Page 34 of Eight Seconds

“Be sure to get checked out when you’re done, okay? I promised I’d help Travis with his prep, but don’t hesitate to come find me if you need me.” Wilder’s eyebrows crinkle a little with his insistence. I nod. “Good ride, Cowgirl.” He leans down to whisper in my ear, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

* * *

I won.

We won.

They’re the only thoughts I have as I trot Rooney back to the stall. He’s practically high-stepping, my emotions rubbing off on him. I can’t stop reaching through his mane and telling him how amazing he is when we get through the crowd.

It was our best race of the season. Hell, it was probably the best race of my whole damn life. Rooney didn’t miss a step, and with his ears back as he ran for the finish line, he looked like he was chasing down the wind. It certainly felt like flying, with the speed we moved at and the rushing sound of cheers from the crowd.

As we get closer to the stall, I swing a leg over to dismount. When my boots hit the dirt, I immediately know I’m going to be sick. I drop Rooney’s lead, knowing my horse won’t go anywhere. I rush to the nearest trashcan and throw up the meager contents of my stomach. There isn’t much, so it’s over easily, but the dry heaves that follow have me gripping the rim and rising to my tiptoes to try and get rid of them. It doesn’t work, and I suffer through several more rounds before my system stops rioting. After wiping the back of my hand across my clammy face, I keep my head down before I get Rooney into his stall as quickly as I can. Wilder was right, I need to get to the medical station because I’ve had enough of this shit.

Considering the nature of the rodeo, I’m surprised to see the medical station is relatively empty. There are a couple of attendees sitting in chairs, sipping bottles of water, likely dealing with too much alcohol consumption if the smell wafting from them is any indication. My stomach churns dangerously, but I breathe through my mouth and press forward until I reach a short woman with a graying bob haircut in jeans and a vibrant green staff vest on. She has a clipboard in her hand and is speaking to another female vest-clad staff member, this brunette closer to my age, perhaps. Both turn to face me as I approach, friendly smiles and slightly concerned pinches in their brows, belying their profession. The similarities are so striking, I think they might be related.

“Well, hey there, darlin’,” the older woman drawls. Her voice is warm, immediately designed to set someone visiting this area of the arena with ease. “What can we do you for?”

“You’re Charlotte Stryker,” the younger woman says, a softer accent and recognition painting her features, her blue eyes wide. I give her a nod, taking off my hat to hold it in my hand. “Congratulations! You didn’t hurt yourself on that ride, did you? I’m Adaline, but everyone calls me Ada. Oh, and this is my mom, Dr. Prescott.”

Ada gestures to the gray-haired woman who smiles. Ada flicks her eyes up and down, assessing me for injury, but I hold up my free hand, halting her search, reaching out to shake the one she’s offered.

“Hi. No, the ride was great. I’m hoping you have something that can settle my stomach. I’ve been dealing with nerves for days, but frankly, I’m tired of puking.” I give a halfhearted laugh and hitch a thumb over my shoulder. “Pretty sure everyone in the staging area got an extra show with my performance over that last trashcan, and I’m sure I’m dehydrated.”

“You poor thing.” Dr. Prescott ushers me behind a cloth partition. “Please, call me Mary.” I give a nod of confirmation. Ada trails behind, taking the clipboard from her mother. “Can you tell me when the symptoms started so we can get you fixed up?”

I glance around. Mary and Ada must be a little bored if they’re both attending to my upset stomach. But I guess I don’t really mind. Usually, the only other women I encounter on the circuit are my competitors or the queens. It’s kind of nice to soak up some estrogen. Ada gestures to the cot that’s set up and waits expectantly.

“I think I first noticed it just before we came to town, so last week?” I think back. “Woke up one morning and just felt terrible. Threw up, and the rest of the day felt fine. Thought that was it. The pattern has followed almost every day, just never at the same time of day. Sometimes it’s just before I go to bed, other times it’s right after I’ve tried to eat lunch.”

Ada takes down some notes and Mary nods at me. “And you’ve never had a reaction like this before? Racing doesn’t get you this worked up?”

“Never,” I confirm. “But this is my first finals, and I don’t think that’s helped. My boyfriend said last year, at his first, he had a hard time keeping it together, too.”

“Wilder McCoy, right?” Ada asks, a sheepish blush deepening the color high on her cheeks. “I’m a huge rodeo fan. I’ve been keeping track of your standings all season—you’re an actual badass. Me? I’m terrified of horses, so I never could work up the nerve to compete in anything, but I follow it pretty closely. It’s why I volunteer with my mom, even if there isn’t much need for a midwife. But I’m a registered nurse, too, so I guess that’s why I’m allowed.”

“Wow,” I tell her, a little overwhelmed in a good way. It’s really nice to know that the cowboys don’t get all the attention. “Can you repeat that the next time Wilder’s standing next to me?”

A group of EMTs wanders through the back of the station as we laugh softly, picking up some bags and giving a wave. Ada smiles back enthusiastically while Mary nods them off idly.

“Heading to the gate,” one of them announces. The bull riders are coming up soon, and just like for the bronc events, the EMTs stage themselves just past the entrance gate. There’s a higher likelihood of injury, and the sport has learned to keep qualified people on hand. I imagine that’s why an actual doctor staffed this station instead of a group of volunteers like at some of the smaller circuits. With the group heading off, I remember how badly I want to finish this up so I can watch Travis compete.

“Anyway,” I continue. “Everything over the counter hasn’t helped much. Except ginger ale. And bagels. I’ve really liked bagels for breakfast, which is weird because I usually eat protein first. But eggs are just….” I give a shiver thinking about them. “What do you think? Is this all in my head and will finally pass now that my event is over? I feel like this is because I’m so exhausted.”

Ada hums, making another couple of notes, but Mary eyes me shrewdly. It’s a little unsettling, but I’m happy she’s listening so closely. She pulls a chair over, sitting across from me before turning to her daughter and reaching for the clipboard.

“Honey, do you mind giving Charlotte and me a minute? You can give those folks still here a packet of acetaminophen and send them on their way. Just make sure to keep track of the inventory you take out and note the time they left in the log.” Mary gives the directions gently. Ada nods at her mom and flashes me another cheerful smile.

“It was great to meet you, Charlotte. Congratulations again,” she says, giving my shoulder a squeeze before she leaves around the partition. The already impersonal space feels even more sterile after her exit, and I try not to let it unnerve me when I give my attention back to Mary.

I can’t place the emotion behind the look she’s giving me, but I can tell she’s concerned. Whether it’s a normal amount or not is another thing I can’t discern. I’ve always been pretty healthy, so I’m not used to being under a doctor’s scrutiny. I stiffen my spine, sitting a little taller.

“You strike me as someone who doesn’t suffer fools gently,” Mary begins wryly. “You’d have to be to live this life.” At my scoff, she continues, “So, please, know that I’m just trying to shoot you straight when I ask you this: when was your last period, Charlotte?”

“Two months ago,” I respond automatically, ignoring the flutter of dread that tries to sink my stomach. “But I have the three-month cycle of birth control pills. I’m still on the active pills right now.”

Mary nods, but I sense she isn’t fully convinced. A feeling confirmed by the next words out of her mouth. “The pill is not one hundred percent effective. And the symptoms you’re describing sound awfully similar to the first trimester of pregnancy.” I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand. “I’m just pointing it out because my medical training prompts the diagnosis when listening to your symptoms. Do you use a backup method of birth control?”

I shift uncomfortably on the stiff cot. It gives a little squeak of protest. I know that Mary is qualified, and it makes sense when I think back at how I’ve felt for the last week, but I can’t believe in the possibility. Or maybe I don’t want to.

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