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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MACK WAS IN a world of pain. The effort to hang onto that cord as he was lifted out of the shaft had cost him his last remaining ounce of strength. His hand was on fire, as if there were literal flames consuming his skin, and he cradled it protectively against his chest. It was hurriedly wrapped in a strip torn from the bottom of his shirt, but that wouldn’t stop the bleeding for long. And the agony had spread up his ankle, through his calf and up his thigh, so that his whole leg was throbbing. Everything was hazy around the edges. It was almost as if he was no longer one-hundred-percent part of this world. The only thing that anchored him to reality was Bindi’s hand softly stroking his hair as he lay in her lap. He concentrated on that feeling, nothing else.
A voice inside his head was ranting at him that he was a weak, spineless coward. He’d been through worse than this during his time riding bulls. Suffered broken bones before, bruising, dislocated fingers, torn ligaments, and a litany of other injuries. Admittedly, he’d been unconscious the last time when he’d received his most serious injuries. But for all of his internal ranting, he couldn’t seem to rouse himself from this stupor.
Suddenly, Bindi’s soothing hand left his brow, and he frowned. Why had she stopped?
Mack lifted his head, but the world spun and he knew the dreaded dizzy spells were back.
A man’s voice sounded faraway and distant. Who was speaking? Bindi answered, he’d recognize that sweet voice anywhere, but who did the other voice belong to?
Had someone come to their rescue? Mack sure hoped so. A nice, soft hospital bed and a syringe full of drugs would be more than welcome.
But no, the deep voice got louder. He screwed his eyes together and concentrated on the words.
“You killed Whip?” The man’s tone took on an incredulous edge. “You’re gonna pay for what you done.”
Bindi’s soft lap was suddenly yanked away from him, and his head landed hard on the ground. He forced his eyes open, but the bright sunshine nearly blinded him.
“Leave me alone, you fucker,” Bindi yelled, and this time Mack ignored the fact the world was spinning and managed to lift his head and look up. Straight into the face of Paunchy Man. He had Bindi by the hair, dragging her away, a gun pointed at her head. What was he doing here? Bindi was sure he’d gone, got in the car and driven away, but Mack should’ve warned her to be more vigilant.
“I didn’t kill him,” Bindi pleaded. “He fell down the shaft when he was trying to push Mack in. It was an accident.”
“It wasn’t no accident,” the fat man growled. “But I’m going to finish what he started. You’re going back in. And this time I’m gonna make sure you stay down there.” The fat man struggled with Bindi. He had hold of the base of her long braid and was pulling her along as she kicked out, fighting to get to her feet. He was dragging her toward the lip of the open shaft with one hand and in the other, he held a gun.
“My, my, you’re a feisty one, ain’t ya?” the Fat man drawled, seeming to enjoy the struggle.
“Let me go,” Bindi screamed.
“Ooh, I like it when a woman fights back.” The man’s tone had become excited, a sleazy glow entering his eyes. “Especially a pretty one, like you. Maybe I’ll take a little somethin’ for me troubles before I throw you down that hole.”
“No.” Bindi’s reply was soft, almost helpless.
Mack tried to refocus his eyes through the world whirling around him. What was going on? The sounds of Bindi struggling on the ground and lots of inarticulate grunting reached his ears.
“Ow, you bitch,” the fat man yelled, then Mack heard the distinctive noise of a man’s hand slapping a woman’s face. Then everything went quiet.
With a huge effort, Mack levered himself up onto his elbow. He needed to know what was going on. Needed to help Bindi.
Paunchy Man stood over Bindi, who lay on the ground, unmoving. His black hat had fallen off in the scuffle and his stringy hair was plastered to his skull with sweat. His belt buckle was already undone, and he was fumbling with his zip. Why wasn’t Bindi fighting back? It was almost as if she’d become comatose.
Mack watched the scene unfold before him like he was watching a hazy movie replay in slow motion. As if it wasn’t really happening.
How was he going to help her? The fuzzy shape of Madonna hovered in the background, but he ignored her for now. There was no way the horse could help, it was all up to him.
Paunchy Man got his zip undone, and was wriggling his jeans down to his ankles. Then he got down on his hands and knees, hovering over Bindi, who lay as still as a corpse.
What was going on? Her eyes were open, but it was as if she’d checked out of her own body. Then it hit him. Bindi had told him about the way she used to shut down when Kai did those terrible things to her. And now this man was about to rape her, she was doing it again. Blocking out the bad stuff, pretending it wasn’t happening. Well, he wasn’t going to let it happen. He wasn’t going to take it lying down.
Mack had to do something. To save Bindi. To save the love of his life. She’d saved him. Now it was his turn to return the favor. He’d rather die than see her get hurt. He’d give his life for hers, he knew that now. It wasn’t even a decision; it was a foregone conclusion. Written in the stars. An absolute. Because he couldn’t live without her.
With slow, deliberate movements, he got to his knees. The sun was a furnace on top of his head. His vision swam and his head felt fit to burst as he blinked sweat out of his eyes.
“Hey, asshole,” he croaked.
The man looked up from where he knelt over Bindi, surprised. The bastard was enjoying it. Enjoying the domination. Enjoying humiliating her.
“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
