“People in hell want ice water. He’s already heading for surgery. Broken femur. Compound. Not pretty, but not the worst news I’ve heard lately. I saw him—he was awake, aware, knew where he was, what happened. Told me to give you his gear. Said his chaps were new.”
“They are.” Raul grinned, remembering making Joa try them on for them. Over nothing else.
“Well, I got all his stuff. Quit scowling, Silva.”
“Has anyone from bills been in?” Balta asked. “I have his medical power thing. I can talk to them.”
“Yeah. The Relief folks have already started their part. It’ll just be a process.” Jonesy clapped Balta on the shoulder. “It’s going to suck for a few months, but they hope to just set the bone. If not, they’ll screw him together.”
“That’s good, yes?”
Jonesy shrugged again. “Good and bad. He’ll have to be in the hospital for a bit. They might be able to let him move closer to home, but he’s gonna be stuck.”
“Mierda.” Balta glared at Raul, who understood. It was not personal. Balta needed to growl and grumble. “We’ll get him closer to home. Texas, at least so hismaican be with him. Joaquim is strong. He’ll be walking in a day.”
“Probably, yeah. They’ll try and have him up and moving unless there’s traction.”
“Hey, Balta. You and Raul want coffee?” Hank joined them, drawing stares from the few other inhabitants of the waiting room. The leggy rider had broken his nose tonight, his face black and purple, the cut over his upper lip lurid. He still wore his riding clothes, which were covered with mud and manure.
“Tell me you didn’t stir it with your finger,” Jonesy said, winking at Raul.
“Hey! I washed up. Mostly. And I didn’t stir in nothin’. I got all the sugar and shit, though.” Jonesy brandished a bag of things to put in coffee.
The doors whooshed open and Landon Gaudet rushed in, his nut-brown face creased with concern. “How’s Joa?”
Everyone blinked, because this one was so new and poor he might as well have been a first-year Brazilian.
“He’s on his way to surgery,” Jonesy said. That was how it was when one of them got hurt. The endless questions, the sight of cowboys standing in the halls, hats in their hands, heads down, praying.
“Is he gonna be good? I mean, he didn’t crack his noggin’.”
“His leg,” Raul told the kid. Surely the man had noticed, right? He’d never seen anything quite so clear.
Landon nodded. “I was just worried after Mr. Bell and all.”
Balta shook his head. “No. Jonesy said he talked, he knew where he was.”
Which meant he knew how much pain he was in. Raul swallowed the bile rising at that. Such injuries were never easy. Never. They made it seem easy, bull-riders, rising and hopping out of the arena, even when their necks were broken, but the pain was very real.
A doctor popped out of the door leading to the surgery area. “Joa Lima?”
Balta stepped forward. “I have his medical power of attorney, Doctor.”
“Ah. Good.” The doctor led Balta away a few feet, and Raul strained to hear what was said. That was the way when you loved men,nao? You had to act like you were no one, just another friend.
“Ey, Raul,” Landon said, putting a hand on his arm. “Need some sugar, me. You or Balta want anything more than coffee?”
“Snickers?” Balta loved those. He handed Landon a five-dollar bill. “Is this enough for all three?”
“Yeppers. I’ll be right back.” Landon scurried off, and Raul smiled. Nice kid. He was a mediocre rider, but a nice kid.
Balta came to him. “It’s not good. The damage was bad in the leg. They want to put a metal bone in the middle of his leg and piece it back together. The muscles are torn in the back of the leg, bad.”
“Did you tell them yes?”
Balta nodded. “They must fix it, make it right.”
Raul touched Balta’s arm. “You did the right thing. When can we see him?”
