Too Hot To Trot (#3, Cowboy Way)

by Becky McGraw

  Walking to the backstage door, she grabbed a bottle of water from the tin tub of ice, uncapped it and drank thirstily, as she put her hip into the door release. She stepped outside, the door shut behind her and Heather took deep cleansing breaths of the cool night air. Working her jaw she tried to pop her ears to get her hearing back to normal, but all she heard was her muffled too-fast heartbeat.

  Evidently all the brouhaha from earlier had settled down, and she was thankful for the peace of the deserted back lot now. According to the buzz from the people inside awhile ago, the original main act, Wade Lawson, and his agent and hers, Glen Parsons, had gotten into a scuffle with Leigh Anderson out here.

  Although Heather had been damned curious to see what was going on, she stayed inside because she knew every security guard in the place was out back, along with a lot of police officers. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself because she wanted to be nosy and see the action. Minding her own business had kept her safe for a lot of years now, and she wasn’t about to risk it. After a minute, and a few more even breaths, some of the endorphins and adrenaline cleared from her system, allowing the excruciating pain in her feet to register.

  Her performance boots were gorgeous, a perfect match for the stage outfit she’d found at an upscale resale shop in town, but they left a lot to be desired in the comfort department. When she couldn’t stand the throb anymore, Heather bent to unzip one boot. The backstage door opened, hitting her square in the ass, and the concrete came at her fast. Her knees hit first and pain shot through her as her elbows locked, taking the rest of the jarring impact, thankfully before she kissed the concrete.

  Stunned, Heather just stayed there a second assessing the damage, absorbing the pain, until anger zipped through her. She rolled to sit and looked up at the greasy looking stagehand who was hovering over her. It was the same guy she’d felt staring at her while the stage was being set up earlier. The one she’d refused to make eye contact with.

  “For such a pretty little thing, you’re awfully damned clumsy ain’t ya?” he asked with a harsh, rusty bark of laughter, which brought on a coughing fit that had her cringing.

  “I’m not clumsy—you just need to watch where you’re going, asshole,” Heather growled, as she bent her knees and arched her back trying to get to her feet. She fell backwards again and realized one of her boot heels was broken. Her heart sank as she fingered the broken stump that was left on the sole of her boot. Those boots cost two hundred bucks, more than her secondhand outfit. They were the only pair she had for shows, and this careless bastard had ruined them.

  Heather forced the zipper down to her ankle and lifted her foot to pull the boot off. “You broke my goddamned boots!” She shot him a glare, and saw he was staring straight up her skirt, almost drooling. “Fucking pervert,” she hissed, yanking on the boot which seemed suctioned to her foot.

  “I’ll show you pervert, bitch.” Before Heather could react, he grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet, closing his beefy arms around her, trapping her arms at her sides. His rank breath gagged her as he growled, “You’re not just clumsy, you’re stupid too.”

  Heather squirmed and tried to raise her knee, but with mismatched boots, she couldn’t even get her balance to kick him. All she could do was try to keep from falling and scream into his barrel chest as he dragged her toward the darkened parking lot. His body odor was so overwhelming Heather had to stop screaming to dry heave several times.

  Think, Heather. You’re strong, you’ve taken care of men like this and left them squealing.

  But she didn’t have her mace. It was in her bag inside the arena. He was right, she was stupid. Too stupid to live. She should never have come out here alone without grabbing her mace. A lot of unsavory characters hung out in these places, hell everywhere, and she knew it. That was why she never went anywhere without her protection.

  But she had tonight, and she was going to pay the price for it. This transient laborer was probably about to rape her, kill her, and then mosey off to find his next victim. Her body would be found, but this man would not. He was part of the underworld, the shadow people who she had lived with under that bridge.

  Not without a fight.

  When he stopped at the corner of the building, his arms loosened so he could grab the front of her shirt. Heather tensed, planted her hands on his chest, and pushed him hard. As she stumbled back, she heard a loud ripping sound as her costume ripped apart, but she didn’t stop. In one motion, she spun and limped-ran as fast as she could manage back toward the building.

  “Help me!” she screamed as loud as she could, but her attacker’s heavy footfalls behind her told her he was catching up. The empty parking lot told her she was wasting her time, but she kept screaming, tried to run faster, until her attacker’s hand landed hard on her shoulder and drove her to her knees again. Dazed, but determined, Heather rolled away to bring her foot up. Aiming it toward his crotch she planted her heel there, and he squealed.

  “Stupid bitch!” he growled, as he grabbed her ankle and twisted her knee. Heather rolled with the twist, but a sickening crunch of tendons in her knee made her want to vomit almost as much as the pain that burned up her thigh.

  “Help me!” she screamed, until his fist clipped her jaw and she saw stars. All the starch left Heather’s body, and she lay there stunned, praying it would be over quickly.

  But her attacker suddenly let her go to rise up and look toward the arena door. As he pushed up to his feet, the man reached into his pocket and when his hand emerged, he flicked his wrist. Security lights glinted off the steel blade of a switchblade, right before she heard Zack Taylor call her name.

  Chapter Two

  “Zack—he has a knife!” she screamed, but her voice was barely there, a raw desperate whisper and Heather knew he’d never hear her. Bodies collided beside her, and Heather rolled away to a flurry of curses, grunts and moans. On her back, she watched the knife blade slice through Zack’s right arm, leaving his shirt sleeve hanging to expose a gaping wound.

  He threw a punch with his left fist that sent the stagehand reeling backward, then landed on top of him to throw more left-handed punches. They rolled several times with fists flying, and Heather scrambled to her feet to try and help Zack. Before she reached them, the men stopped rolling and Zack pushed off of the stagehand to stand.

  His face white, Zack turned his crystal blue eyes to her, and they were filled with both fear and disgust. Blood oozed through the fingers of his left hand which gripped the wound on his right arm. It streamed down to his right wrist and dripped from his fingertips. Her eyes fell to the quickly growing pool of blood by his boot, her stomach rolled, and she averted her eyes. A scream froze in her throat when the stagehand sat up, looking confused as he stared at the knife in his chest. His fist closed around the knife and he yanked it out, put his hand on the concrete to stand, but blood gushed from his chest and he collapsed back, his arm fell limp at his side and the knife clattered on the concrete.

  With a grunt, Zack sank to his knees, then bent over to cradle his arm. “Get help,” he said weakly, letting his arm go to sit back. Heather saw the wound up close then and knew it was bad. Really bad. The grey muscle and tendons were right there under more blood that now flowed down his arm. She swallowed down the bile that threatened to choke her, and fear sent adrenaline coursing through her, as she unzipped her boots and tossed them. “Don’t you dare die on me cowboy—your sister would kill me!”

  Zack breathed heavily several times. “I saw that guy watching you earlier,” he croaked, breathing harder, worrying the shit out of Heather. “If you would have talked to me dammit, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Oh, God…” she moaned. Zack had been trying to warn her earlier, that’s what he wanted to talk about, not rehash the past. And she had blown him off. Now, he might die because she’d done that. Not caring about the pain in her knee, Heather ran for the stage door, her heart in her throat. Please don’t let him die, Heather
prayed, as she swung open the heavy door and squeezed inside.

  Heather’s senses were immediately overwhelmed by the loud music, the roaring crowd and the smell. Her stomach lurched, as she looked frantically left and right for someone who could help him. Her eyes landed on a guy in a gray security shirt standing by the stock holding area talking to a cowboy. Hobbling over to them, she grabbed the security guard’s arm. “Please help me! We need an ambulance out back fast!”

  The man’s body jerked and he sprang into action, pulling away from her to sprint toward the back door. The cowboy he’d been talking to did too. When the broad-shouldered man flew past her, Heather noticed the patch on his blue denim shirt that said he was a fireman, even though he was dressed like a cowboy. She ran behind them toward the door and heard the cowboy call for help on the handheld radio he’d snapped off of his belt.

  Help, that’s what they needed, a lot of it. And fast. Zack was dying from trying to save her, because she was stupid and hardheaded. A common affliction for her. Please don’t let him die. Emotion choked her as she finally made it back to the door, and she couldn’t force herself to open it and see a sheet over Zack’s face.

  The best night of her life had just turned into the worst. Because she’d been stubborn. Hardheaded. She’d had to be that way so long to protect herself, it was the only way she knew.

  Flashbacks of the night she was almost raped by her stepfather flashed through her brain, and she staggered, tasting bile in her mouth. If Zack had been there that night, he would have tried to save her then too. Just like he had the night that cowboy at the rodeo got fresh, and just like he had tonight. That was just the kind of man he was, overprotective, overbearing, but always there to watch out for Twyla, and her too, after she met them.

  As much as Twyla resented his interference, and Heather thought he was an asshole, she would have been lucky to have a brother like him then. But she had been alone to fend for herself. He couldn’t die, Twyla was pregnant and needed him.

  Heather found that out last week, when Twyla called her at the Cowgirl to tell her the news. The last thing she wanted to do was call her back now and tell her Zack was dying, or dead—because of her. Heather’s heart squeezed painfully, as she pushed the door open just in time to see a golf cart flying around the corner of the building. The two men she’d gone to for help were kneeling beside Zack’s head working on him, so she couldn’t see. His shirt and riding vest with his number pinned to it lay off to the side by his hat, so they must’ve removed it.

  The fact his shirt wasn’t covering his face was a good sign right? Their quick movements said they were working hard on him, so that must mean he was still alive right? God, she sure hoped so. Please don’t let him die.

  Heather staggered over to them to kneel down and brush his light blonde hair from his sweaty forehead. “Is he going to die?” she asked, her ragged voice sounding far away in her ears.

  “Not on my watch,” the cowboy-fireman replied arrogantly, placing his index finger against the pulse in Zack’s neck. “But you need to back up, so we can get him on a stretcher.”

  Two more men dressed just like him appeared beside him with a stretcher, and something that looked like a huge tackle box. He pushed up to his knees to take the box, which he sat down and opened to remove a thick stack of gauze. After pressing it to Zack’s wound, he looked at her. “I think George needs to talk to you about what happened, and the police will be here in a second. I’m sure they’ll want you to answer questions too, since this guy’s out cold.”

  The security guard working on Zack, who must be George, stood and grabbed her arm to help her stand. Another man replaced him to help the cowboy-fireman with Zack. “Do you need medical assistance?” George asked with concern.

  “Um, no—I think my knee is sprained, but I’m fine.” Heather knew if she could run like she had inside no serious damage was done. It was swollen, but with an icepack it would be fine. The one who needed help was Zack. “Just help him, please.” He looked so damned pale.

  “What happened?” the guard asked, as he led her away. Sirens sounded in the distance, and she knew more help was on the way, so she finally breathed again. But as they passed by the stagehand’s still body, which hadn’t moved since she ran inside, her shoulders tensed. With the amount of blood surrounding him there was no way he could be alive.

  “Is he d-d—dead?” she asked through chattering teeth, as her stomach lurched and her body started shaking.

  “Yes, he’s dead, and I need to know how that happened,” George replied calmly, but his eyes became more intense like he was searching hers for hidden secrets. Heather had plenty, but none she was going to share with this man. What she was going to do was tell the truth about what happened back here. Zack had defended her, and if that stagehand was dead, he deserved to be dead. It wasn’t Zack’s fault.

  Heather pointed at the stagehand. “He followed me outside and attacked me—” her teeth chattered, as ice water ran through her veins. “I think he was going to rape me, but Zack, the bullrider, came outside looking for me. The stagehand pulled a knife and they fought. I don’t know how it ended up in his chest, it all happened so fast…but he d-d—deserved it.”

  The flashing lights of an ambulance blinded her as it came to a sliding stop in the back lot. Shading her eyes, Heather watched as Zack was rushed toward the ambulance and loaded inside by two medics. The cowboy-fireman watched too, and when the doors finally closed, he reached into the back of the golf cart to grab something.

  Heather’s gaze swung back to George. “What hospital are they taking him to?” she asked, her body shaking so hard her knees almost gave out.

  “You need to sit down before you fall down, honey,” he said, gently pushing her down onto the edge of an air conditioning unit. The heated air from the vents burned the back of her calves, but Heather was too numb to care. More sirens sounded and she saw a police cruiser come to a stop where the ambulance had been, then another.

  George got up and walked toward a policeman who exited his car, and a warm blanket dropped over her shoulders. Someone sat beside her to put his arm around her. Heather looked up into the kind eyes of the cowboy-fireman, and he smiled at her. “How’s your knee? I noticed you limping, and saw that bruise, the swelling.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “ Do you need me to look at it for you? Anything else hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Heather replied, even though she was far from it. She was worried sick, and at a loss how she was going to explain this to Twyla. She didn’t even know where they’d taken Zack. “I need to go to the hospital, and I need to call his sister.”

  “The police will want a statement from you first. I doubt they’ll let you go anywhere until they get one.”

  The ice water in her veins turned to cubes as fear lowered her body temperature at least twenty degrees. Could she shake any harder? Police questioning included taking down her name, searching her background, and that just wasn’t happening. She couldn’t let it happen.

  “I’m going to the hospital,” she grated through her still-chattering teeth. “If they want to talk, I’ll talk to them there.” Unless I can slip out the back door after I check on Zack.

  After a second, the cowboy-fireman asked, “Did that guy…sexually assault you? If he did, they’ll want to do a rape kit on you at the hospital to collect evidence. I could call an ambulance for you,” he offered, studying her just as intently as George had.

  Frustration shot through her, as she stood and shoved the blanket from her shoulders. She was wasting time here, and Zack could be dying. “I told George, he tried—there’s nothing to coll—” Her eyes landed on the cop and the guard who were walking toward her with purposeful strides, and her heart stopped. If she didn’t do something, it could be hours before she got to the hospital to see about Zack, or never if they got suspicious.

  I could call an ambulance for you.

  That was just what she needed to get her out of here, before the inquisition started.
Heather let her knees go lax, and sank to the ground. “I think I do need an ambulance after all,” she said weakly, putting a hand to her forehead.

  Was that a laugh she heard from the cowboy-fireman as he knelt beside her?

  Her eyes met his and he winked, telling her that her acting skills weren’t nearly as good as her singing skills. But they were good enough to get her where she wanted to be right then—the hospital, she thought, when she heard him cue up his walkie-talkie and request another ambulance. Heather kept up the act, feigning unconsciousness, until she was loaded into the back of the ambulance. To her surprise, the cowboy-fireman hopped up in the back with her, before the medics closed the back doors.

  “What are you doing?” she asked straining against the block her head was strapped down to so she could see him.

  “Going with you to the hospital. We can talk on the way, because you’ve made me damned curious. I can also check on my real patient’s condition when we get there. Maybe he’ll give me a straight answer if he’s awake,” he said, as he sat on the bench seat against the wall.

  She collapsed back on the stretcher. “I don’t want to talk. I want to make sure Zack doesn’t die for his trouble in trying to save me.”

  “He your boyfriend?” the man asked.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend. He’s my best friend’s brother, and he came out back trying to warn me about the guy who attacked me.” She opened her eyes and cut them to him. “Your shirt says you’re a fireman, but you’re awfully nosy. Who the hell are you anyway? Sherlock Holmes?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m Austin McBride, a cowboy who also happens to be a firefighter-paramedic. Don’t ever call a firefighter a fireman, it’s insulting,” he informed, his dark eyebrows slamming down over gray eyes that weren’t quite so nice anymore. He picked up a clipboard from the seat beside him, and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “Your name is Heather Morrison, right? Or is that just your stage name?”