ARTS The Bentwood Creek Chronicles She had never practiced any of this stuff. It was simple. Just ride around the arena to all the applause. Smile a lot. Get told what a good and beautiful horse person she was and go home hugging her trophy. April 2007

By Diane P. Lando

Strawberry blond hair is actually a natural color. Fifteen-year-old Stacey wore it kind of long with lots of curls. She wore a ton of make-up that her best friend's mom had given her. There were going to be lots of pictures for the small town newspapers. Especially her own town of Bentwood Creek.

She smacked her glossed pink lips and checked the angle of her white cowboy hat. The best her mom could buy. She had ostrich spotted boots with pointed toes and high heels. They were too tight, but she was going to be sitting on her three-year-old mare, Summer, not walking.

It was still hard to get Summer in the trailer. She'd only been in it twice before. The horse's eyes were rolling, and she was a sweaty wreck once Stacey's uncle and his friends finally got the doors closed and locked on the solid white box. Summer kicked the walls all the way to the arena. They had managed to get shipping boots on her back legs, so she might have been bruised, but not bloody. At the arena they let her explode out of the trailer.

The three men caught her ropes as she flew out. Someone found a hose to wash the sweat off the horse. They removed the wet padded boots. They dried her with one old sheet and a few borrowed towels. Her black and white spots glistened. Her one blue eye was blood shot, the brown one glared at them.

One of them slapped on the $3,000.00 saddle and stuffed the silver encrusted bridle into Summer's mouth. They rode the buck out of the horse while Stacey, about a block away behind the bleachers, finished admiring herself in the bathroom mirror.

This arena had good facilities. She was glad. It was hard becoming this year's rodeo queen. She even had to know who the last three presidents were. Her mom, Grace, had helped her with the test, but she couldn't make it out here today. It was always about more houses to sell with her. Grace would see her in the papers. Karen, Stacey's aunt, had brought the girl out here.

"You look great," Karen said when Stacey finally walked out.

The band played some loud Mexican Gaucho music. The microphone piped up a few announcements. Pretty soon Stacey would ride at a gallop around the arena, carrying a flag. She had never practiced any of this stuff. It was simple. Just ride around the arena to all the applause. Smile a lot. Get told what a good and beautiful horse person she was and go home hugging her trophy.

They brought Summer, crow hopping and spooking, into the arena. Stacey looked at how beautiful the horse was. She realized what a good match they would be for the photographers. Stacey tried to pat the horse, but it shied away from her. Tom, her uncle, yanked the bridle, clanking the bit against the horse's teeth. The mare's head jerked up as she tried to get away from the pain.

"Hold her still, will ya! I gotta get up and ride her out there! Everybody's waiting!" Jeb and Joe put their arms out sideways to steady the horse.

Tom grabbed Stacey's belt and ankle and tossed her onto the horse. Summer suddenly stood very still, like a freshly coiled spring. The arena gate opened, Stacey grabbed the flag, spurred the horse, and they bolted in at a flying gallop. The crowd stood up and roared its applause. At the same time, Summer noticed the flag. Its flapping, and the exploding crowd, scared the horse out of her wits. Summer threw a pitch and bucked. Once, twice, and the third time Stacey flew off.

All except for her left leg. Her pretty boot got caught in the stirrup. When Stacey hit the ground, the horse was already going at least 20 miles per hour. Now instead of a flag above her, the horse was dragging a 120-pound screaming weight. They hadn't practiced this either.

Summer angled toward the monster trying to kick it off. Then ran away from it, but it kept coming. Then, somewhere along the line, the monster on the ground quit screaming. Stacey had been kicked in the head with every reach of that left hind foot. The experience left her senseless, and bloody. The crowd gasped and screamed.

After two laps around the arena, the vaqueros finally roped Summer and got her to stop. Someone else grabbed Stacey and lifted her out of that tangled stirrup with the shattered leg still attached to the new boot. She lay on the ground until the ambulance arrived.

The men took the horse out back to a calf pen, roped her legs and dropped her to the ground. They were good at this. One of them put a bandana over Summer's eyes so they could get the rig off of her. They undid the cinch, rolled the horse over and off came the saddle. Tom brought the halter to replace the bridle. Keeping the horse blindfolded, they untied her legs and got her up. Joe put the wet shipping boots back on her while Jeb got the truck and trailer.

The horse walked into the metal box, exhausted, still soothed by the bandana. Stacey's new hat was crumpled and bloody against the arena wall.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Stacey and her horse are going to be just fine. Happens all the time. Now let's get those pretty barrel racers out here. Look at those red, white and blue barrels! Thank you Booster Club! You did a great job! All right!! Here we go! And the first one out is. ... "

The next day, Stacy was very hard to recognize in any of the hometown pictures.

Michael was a pretty good ER doctor. He'd flown in from the Bay Area to do a weekend in this small town hospital because their resident doctor had taken ill. The money was good in Modesto, and his plane needed to stretch its wings. He'd gone to med School in Mexico and became a rarity: a Jewish doctor who could speak Spanish. At least a dialect of it. Fortunately it was the dialect most of the farm workers in California spoke.

Passing the California boards had been easy for him. He had paired up with a buddy of his who was able to tell him what extra stuff he needed to know.

At this time in his life he should have been settled with a wife and family. But that's not what happened. At least his ex was flexible about visiting rights with his son.

This evening had been pretty quiet. The usual stuffy noses, abdominal cramps and headaches. Nothing to get excited about. The radio crackled, "ETA 5 minutes. Horse accident, female, multiple fractures and contusions. Severe head trauma. Patient stable. Broken ribs. Labored breathing."

The EMT was still taking inventory as they bounced down the road. He didn't even know her name yet. His fingers were fumbling with the IV needles as the bus sped down the uneven road. It needed new shocks and paint. But in this district they were lucky to have serviceable tires, and meds inside.

Michael looked at his watch. Three hours into his shift, and now this. He lined up the lab tech for blood work and had x-ray and CAT scans ready to go. Didn't know if he'd need a sonogram. Five minutes were up. Six.

"Hey! I found a medic alert bracelet. This kid's a diabetic and allergic to morphine!" The EMT's radio crackled again.

Michael was glad they found that bracelet. It changed his plans a bit. This wasn't going to be a severed finger or toe. He put in a call to the trauma center a hundred miles away. They would be needing a helicopter.

The ER doors banged open. Michael assessed what he saw. There was something where a head should be. Lots of curly hair. "What happened?"

"She was dragged for a while by a horse" was the reply. The EMT was pretty pale, looking like he could use a stiff drink, or a bucket to puke in. Kids now a days don't quite know what to do with traumas. Michael did. He went to work stabilizing her.

"What's her name?" he asked loud enough to be heard.

The EMT shook himself and said, "Stacey."

Michael clicked off the trauma list in his head, "Somebody make sure that copter's coming."

This small hospital didn't have a portable anything. Most of his exam was visual, tactile, and fast. No time to be running from room to room for tests. He could see what was wrong, and didn't like it. The left leg was shattered from top to bottom with the femur out of the hip socket. The right leg wasn't much better. He splinted what he could and popped the femur back into place. The arms were like a rag doll's.

He stabilized her neck and back. Kept checking the heart rate. The breathing. Stopped as much bleeding as he could find. The bruising was starting to surface. The skull was intact, but cracked in several places. Stacey was non-responsive to questions. Why hadn't she been wearing a helmet? Oh yeah, he reminded himself of his son's argument about riding a bike, "It's not cool." Death would get you cool pretty fast.

"Good thing you called the copter when you did. It's on the way. ETA ten minutes." If Stacey made it that long.

Michael didn't know what internal damage there was. He just got the IV going to have some sort of line in, stabilized the rest of her limbs, and that was all he could do. He was no brain surgeon. The trauma center would have to do the rest. Poor kid looked like she had lost a fight with a blender.

"Here's the copter!" They loaded her up, and Michael just shook his head. What was it that his girl friend had said about natural selection? That was no comfort when something like Stacey tried to stare you in the face.

The crowd at the rodeo had been stunned for a few moments, but then began to cheer the barrel riders. Stacy had been such a pretty girl. But everything was always just fine at a rodeo.

This is an excerpt from Diane's new book, The Bentwood Chronicles. You can get ordering information by writing the author at Equimare@aol.com.