Читать книгу Cowboy Strong - Kelli Ireland - Страница 11
ОглавлениеTY LET KENZIE drift off to sleep around 4:30 a.m. before quietly gathering his things to leave. Door open, the light from the hallway cutting through the room’s darkness, he glanced back. She looked like a fallen angel with her nude body spread across the bed, lips kiss swollen and hair in disarray. Long lashes fluttered against her cheeks and opened enough to reveal the brilliant blue of her eyes. Her soft sigh revealed her immediate understanding that he was leaving.
Normally that would be Ty’s cue to go. But there was something about Kenzie, something about the way she’d given herself to him tonight, that rode his conscience. For the first time, Ty wanted to stay, to see the night through and wake up to her face in the morning. It was the strangest sensation, this foreign need to wake up with a woman in his arms. Not just any woman, but this woman.
He strode back to the bed. Ignoring her unguarded surprise, he bent over her and kissed her, all tongue and teeth and heat. She responded, arching into the hand he placed on her breast and wrapping a hand around the arm parked next to her head.
The ever-simmering ember of desire that lay between them fanned to life, the flame licking at the base of his spine as his shaft thickened.
“Stay,” she whispered against his mouth, tracing his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.
He tried to imagine waking up to her beautiful face, tried to imagine her hair spread over his pillow. Sure, he could see it, but he could also imagine it being the beginning of something much larger, something he hadn’t ever believed he would want. The longer he thought of the possible consequences, the more actively hesitation shoved at his willingness to try. It took only seconds for hesitation to win the battle, if not the war.
Ty stood. “I can’t, darlin’. You know I’ve got to be up early.” Without a word, she watched as he retied his robe with fumbling fingers. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
Still, she said nothing.
He left as quickly as he’d arrived, anxiety driving him into the hall and all the way to his room. Whatever she’d wanted from him sexually, she’d definitely gotten. Beyond that? He refused to examine their exchange too closely.
Sleep dogged his heels when, several minutes later, he slipped into his room and quietly shut the door. He’d preset the alarm on his smartphone before knocking on Kenzie’s door, ensuring he’d be up early enough he wouldn’t have to rush to the barn. Shuffling through the dark room, he paused to set the desktop radio alarm as a backup, shed his robe and then collapsed onto his bed. The air conditioner’s sharp click preceded the smell of refrigerated air, slightly canned and stale, as it swept across the room. For all that he preferred the outdoors, the artificially cooled air was bliss on his overheated skin. Air-conditioning always helped him sleep.
The robe tangled around his legs and he kicked at it even as he tried to retrieve the covers. No luck. The cooler he grew, the more determined he was to simply stop fighting and give in to sleep. Without at least a few z’s, it would be pointless for him to show up in the arena in—he cracked one eye and peered at the clock—less than four hours. Gizmo deserved more than that from him. His eyes drifted shut.
Sometime later, he woke with a start and the absolute, sickening certainty he was late. A quick check of his watch proved his instincts right. Very. He glanced at the desktop clock and realized it was an hour slow. If he’d depended on that alarm alone, he’d have missed the competition altogether.
My phone. Where the hell’s my phone and why didn’t that alarm go off?
He’d last had his phone in his robe. He dug through the pockets. Not there.
Didn’t matter. There wasn’t time to hunt it down. The rules required him to be ready and warming up thirty minutes prior to his call time. He had less than an hour before he and Gizmo were due in the competition arena, less than twenty-five minutes before he had to be in the warm-up ring.
Yanking on jeans with one hand while he tried to pull on his shirt with the other proved fruitless and forced him to slow down. Man, he had not wanted to start nationals this way. He got himself together and sprinted from the room, rode the elevator to the lobby and raced through the crowds. He uttered apologies as he clipped folks left and right.
Another glance at his watch as he waited to cross the street to the temporary stalls said he had thirteen minutes to prep Gizmo and get him to the ring.
Damn it. Not enough time.
The light changed and he kicked into an all-out sprint through even heavier crowds. His stomach plummeted when—from twenty yards away—he saw the top of the Dutch door was already open. He slid to a stop in front of the stall...and gaped.
Kenzie stood there casually brushing the horse’s tail. Gizmo had been saddled up, his reins looped over the wall-mounted hitching ring. His splint boots rested in the tack bucket she’d hauled out with her.
“What are you doing?” The question whipped across the distance, sharp enough to cause Gizmo to bob his head and paw the ground in protest.
“Why, I’m putting pretty polka-dot bows in your manly horse’s tail before I paint his hooves ‘I’m Not Really a Waitress’ red by OPI, of course,” Kenzie answered, just as brittle. “That way you might fool the steers, mesmerizing them with his handsome appearance. Just a hint? Right here, a ‘thank you, Kenzie’ wouldn’t be inappropriate.”
Ty stared at her, his eyebrows climbing into his hairline. “You’re such a smart-ass.” Grabbing the splints, he knelt in front of his horse and, moving quickly, yanked the Velcro straps in place.
“And you’re behaving like a real jackass.” She tossed the steel comb at him. “I came down to feed Indie and saw you hadn’t taken care of Gizmo. The longer you went without showing up, the more I began to think it might be helpful if I lent a hand. I actually just called your cell to make sure you were up. My bad, seeing as you clearly have this under complete control. I suppose I should tell you to ignore the voice mail where I yell at you to get your butt in gear.”
She moved past him and he instinctively stood and grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you are,” she bit out. “Now let go.”
He tightened his hold. “No. Look, Kenzie. I’m truly sorry. You have to understand, I need this...”
Her brow furrowed when he trailed off. “Need what?”
He stopped himself just short of explaining the prize money was necessary for him to expand his breeding operation, and he was glad. As a Malone, she wouldn’t understand his desperation to claim the prize money. It fueled his drive every day. Instead of answering, he shifted his approach. “I appreciate that you stepped in and helped.” He shrugged, the skin across his shoulders tightening until it was too small to comfortably cover his large frame. “Thank you.”
She eyed him with open disbelief, as if she knew it hadn’t been what he’d started to say. In the end, though, she let it go with a “Sure. Whatever.”
Ty moved around her to tighten Gizmo’s cinch before he led the stud into the barn alley. “I hate to run, but I have to check in at the warm-up ring.”
“Go. I’ll be in the stands.”
“Taking notes on how it’s done?” he teased, mounting his horse.
“Nope. Watching arena conditions, checking out how worked up the steers get and gauging what the judges seem to be scoring on most heavily.” She tapped her chin and then met his eyes, grinning. “Oh, yeah. And just how hard I have to bother to beat you.”
Ty laughed. “One of the things I admire most about you, Malone, is your warped sense of entitlement.” The minute the words left his mouth, he knew he’d stepped in it. Her face went stony and her spine ramrod straight. He opened his mouth to say something lighthearted, but she cut him off.
“I had no idea you thought so little of my skill, Covington.” She crossed her arms under her chest and took a step away from Gizmo. “Normally I wouldn’t address such nonsense, but this is one thing I’m compelled to settle. You may consider me ‘entitled,’ but I work every bit as hard as you do, if not harder. I put in just as many hours in the saddle, in the barn and on the computer to perfect my breeding program. No one can claim that’s done with any sense of entitlement since I do it all myself. I’ll pit my work ethic against yours any day.”
She spun on her heel and stalked off, weaving through the crowd with a kind of fluid grace no one else had ever mimicked, let alone matched. For such a petite woman, she seemed taller, more sure of herself than ever. That she hadn’t apologized for her legacy but rather had bitch-slapped him with it raised his opinion of her mightily. And that she’d walked away without sparing him a glance? He shouldn’t find it sexy, but he did. Not many women were built of sterner stuff than that.
Ty wheeled Gizmo toward the warm-up ring and urged the horse into a trot. Once again, he called out apologies for his speed, but he was down to the wire.
The ring loomed closer.
One of the registrars moved to shut the gate for the next round of competitors—his round. He had to make it through before that gate closed or he was considered a no-show. That was not happening.
He spurred Gizmo forward. They sprinted for the gate, the horse’s hooves pounding across the packed dirt and into the softer substrate of the ring before the registrar could respond.
“Sorry,” Ty called, waving a hand in acknowledgment to the officials. He trotted over. “I had a small snafu this morning, but I made it.”
“Barely,” one of the men groused.
“He’s here on time, William,” said a woman next to him, eyeing Ty with open interest. “Leave him be. Name?”
“Tyson Covington and Doc Bar’s Dippy Zippy Gizmo.”
She made a note before pulling out Ty’s competitor number. “Need help pinning this to your shirt?”
William snorted and pushed away from the table. “Keep your jeans on, Kathy. I’ll help him.”
She blushed, handing over the number.
Ty dismounted, and the man pinned the competitor’s number across the shoulders of his shirt. “This’ll be your number for every event you compete in. Keep it pinned to your shirt when you’re on your horse for any reason.” He gave Ty a friendly punch to the shoulder and stepped away. “A word of warning, though. You come through that gate at anything other than a slow trot next time, and I’ll see that you’re marked absent on the roster.”
“That’s hardly fair,” Ty said as amiably as possible as he remounted Gizmo.
“I’m not so worried about fair as I am about competitors following the rules. The rules say you’re here before that gate closes.” He held up a hand when Ty started to protest. “Yes, you were here, but only because you ran the last hundred yards. That’s not the spirit of the rule, son.”
“Sir.” Ty tipped his hat and spun Gizmo away, silently fuming at having been called out. What made him the angriest, though, was that the man was right.
He warmed Gizmo up with a small herd of steers. The horse seemed anxious, and Ty worked to first settle Gizmo and then himself. He tried to shake the nagging irritation of having been taken to task twice, first by his friend with benefits and second by a registrar and complete stranger. Neither sat well with him.
The announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker to announce the first competitors. Ty listened to the crowd’s reaction as the first horse and rider hit their marks. The pair left the arena and their score was called shortly thereafter. Not bad, but definitely not strong enough to put the other cowboy on the boards or in the money at the end.
Ty absently listened as the next cowboy put his mount and the selected steers through their paces. He scored far better than the first rider. A contender.
Then it was Ty’s run.
A deep breath, a swift pat to Gizmo’s shoulder, then Ty reined his horse toward the arena entrance.
Showtime.
* * *
KENZIE FOUGHT THE urge to skip Ty’s showing altogether. He’d pissed her off. More than that, he’d hurt her. It wouldn’t have been such a shock if she’d expected it, but she hadn’t. Not from him.
“‘Entitled,’ my ass,” she spat, weaving her way through the crowds that were collectively pushing their way into the bleachers around the arena. She’d never been entitled. In fact, she had never been meant to be the Malone heir, and had no qualms with that particular fact. But the abrupt death of her older brother, Michael, had set her on the undesirable path that forced her to be both daughter and surrogate son to The Malone. Her father. The man who could do no wrong in the Quarter horse community.
Oh, she loved him. Wildly, in fact. He was an amazing father and friend, and most kids never experienced that rare combination. But the reality was that once she’d lost her brother, Kenzie had become the de facto heir to the Malone legacy. It wasn’t something she’d ever wanted, and never, ever at that cost.
It left her trying to fill some big shoes, to live in the darkness of two shadows—Michael’s, the up-and-coming rodeo star who had been the perfect older brother and ideal son, and her dad’s, an infamous horseman who’d always been successful at everything he did. Kenzie wasn’t perfect, and she failed as often as she succeeded. It was obvious to those around her she’d never be as good as they were.
So even insinuating she was either spoiled or entitled was the highest insult anyone could throw her way and was guaranteed a reaction. I’ve earned every step forward I’ve taken. No one has handed me anything.
Okay, yes. There was her trust fund. But no amount of money was worth the price she’d paid. Besides, there was certainly no dollar figure that automatically gave Ty, or anyone, the right to use words that hurt her.
If Michael were here, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have inherited so much money, so no one would dare comment. The crushing sense of obligation to be both perfect daughter and replacement son wouldn’t exist.
Three short beeps sounded. The competition clock. She slowed. Stopped. The crush of people worked their way around her. The first competitor was in the arena and working his, or her, group of calves. Applause followed the spectators’ collective gasp.
What had happened? Curiosity ate at Kenzie. She moved with purpose toward the arena and then into the stands.
She slipped into the Malone arena-side box, bought with Malone money, respected because of the Malone name. Not hers—not yet—but her father’s. He’d been a national champion in cutting, reining and roping, and his high score still stood. She’d grown up proud of him. Now? She wanted to beat him.
A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips at the same time someone opened the box and walked in, folding down the stadium seat beside her. Years in the man’s presence told her who it was before she even looked into his sun-lined face. “Hey, Dad.”
He slid down in his seat before draping an arm around the back of her seat. “You here to figure out a way to win or for the eye candy?”
“Dad!” The word escaped her on a rush of laughter. “You don’t say things like that to your daughter.”
“Hey,” he exclaimed. “I’m hop. I know what’s what.”
“That would be ‘hip,’ and no, no, you don’t.”
He gently cuffed the back of her head. “Smart-ass.”
He shifted his attention to the ring. “So who’s our biggest competition this year? Still that Covington man from New Mexico? Didn’t they get into some financial trouble, have to set their place up as a dude ranch to salvage it or something?”
Kenzie fought to keep her face straight. It wasn’t that her dad didn’t respect the hard work the Covingtons had put into saving their ranch. What bothered him was that, when he’d heard Gizmo’s owner was in financial straits, Jack Malone had made a fair offer for Gizmo in an effort to help a fellow cowboy out. Even more, though, he’d wanted to get his hands on the stud horse. He hadn’t taken Ty’s rejection well. Of course, Ty hadn’t taken the gesture as it was—at least mostly—intended, either. She’d never talked to either man about it directly, but she’d heard about it from both of them and more than once.
Her father didn’t press for an answer right then, so she settled into her seat, watching the first competitor struggle to keep his calf separated from the herd. Horse and rider were out of sync. It took less time for him to lose the calf than it did for the rest of the herd to scatter. A mild round of clapping ceased when, in a fit of irritation, the rider viciously yanked the horse’s head to the side and spurred him out of the arena.
Kenzie flagged down a server and asked for a program. Finding the horse and rider, she made a note regarding the horse’s stall number. One benefit of having money? She could scare the man into responsible behavior with threats she could definitely follow up on. Oh...and she could buy his horse. She’d be doing both before she returned to Colorado.
Her attention shifted to the event again.
The second rider pulled a slightly above-average score, and he was clearly pleased with his performance.
That put Ty and Gizmo up next.
Kenzie took several deep breaths and blew them out with absolute control. Her dad rolled his program and slapped it against his palm repeatedly as he leaned forward to get the best view. With breakfast over, the noise level rose sharply due to the sheer volume of humanity moving in. Footfalls rumbled on the upper-level bleachers as more and more spectators filled the last vacant seats. What had been a low-level hum had grown to a near cacophony of sound. Even an experienced horse and rider could suffer from the distraction, and neither Ty nor Gizmo were accustomed to performing in indoor arenas this large. Sound seemed to echo back at both horse and rider and could fracture the focus of either. Or both.
The herd holders positioned a new group of yearlings for the incoming pair and then backed off, waiting.
At the opposite end of the arena, the gate swung open in a sweeping arc. Ty and Gizmo emerged from the dark tunnel at a lazy trot. Gizmo’s head was low, the reins hanging loose. The horse seemed indifferent, almost half asleep, and Ty, with his chin to his chest, could have been napping. Their leisurely approach quieted the crowds even as it ratcheted spectator tension to a new high.
Kenzie moved to the edge of her seat. What the hell is he thinking? The judges are going to score him down for looking so— The buzzer sounded and she gasped.
With no visible cues from Ty, Gizmo’s ears flipped forward, alert, and he started for the herd, the intent in his movements balling the cattle up. Horse and rider eased into the mass of cows and separated the first steer, peeling him away from the others with brutal efficiency. Ty and Gizmo moved in parallel harmony. The cowboy kept his hands down, his reins slack in order to give Gizmo his head. The stud horse never faltered. A whirling dervish, he spun, wheeled and darted left and right with both athleticism and showmanship that stunned not only Kenzie but the crowd, as well. She’d never seen the pair like this, had never known Ty to ride this professionally yet make it seem absolutely effortless.
Someone broke the silence with a whistle. Another voice shouted encouragement.
Anxiety created a solid mass between her shoulder blades. An invisible band tightened around her chest and made every breath she drew as painful as it was necessary. She wanted to scream at everyone to keep quiet, to let the pair work. If it wouldn’t have generated an even larger distraction, she’d have done just that.
But Ty and Gizmo ignored every potential distraction. The horse worked the yearling and prevented his return until Ty deemed it time. Then, together, they put the animal back in the shuffling herd.
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 been capable of. His eyelids fluttered before he ground his teeth and opened unfocused eyes. “Save...”
“We’re working on saving you, Mr. Covington.” The EMT scowled. “You’ve got to be still, though. We have to establish how much damage the accident caused your cervical spine.”
“Screw spine,” he whispered brokenly. His pain-filled gaze roamed wildly, skipping over her face and coming back. He fought to focus. “Giz... Save...” Tears rolled down his temples, and he squeezed her hand harder. “Please, Kenzie.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she answered, voice husky.
“No.” His tears flowed faster. “Promise.”
“You have to calm down, Mr. Covington.” The EMT pulled a syringe and loaded it. “I’m going to give you something for the pain before we transport you.”
“Promise!” he rasped, grasping Kenzie’s hand hard.
“I promise,” she choked out, but his eyes had already drifted closed, and she had no idea if he’d heard her before the drug hit.
His hand relaxed. She clung to him, unwilling to let him go.
“Where are you taking him?” she asked, standing as they lifted the body board.
“Medevacing him to Baylor’s trauma center.”
Kenzie looked at Cade. “Go with him. I’ll check in later after I take care of Gizmo.”
“Take care of him how?” Cade demanded.
“Don’t worry, I have a vested interest in ensuring the horse survives.”
Cade’s fiancée narrowed her eyes. “Ty didn’t mention anyone else having a vested interest in Gizmo.”
“Have you talked to Ty about his business dealings since he’s been here?” Kenzie asked with feigned arrogance.
Cade arched a single brow. “No.”
“Then, I don’t expect you to know that I bought into the horse here or that I’m funding part of your brother’s breeding program.” Any other time it would have bothered her how easily she lied. Not right now, though. Too much was at stake. “I won’t let my investment fall apart.”
“Gotta go, folks,” the EMT called.
“Do what you can,” the short-haired woman said, grabbing Cade’s hand and hauling him toward the ambulance. They hopped inside, the ambulance driver slamming the door closed behind them before racing for the driver’s seat. The ambulanced chirped and, with lights flashing, took off.
Kenzie turned to the rodeo vet. “What’s the prognosis?”
“Unless you own the horse—”
“I have a vested interest, yes.” How many lies would a cowgirl issue if a cowgirl could issue lies? The answer was simple: as many as it took. “Let’s consider the broken parts mine, so tell me what I’m facing here.”
“He’s torn ligaments and tendons in his fetlock, and I’m going to wager he’s also fractured his cannon. We’ve got a Kimzey leg saver on its way, but the damage...” He shrugged. “He’ll require serious surgical intervention. If he’s worth anything at all, get him to Ohio State University.”
Eli’s wife paled. “You’re talking thousands just in transport.”
“Make it happen,” Kenzie said, crossing her arms and widening her stance.
The vet arched a brow. “You realize that between emergency transport and initial treatment you’re looking at fifty to eighty thousand dollars?”
“You signing the checks?” she asked quietly.
“No.”
“Then, don’t worry about the costs.”
“We have to, though,” Eli murmured.
Kenzie shook her head. “No, you don’t.” Facing the vet again, she tucked her hands into her jeans pockets and did the one thing she hated doing. She threw her name at the doctor with the force of a major league pitcher’s fastball. “I’m Mackenzie Malone, Jack Malone’s daughter.” The vet’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something, but Kenzie shook her head. “There are only two things I want to hear from you. First, I want this horse’s flight number to the airport nearest Ohio State University. Charter a plane if necessary. Second, I want the in-flight pain management plans for him so I can clear that plan with my own vet.”
The rodeo vet stiffened. “I assure you—”
“I listed the two things I need, Doc, and your assurances weren’t on the short list.” Dismissing him to do his job as she’d seen her father do a thousand times, she faced the Covingtons. “Ty’s being lifted to Baylor. You two go there. I’ll stay with Gizmo.”
“Don’t let them put him down. Please, Ms. Malone.” Eli choked on the words and looked away, but not fast enough to hide the sheen of tears in his eyes.
“Just Kenzie, and I give you my word I’ll do my best to avoid that very thing, Mr. Covington.”
The woman pulled out her admission ticket and grabbed a pen from a vet tech. She scribbled on the back, then handed the card to Kenzie. “I’m Reagan Covington, large-animal vet and Eli’s wife. Call me with the drug names and I can explain what they’re giving him.”
“Will do. Now you two go on. Ty needs you, and frankly, I can make things happen faster if I have a little room to play the bitchy heiress.”
Both Covington and his wife issued their thanks before jogging toward the nearest arena exit.
Kenzie went to her knees by Gizmo’s head. She stroked his jaw and murmured soft words of encouragement. It took her several moments to summon the courage to meet his gaze. When she did, her heart broke for him. His nostrils blew hard, froth decorated his lips and neck, and the whites of his eyes showed clearly. He hurt. Worse than the pain, though, was his obvious fear. It was as if he had some inkling of just how bad off he was, and he was terrified.
That made two of them.
