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The bull riders were announced.
Skye cursed the grainy screen of her ancient television. After last night, seeing the action firsthand, the fuzzy picture seemed sadly lacking in comparison. Dropping the remote control on the coffee table, she leaned forward in her seat and squinted at the tube.
Tyler was fourth in the lineup. The first rider touched a gloved hand to the bronco’s back and was disqualified. The second rider had a decent ride, not perfect, but good enough to put him in the running. By the third rider, Skye shot a nervous glance at the telephone and toyed with the idea of calling Ralph. She dismissed the idea out of hand. Ralph had called late last night He’d been vague and distant, his mind obviously on the dusty tomes he was researching, not on her. She’d ended the conversation with a curt goodbye, telling him when he was really interested in what she had to say to call her back.
Only, he hadn’t.
The thought of calling him now grated on her conscience. It would be tantamount to surrendering her feminine pride. Once and for all, Ralph Breedlow had to learn to appreciate her.
She refused to play second fiddle in any man’s life.
“Our fourth rider of the night is veteran bull rider, three-time World Champion, Tyler Bradshaw.” A cheer arose from the arena at the announcement.
Riveted to the TV screen, Skye bit her lip as she waited for the bull to burst out of the chute.
“He’ll be riding Tornado this evening,” the announcer continued. “Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. This bull likes to dance to the twist.”
The gate swung open and the bull carrying Tyler hopped out. It was a thick-bodied, short-legged, mottled Brangus, a bull that was half Brahma, half Angus. Its horns had been lopped off to protect the rider, but its long, square head looked menacing enough to cause damage.
She couldn’t see Tyler’s face beneath the wide brim of his black cowboy hat. But she recognized the confident set of his wide shoulders, the narrow breadth of his jean-clad hips, and his long, sinewy legs covered in leather chaps. He exuded confidence wrought of experience. He almost made her believe bull riding was as easy as a stroll down the street.
Silently, Skye counted off the seconds in unison with the clock at the bottom of the television screen. Tyler held on with perfect form for the first two seconds. By the third, she knew he was in trouble.
The bull rounded into a sharp circle, looking like a dog chasing his tail. Round and round he spun Tyler, flopping him against his back like a rag doll. Then, he reversed his direction, snapping Tyler off his back and sending him sailing into the air.
Only, Tyler’s hand was hooked in the rope’s handhold. Unable to react fast enough, he was dragged across the pen by a bull who looked determined to kill him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it looks as though Bradshaw’s in trouble now,” the announcer’s voice whined.
“No kidding,” Skye hollered at the television.
Rodeo clowns hopped into the ring, trying their best to corner the runaway bull.
Tornado lived up to his name by lurching in the opposite direction, spinning around on his back hooves, his front hooves landing directly on the center of Tyler’s stomach.
Her heart thumping, Skye shot to her feet, gasping at the scene being played out on the television.
Another set of rodeo clowns jumped into the arena, rushing headlong into the bull’s path. For the next few minutes, she watched in horror as the men worked to subdue the out-of-control bull.
In a blink of an eye, she’d relived her worst childhood nightmare, a cowboy trampled by a bull. Of course, as a child, it had been her father who’d suffered the damage. Knowing it was Tyler, her father’s protégé, didn’t make it any easier.
After what seemed like an eternity. Tyler was released from his deadly bond with the bull. He lay limp in the sawdust and dirt, before the emergency paramedics whisked him out of the arena.
Skye paced the floor of the living room, half listening to the announcer’s account of the incident, cringing when they insisted on replaying each and every gory moment, not once, but twice. No word on Tyler’s condition, however.
Releasing a growl of frustration, she strode into the kitchen and snatched up the wall phone. Thanking the advances of modern-day technology, she punched in the number for her father’s cell phone.
Gus picked up on the fourth ring. “Gus Whitman,” he barked into the phone, skipping the usual polite greeting. He sounded as tense as she felt.
“Gus,” she said, unable to stop the quaver in her voice. “I was just watching Tyler’s ride.”
“Aw, honey.” Gus sighed, his tone softening. “I wish you hadn’t.”
“Is he okay? Have you seen him?”
“Just for a second, before they hauled him away.” Gus paused. “He didn’t look too good..But what do you expect from somebody who’s just been tossed around by a bull?”
Skye twisted the cord of the phone around her fingers, trying to swallow the lump of emotion in her throat. “He got more than tossed, Gus. The bull landed on top of him. Got him dead to rights in the middle of his stomach.”
Gus didn’t reply right away.
“Talk to me, Gus. How is he?”
“He’s awake. But he ain’t cussin’ like he ought to be.” Gus sighed deeply. “I just don’t know what to tell ya, honey.”
For once, she believed he was telling her the truth. “Where are they taking him?”
“Dallas Memorial. I’m on my way there, as we speak. I’ll give you a holler just as soon as I hear anything new. I promise.”
He was trying to change his ways, Skye told herself. He really was trying.
“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, barely noticing the traditional address. She’d called her father Gus for so many years, she had no idea why she felt the sudden need to address him differently. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
Slowly, she unwrapped the cocoon of phone wire that she’d woven around her fingers, then returned the receiver to its cradle. Gus was looking after Tyler, she told herself. He wouldn’t be alone. That was all that mattered.
A picture of Tyler last night, leaning against the arena fence, looking healthy and flushed with the thrill of victory, flashed through her mind. She recalled the devilish grin on his lips when he’d said, “I guess I couldn’t talk you into coming tomorrow night, could I? I sure could use a lucky charm.”
She closed her eyes against the memory. Tyler’s accident wasn’t her responsibility, she told herself. Lucky charms, superstitions and cowboy traditions were all a bunch of bull, no pun intended. Her refusal to attend tonight’s performance did not cause Tyler’s accident. It was his own stupid fault for riding that crazy bull.
His own stupid fault...
Slowly, she opened her eyes. If the accident wasn’t her responsibility, then why did her gut feel as though it had been stomped on right along with Tyler’s?
She made her decision quickly, not giving herself a chance to change her mind. Turning off the television, she gathered up her purse and car keys and headed out the door for Dallas Memorial.
“He has a concussion, cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, multiple bruises and lacerations,” the doctor said, reading his notes from an open hospital chart. He addressed his comments to Gus, as though Tyler weren’t even in the hospital room. “But that isn’t the worst of his injuries. At the moment, I’m more concerned about his back.”
Tyler closed his eyes, the only movement that didn’t hurt, wishing he could make the two hovering men disappear from his mind as easily as from sight.
“As you know, he’s been through this before. I’ve warned him the spinal cord is delicate. It isn’t designed to take this type of repeated abuse. But obviously Mr. Bradshaw didn’t hear my advice.”
“I heard you. I simply ignored you,” Tyler said, opening his eyes. “And would you two mind not talking about me like I’m not here. I’m not dead, am I?”
“No, not yet.” the doctor said, shooting him a stern look. “But another stunt like this one and that might be the csse.”
Tyler drew in a slow breath, wincing as the movement jarred his injured ribs. He didn’t need to be told the ride had been a bust from the start; he already knew it. Unable to get a firm seat on the bull from the moment they’d shot out of the chute, he’d spent most of the ride sliding around on Tornado’s back. By the time the bull had started his spinning routine, Tyler knew he was a goner.
“I’ll be keeping him overnight for observation,” the doctor said, glancing at Gus, before turning his attention to Tyler. “We’ll discuss your back in the morning. For now, get some rest, Mr. Bradshaw. You’re going to need it.”
Snapping the chart closed with a click, the doctor spun around on his heel and strode from the room.
“Got a nice bedside manner, doesn’t he?” Tyler drawled, watching the man’s dramatic exit with a wry glance.
Gus didn’t say a word.
Warily, Tyler turned his attention to his friend.
Gus stood at the foot of his bed, his hands on his hips, a forbidding look on his face.
“Now what?” Tyler sighed.
“Sometimes you make me so damned mad—” Gus stopped, blew out a whistling breath. Then, glaring at him, he added, “If you weren’t so banged up already, I’d try knocking some sense into that stubborn head of yours.”
“Well, thank you, Gus. I appreciate your concern.”
Pointing a finger at Tyler’s nose, Gus hollered, “This is one situation you can’t joke your way out of. I was there the last time you hurt your back. Even if you don’t remember the doctor’s warning, I do. Your spine’s going to snap like a twig one of these days if you don’t stop riding those damned bulls.”
Tyler stared at him, remaining stubbornly mute.
“What’s the matter with you, boy? Don’t you understand? The next time a bull decides to use you as a punchin’ bag, you won’t be walking away from it—if he doesn’t kill you first.”
The words chilled him. Tyler looked away, not allowing his friend to see his unease. It wasn’t that he had a death wish, he told himself. Or that he wanted to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. It was just that who he was, what he was, was so tied up with the rodeo, he couldn’t separate the two. Not even at the high price he’d be forced to pay.
“You’ve won every title there is,” Gus said. “What more is there to prove?”
That he was Tyler Bradshaw, bull rider, rodeo champion. That he was somebody more than the hick kid who took off from home at the age of seventeen—
“Tyler, listen to me,” Gus said, lowering his voice from a roar to a whisper, his tone deadly somber. “You’ve got to face the facts. It’s time to retire.”
Unexplainably. his friend’s gentle concern irritated Tyler more than his irate preaching. He felt the anger swirl in his stomach, the nonsensical words burn in his mind, knew they were uncalled-for, his animosity ill-advised. But for the life of him, he couldn’t stop the angry words from tumbling out. “If and when I retire, it’ll be my decision. Not yours, old man.”
Gus flinched as though he’d been dealt a blow.
All of Tyler’s aching body parts combined didn’t feel half as bad as the pain in his heart at having hurt his mentor. Tyler owed him his career, his life. He wanted to reach out and apologize, to tell Gus he didn’t mean it Only he didn’t know how.
The door to his hospital room opened, saving him from the effort
Skye stood in the doorway, looking small, pale and frightened. The heavy door whisked shut behind her, causing her to jump in surprise. Her concern on top of Gus’s was the last straw.
Tyler scowled. “What is this, a funeral? Sorry, Skye. I’m not dead yet. You’re going to have to wait a few months for a visitation.”
Unlike her father, who’d taken his abuse with stoic silence. Skye gave him tit for tat The expression on her face changed dramatically, from scared to stormy. “Tyler Bradshaw, you are the most ungrateful man to walk this planet Why anybody bothers to care about you is beyond ”
He narrowed a glance at the fireball, unable to curb a grudging admiration for her spunky attitude. She was certainly her father’s daughter. Not one to back away from a fight
Her eyes sparkled as she continued, “But for some crazy reason, they do. Now there’s a hall full of cowboys waiting outside. And they’re not leaving until they’ve seen for themselves that you’re okay. So just shut up and endure the attention.”
With that she opened the hospital room door and peered out into the. hall. Motioning with one slender hand, she stepped back and allowed the well-wishers to enter.
Slim, Joey, Bucky, Mark...and more crowded into the room. Tyler hadn’t seen this many of the boys since they’d celebrated a rookie’s initial ride at the Watering Hole bar. Tyler lay back in his bed and moaned. He almost wished the bull had finished the job he’d started. Even in the best of conditions, Tyler wasn’t good at being social, Preferring to be an observer, rather than a participant. Tonight, feeling as though he’d been run over by a truck, he just wanted to curl up and feel sorry for himself.
Tyler opened his mouth to bite out a quick dismissal of the group, but thought better of it, when he caught Skye’s glowering gaze. He’d be better off taking on Tornado again, than butting heads with her.
Skye Whitman was one woman he didn’t want to cross.
From a spot in the corner of the room, away from the center of action, Skye watched the interchange between Tyler and his friends. She’d never met a man who so carefully guarded even the simplest show of emotion. Every time one of the boys brought up his injuries, he changed the subject. If they asked how he felt after his harrowing ride, he brushed it off with a joke. He hid his feelings behind a good ol’ boy mask of indifference. Not letting anyone see the real Tyler Bradshaw.
Whoever that might be.
The nurse on duty, a harried young woman with long blond hair and a worried frown, entered the room, pushing her way through the crowd. “Gentlemen, it’s after visiting hours. Our patient’s tired. He needs his rest. I’m sorry, but ya’ll have to leave now.”
Murmurs of regret sounded in the room.
The nurse hadn’t been the only one to notice Tyler’s eyes drifting shut more than once. Or his ashen pallor. Or the grimace of pain that he tried to hide behind a strained smile. Without an argument, the cowboys mumbled their goodbyes and began drifting toward the door.
It was time to go home.
Skye watched the men’s slow exodus and wondered if, with the setting sun, the ranch house had cooled down any. Or if it was still sweltering with heat.
She noticed her father deep in conversation with Joey Witherspoon at the foot of Tyler’s bed. Their voices were low, hushed in deference to the now sleeping Tyler. Her curiosity piqued, she sidled up to the pair.
“He’s going to need help,” Gus was telling his friend. “He’s got some cracked ribs and he’s done a number on his back again. Doctor says he’s going to need to rest and recuperate. But, hell, he lives out of that damn truck of his, driving from one rodeo to the next. Where’s he supposed to go?”
“Juanita and I would like to help.” Joey flexed his massive shoulders into a shrug. “But with the new baby, Juanita already has her hands full.”
“My apartment’s too small to turn around in, let alone have a houseguest,” Gus muttered, glancing at Tyler’s still figure. “Dammit, what are we going to do with him?”
“Surely, somebody could take him in.”
“Who?” Gus asked sharply. “Don’t get me wrong. Tyler’s a good ol’ boy and all, but—” He sighed. “Well, I don’t know too many cowboys fool enough to stay within kickin’ distance of him when he’s been hurt. He can be a bit on the cantankerous side.”
Skye clapped a hand to her mouth, smothering a laugh. Gus Whitman calling Tyler Bradshaw cantankerous was a little like the pot calling the kettle black.
The noise caught both men’s attention.
Joey turned, startled. “Hey there, Skye. I didn’t notice you standing there.”
Gus frowned. “Honey, I thought you’d left along with the others.”
“I just thought I’d stay and see how Tyler’s doing,” she said, instantly regretting the words. Admitting to her father that she was worried about Tyler didn’t seem like a wise thing to do. She shrugged, covering her concern. “You know, to see if he needed anything, like a toothbrush, or a magazine, or something.”
The two men exchanged a glance.
Gus cleared his throat and gave his most engaging smile. “Say, honey...how’s that ranch house? Gettin’ kind of lonely?”
Skye frowned. “Lonely? No, not yet anyway. I mean, it’s a lot different from living in the city—” She stopped herself, stared at the two men, seeing the wheels turning behind their guarded expressions. She gave her head a slow, disbelieving shake. “Oh, no, you don’t—”
“Don’t what, honey?” Gus asked, a picture of innocence.
