Slow Hand (Hot Cowboy Nights, #1)(86)

Josh palpated his left shoulder.

“Sonofabitch,” Dirk groaned.

“Looks like you’ve got an anterior dislocation. Have you ever had one before?”

“Yeah. Once. Long time ago.”

“That makes repositioning the bone back into the joint a lot easier.”

Dirk gritted his teeth. “Just do it, all right?”

“A few questions and we’ll take care of it. What’s your full name?”

“Justin Dirk Knowlton.”

“What’s the date?”

“June…” What day was it anyway? Dirk squeezed his eyes shut. It was right on the tip of his tongue. “Thirteen…shit, no…fourteen.”

Josh’s mouth tightened. “Where are we?”

Dirk gazed up at the stands again, blinking several times to force his vision back into focus. This one was easier. “The rodeo.”

“Which one?”

“What the hell does it matter? They all look the same from down here.” He grimaced. “They smell the same too.”

The medic frowned and scribbled some notes. Grady squatted beside him with a muffled cough that sounded a lot like “Casper.”

“We’re at the Finals,” Dirk blurted. “In Casper. Will you please put this damn shoulder back in now?” Dirk looked up into the stands where spectators leaned over the rails for a better look. He despised being on display all sprawled out in the dirt.

Janice had now joined Grady and a number of others crowded behind her to gawk. “C’mon,” Dirk insisted. “Don’t make me lie here like a jackass.”

“Please, Dirk,” Janice pleaded. “Just let him check you out and make sure you’re ok.”

“Look,” Dirk protested, “my brain’s not scrambled. I just need my shoulder put back in.” He raised his right arm and ripped off the Velcro collar. “If you won’t do it for me,” he challenged the medic, “Grady will.”

“It’d be my pleasure.” Grady grinned.

Dirk reached a hand up to Grady who hauled him back to his feet, actions that incited a wave of spectator applause, whistles, and cheers. “Where’s my hat?” Dirk demanded.

“Here.” Janice handed him the dirt-covered Stetson with a look of mixed concern and disapproval. “Are you sure you should be on your feet already?”

“I’m standin’, ain’t I?” Dirk placed the hat solidly back on his head. “I’ve held up this show long enough.”

“All right. All right,” the medic grumbled in defeat. “We’ll finish this up back in the med trailer.”

Leaning heavily on Grady, Dirk staggered out to the mobile triage unit. Moments later, he was lying on the paper-covered exam table, bracing himself for the inevitable.

“Relax your left arm and don’t fight me,” Josh said. “This is gonna hurt pretty bad for a minute or two, but then it’ll feel a whole lot better.”

Dirk dropped his left arm by his side as instructed, grinding his teeth as the medic raised, rotated, and then jammed the bone back into place with an audible pop.

“It’ll hurt much worse tomorrow. You’ll need to wear a supportive sling for a few days. No drinking or riding of any kind for at least a couple of weeks.”

“Weeks? Yeah. Right.” Dirk laughed and then winced in pain. His left hand was swelling up like a friggin’ balloon. He couldn’t make a fist and hoped it wasn’t destroyed. His ribs were probably cracked but there was nothing to be done for that and he wasn’t about to stand for any more poking around when Grady was about to ride.

“I mean that about the drinking, Dirk. Especially tonight. The body responds unpredictably to alcohol following any kind of head trauma. The injury lowers tolerance and reduces cognitive function, not to mention impairing the brain’s healing abilities.” Josh’s gaze met Dirk’s and held. “It could even trigger a seizure.”

“Right. No drinking. Heard ya the first time,” Dirk replied.

Favoring his left side, he pushed up into a sitting position and then slowly stood, pausing only long enough for the world to stop spinning. He rolled his shoulder forward and then backward, finding his agony had been almost completely alleviated. “Thanks.” He tipped his hat and made for the door.

“Hold on, cowboy,” Josh protested. “I’m not finished.”

“Then you’ll have to continue without me. Gotta go now,” Dirk shot over his shoulder. “My buddy’s up next.”

*

Dirk emerged from the med trailer on his own, albeit a little unsteady. Janice watched him out of the corner of her eye as she flanked the next two bulls. With his arms over his chest and one booted ankle crossed over the other, he leaned against the chute to watch the last two rides. It was a deceptively casual pose that might have fooled anyone who didn’t know him, but she could tell by his pallor and shallow breathing that he hurt far more than he was willing to show. A moment later the medic brought him a sling, but he didn’t put it on.

“C’mon, Dirk. Don’t be a dumb-ass. Let me help you with that.”

“Don’t need it,” he growled.

“Then why are you favoring the arm?”

He released it instantly from his chest with a scowl.