The Bull Rider's Son

“I don’t dare. Not unless you have a crane handy we can use to lift him.”

That elicited a round of nervous chuckles from the wranglers. They, too, were on high alert.

A moment later, the bull calmed, and his eyes drifted closed. He rumbled as if snoring. Shane waited another minute, positioning himself near Wasabi’s shoulder, avoiding both the bull’s hind end and head, either of which could be deadly.

When the bull didn’t react, he tentatively stroked Wasabi’s back. Other than a slight twitch, the animal remained motionless. Growing bolder, Shane removed first one, then the second dart. Wasabi continued sleeping, and Shane skimmed his palm down the bull’s thick neck to his shoulder. Probing gently, he searched for any lumps, swelling or other signs of a contusion. Wasabi’s injury could have been the result of a kick from another bull, requiring a potentially different course of treatment.

“Find anything?” Doc Worthington asked.

“Nothing yet.” Shane increased the pressure, kneading methodically.

Wasabi snorted lustily. A moment later, he quieted.

“He probably just sustained a sprain.”

In Shane’s opinion, the vet was being optimistic. Wasabi could have a torn tendon or ligament. Trauma of that nature would end his career.

“Guess we’ll know soon enough,” Mercer said.

They would, if Wasabi didn’t improve quickly. Like, within days.

Knowing he had little time left, Shane continued with the massage. It might be his imagination, or wishful thinking, but he swore the bull relaxed beneath his touch.

“Get the tape,” he said.

Mercer delivered the roll from the vet. During Shane’s phone call yesterday, the bovine sports medicine specialist had recommended elastic therapeutic tape, the same type human athletes used for their injuries. Wasabi would look a little funny, but if it helped, who cared?

Just as Shane finished affixing the last strip, the bull started to rouse.

Doc Worthington raised his tranquilizer gun. “I can dose him again.”

“Don’t bother, I’m done.”

More correctly, Wasabi was done. Grunting angrily, he jabbed the empty air in front of him with his horns. Shane jumped out of the way, though the dazed bull missed him by a mile.

The reprieve didn’t last. Wasabi awakened quickly and, finding himself confronted by hated humans, charged the closest one, which happened to be Shane. And, like that, the race was on.

Shane bolted for the fence. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mercer and the wranglers attempting to distract Wasabi. The bull ignored all but his tormenter and bore down on Shane, his loping gait growing steadier and faster by the second.

“Look at him move.” Doc Worthington slapped his thigh. “He feels better already.”

At the moment, it was little consolation to Shane that his efforts had yielded the desired results.

With the fence in sight, he executed a high-flying leap. Grabbing the top railing, he hurled himself up and over and onto the other side, landing with a loud thud. Only then did he notice the sharp pain shooting up his left calf.

Wasabi had clipped him in the leg. Nothing was torn, either his jeans or his flesh, but Shane would be sore for the next few days.

Mercer ambled over to check on Shane. “I say we call it a tie.”

Doc Worthington chuckled. “Or a payback.”

Shane called himself plain lucky. “Anyone see what happened to the roll of therapeutic tape?” His last recollection was of it sailing out of his hand.

“In the dirt.” Mercer hitched his chin at the holding pen. “We’ll get it later when the coast is clear.”

The two wranglers had convinced Wasabi that his interests were best served back in the main pen with the other bulls and not causing trouble for them.

“My hat’s off to you, young man.” Doc Worthington eyed Shane’s leg. “You all right?”

“Fine.” He glanced at the crowd, which had shrunk to a small gathering. Good, Shane thought. His leg did hurt, and the fewer people who knew it, the better.

All at once, Cassidy rounded the chutes, passing her father and the vet on their way to the pen, and made straight for him. It was a nice change from her recent habit of avoidance. The expression of concern on her pretty face made him almost forget about the pain shooting up his leg.

“Are you okay?” she asked in a rush.

“Never better.”

“I’m serious, Shane.”

“He barely nicked me.”

She studied him critically, her eyes traveling from his head to his boots. “You’re limping.”

He grinned, he couldn’t help it, and lowered his voice. “I appreciate the concern, Cassidy. It means a lot to me.”

“Of course I’m concerned. You had a close call.”

“Any other reason?” He leaned in. A mere fraction at first, then more.

She abruptly drew back. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“I’m thinking you’re worried about me because you might like me a little.”

“Well, I don’t.”

His grin widened. “Could have fooled me.”

“I mean, I do like you. As a fellow employee.” Her cheeks flushed, and she tripped over her words. “And as an old friend.”

He’d flustered her, and though it shouldn’t, the thought pleased him. “Right.”

“You always had a big ego.”

“Matched only by my....” He let the sentence drop.

“Shane!”

“Confidence,” he finished with a chuckle.