Page 348 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
Can’t think.
The world just drops.
Music blurs
People shout.
Someone yells his name, but I’m already running.
“Hart—” My voice breaks as I drop to my knees beside his brothers. “No, no, no—”
There’s blood. I can’t tell if it’s his head or his mouth.
“Someone get help!” It isn’t a command.
It’s Levi’s deafening scream—a desperate, broken sound, raw and unfiltered, like it’s torn straight from his ribs.
“Shit. Fuck,” Dean chokes out, like the words catch halfway in his throat. “Hart? Hey man, can you hear me?”
Hart’s eyes are closed, but his chest rises, shallow and uneven.
“Why isn’t he waking up?” I sound far away.
Hollow.
Like someone else is asking from a place I haven’t caught up to yet.
“Don’t move him. Don’t touch him!” someone barks behind us.
A rodeo medic? Are EMTs already pushing through the crowd?
It takes all I have not to grab his hand. Not to touch his cheek.
More people are gathering around us now. It’s all radio static.
If anyone should hate a family, it should be me.
My throat closes in.
None of it matters.
Not the feud.
Not the land.
Not the past.
Not if he doesn’t wake up.
“Please,” I whisper. “Hart, please.”
Boots thunder behind me.
Someone shouts, “We’ve got him—move—move!”
I don’t, then hands grip my arms and lift me to my feet.
“You have to let them in—” Levi’s voice is a whisper wrapped in panic.
