THIS HAS BEEN A CRAP day so far. Hopefully, my night is much better, even though I have to work. The bull rider and steer wrestling shows are tonight, and those alone wear me out. Even the typical bumps and bruises require ice, so here we stand loading ice packs to be ready. I’m glad I have volunteers from the local colleges and medical practices for the physical work, but these are my patients, and the worry alone causes mental fatigue.

“Are we all done with the ice bags? If not, we need to run and get more plastic bags. We’re out.” Myla’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Hello. Paging Dr. Knight.” She snaps her fingers to gain my attention.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind preparing for tonight. I was mentally going over last week’s injuries to make sure we’ve covered everything. What did you ask me?”

“I know, honey. It’s a new job, and you want everything to go smoothly. I get it because I know you.” She reaches for the last ice bag and starts filling it. “I said, this is the last ice bag. Is this all we need. We’ve got twenty-nine, nope, make that thirty with this final one on stand-by.” She uses her finger to point to each bag layered in the cooler as she counts it.

“Thanks, again for being my assistant— while you are on vacation,” I bump my hip to hers.

“Hey, whatever I need to do to be near cowboys, I’m all in; except for that one earlier. I don’t want to spend more time with him than necessary.”

“Oh, Myla. He’s pretty much harmless. He’s sick and lonely, and the circuit is the only life he’s ever known. He’ll probably never retire because he knows nothing else. And I threatened his livelihood today. I get it. “

“I still don’t think you should let him ride tonight?” She adds the last ice pack to the bulk of the others and closes the cooler door. “I’m just looking out for you and your medical license. It’s not like my profession where all I have to worry about is a wardrobe malfunction on live television. This is a man’s life and a very pissed-off bull.”

“I gave him a low dose of painkillers so that he could ride tonight. I suspect they aren’t going to help at all, and he’ll be disqualified from the rest of the weekend's events.”

He could barely raise his arm above his waist. He’ll learn that I’m the boss of the injury report and he goes on it for a week to heal or he disqualifies himself based on points. It’s his choice. I hope he sees the error of his ways and doesn’t give me too much grief.

“Okay, if you say so. You’re the one with the medical degree. So what’s next on our prep list?”

“Nothing. We’re all done, and I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise? Please God, let it be a cowboy. Please, please, pretty please!” She claps her hands together begging style and stomps her feet.

“Oh Jeez. No. We have a lunch date with Hannah and her husband, Artie.” Her mouth turns down in a scowl.

“How the hell is that a surprise?”

“Oh, you’re going to love this surprise, but that’s all I’m telling you.” I look at the time on my phone and see we’re late already. “Come on, let’s go. I don’t want to miss lunch, because I may not get dinner.”

****

HANNAH IS A GRACIOUS host and an excellent cook. We all sat around the extended kitchen table patting our overly full bellies and laughed for a long while. “Well, I’m going to get out of here and let the fun commence. I’ve already removed all of my favorites, so there are no worries over what you might like,” Artie announces. He bends down and kisses Hannah on the nose while both Myla and myself are staring in awe. Now that’s a man in love.

“I know I’m the guest here in this situation, but will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Hannah and I both look at each other and offer a brief tease of silence before we burst out laughing at Myla. I can’t keep secrets from my best friend, no matter if it’s a surprise or not.

“Okay, Myla, but instead of telling you, we’re going to show you.” 

I grab her hand and help her out off the inside bench of the table and guide her to the door of the spare room in the front of the camper. Hannah and Artie use their spare bedroom as a walk-in closet. “Close your eyes,” Hannah demands. Myla closes them tightly. A big smile is playing on her face, and I’m so happy to see my friend excited.

Hannah pushes back the sliding door, and we both guide Myla inside. “Walk straight in. Now open them.”

Rows and rows of bedazzled cowboy shirts line the top pole. Some have fringe and fancy, swirling scrollwork sewed into flowers and other country decorations. Everything is color coordinated. There are countless numbers of chaps on specially made hangers with bull clips to hold their weight. This is the art of organization at its finest.

After admiring the closet again for the tenth time it seems, I take a peek at Myla. Her eyes are glistening with unshed tears. Her fingers reach out and rake over the arms of every shirt, even grabbing some to get a better feel for the texture and material. “Wow! Just wow. This is amazing.” She runs her hands up and down the chap fringe.

Hannah reaches out and pulls open a drawer that displays more organized slotted rows of belts and belt buckles. Hannah leaves us for a moment and comes back with a deep,  empty, plastic tote bin. “Here. Take it and fill it. You get to stuff it as full as you can make it with Artie’s things for your cowboy collection.”

“What? You can’t be serious?” She looks at both of us in disbelief several times; her head is bobbing back and forth like a tennis match in progress. We’re both wildly shaking our heads yes, and the unshed tears roll down her cheek in a slow stream.

Myla trains her keen eyes on the clothes in the far corner and meticulously peruses them selecting each piece one by one, and giving it a thorough evaluation. She pulls at stitching, tugs on buttons and fringe, grazes her delicate hands over beautiful material to make her decisions. It’s a process. A gift she’s been provided with, and she’s not taking it for granted.

After two hours of pure, mental interrogation of Hannah’s closet, she deems her selections final. I’m exhausted just anticipating the choices. Of course, Hannah and I both provided our comments and opinions when asked, but I am utterly impressed with the pieces she took. Hannah is thrilled to have cleaned out the closet in this manner.

“Here, hold this.” She hands me her tote of cowboy magic and gives Hannah the biggest hug I’ve ever seen. They both sway back and forth giggling in a dance of sheer happiness.  “I’ll keep in touch, and if you’re ever in Cali again, please call me. I’d love to show you around, and if we time it right, get you onto the set of this Western movie when it’s filming.”

“That’d be great. We’re always in or around Cali. We’ve been known to day trip to get away from the tour. Now you two better get out of here. Noa’s got work to do.” She shoves both of our butts out the door, just in time to see Braxton coming out of our place.  His eyes narrow at me from across the way, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach. I don’t like him being mad at me, even though I know I did nothing wrong.

If I know Braxton, and I like to think I do, he’s overwhelmed with emotion and doesn’t know how to talk about it. He’s boiling lava under that tough crust of a shell we call skin. I’ll wait for him to erupt, and he will— after I poke him a few times.

****

“SO, WHAT HAPPENS IF you need to go inside the arena and the bull is still there?” Myla’s curiosity is finally getting the better of her. She’s been a chatty Cathy since her cowboy clothes spree at Hannah’s.

“I wait until they get it back to the pen.”

“But what if they can’t get it back to the pen, and you’ve got a man bleeding to death.”

“The bullfighter’s take charge and get the bull to the back pens.”

“I thought that’s what the rodeo clowns were for. I’m confused.”

“Do you see any clowns around? And besides, they’re called barrelmen. They entertain the crowd but aren’t necessarily clowns. Most of the time they dance— badly.”

The loudspeaker crackles just in time to save me from her next question. “Next up, we have ‘The Man on A Mission’ himself, Braaaaaaxxxxton Ryyyyyderrrrrrr.”

“This man is going places,” the second arena announcer comments. “He’s completed his last forty-nine rides in a row. Let’s see if he can get another eight seconds out of Big Daddy for a total of Fouuurrrrr Hunnnndredddddd.”

Myla and I  both stand on the second row of the swinging arena gate for a better view. I watch Brax slide down into the chute. He adjusts his boots forward and wraps his hand with the bull rope. His chiseled jaw clenches tight with each instruction Virgil gives him. His hand goes up, and the chute is pulled open.

My hands instantly pull together in anxious prayer. My body clings to the aluminum gate, holding me up, while my bones rattle inside my skin. It may be over in eight seconds, but it’s the longest wait of my life.

Big Daddy spins right into his hand and kicks out twice hard. The muscles of Braxton’s back are ready for him though. He bends and sways like a willow tree— smoothly. The clock edges toward eight seconds, and he’s got it. The crowd roars and whistles as he dismounts into a tuck-roll that would make a stump double jealous.

Myla whistles for him, cheering his name loudly between breaths. She elbows me to join her, and all I can think to do is clap.  My arms are shaking with the adrenaline that’s rushing through my body right now. I’m glad I didn’t have to jump over this gate to assist. I dismount the gate on shaky legs, wobbling a bit.

“C’mon. I want to go congratulate him, and introduce you.”

“Hell yes. It’s about time.”

We find him being interviewed and surrounded by a crowd of local and national reporters. We listen and giggle at some of the silliest questions ever asked of sports celebrities. I mean, come on. Who cares if he’s got his “lucky” underwear on?

In being from California and dealing with my sister’s schedule at times, we’ve seen celebrities being interviewed hundreds of times, and it never ceases to amaze me how irrelevant some of the questions are. I roll my eyes at the reporter just as he catches me in his line of sight. He quirks one eyebrow up at me, and my insides melt.

Myla jabs me in the stomach with her pointy elbow. “Look at you. Blushing like a virgin bride. You’ve got it bad, honey. Real bad.”

“I do not. Stop it.”

The crowd thickens around him. I can’t see his face anymore,  just the band of his hat as it bobs up and down while he talks.

Wes comes from behind, startling me as he speaks. “I’m gonna need more pills. Those weren’t strong enough.”

“We’ll discuss that after you stay on that bull for the ride. Can you raise your arm?”

“Don’t worry about that, Doc. I’ll be alright.” He belches deeply, and the stench of whiskey turns my stomach.

“Don’t be flashy, Wes. Just cowboy up and be done.” He nods his head at me, and I watch his back disappear into the crowd.

I look up and see hatred in Braxton’s eyes as he also follows Wes through the crowd. He dismisses the reporter, ending the interview and makes a beeline after Wes.

“Damn him. Come on, Myla.”

By the time we make it through the horde of people hanging around the chutes, Wes is already shimmied down onto his bull. The announcers are giving his stats when the gate pulls open.

The bull twists to the left, and Wes’s hand is barely rising above his chest. It’s bouncing in and out very loosely, and if he’s not careful, he’s going to disqualify himself. The bull kicks out, and Wes isn’t ready for it. He’s stiff as a board and pitches forward to loosen his back.

The bull’s head rears back and smacks Wes in the face. Blood splatters out onto the ground, and the crowd releases a collective “Oh,” as Wes pitches sideways. He’s flopping around like a rag doll, no longer riding the bull but hanging off its side.

“Wes Stanton is in trouble. His glove is hung up in the bull rope, and he can’t break free.” The primary announcer informs the bullfighters.

“Here comes some help. That headbutt from Callahan has crushed some bones and  rearranged his face.”  The arena announcer informs the spectators.

The bull continues to drag Wes around the arena as the bullfighters try to get him to the back pens. The one bullfighter is able to approach from the side and tug on Wes’s hand before having to make a run for it when the bull catches him edging too close.

Wes is no longer conscious. He’s passed out from the shock of it, or the pain from the hit. I’m not sure which, but my stomach is twisting in knots upon knots in the last ten seconds waiting to assist. Myla’s grip on my arm is tight and heavy. No one can believe what they are witnessing, but camera flashes and video are everywhere capturing the moment.

I grip my medical bag in one hand while pushing and pulling on the gate in anger with the other, but the flankman won’t release me until the bull is gone. “Come on. I ‘ve got to get out there.”

“Sorry, Doc. Not until it’s safe.”

Finally, in what seems like a lifetime, the bull is herded to the back pen and the gate swings wide for me. I race to Wes as fast as I can. My feet pound the dirt, kicking it up in my face. I can taste dirt on my tongue.

The arena music has stopped, and the crowd is eerily still. Dropping to my knees, I rip open my bag and crack open an ice pack for his face. Dirt and debris are stuck to the blood caked on his face. Bone fragments are jutting from different sections of his skin, and blood pours from his nose.

“Wes. Wes, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.” I reach down and take his hand, but there’s no resistance from him. I touch my fingers to his carotid artery feeling for a pulse, but it’s faint. He’s not breathing. I’m not sure if the air was knocked out of him, or what. It all happened so fast.

My hands rip his shirt open, and I position my hands on his chest and begin CPR. I turn my ear to his mouth and listen for breathing, but there’s nothing. I tilt his head back and blow breath into his lungs a few times. I reposition my hands on his chest and begin compressions again, only stopping to check for a pulse - there’s nothing. I repeat the pattern over and over with harder compressions and all of my strength until my arms give out. Someone pulls me away.

“Noa, it’s enough. He’s gone,” Bill says, holding me tight. I kick my legs fighting to get back to him, but I can’t break free of the arms that restrain me.  An ambulance siren whales in the near distance.

I’ve never lost a patient before. He’s dead. It’s all my fault.