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No longer focused on her subject, she idly looked around, letting her surroundings make their impression on her. The rodeo announcer was in the midst of some lengthy introductions. Sloan didn’t pay much attention to them until she heard the words, “…Chase Calder’s grandson, Trey Calder, along with…”
She lifted her head in shock as the realization struck that the wild-horse race was about to start. She set out for the arena fence at a running walk, hurriedly switching the camera film as she went.
By the time she found an opening along the arena fence, a half dozen horses were running loose, pursued by an equal number of cowboys on foot, swinging ropes. Her heart lifted the instant she located Trey among them. Before she could raise her camera and snap a picture of the action, he let his rope sail out, and the noose settled around the neck of a wiry bay horse still wearing its heavy winter coat.
The bay unleashed an angry squeal, a protest echoed by other roped horses, Sloan temporarily lost sight of Trey as plunging and rearing horses blocked her view and more cowboys raced onto the scene, hauling saddles. She snapped a few quick shots of the chaos.
When she finally caught sight of Trey again, he had crowded the bay horse close to the opposite fence while a teammate attempted to sling a saddle onto the animal’s back. But the bay was having none of it, first plunging forward, then letting his hind feet fly.
It was a scene of flailing hooves and brute strength pitted against brute strength, shouted words of encouragement and warning. Sloan gasped in alarm more than once when it appeared that Trey was in danger of being run over and trampled or struck down by a pawing hoof.
A big chestnut broke free and bucked across the arena, its saddle hanging off one side and threatening to slide under its belly. It was an image that clearly illustrated the wild and woolly scene, but Sloan never lifted her camera to capture it. She couldn’t, when the whole of her attention was trained on Trey.
Unconsciously she held her breath when Trey took a snug hold on the horse’s head and used his body to wedge the bay against the fence. When the saddle cinch was pulled tight around its belly, it reared, hauling Trey into the air with it. Both came down safely, and that long-held breath quivered from her.
A teammate grabbed hold of the saddle horn and swung into the seat. The wiry bay leaped forward in a plunging rear. This time Trey made no attempt to check the horse. Instead he stepped away, letting the pair go.
He would have been in the clear if the bay hadn’t doubled back. A warning cry rose in Sloan’s throat, but she never had a chance to utter it as a back hoof clipped his forehead, and Trey went down on all fours.
“Oh my God,” she murmured.
Sloan stayed long enough to see Trey’s dazed stagger when another cowboy helped him to his feet. Then she scrambled off the fence and raced along the alleyway, worry curdling her stomach.
When she finally reached him, all of her worst fears seemed to be realized. One whole side of his face and neck was covered in blood. More stained the wadded-up kerchief he held against his forehead. A shoulder was propped against an inner fence rail.
She climbed over the fence, shouting to anyone who would listen, “Get the paramedics. Quick!” Then she was on the ground beside him, moving to slip a supporting arm around him. “I’ll—”
“Sloan.” He focused an eye on her in surprise. “Where did you come from?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, relieved that he appeared to be lucid. “Come on. Let me help you out of here.”
“Not yet,” he said, then shouted, “Stick with him, Johnny!”
“Just lean on me,” Sloan instructed and shifted to hook his arm behind her neck.
“Gladly.” The amusement in his voice drew her glance upward. “But I promise you this isn’t as bad as it looks.”
Sloan saw only the coagulating blood on his face. “I don’t think a doctor would agree with you.”
“Head wounds always bleed a lot,” he told her.
“Yours certainly is.” Unable to get him to move, Sloan changed tactics and commandeered the blood-soaked cloth he held against his forehead. The instant she lifted it, a fresh flow of blood streamed from the nasty crescent-shaped gash above his eye. “And it’s still bleeding.”
She pressed it hard against the cut. Pain stabbed through his head. Trey flinched and sucked in air through his teeth.
“It’ll quit in a minute,” he insisted in a tight mutter.
“You hope.”
Catching the hint of anger in her voice, Trey made a closer study of the strained tension in her expression. “You’re really worried about me, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.” She glared at him, but there was a telltale glisten of tears in her eyes that made Trey forget all about the throbbing in his head. “I saw his hoof when it struck your head.”
His glance slid to the camera, hanging from the strap around her neck, totally forgotten; all of her attention was on him—just the way he had wanted it. Suddenly he no longer cared whether Johnny stayed in the saddle for a full circuit of the racetrack.
“If it’ll make you feel better, you can take me over to the first-aid station and let the nurse slap a bandage on,” Trey suggested and straightened away from the fence, turning toward the gate. “Come on.”
He had to hide a smile when her arm tightened around his middle to offer needless support.
