C. Box - Endangered

The announcer said, “Now, folks, you can turn your attention to chute number two, where the world champion bull rider from two years ago, Dallas Cates of Saddlestring, Wyoming, and Stephenville, Texas, prepares to go mano a mano with Bushwhacker, the 2014 Bull of the Year .”

Joe and Lucy exchanged glances.

“Watch this close,” she said.

Dallas Cates lowered himself down on the back of the bull. He jammed his gloved right hand through the rope and used his left hand to pull his fingers through farther. The camera jostled again, and for a moment the screen was filled with overhead lights. Then it settled back on Dallas. He was hunched forward on the back of the bull, his left hand already poised in the air.

Someone shouted, “Ride ’im, Cates!”

The announcer said, “Dallas Cates enters this go-round at number two in the world and number three in the standings. A good ride on this bull will vault him to first place! Folks, Dallas Cates is eight seconds away from shocking the world.”

Behind the chute where Cates was mounted, a rodeo official pulled back hard on the flanking strap. The official would release it the moment the gate was thrown open.

Cates broke his concentration for a moment and glanced over at the stands. The camera followed, and there, for no more than a second, was April. She flashed a smile at Dallas and offered him two thumbs up.

Then Dallas turned back to the task at hand and nodded to the men outside the gate waiting for the signal to open it. Dallas had a certain something, Joe noted as he watched. He had a presence about him, real charisma. As much as Joe hated him, he couldn’t take his eyes off the man. No wonder the jeans company chose him as a spokesman, he thought.

Almost imperceptibly, Cates nodded to the men in the arena that he was ready.

Bushwhacker and Dallas exploded into the arena in a whirling combination of twists and bucks. The crowd went wild. Although the videographer missed part of it, Dallas Cates was thrown forward on the front shoulders of the bull, then rocked back. The cowboy flew through the air and landed flat on his back in the dirt behind the bull.

While the announcer said, “Dallas Cates gets Bushwhacked in two-point-eight-seven seconds!” the bull wheeled and lowered its head and charged Dallas, who scrambled backward like a crab.

Bullfighters dressed as clowns swooped in a second too late to distract the animal, and the bull either hooked or head-butted Cates with enough power to send him airborne again. There was an audible gasp from the fans, but despite the unreliable camerawork, Joe could see Cates roll to his feet and scramble up the chute boards to safety.

Then it was over.

“Let’s see it again,” Joe said.

They watched it three more times. It was April, all right, and it didn’t look like the two of them were at odds. After all, Dallas had looked over to her for last-second encouragement. She’d been beaming. Joe had rarely seen her look so happy or so excited.

“I told you,” Lucy said. She was focused on the relationship.

Joe was focused on the wreck of the ride.

The last glimpse of Dallas was of him climbing the chute boards and vaulting over the top into the ready area.

“That bull got Dallas,” Joe said, “but he looks pretty darned healthy when he runs away. I know adrenaline can make a man do all kinds of things, but I also know how much it hurts to get your ribs broken. There’s nothing worse. Dallas doesn’t look like he’s got broken ribs the way he’s flying over that chute gate. Plus, he was wearing one of those flak vests they all have to wear these days.”

Lucy looked over and said, “Does that mean those Cates people are lying?”

“I think it does,” Joe said.

—

HE WAS FEEDING THE HORSES in the barn after dinner when Marybeth called. She sounded shaken.

“The doctors say April has severe brain damage. She was hit multiple times in the head. There’s swelling around her brain.”

“Oh no,” he said, once again feeling his knees wobble.

“They say they want to put her into a medically induced coma.”

“A what?”

“A medically induced coma.”

“How bad is it, Marybeth?”

She said, “They really don’t know. They say she’s on the low end of the Glasgow Coma Scale, whatever that means. There’s no eye, verbal, or motor response. They need our permission to put her under, so I wanted to talk with you first.”

Joe shook his head. As if Marybeth could see him do it, she said, “The idea is to keep her unconscious and healing until the swelling in her brain goes down. They want to give her a drug called propofol to put her into the coma. The doctors say shutting down her functions will lower her blood pressure and reduce the swelling in her brain in case they have to do surgery later. It’ll give the brain time to heal. It’s what they did for Gabrielle Giffords, the U.S. representative who got shot in the head in Arizona, and what they do with other victims of blunt force trauma.”

Joe recalled the Giffords incident. He asked, “What do you think?”

“If they leave her the way she is, her body may shut off blood flow to the damaged parts of her brain. She’d be brain-dead.”

“Oh, man.”

When Marybeth didn’t speak for a moment, he realized she had lowered the phone to cry. He waited.

“It’s not a sure thing, so we have to brace ourselves,” she said after a moment, once she’d gathered herself together. He could imagine her wiping away tears on her cheeks as she talked. “It’s possible she’ll never come out of it. It’s also possible that they could bring her out of it, but there’s been so much damage, she’d never really be the same. But they’re good doctors and I trust them. They have a neurosurgeon on call in case they need to do surgery. All we can do is trust them and pray for her.”

Joe tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

“How long?” he asked.

“Days, weeks, maybe months. They use propofol because it’s easily controlled and it has a short length. That’s so they can reduce the dosage when the swelling goes down and bring her out of the coma periodically. When they do, they can measure her Glasgow scale to see if she’s responding. They also measure brain activity through catheters in her brain.”

“Then we have to say yes,” Joe said.

“I agree. I’ll go sign whatever it is I have to sign and I’ll call you later tonight.”

—

JOE WENT INSIDE and told Lucy what Marybeth had said. Lucy nodded, wide-eyed, then got up and started toward her room to call her big sister, Sheridan.

In the threshold of the doorway, she asked, “Did April say for sure who did this to her?”

Joe shook his head.

“Will she ever be able to tell us?”

“We don’t know, Lucy.”

Lucy closed her eyes briefly, then shut the door behind her.

—

WHEN JOE’S CELL PHONE lit up an hour later, he lunged for it. He was halfway through his first bourbon and water. The television was on, but he had no idea what network it was tuned to.

He looked at the phone screen and scowled, then punched it live.

Annie Hatch said, “It’s a blizzard up here, Joe. We can’t see well enough to find the road to get back to town. Revis and I were hoping you could drive up here and kind of lead us back.”

“Did you find the site?”

“We think so, but we’re not sure. There’s so much snow in the sagebrush—”

“I told you not to go up there tonight,” he said.

“I know, I know,” she said wearily. “Do you think we wanted to call you?”

“Sit tight,” Joe said with irritation. “Don’t keep driving around. Just sit tight with your headlights on. How far did you go off the county road?”