his mind were surprisingly tame. Her flushed embarrassment after he’d kissed her. Her serious, sedate dance with the horse when she didn’t know he was watching. Her face, bright with fury when she’d confronted him about Flash.
He worked his fingers deeper into the glove and tugged himself closer to the bull’s broad shoulders. He just didn’t feel right. Maybe if he rewrapped his hand. He unwound the rosined rope and carefully laced it around his hand, tight but not too tight, staring down at the process but still thinking about Flash.
What had happened to the stallion wasn’t Roy Price’s fault, but it had been a mistake to work the horse like he did. And though Lane managed to keep the animal comfortable, he couldn’t be ridden. His potential never would have paid off. Roy had gone out on a limb buying the horse, and sooner or later, that limb would have come crashing down.
But it seemed like the one good thing Sarah had held onto all her life was her unshakable belief in her stepfather. She probably had great memories of Flash too, since she’d ridden him successfully on the barrel racing circuit. If he told her what had been wrong with the horse, she’d be horrified to learn she’d put the animal through excruciating pain.
If hating Lane helped her, he’d let her do it. That way she’d keep believing in her father and in herself. He was doing the right thing.
It took him a half second to realize he’d nodded his head at the thought and the cowboy by the gate had taken it as a signal. The iron bars swung aside and Dalmatian leapt for the opening, rearing up so high he almost dumped Lane off the back.
Damn. He wasn’t ready on the rope. He hadn’t settled into his seat. Worst of all, he wasn’t ready mentally. He felt his legs sliding backward. The rope burned his palm as it slid through his grip, twisting away. For a long, suspended second he looked down from the top of his arc and saw the bull kicking up dust, the wide-eyed wonder of the cowboy at the gate watching him fly up and away, and the faces of the crowd, a blur of color and light, tracing his descent.
The arena fence rose to meet him, the metal bars speeding closer, closer—and then a shuddering clang reverberated through every bone in his body. Stars exploded inside his head and faded to a deep, black darkness and the last thing he knew was pain.
***
By the time she trudged up the wheelchair ramp to the house, Sarah was a mess. Her boots were dusty, her hair flecked with hay. She’d splashed her face over and over with cold water from the spigot in the barn, and though it had washed away the swelling from her tears, it had left her face ruddy and pink.
She needed to talk to Trevor and find out where Lane was so she could tell him she knew she’d misjudged him. Hell, she’d misjudged her whole life, and she was ready to start over. She’d start by apologizing to Lane.
Not that it would make much difference. She’d shown her worst side to him. He knew she was angry and stubborn and hopelessly deluded. He knew the image she’d presented to the world was a false front, like a grand facade on the street side of a rickety, tumbledown shack. She’d just as soon never face him again.
But she needed to bite the bullet and tell him he was right. She hadn’t been giving her true self a chance. If she could, she’d take the job he’d offered, but she could hardly work as a stable hand when she couldn’t bring herself to get on a horse. Her riding days were over. She’d proven that this morning.
It was a shame, because she’d come to another conclusion during her long, hay-scented crying jag. Lane had been right when he’d said Two Shot made her what she was today. The specter of her past had always urged her on like a trainer with a lunge whip, pushing her to try harder. If she could stay, she could somehow pay the town back, make amends. But with no job, there was no future for her in Two Shot.
Halfway up the wheelchair ramp to the house, she almost turned around. What if she went back to the barn and tried again? Maybe a different horse would help. But those painful memories and the heart-pounding