Texas True (The Tylers of Texas 1)

“Somebody better catch that damned horse.” Will’s jaw was clenched. He had to be in excruciating pain, but he was playing the tough guy, determined not to show it.

“The horse will be fine.” Beau used the water in Sky’s canteen to flush the wound. “Right now all that matters is getting you to the hospital.”

Sky was still on the phone, speaking, then waiting and speaking again, his voice a low staccato.

“Make sure they have antivenin,” Beau said. “He’s going to need it.”

Sky asked a few more questions, ended the call, and shook his head. “A helicopter can be here in twenty minutes. But they’re out of antivenin. A new shipment’s coming in tomorrow.”

Beau swore. The antidote for rattlesnake venom was most effective if given intravenously within the first couple of hours. Tomorrow could be too late. For all he knew, Will could be dead by then. “Try Amarillo,” he said. “They’ve got to have some.”

Sky frowned. “Wait . . . Natalie should have antivenin. She keeps a supply for dogs.”

“Call her,” Beau said.

While Sky speed-dialed Natalie’s number, Beau busied himself with adjusting the bandana around Will’s thigh. The whole leg had begun to swell. Will purpled the air with curses as Beau retied the cloth. “Bad?” he asked needlessly.

“Hurts like bloody hell.” Will spat in the direction of the dead reptile. “And the timing sucks. Who’s going to boss the roundup?”

“The men know their jobs. And Sky can manage things fine.” Beau glanced upward. “The helicopter should be here soon. Just be quiet and take it easy.”

“I could use a swallow of whiskey.”

“Not a good idea, brother.”

Sky had ended the call. “Natalie’s got antivenin. It will be fastest if she drives to Lubbock; she should get there about the same time the copter lands.”

An eternity seemed to pass before they heard the drone of the red and white Life Flight helicopter. Refusing to stay quiet, Will had spent the interim giving Sky a running litany of muttered instructions, things Sky doubtless already knew. Even in his dire condition, Will couldn’t let go of his duties.

By the time the paramedics loaded him in the helicopter, Will’s pulse was racing at a gallop. Beau insisted on riding along. Though it wasn’t usual policy, the paramedics didn’t argue. Will was a powerful man and not in his right mind. If he got hard to handle in the air, they might need help calming him.

Beau clasped his brother’s hand while the technician inserted an IV with a saline drip in his arm. Will was mumbling now, demanding that he be taken back to the ranch—a sign that the venom was already seeping into his system.

Although the flight to the hospital was a relatively short one, each minute in the air seemed three times as long. As the helicopter began its descent to the hospital’s landing pad, Beau clasped Will’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Hang in there, big brother,” he ordered. “Everything’s going to be fine now.”

Will looked directly at him and said something back, but the roar of the engine drowned out the sound of his voice. Even so, Beau was able to ascertain the words his lips shaped.

Call Tori, Will had said.

Beau answered with a nod of promise.

As soon as the helicopter touched down, the engine was cut back, and the paramedics scrambled to unload their patient onto a waiting gurney. Will was already being whisked inside by the time Beau climbed out of the chopper.

Once inside the emergency department, Beau had a brief glimpse of Will on the gurney before the set of double doors to the trauma unit slid shut behind him. One of the paramedics motioned for Beau to join him at the admissions desk.

“They need some information on your brother.”

Reluctantly Beau allowed himself

to be sidetracked from following Will into the trauma unit. Other than the absolute basics of name, age, blood type, address, and next of kin, there was scant information that Beau could provide. Any allergies or medications Will might be taking, Beau had to admit he didn’t know.

After that was finished, someone else handed him a bag of his brother’s personal items—his watch, wallet, and cell phone—and pointed him toward the emergency department’s waiting room.

It was a small area, mostly unoccupied at that hour, with soothing blue walls, black vinyl couches, and framed prints of Texas wildflowers. Timeworn copies of People magazine, Golf Digest, and Good Housekeeping littered the tables. A frayed-looking woman was knitting what appeared to be an orange muffler while an unshaven man was sprawled on one of the side couches, lightly snoring.

Unwilling to twiddle his thumbs on one of the couches, Beau went to find out whether the antivenin had arrived. But no one either could or would tell him.