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“Think, Rachel,” I whisper to myself. “Think.”
With few choices in my scrambled brain, I do what everybody in Dallas would if they spotted a helpless creature in peril.
I haul butt before my mind catches up, racing forward and vaulting over the chainlink fence in front of us.
It’s the only tall barrier keeping the bystanders from the action, besides some generous spacing.
I hit the ground running. Pulling off the pastel-pink open button-down shirt I’m wearing over the matching tank top, I start flicking the shirt at the pig, trying like hell to catch its attention.
Are pig matadors a thing?
If they never were before, they’re about to be, invented right here in this little town with one helpless oinker and one insanely desperate me.
The closer I get, I see the pig’s roughly dog-sized, probably over a hundred pounds. His chubby face turns and sees me—I hope—but rather than running away, he just skids to a stop in the mud and stares.
He’s squinting like I’m the one in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Dude.
He doesn’t have a clue he’s in major danger.
There’s a noise just behind me then. The front-end loader backs up with an impatient growl, and the pig is still straight in its path.
“Get out of there! Get, get, get!” I bellow, snapping my shirt over my head and out in front of me like a crude whip, tearing up dirt. “Shoo, pig! Go home, little dude.”
The ginormous machine doesn’t slow.
The loader’s operator can’t see the pig from his height, I’m sure. I’m not even certain he can see me.
So I leap up and down like a monkey on a sugar high, waving my arms and yelling at the driver, even though I know he can’t hear diddly. Not over the hooting crowd and the massive diesel engine. I’m sure a few people have noticed I’ve run into the arena like a lunatic, but the shocked screeching over a girl on the field! only adds to the noise level.
“Shoo! Shoo!” I shout again, turning to the pig and flapping my shirt as I charge at him, desperate to scare him away. “Go on, get!”
It’s slow going, approaching him, when the traction sucks.
Every other step makes me slide on the mud, threatening to tumble me over.
If that happens, Saving Private Porky is an insta-fail mission.
Predictably, the little ham doesn’t move.
A defeated sigh rolls out of me as I realize what it’s coming down to. I’m going to have to push this freaking stubborn little hog out of the way.
Still running, I hold out my arms, preparing to plow into his side with all my strength.
I’ll have to hope the churned-butter mud will work to my benefit when it comes to moving the pig.
Here. We. Go!
I’m off to a great start, flying forward, head dipped and arms out like I’m chucking a bowling ball down the world’s longest alley.
...only, the second I impact the grunting beast with a vibration that knocks my breath out, nothing moves.
He’s a two-foot rock, a brick wall of fat and fur and muscle.
The collision drops me on my knees. I keep trying to shove him, but he just sticks his snout in my face with a smug snort, sniffing at my hair.
“Come on!” I yell, looking up just in time to see several men gathering at the fence, ready to climb over it and join me in the fray.
