Page 85 of His Tenth Dance

She shook her head slightly. “He caught my right leg,” she said. “Then on my side. Right here. On the left.”

Right, left, right.

“I’m gonna look,” Tarr said. “Okay? But you’re all right. The ambulance is almost here. You’re all right. Look at my shirt and tell me what color it is.”

Her right leg was actively bleeding, and Tarr swallowed hard and looked away from the wound. On second thought, he didn’t want to move her hand. Instead, he knocked his cowboy hat off, then pulled his T-shirt over his head.

“I’m just going to put some additional pressure on here. Can you lift your hand?”

She did, and through the blood and dirt, in that split second of time before Tarr folded his shirt and pressed it to her side, he saw that she had an old wound there.

Scars. Lots of little but prominent scars.

He pushed back her shirt to reveal more of her stomach and wiped the blood carefully with the corner of the fabric—but he did not find a wound.

“I think it’s just down on the side,” he said.

“Two minutes.” Tucker arrived. “They’re gone.” A pause filled the air, and then he added, “Oh, this is bad.”

“Tucker,” Tarr chastised. “Be quiet.”

Briar whimpered, and Tarr’s eyes drifted over the trail of scars that started about an inch from her belly button and ran down her left side. They disappeared under the waistband of her jeans and beneath the shirt he now used to stop the bleeding.

“Hey, look at me, baby,” he said gently. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. It’s not that bad.”

She closed her eyes, and panic reared inside Tarr. “Hey, Briar, honey. Come on,” he said. “You never told me what color my shirt was.”

“Not wearing a shirt,” she whispered, her voice faint and fading fast.

“Briar, stay awake now, sweetheart. What’s your full name? First, last, middle.”

“Briar…Heather…Prescott,” she said, a long pause between each word. “I represent the County of Winnipeg,” she added suddenly. “And I’m here to show you around to all the rodeo facilities.”

Tarr frowned, utterly confused. “All right,” he said carefully. “What are you going to show me first?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, despite everything.

Tuck had knelt on her right side and was currently cutting back her jeans, using the discarded piece as a wrap. She didn’t seem to feel it as she didn’t flinch at all.

“You kids will really like the sheep,” she said dreamily. “How many of you are going to do Mutton Busting?”

Tarr looked over at Tuck, who met his gaze with the same worry and wonder. Briar was speaking like a rodeo ambassador. And Tarr, once again, let his eyes drift across the scars on her side even as the sound of a siren pierced the air.

“I’ll go get them,” Tuck said, hurrying away.

Tarr stayed right at Briar’s side, these new pieces of her not making sense to him yet.

“I’m going to do the Mutton Busting,” he said, keeping his voice as calm and even as possible.

“Great,” Briar whispered. “And make sure your parents get your tickets to the Stampede when we’re done with the tour.” She took one big, shuddering breath, and her head fell to the side as she passed out. Her chest rose nice and even after that.

Tarr only moved out of the way when forced to by the paramedics. He stayed right at her side while they checked her vitals and loaded her onto a stretcher.

“Where are you taking her?” he asked.

“Deerfield General,” one of the medics replied. “You can ask about her in the emergency room.”

Tarr nodded and watched as they took Briar away, one of them still pressing his T-shirt to her wounded side.

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