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Hard humps and soul-destroying kicks, the beast between my legs thrashes like a badass, and I tighten my hand in the hair of his mane.
By my count, I’m less than two seconds away from a full eight, and all it takes is three more gyrations up and down for Chase to yell out confirmation.
“That’s it! Eight fucking seconds! Rhett Jameson, motherfuckers, let’s gooo!”
Allowing myself a smile, I prepare to dismount, watching and waiting for an ideal time to launch myself off and to the side for a crash-landing on the ground. Out here, in a paddock, riding a completely unsanctioned bronc, it’s not like I can sit around and wait for a pickup man to come get me on his horse.
The only way off this fucker is from his back to the ground, and timing it right is the difference between getting fucked up and not.
One buck turns into two, and I listen to the sound of my bronc’s breath. He’s huffing loudly, becoming more and more agitated the longer I’m on his back, and I’m approaching the window where if I don’t get off him soon, at an angle and trajectory of my choosing, he’s going to make some decisions of his own—ones I’m not likely to enjoy.
Committed to letting go at the bottom of the next jump, I wait for his next buck to cycle and then release my grip on the coarse fibers of his mane. Unfortunately, thanks to the imperfect terrain of uneven paddock ground, he hits bottom before I’m expecting and jars me into the swell of his back.
As a result, when he bucks again, with my grip already released, I make my exit with little to no control over the angle and descent of my body.
With a snap and a pop, I hit the ground directly on my left knee, driving all the weight and force of my ride right into it and sending a crack through the air that breaks all the previous calm of the dark night.
“Shit!” Chase yells as I roll over and blink through my body’s attempt to check out of consciousness. The agony in my leg is real and potent, and I know without a shadow of a doubt, I’ve destroyed more than a little something inside of it.
Vaguely, I hear the sound of three sets of boots hitting the dirt and pounding toward me, and I hold on to the cadence of each of them as a way to keep my heart from pounding all the way outside my chest.
Overcome, I turn my head to the side and get sick, right there on the grass next to me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Chase chants as he slides to a stop like he’s stealing home plate in baseball and puts a supportive hand under my head.
“My leg,” I manage to croak, clammy sweat dripping from the skin above my top lip directly into my mouth. “It’s not good,” I continue, forcing myself to speak through several heavy swallows.
Chase nods. “I know, buddy. Cutter’s called an ambulance. You just hang tight, okay?”
My head jerks in the affirmative, and I lick my lips against the searing, mind-numbing pain. “I guess your daddy’s gonna know what we’ve been up to now.”
Chase nods. “I know. I’d tell you off, but I’d say the fact that my dad’s not the only one who’s gonna know is punishment enough.”
Damn straight. My dad, Tex Jameson, is going to have my ass for breakfast. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he lets whatever’s broken in my leg heal just to break it all over again himself.
I carry far too many responsibilities on our family’s ranch to get injured and be out of commission for an extended period of time.
Fuck.
“Look at it this way,” Lynn remarks from above me. “At least Cut and I know Chase wasn’t full of shit all this time. Rhett Jameson can ride himself a goddamn bronc.”
Cutter laughs. “Fuck yeah, he can. It’s the gettin’ off that’s the problem.”
I want to laugh, but at the thought of what this is going to mean for running my family’s business, Shaw Springs Ranch, over the summer, my pain hits an absolute pinnacle and I pass right the fuck out.
I can only hope God takes pity and sends some sort of an angel to solve my problems.
One thing’s for sure…I’m gonna need one.
June 7th, Monday
Shaw Springs Ranch, Hollow Rock, Utah
Rhett
I tuck the crutch tighter into my armpit and circle Huck’s hindquarters with my free hand on his ass. My daughter Joey follows, watching as I do my best impression of a one-legged man.
It’s been just shy of four weeks—and one two-hour surgery—since I injured my left leg, and the first three of them were spent almost entirely in bed. All thanks to a patella fracture and patella tendon tear—or as I like to call it, a totally fucked-up leg.
