Page 105 of Resisting Isaac
“What the hell is he doing out of the paddock?” I bark.
Camera guy glances over his shoulder. Crew guy. Young. Nervous. “Director said he wanted some dramatic B-roll.”
And then I see the director with a Bluetooth in one ear and a Red Bull in hand. He’s standing just off camera, giving orders and grinning like this is his idea of cinematic gold.
“Get that damn horse back where he belongs,” I snap. I wave Colter and Marcos over to help.
But I’m too late.
Lucifer lets out a screeching whinny, the kind that vibrates straight through your bones. His front hooves shoot off the ground in a high, violent rear. Pure show, pure threat.
Just then, I hear another horse—herhorse—startle. Elena is shooting a scene where she’s riding alongside Eli for the first time. Eli’s shown a ton of improvement but he’s nervous as shit and it shows when Elena’s horse rears backward.
“No,” I breathe, turning fast.
One minute, Elena’s sitting tall in the saddle, all focused grace and make-believe mooning after Eli.
The next, she’s airborne when her mare bucks.
Hard.
She hits the dirt with a sickening thud.
I don’t think. I just sprint.
The sound cuts across the set. People scatter like mice, shouts rising, radios crackling. But I don’t hear any of it. All I see is her.
Crumpled on the ground.
Still. So fucking still.
I drop to my knees beside her. She’s trying to breathe, but it’s ragged, gasping. Probably just knocked the wind out of her, but maybe not. Maybe worse.
“Elena. I’m here. Don’t move, baby—don’t move.” My hands hover, useless, trembling. “Someone call an ambulance!” I shout behind me. “Now!”
Her eyes blink open—barely. She winces in pain.
“I’ve got you. It’s okay. Just keep breathing. Don’t try to sit up. Don’t move.”
A sharp breath hisses through her teeth. Her hand instinctively presses low to her stomach.
Mikayla is already on the phone. She’s stammering to explain so I bark out the relevant information. The address of the ranch and then, “twenty-four year old female, probably anemic and definitely hypoglycemic, thrown from a horse. Possible head, neck, and back injury.”
Mikayla repeats it with a shaking voice. Then turns to me. “She says the ambulance is fifteen minutes out.”
And that’s when I lose it.
“Tell them to fucking hurry. She’spregnant!”
Mikayla repeats my words, substituting the explicative for please.
When she says the p-word, everything stops.
Wyatt and Ivy both step forward, faces tight with panic.
“Jesus Christ,” Wyatt mutters. “She’s?—?”
“Pregnant,” I say again, gentler this time. Like speaking it softer will make it less terrifying. “Little over twelve weeks now.”
