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Her eyes widened in obvious surprise. “You? I can ride.”
He wasn’t stupid enough to contradict her on that. He merely said, “It wouldn’t be easy with that ankle.”
“But—”
“Look, let me carry you to the bottom of the slope. It’s not that far. Then we’ll figure it out from there, depending on if we get a cell signal or not.”
She glanced at her wrist, where her phone was serving as a makeshift splint. He could see she didn’t like the idea. But he could also see when she realized it was the most logical solution. She probably could ride, because it was ingrained in her bones. But even if he didn’t know how badly her ankle was hurt, he knew swinging it over a horse would not be pleasant. Nor would riding with it hanging down when it should be elevated.
And clearly, so did she. Because with a sigh she gave in.
He tossed the reins back over Trey’s head, out of the horse’s way. “Trey, on me.”
Britt looked up at the horse, startled, then looked back at him. “He’ll follow you?”
“He will.” It had been Chance who had managed that one, even using the military-style command.
“‘Some horse’ wasn’t nearly complimentary enough.”
He had to bite back what normally would have been an automatic reply, that compared to Ghost any normal horse would seem a miracle of training and tractability. Truce, he reminded himself.
Besides, that would be an insult to Trey, who truly was a miracle of training and tractability.
He scooped her up, gently avoiding any quick movement that would jostle her leg, and carefully putting her right side against him so she could put her uninjured arm around his neck for support. She did it, though obviously reluctantly. It must truly grate on her to have to take help from him.
He was a little surprised at her weight until he reminded himself all five-foot-eight or so of her was solid muscle. He shifted his arms a little, to be sure everything was in balance.
It was an intimate position. Not as much as lying on the ground with her draped over him, but still intimate. Maybe that’s why his gut was churning. He didn’t like this. This was Roth, the enemy.
But she was hurt. Which meant everything was on hold. Just as she had declared a truce when his father had been killed, he’d declared one now. So, a truce it would be. He started downhill.
They’d gone a few feet before she spoke again. “Not even going to ask what happened?”
His brow furrowed. No. Because I know. But he wasn’t ready to have that discussion with her. Not yet. Not when he still didn’t know where the drone had come down, and when it was taking a great deal of concentration to get down the wet, rocky slope without losing his footing and making everything worse.
“You were on Ghost,” he said, as if that explained everything. Which, in a way, it did. Most ranch horses would have handled what had happened, either rain or drone, without going berserk. Not that that made him any less culpable if it had been the drone. If it was, it had been the perfect storm of crazy horse, an equipment malfunction…and his inattention.
That’s two out of three for you, Rafferty, which pretty much makes it your fault no matter how you twist it.
He heard Trey following behind them, the occasional strike of a horseshoe on stone. Then he heard a quiet sound from her, somewhere between a sigh and a moan of pain. He tried to go easier, slower.
“Mom says she’s not worth it. Ghost, I mean.”
Again, he had to bite back what would have been his normal response, a caustic Your mom’s smarter than you, then.
Instead, as neutrally as he could, he said, “She’ll be even more convinced of that now.”
“I know.” Another one of those sounds. “But she’s my ticket. She’s the foundation of everything.” She let out a harsh laugh. “Or she was.”
He frowned. She already knew the horse had made it back to the barn safely, so what—It hit him then. She wasn’t doubting the horse would be okay. She was wondering if she would be. And that rattled him. This couldn’t be that serious, could it? Bad enough to end her prize winning, her rodeoing, her long-term plans? Enough to crush even her fierce spirit?
The thought that she might be that badly hurt, that she might not heal enough, might never return to the hellcat who lived next door, full of sass and sarcasm, shook him in a way he never, ever would have expected.
And not just because he felt—in two out of three ways—responsible. But because he couldn’t picture a beaten Roth.
“She still will be,” he said firmly. “You’ll recover. You’ll compete, and win, win again, and someday you’ll be the breeder to come to for anybody who seriously wants to win themselves.”
She shifted in his arms slightly, and he could tell she was looking at him. But he didn’t dare not keep his eyes on the rocky slope.
