McKettricks of Texas: Austin

“Do you know what he did tonight?” Tate asked, on a roll now, resting an elbow on the bar and leaning earnestly in Pinky’s direction.

“No tellin’,” Pinky said with a shake of her head. “Could have been just about anything.”

“He rode Buzzsaw,” Garrett informed the bartender, as though Austin weren’t standing right there between his brothers, both of them shoulder-mashing him. “Managed to draw the same bull that tore him apart last year. Took a whole team of surgeons to sew our baby brother back together, and what does he do?”

Pinky’s blue eyes grew round. She stared at Austin as though he were seven kinds of a fool and then some. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said. “Always said you had more looks than good sense, and now here’s the proof.”

Austin didn’t have an answer handy, and he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to use one, anyhow. Suddenly, the floor pitched sideways, and he leaned against the bar, waiting for the room to right itself.

When it did, the motion was sudden, and Austin’s knees buckled.

He might have gone down if Tate and Garrett hadn’t gotten him by the elbows and held him upright.

“I swear that’s only his second beer,” Pinky said, sounding worried.

Garrett waved off her concern. “He’s all right, Pinky.”

“Can you walk?” Tate asked Austin, his voice quiet now and serious.

If fierce determination had been enough, Austin would have made it across that barroom floor and outside to his own truck, told his brothers to go to hell and driven himself back to the seedy motel room he’d rented a few days before. A hot shower and about twelve hours of sleep and he’d be fine.

Unfortunately, determination wasn’t enough, not that night anyway. Austin managed to stay on his feet, but only because Tate and Garrett were holding him up.

“Hell, yes, I can walk,” he lied.

“You damn idiot,” Tate muttered, as they crossed the parking lot, headed for his big extended-cab truck. With some help from Garrett, Tate muscled him into the backseat.

He’d have fought back for sure if his legs hadn’t turned to noodles. He felt light-headed, too, and slightly sick to his stomach.

“My truck,” he said. “I can’t just leave it here. This isn’t exactly the best neighborhood in San Antonio—”

Garrett cut him off. “We’ll get your truck later.”

“It’s a classic,” Austin said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Garrett replied, sounding grim. “Whatever.”

The world was on the tilt again, and a strange sense of urgency sent a rush of adrenaline through Austin’s system. “There’s a dog,” he added anxiously. “Back at the motel, I mean. I’ve been feeding him and—”

Tate got behind the wheel.

Garrett buckled himself in on the passenger side.

The numbness in Austin’s leg washed back up his spine and turned to pain. He swore. “I can’t just—leave—the dog—” he insisted.

“We’ll see to the dog, and the truck, too,” Garrett assured him quietly. “Let it go, Austin.”

Austin passed out, woke up again. He wondered if somebody had slipped him something back at the bar.

Over the course of the next few minutes, time seemed to lose all meaning. He was in the back of Tate’s truck, and then he wasn’t. He was sitting up, and then he was lying down flat. Lights spun around him, a strange mix of neon and moon glow and fluorescent bulbs glaring brightly enough to dazzle his eyes.

A pretty nurse in scrubs smiled down at him. Red curls poked out around her face.

Something leaped inside Austin. Paige Remington?

No, this couldn’t be Paige. His luck was neither that good nor that bad. Anyway, Paige had dark hair.

“What...” he began.

He realized he was on a gurney, his brothers at his side, being wheeled through a hospital corridor. It was a familiar scenario. Déjà vu all over again, he thought. Then he frowned. Wait a second. Sure, Buzzsaw had gotten the best of him that other time. He’d been airlifted to Houston, undergone a couple of different operations, fought his way back from the banks of the River Styx. But he had recovered.

That was then and this was now—tonight, he’d ridden that bull to the buzzer. He’d scored high enough to take first-place money, though it hadn’t really been about winning, not this time.

He’d walked out of the arena, gotten into his truck and driven to Pinky’s, thinking he ought to whoop it up a little.

After that, the details were a mite sketchy.

So what the hell was he doing in a hospital?

He would have asked why he was there, but for the pain. It swelled to a crescendo and then gulped him down whole, and there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

AUSTIN CAME TO lying in a bed with rails on either side, still dressed except for his boots. The curtains were drawn all around, shutting him in, and he couldn’t begin to guess what time of day—or night—it might be.

“If the pain is under control,” Austin heard a woman’s voice say, “I’ll release him. If not, he’ll have to stick around for more tests and some observation.”

“But you don’t think there’s any permanent damage?” Garrett asked quietly, sounding hopeful, bone-tired and completely exasperated all at once.

They were shadows against the curtain, the three of them. The lady—no doubt a doctor—and Tate and Garrett.

“That depends,” the woman answered, “on your definition of ‘permanent damage.’ Your brother has a herniated disc. With rest and reasonable caution, he could make a full recovery.”

“Austin wouldn’t know ‘reasonable caution’ if it bit him in the ass,” Tate said.

“What’s your definition of reasonable caution, Doc?” Garrett asked.

She sighed. She could have been fresh out of med school or as old as Pinky; Austin couldn’t tell by her voice or her shape. “Well,” she replied, “it certainly wouldn’t include riding bulls in rodeos.”

Austin closed his eyes.

He was a bull rider and not much else. Who the hell would he be if he quit the rodeo circuit?

“What about horses?” Tate asked. “He can still ride them, right?”

“If you’re talking about regular saddle horses,” the doc answered, “that would probably be fine, once he’s had some time to recover, and if he uses common sense.”

The sound Garrett made was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “That’ll be the day.”