneath her head to cradle it, I’m half expecting to come into contact with wetness, or sticky evidence of blood, but as I help get her into a sitting position very carefully, I can’t feel anything.

“It hurts.”

“I know. Let’s get you inside so I can take a proper look at you. I think you still have a brain, but we’ll need to make sure.”