Tightening his gloves, he resettled his dove-gray Stetson before climbing up to join the handlers whod finally gotten Diablo into the chute.
Rio sank onto the saddle, then vaulted out again as the horse bucked inside the enclosure and wildly tossed his head. Rio considered asking for a tie line to run from the bit to the cinch. A head-tosser could easily break a riders nose, or blacken his eyes. But hearing the crowd cheer and chant his name, and because he alone knew this was his goodbye ride, he decided to ride this devil and give the fans their moneys worth.
Gingerly taking his seat again, Rio wrapped the reins tight, slid his boots into the stirrups, raised his right arm and let out a rebel yell.
The gate slammed open. The sorrel bucked stiff-legged right in the opening. And instead of bolting or bucking into the larger arena, Diablo rose on his hind legs and without warning crashed over backward, crushing Rio between seven hundred fifty pounds of muscled horse and a well-built, steel-reinforced wooden fence that he felt crack around him.
Even as he tried to haul in a deep breath, Rio heard a collective oh roar from the crowd. There was a momentary cacophony of curses amid fast-shuffling booted feet, seconds before
everything in his world went black.
The strident sound of sirens awakened Rio to the urgent shout of old Doc Kane, a much-appreciated rodeo doctor. Rio tried to ask a question, but pain battering him from all sides seemed to clamp a fist around his voice box.
Doc called for morphine, and before Rio could object he felt the sharp sting of a needle entering his thigh and he was lost in oblivion again.
* * *
RIO OPENED HIS EYES, but didnt recognize anything around him. He felt weighted down in a sea of white. Odd beeps came from somewhere overhead. Two men, both blurs of ocean blue, bent over him. He tried to move to see around them, but couldnt seem to do that. He felt his heart begin to pound as panic set in.
Dr. Layton, hes awake. The figure at Rios left shined a bright penlight in each of his eyes.
Blinking, Rio attempted to sit up. A heavy hand pressed him down. Excruciating pain followed. Enough to have him gritting his teeth.
Settle down, son. Im Arthur Layton, chief of general surgery at City Hospital. This is Dr. Mason, our surgical resident. A horse fell on you at the rodeo. Youre not long out of surgery and still in pretty bad shape.
Is the horse okay? Rio croaked. He began to remember bits and pieces, like seeing the chute open, feeling Diablo rear right before something went terribly wrong.
Youre worried about the horse? The surgery chief snorted. Worry about yourself, Mr. McNabb. Im afraid your rodeo days are over. You broke your clavicle, cracked two thoracic vertebrae we may still later need to stabilize. You have a fractured left wrist and badly sprained right ankle. Oh, and there was the pneumothorax we hope stays fixed.
Surfacing through the pain, Rio licked dry lips. A pneumo what? What is that?
Collapsed lung, the resident supplied.
The older doctor unwound his stethoscope, listened to Rios chest, then typed on his computer. We inserted a chest tube to reinflate your left lung. It still sounds good. Well keep a close eye on it, though. Ive ordered pain meds as needed. With luck, by next week we can move you from ICU into a ward.
I cant stay here, Rio said. Ive gotta get to my ranch. For one thing, he was seeing dollar signs for all this surgery stuff.
Dr. Laytons voice gentled. According to some of our nurses youre famous. I know performing in the rodeos makes you tough, but I cant release you until youre able to get up and around. You dont have a fractured skull, but you shook your brain.
Famous? Not me. They must mean my twin, the bull-riding champion. Rio tried again to scoot up in bed, but yelped when pain gripped him.
Scrolling through Rios computer chart, Layton frowned. I figured youd have someone at your ranch to cook and clean. But I see the last time you were seen here for a concussion you signed yourself out against staffs advice. This states youre single. If thats still the case, wholl care for you at home?
Ill take care of myself, Rio growled. Health insurance companies dont like guys in my line of work. Paying my bills depends on me getting home to help my only ranch hand ready our colts and fillies to sell.
The doctor shook his head. Sorry, he said, closing out the document and tapping the hand Rio didnt have in a cast. Youre in serious shape, son. My best estimate is youll be six months recovering to a point where you can take care of your ranch. From here youll go to a rehabilitation facility where youll have therapy to regain strength.
Rio tried to shake his head but was stopped by the tight neck collar. Clenching his jaw, he said, No. Rehab isnt an option. Wheres my cell phone? I need to call JJ, my ranch hand, to collect my pickup and camper from the rodeo grounds. I left my dog, Tag, in the unit while I went off to ride. JJ can look after our horses, but running the ranch is my responsibility. He managed to gesture with the hand not in a cast, but discovered that arm was tangled up with IV lines.