Texas! Chase #2 (2 page)

"I never saw anything like that," the woman said, aghast.

"Do these young men train to do this?" her husband wanted to know.

Marcie had only recently become interested in bull riding and her knowledge was still sketchy. "Yes, they do. There's a lot of skill involved, but a lot of chance too."

"Like what?"

"Like which bull a cowboy draws on a particular night."

"Some are more contrary than others?"

Marcie smiled. "All are bred to be rodeo animals, but each has his mood swings and personality traits."

Their attention was drawn to another chute where the bull had already lost patience and was bucking so violently the cowboy was having a difficult time mounting. The woman from Massachusetts fanned her face nervously.

Her husband sat enthralled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like our next cowboy is going to have a time of it tonight," the announcer said. "Anybody here want to take his place?" After a pause he chuckled. "Now, don't all of y'all volunteer at once.

"But this cowboy isn't afraid of a tough bull. In fact, the rougher the ride, the better he seems to like it.

He rodeoed for years before retiring from it. Took it up again about a year and a half ago, not the least bit intimidated that he's a decade older than most cowboys who ride bulls.

"He hails from East Texas. Anybody here from over Milton Point way? If so, put your hands together for this young man from your hometown, Chase Tyler, as he comes out of chute number seven on Ellll Dorado't"

"Oh, my God!" Unaware of what she was doing, Marcie surged to her feet.

The announcer raised his voice to an eardrum-blasting volume as the gate swung open and the mottled, gray bull charged out, swinging his hindquarters to and fro and, moving in opposition, thrashing his head from side to side.

Marcie watched the cowboy hat sail off

Chase's head and land in the dirt beneath the bull's pulverizing hooves. He kept his free left arm high, as required by the rules of the sport.

It flopped uncontrollably as the bull bucked.

His entire body was tossed high, then landed hard as it came back down onto the bull's back. He kept both knees raised and back, held at right angles to either side of the bull, rocking back and forth, up and down, on his tailbone.

The crowd was wildly cheering, encouraging

Chase to hang on. He managed to maintain his seat for about five seconds, though it had seemed like five years to Marcie. Before the horn sounded, the beast ducked his head so far down it almost touched the ground, then flung it up again. The movement had so much raw power behind it, Chase was thrown off.

He dodged the stamping hooves by rolling to one side. A clown, wearing baggy pants held up by suspenders, moved in and batted the bull on the snout with a rubber baseball bat. The bull snorted, stamped, and the clown scampered away, turning to thumb his nose at the animal.

It looked as though it were all in fun and

the crowd laughed. The seriousness of the clown's job became instantly apparent, however, when the tactic failed to work.

The bull swung around, slinging great globs of foamy slobber from either side of its mouth, its nostrils flared. Chase, his back to the bull, picked up his hat from the dirt and slapped it against his chaps. A warning was snouted, but not in time. The bull charged him, head lowered, over a ton in impetus behind the attack.

Chase sidestepped quickly enough to keep from being gored by a pair of vicious-looking horns, but the side of the bull's head caught him in the shoulder and he was knocked down.

Everyone in the audience gasped when the pair of front hooves landed square on Chase's chest.

Marcie screamed, then covered her mouth with her hands. She watched in horror as Chase lay sprawled in the reddish-brown dirt, obviously unconscious.

Again the clowns moved in, as well as two spotters on horseback. They galloped toward the bull. Each was standing in his stirrups, leaning far over his saddle horn, swinging a lasso. One was successful in getting the noose over the bull's horns and pulling the rope taut. His well-trained mount galloped through the gate, dragging the reluctant bull behind him while one brave clown swatted his rump with a broom.

The second clown was kneeling in the dirt beside the injured cowboy.

Marcie scrambled over several pairs of legs

and feet in her haste to reach the nearest aisle. Rudely she shoved past anyone who got in her way as she ran down the ramp. When she reached the lower level, she grabbed the arm of the first man she saw.

"Hey, what the—"

"Which way to the… the place where the people come out?"

"Say, lady, are you drunk? Let go of my arm."

"The barns. The place where the performers come from. Where the bulls go when they're finished."

"That way." He pointed, then muttered,

"Crazy broad."

She plowed her way through the milling crowd buying souvenirs and concessions. Over the public address system she heard the announcer say, "We'll let y'all know Chase Tyler's condition as soon as we hear something, folks."

Disregarding the authorized personnel only sign on a wide, metal, industrial-size door, she barged through it. The scent of hay and manure was strong as she moved down a row of cattle pens. Breathing heavily through her mouth, she almost choked on the dust, but spotting the rotating lights of an ambulance across the barn, she ran even faster through the maze of stalls.

Reaching the central aisle, she elbowed her way through the curious onlookers until she pushed her way free and saw Chase lying unconscious on a stretcher. Two paramedics were working over him. One was slipping a needle into the vein in the crook of his elbow.

Chase's face was still and white.

"No!" She dropped to her knees beside the stretcher and reached for his limp hand.

"Chase? Chase!"

"Get back, lady!" one of the paramedics ordered.

"But—"

"He'll be fine if you'll get out of our way."

Her arms were grabbed from behind and she was pulled to her feet. Turning, she confronted the grotesque face of one of the rodeo clowns, the one whom she'd last seen bending over Chase.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"A friend. How is he? Have they said what's wrong with him?"

He eyed her suspiciously; she obviously wasn't in her element. "He's prob'ly got a few broken ribs, is all.

Had the wind knocked out of him."

"Will he be all right?"

He spat tobacco juice on the hay-strewn concrete floor. "Prob'ly. I reckon he won't feel too good for a day or so."

Marcie was only moderately relieved to hear the clown's diagnosis. It wasn't a professional opinion.

How did he know that Chase hadn't sustained internal injuries?

"Shouldn't've been ridin' tonight," the clown was saying as the stretcher was hoisted into the back of the ambulance. "Told him he shouldn't get on a bull in his condition. Course I guess it wouldn't matter. That bull El Dorado is one mean sum'bitch. Last week over in—"

"What condition?" Frustrated when he only gazed at her in puzzlement through his white-rimmed eyes, she clarified her question. "You said 'in his condition.' What condition was Chase in?"

"He was half-lit."

"You mean drunk?"

"Yes, ma'am. We had us a pretty wild party last night. Chase hadn't quite recovered."

Marcie didn't wait to hear any more. She climbed into the back of the ambulance just as the paramedic was about to close the doors.

He reacted with surprise and an air of authority.

"Sorry, ma'am. You can't—"

"I am. Now we can stand here and argue about it or you can get this man to the hospital."

"Hey, what's the holdup?" the other paramedic shouted back. He was already in the driver's seat with the motor running.

His assistant gauged Marcie's determination and apparently decided that an argument would only waste valuable time.

"Nothing," he called to his cohort. "Let's go." He slammed the doors and the ambulance peeled out of the coliseum barn.

"Well, I'm glad you made it back to your hotel safely."

Marcie, cradling the receiver of the pay telephone against her ear, massaged her temples while apologizing to the gentleman from Massachusetts.

She had probably lost a sale, but when she saw Chase lying unconscious in the dirt, her guests had been the farthest thing from her mind. Indeed, she hadn't even remembered them until a few minutes ago while pacing the corridor of the hospital.

"Mr. Tyler is an old friend of mine," she explained. "I didn't know he was appearing in this rodeo until his name was announced.

Since his family isn't here, I felt like I should accompany him to the hospital. I hope you understand."

She didn't give a damn whether they understood or not. If she had been entertaining the President and First Lady tonight, she would have done exactly the same thing.

After hanging up, she returned to the nurses'

station and inquired for the umpteenth time if there had been an update on Chase's condition.

The nurse frowned with irritation. "As soon as the doctor— Oh, here he is now." Glancing beyond Marcie's shoulder, she said, "This lady is waiting for word on Mr. Taylor."

"Tyler," Marcie corrected, turning to meet the young resident. "I'm Marcie Johns."

"Phil Montoya." They shook hands. "Are you a relative?"

"Only a good friend. Mr. Tyler doesn't have any family in Fort Worth. They all live in Milton Point."

"Hmm. Well, he's finally come around. Got swatted in the head pretty good, but thankfully no serious damage was done."

"I saw the bull land on his chest."

"Yeah, he's got several broken ribs."

"That can be dangerous, can't it?"

"Only if a jagged rib punctures an internal organ."

Marcie's face went so pale that even the freckles she carefully camouflaged with cosmetics stood out in stark contrast. The doctor hastily reassured her.

"Fortunately that didn't happen either. No bleeding organs. I've taped him up. He'll be all right in a few days, but he's not going to feel very chipper. I certainly don't recommend that he do any bull riding for a while."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Sure did. He cussed me out."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged and said affably, "I'm used to it. This is a county hospital. We get the psychos, the derelicts, and the victims of drug deals gone awry. We're used to verbal abuse."

'May I see him?"

"For a few minutes. He doesn't need to be talking."

"I won't talk long."

"He's just been given a strong painkiller, so he'll likely be drifting off Soon anyway."

"Then if it's all the same to you," Marcie said smoothly, "I'd like to stay the night in his room."

"He'll be well taken care of," the nurse said stiffly from behind her.

Marcie stood firm. "Do I have your permission,

Dr. Montoya?"

He tugged on his earlobe. Marcie gave him the direct look that said she wasn't going to budge from her position. Buyers, sellers, and lending agents had had to confront that steady blue stare. Nine times out of ten they yielded to it. Earlier that night, the paramedic had found it hard to argue with.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt," the resident said at last.

"Thank you."

"Keep the conversation to a minimum."

"I promise. Which room is he in?"

Chase had been placed in a semiprivate room, but the other bed was empty. Marcie advanced into the room on tiptoe until she reached his bedside.

For the first time in two years, she gazed into Chase Tyler's face. The last time she had looked into it, their positions had been reversed.

She'd been lying semiconscious in a hospital bed and he had been standing beside it, weeping over his wife's accidental death.

By the time Marcie's injuries had healed and she was well enough to leave the hospital, Tanya Tyler had been interred. A few months after that, Chase had left Milton Point for parts unknown.

Word around town was that he was running the rodeo circuit, much to the distress of his family.

Not too long ago, Marcie had bumped into

Devon, Lucky's bride, in the supermarket. After

Marcie had introduced herself, Devon had confirmed the rumors circulating about Chase.

Family loyalty had prevented her from openly

discussing his personal problems with an outsider, but Marcie had read between the lines of what she actually said. There were hints about his delicate emotional state and a developing drinking problem.

"Laurie is beside herself with worry about him," Devon had said, referring to Chase's mother. "Sage, Chase's sister—"

"Yes, I know."

"She's away at school, so that leaves only

Lucky and me at the house with Laurie. She feels that Chase is running away from his grief over Tanya instead of facing it and trying to deal with it."

Chase had also left the foundering family business in the hands of his younger brother, who, if rumors were to be believed, was having a hard time keeping it solvent. The oil business wasn't improving. Since Tyler Drilling depended on a healthy oil economy, the company had been teetering on the brink of bankruptcy for several years.

Marcie put to Devon the question that was never far from her mind. "Does he blame me for the accident?"

Devon had pressed her arm reassuringly.

"Never. Don't lay that kind of guilt on yourself.

Chase's quarrel is with fate, not you."

But now, as Marcie gazed into his face, which looked tormented even in repose, she wondered if he did in fact hold her responsible for his beloved Tanya's death.

"Chase," she whispered sorrowfully.

He didn't stir, and his breathing was deep

and even, indicating that the drug he had been given intravenously was working. Giving in to the desire she'd felt while lying in pain in her own hospital bed, Marcie gingerly ran her fingers through his dark hair, brushing back wavy strands that had fallen over his clammy forehead.

Even though he looked markedly older, he was still the most handsome man she'd ever seen. She had thought so the first day of kindergarten.