Merciless

Yeah, it appeared they’d removed the mothering genes when they’d taken my uterus.

The pouty preteen plopped beside me and heaved a world-weary sigh. “How long before bull ridin’ starts?”

“It’s next.”

Like the other events, the entrants were a mix of current pros, old pros, and amateurs. The “places” were largely symbolic; the sponsors were donating the prize money to the association’s charity, a summer boot camp for kids on the cusp of juvenile delinquency.

Finally, the speeches ended, and the bull riding began. The first six guys got thrown off. The next two rode. Not prettily. They hadn’t skimped on the rough stock for this charity event.

“Next up in the Conrad Electric bucking chute, Eagle River County sheriff Mason Dawson. Sheriff Dawson hails from Minnesota, and in his younger years, competed in bulldogging and bull riding on the Midwest Circuit. He consistently placed in the top ten, but chose to trade in his bull rope and piggin’ string for an M16 in the marines. Sheriff Dawson has drawn the bull Dark Dream, from Jackson Stock Contracting.”

I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, surprisingly nervous. Not much of Dawson was visible except the top of his hat.

“How long does it take for him to get ready?” Lex asked.

“Depends on if the bull fights in the chute. Depends on how long it takes to wrap his hand and get a good seat. Meaning, where he feels he can hold on for eight seconds. Have you ever watched bull riding on TV?”

“A couple times, after Dad told me he was a bull rider.”

I smiled, happy to see that Lex’s worship of his father appeared to be genuine. “When your dad nods his head, the guy standing outside the gate will open it.”

“Then he’s out in the dirt, staying on for eight seconds.”

“Let’s hope.”

When Dawson and the bull left the chute, Lex and I both clapped and shouted encouragement. Dawson looked awful stiff on the bull, almost as if he held on by sheer will. But when it comes to a two-hundred-pound man versus a fifteen-hundred-pound bull… in a battle of wills, the spinning, kicking, jerking bull tended to win.

And Dark Dream was a kicker. The hind legs came up on every hop. He’d spin and jerk his back end, sending Dawson sliding sideways. Dawson didn’t have much chance to spur; he was too busy hanging on.

He stayed with the bull jump for jump, but when the bull went into a spin, that’s when I knew Dawson was about to eat dirt.

The bull’s last attempt to toss his rider on his ass happened in slow motion. Dark Dream went nearly vertical, throwing Dawson forward. His head connected with the bull’s skull.

That contact immediately knocked Dawson out, but his hand was still tied into his bull rope.

We watched, horrified, as Dawson’s limp body was flung around like a slab of meat as the bull tried to get rid of him.

The bullfighters raced in quickly-although it seemed like an hour passed while we stood helplessly in the stands. One bullfighter freed Dawson’s hand while the other bullfighter distracted the bull.

Dawson hit the ground face-first and didn’t move.

The bull trotted off, tail twitching angrily.

By then both the bullfighters were on their knees, blocking any view of what was going on.

Two guys from the medical team jogged out and crouched beside Dawson’s motionless form.

Lex leaned into me. “Mercy? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just give them a minute to check him out.”

My hand had somehow found Lex’s shoulder, my fingers curling into it, when two more guys brought out a stretcher.

The announcer said, “How about a hand for our bullfighters and our medical team for their quick response time?”

When they carried Dawson out of the arena, I could tell he still wasn’t moving. That’s when panic set in. That’s when I knew if I’d been here by myself, I would’ve jumped the metal corrals and raced across the dirt to see what was going on. But I did nothing.

Lex’s scared voice jolted me out of my inertia. “Mercy? Where are they taking him?”

“Get your coat and let’s go find out.”

Everything in the arena seemed too bright, too loud, as we walked past the concession stand. Past the booths selling trinkets. Past the teenagers laughing. The corridor leading to the back of the arena seemed to lengthen to the size of two football fields as Lex and I started down the tunnel.

When I saw the lights of an ambulance bouncing off the walls, I began to run.

The guy in charge of keeping out casual spectators didn’t give us any grief. “You Sheriff Dawson’s family?”

I nodded because my mouth seemed stuck shut.

“The medical team is over there.”

Just as we reached the makeshift medical tent, the ambulance sped away, lights swirling. I didn’t hear the siren kick on until they were on the street.

The man I’d seen race out after the bullfighters and call for the stretcher was talking on his cell phone.

The gate man tapped him on the shoulder, and he faced us, holding up one finger. After he finished his call, he ambled over.

I scrutinized his clothes, looking for signs of Mason’s blood.

“I’m Dr. Grant. You’re Sheriff Dawson’s family?”

“Yes.”