Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,34
the top of a post, his feet passing over the top rail without even touching it. As soon as he landed, he ran to interpose his body between Justin and the bull. Giving a hoarse shout and waving his arms, he distracted the animal from its intended target.
Phoebe scrambled forward, but her father was already easing through the rails in a supple movement. “Stay,” he said curtly.
She clung to one of the rails and waited, quivering from head to toe, as she watched her father stride swiftly to Justin, scoop him up, and carry him back. A sob of relief escaped her as he handed her child through the fence. She sank to her knees with her arms around Justin. Every breath was a prayer of gratitude.
“Shhh . . . you’re safe . . . it’s all right,” Phoebe said, her heartbeat tumbling over on itself. Realizing Sebastian hadn’t climbed out yet, she said unsteadily, “Father—”
“Ravenel, what can I do?” he asked calmly.
“With respect, sir”—Mr. Ravenel was double-dodging and darting, trying to anticipate the bull’s movements—“get the hell out of here.”
Sebastian complied readily, slipping back through the rails.
“That goes for you too, Brick,” Mr. Ravenel snapped, as the head cowman climbed the fence to straddle the top. “I don’t need you in here.”
“Keep him circling,” Brick-end shouted. “He can’t move forward if he can’t swing his hindquarters around.”
“Right,” Mr. Ravenel said briskly, orbiting the enraged bull.
“Can you try to step a bit more lively?”
“No, Brick,” Mr. Ravenel retorted, running at an angle and sharply reversing direction, “I’m fairly sure this is as fast as I can move.”
More workmen had come running to the fence, all shouting and throwing hats in the air to draw the bull’s attention, but it was firmly fixed on the man in the paddock. The one-ton animal was astonishingly lithe, its glossy loose-skinned bulk stopping dead, shifting to one side and the other, then pinwheeling in pursuit of his adversary. Mr. Ravenel never took his gaze from the creature, instinctively countering every movement. It was like some macabre dance in which one misplaced step would be fatal.
Dodging to the right, Mr. Ravenel tricked the bull into a half-twist. Doubling back, he ran full-bore to the fence and dove between the rails. The bull pivoted and thundered after him, but stopped short, snorting in fury, as Mr. Ravenel’s legs slithered through the barrier.
Cheers of relief and excitement went up from the assembled workmen.
“Thank God,” Phoebe murmured, pressing her cheek against Justin’s damp, dark hair. What if . . . what if . . . God, she’d barely managed to survive losing Henry. If anything had happened to Justin . . .
Her father’s hand patted her back gently. “Ravenel’s been hurt.”
“What?” Phoebe’s head jerked up. All she could see was a cluster of workmen gathered around a form on the ground. But she’d seen Mr. Ravenel dive cleanly between the fence rails. How could he be hurt? Frowning in worry, she eased Justin out of her lap. “Father, if you would take Justin—”
Sebastian took the boy without a word, and Phoebe leaped to her feet. Gathering up her skirts, she rushed to the group of workmen and pushed her way through.
Mr. Ravenel was half sitting, half reclining with his back propped against a fence post. His shirt hem had been tugged free of his trousers. Beneath the loose fabric, he clasped a hand to his side, just above the hip.
He was breathing hard and sweating, his eyes gleaming with the half-mad exhilaration of a man who’d just survived a life-threatening experience. A crooked grin emerged as he saw her. “Just a scratch.”
Relief began to creep through her. “Neddy was right,” she said. “You are a sprack ’un.” The men around them chuckled. Drawing closer, she asked, “Did the bull’s horns catch you?”
Mr. Ravenel shook his head. “A nail on the fence.”
Phoebe frowned in concern. “It must be cleaned right away. You’ll be fortunate if you don’t end up with lockjaw.”
“Nothing could lock that jaw,” Brick-end said slyly, and the group erupted with guffaws.
“Let me have a look,” Phoebe said, kneeling by Mr. Ravenel’s side.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
He sent her a vaguely exasperated glance. “It’s . . . not in a proper location.”
“For heaven’s sake, I was a married woman.” Undeterred, Phoebe reached for the hem of the shirt.
“Wait.” Mr. Ravenel’s tanned complexion had turned the color of rosewood. He scowled at the workmen, who were observing the