Page 58 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

“Wait—” Warrick said, leaning in. “What the fuck? Is that Santos?”

I held my breath, stomach bunched up in a tight knot as the bull kicked his back legs up. Even with the wild ride, Santos seemed to take the body-snapping movements with ease, his thighs gripping the sides of the bull, his arm flung up, his back staying loose, his movements gracefully in sync with the animal.

It was mesmerizing, hypnotizing even. Even with the helmet on, I saw the wide smile stretched across his lips, as if riding bulls was a cakewalk for him. The crowd was going wild—cheering and stomping. Santos had to be on the bull for eight seconds; it was four so far.

“No, no, no,” Warrick leaned forward, gripping the seats in front of him, his knuckles white. “His center of balance is too far back now. He’s wobbling in his seat.”

In the next second, Santos seemed to have corrected his form—but then the bull went mad. There was a leap, a twist, a mad horn toss and the bull got on his front hooves, almost vertically—flinging Santos off his back.

“Oh, God!” I was on my feet, my hands clasped over my mouth. I shot a look to Warrick—he was pale as a sheet.

He had to be remembering his accident.

Shit.

The fellow bull riders and handlers leaped into the arena and raced to him, heedless of the danger; while a few tried to distract the bull, the handlers tried to grab Santos away. But the bull was not to be distracted and butted his rock-hard head against Santos’s back.

As Santos’s spinning body came down, the bull turned and tossed its head, landing a vicious horn right below the protection of his vest. He’d been gored. Badly. Possibly lethally.

“Fuck!” Warrick yelled.

The arena was in an uproar while Santos curled into a ball, hands and arms covering his head and neck. The bull plowed into him with enough force to scoot him across the ground.

“Oh God, oh God…” My chest felt tight as one of the bull riders tried to grab a horn and yanked. The bull turned and went after him, giving the other bull riders time to yank Santos away. I couldn't tell if the bull had stepped on him or not, but God forbid that had happened.

I looked toward Warrick, and he was not there.

I spotted his beige hat winding through the crowd as he went to Santos’s side, but I couldn’t move. My legs felt like rubber, and I knew I wanted to be there—I needed to be there—but I still couldn’t move. My feet might as well have been nailed to the floor.

Forcing myself to follow Warrick, I sidestepped out of the row so quickly that I tripped over my feet two or five times. The crowd was still thick around Santos by the time I reached the arena level, and when I broke through it, I could hear my blood pounding in my ears.

I got to the ground just as the men were loading Santos onto a stretcher. He was out cold—and I had never felt so much fear in my life.

Chapter Nineteen

Warrick

Ifelt my head hit the packed dirt…and a pure fear of that thick hoof slamming into my head.

I was numb and hyperaware of everything at the same time, a roar, the crowd screaming, the fellow riders yelling, my body contorted in a fucking pretzel, pain radiating up my spine.

I felt hands grabbing at me.

Pain.

Screaming people.

More hands yanking me.

A scream—mine.

Then I heard the screech of a paramedic’s siren and more hollering from people.

Bip…

Bip…bip…bip

Beeeeeeep…

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