Western Man by Janet Dailey Read Free Book Online Page A

Ridge and waiting for him to move out of the half-crumpled ball he’d made of himself on the ground. The sounds of others running toward the scene finally galvanized her into action.
    Later, she couldn’t even remember climbing the fence and racing across the churned-up sod of the pen. She didn’t remember seeing any of the other riders—only her brother as he knelt over Ridge’s still form.
    And her mother’s voice, saying, “Don’t move him.”
    Then Sharon was kneeling on the ground next to him. Her hand felt cold as ice when she pressed it to the side of Ridge’s warm neck, seeking his pulse. Her own heart was pounding so loudly that she couldn’t hear his, but Sharon felt the vein throbbing beneath her fingers.
    Ridge stirred, moaning. There was an ashen pallor to his skin beneath its burnt-in tan. He made an attempt to uncurl from his protective ball and roll onto his back. Her eyes widened at the sight of his torn shirt, the front nearly shredded by sharp, cloven hooves. His stomach was scraped raw, but there were no other obvious wounds.
    Suddenly his glazed blue eyes looked directly into Sharon’s. “Help me up.” His voice was a hoarse, rasping sound, completely unrecognizable as belonging to him.
    Somebody ventured the opinion, “Maybe he’s just got the wind knocked out of him.”
    “Probably broke some ribs,” someone else said.
    “You’d better lie still,” Sharon told him and glanced at her mother.
    “No.” The protest was a guttural sound.
    After a few seconds’ hesitation, her mother suggested, “Let’s see if we can’t roll him onto his back.”
    “Help me up.” This time Ridge didn’t waste his throat-rough appeal on either Sharon or her mother, directing it instead at Scott who would understand the manly need to rise above injury.
    Her mother placed a restraining hand on her son’s arm when he would have helped Ridge. She bent closer so that Ridge could see her face. “The pain. Where is the pain, Ridge?’ She spoke slowly and concisely.
    The tightly clenched jaw, the betraying whiteness, and the trembling mouth that wouldn’t let any sound come out were all indications that he was in a great deal of pain. Both arms were clasped around his middle, holding his stomach.
    It seemed a very long time before Ridge attempted to answer the question. “My gut—” his voice was so tight and hoarse that tears pricked Sharon’s eyes “—feels like it’s ... on fire.”
    Mrs. Powell sent a concerned glance at her son.“I think he’s hurt internally. Get one of the trucks in here and find some blankets.”
    Somebody handed Sharon a canteen. She vaguely recalled hearing that a person bleeding internally shouldn’t drink. So she took her kerchief from her pocket and wetted it down, then used it to moisten Ridge’s lips and wipe some of the grime off his face. His features were twisted with pain that had him doubled up.
    When the pickup roared into the pen, two cowboys hopped out of the rear bed before it came to a stop. Both carried blankets. Her mother instructed them to roll Ridge onto the blankets and use them as a stretcher to transport him to the back of the truck.
    “Dammit! If somebody would just help me . . . , I can walk,” he protested in a hoarse rage.
    “Hell, what difference will it make now?” someone wondered, sympathizing with Ridge’s pride.
    “We’ll make a cradle and carry him,” Scott said and waved to a stocky, muscled cowboy to give him a hand.
    Together they managed to get Ridge partially sitting up, and each slipped an arm under his legs. “Let me stand,” Ridge insisted. Most of his weight was already on their shoulders, so they let his feet slide slowly to the ground. Sharon gritted her teeth as he tried to take a step. His agony dominated his expression, and his face went whiter still. He sagged against the pair.
    For a second, Sharon thought he’d lost consciousness again. He didn’t say a word when theyscooped him up and carried him