Without Mercy - Lisa Jackson [55]
Sometimes, when he was restless, he’d visit the animals. He would stop at the horse barn first, then wander through the pens of chickens, goats, and pigs before stopping at the kennels. He missed having his own small herd of horses, or, at the very least, a dog. So far, he hadn’t replaced Buster, a dog that had been part German shepherd, part boxer, and God knew what else. Loyal and true, Buster had been known to be afraid of his own shadow.
Stretching, he heard his back pop, reminding him of how many times he’d been thrown into the dirt of a rodeo ring. He missed that life. Once, living among horses, cowboys, dust, and leather had been a part of his future, but then things had changed abruptly when his femur had snapped in two places.
So, now, here he was, living a life that wasn’t what he’d planned, lying through his teeth as he did it. His leg had healed, his wounded pride not so much, and though he was healthy, athletic again, he’d hung up his spurs.
Who cared?
It was all ancient history.
Right there with Jules Delaney, and he’d been reminded of her a lot lately, what with her half sister now in his charge. What were the odds of that?
He snagged his jacket from a peg near the door and patted a pocket out of habit, forgetting for a split second that he’d given up smoking years before.
At Jules’s insistence.
He felt his lips twist wryly when he thought about how he’d almost started the habit again once they’d broken up. Then sanity had prevailed. Withdrawal from nicotine was a bitch; he never wanted to go through that again.
No stars this morning.
No coyotes yipping or howling.
Not even a bat flying by as he pulled on his work gloves and headed toward the darkened stable.
Calm and peaceful, a light snow was falling in thick white flakes to drift against the buildings and catch in the eaves, where icicles had already formed. The place looked like a Christmas card.
But that sense of serenity was short-lived.
The second he opened the door to the horse barn, he knew something was wrong. The energy inside was all wrong. He flipped on one row of lights. The gray mare, Arizona, was snorting and shifting in her stall, and Plato, a Tennessee walker, usually a calm gelding, had pushed his head over the top rail of his box. Plato’s eyes were wide and white-rimmed, his chestnut coat quivering.
Creeeaaaak. The noise was soft and low, unnatural.
And there was a smell that didn’t belong here.
Over the powerful, warm scent of horses and the acrid odor of urine was another, underlying smell of something darker. Blood?
Trent scraped his gaze over the interior, past the sacks and barrels of grain and the walls where bridles, halters, and pitchforks hung. Nothing was out of place. And yet…He started toward the ladder leading to the hayloft, then broke into a run.
“Shit!”
Just beneath the opening to the upper floor was the crumpled, naked body of a man. Trent hurried around the body to examine the face. Prescott. One of the TAs, Andrew Prescott. Blood had pooled around his head, and he wasn’t moving.
“No. Ah, Jesus!” Bending on one knee, Trent felt for a pulse and found the faintest of beats at the kid’s neck. He was breathing, his heart beating, but he was in bad shape, the gash on the back of his head gaping, one arm bent at an impossible angle from his fall. “Hang in there, kid,” Trent said, and scooped up the wireless phone cradled near the stalls. He punched in 911 and hoped to God help would arrive in time to save the boy’s life.
“Come on, come on,” he said, praying the connection would go through.
“Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Send an ambulance!” he ordered. “Better yet, life flight. I’ve got an injured student at Blue Rock Academy, and I’d say it’s critical. We need to airlift him to the hospital. He’s unconscious, a lot of blood, maybe bleeding internally.” He rattled off the address of the school, gave the operator his name and position, then