Page 95 of Eight Second Hearts

I have no time to mourn the loss of my dad. I can’t focus on that. Instead, I drop to my knees beside Beau again.

“An ambulance should be on the way,” I say, reaching for my phone where I’d dropped it. The call is still connected so I press it to my ear.

“No time!” Ram growls. “He’s going to bleed out unless we get him somewhere fast. Tripp, help me get him in the truck.”

“Are there emergency vehicles en route?” I ask on the phone as I hold the door open and watch them left Beau into the back seat. I leap up into the back seat with him and press my hand to the wound.

“Air lift is fifteen minutes out,” the operator answers.

“Good. We’ll meet them halfway.” I toss the phone to Ram when he climbs into the passenger seat. “Tell them the road we’re taking.”

Tripp rushes around the front of the truck, but before he can get around the nose, another loud crack explodes and we all duck on instinct.

Tripp turns toward his dad with a snarl. “Cut it out, old man! You tryin’ to kill your own son?”

“I ain’t got no sons!” Fred Jr. shouts. “This is my land! You don’t belong on it and you ain’t no son of mine!” He opens the barrel and pops in two more rounds. “Ain’t no son of mine! No sons!”

Tripp stares at him for two long seconds before he tips his head. “Really look at me,” he says. “You don’t know who I am?”

“I don’t know Jack from Jill of any you assholes! Get off my property before I send you off it in a body bag!”

Tripp nods. “My mistake, sir. Have a good day.”

He climbs into the truck and fires it up, not looking at anyone else.

“It’s okay,” Ram says, his eyes on the man still on the porch. “Let your dad die. It’s what he did to his dad. It’s what he would do for you.” He looks over at Tripp before turning back to look at me. “Both of you.”

Nobody’s son. Nobody’s daughter. Tripp Savage and I have more in common than I ever thought we could.

“Go,” I croak. “Go fast.”

Tripp pushes the pedal to the floor and his diesel truck roars as we lurch forward.

Chapter 52

Indie

The closest emergency room is thirty minutes away by car. Thirty minutes. There are small clinics and urgent cares closer, but none of those are equipped for a bullet wound to the stomach. I pray to any deity listening that Beau doesn’t bleed out before we make it anywhere.

In the front seat, Ram is still on the phone with the operator, giving directions as we fly down the road. I stopped listening to him a few minutes ago, my mind growing busy with static as I focus on keeping Beau’s blood inside his body.

My hands are stained with it. My fingers are red with his life. Too much blood. Too much. He’s going to die here on my lap. I’m going to watch him die. I’ve watched people die with less of a wound than this.

I’ve watched them die from more.

As I stare down at him, at his white t-shirt stained bright red like a flower, his hair gentle around his face, his eyes closed, I can’t help thinking what a story this would make. What a photo I’d get of him if I took it right now. Despite the pain in my chest, despite the very real possibility of him dying, some part of my mind detaches and looks through a camera lens.

Rodeo Legend Meets His Match.

Giggles Only Go So Far: How One Man Flirted With Death Too Long.

Legend, Glory, Giggles: The Rodeo Clown Has Fallen.

My face twists and I lean down over him. “You don’t get to die on me,” I whisper roughly. “You don’t get to the be on the front page for this. Get your shit together, Beau Rogers, or I’ll never forgive you.”

He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t answer. I don’t even know if he can hear me.

In front of us, we round a corner, and a helicopter comes into view. The props are still spinning, still geared up, as if they just barely landed. A group of people in uniforms stand outside waiting, a stretcher between them.

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