Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3) (17 page)

The bikers had removed their helmets to take a water break. It was a necessity, no doubt, because of the dust that formed a golden haze in the lights, stirred up by the spinning wheels.

Zeni sought and found Trey with her gaze. He was watching her, she saw, and lifted her hand to give him a quick wave. Smiling, he tipped the neck of his water bottle in her direction in a small salute.

She couldn’t look away. It was a small thing, that proof that he had thought of her in the midst of the tournament, that he knew she was there, knew where she was seated. Yet her chest ached with the bright pleasure of the moment, and she knew it was one she would always remember.

The second round was basically a replay of the first. Though the crowd cheered the successes, their main concern now was with who was winning. They seemed to miss the scoreboard provided by most sports, and the ring count updates, announced by the mayor, were so slow in coming they were obsolete by the time they were given. That was, when they could be heard above the constant engine noise.

A fair-sized contingent seemed restless, as if they’d half expected something more from the event, maybe a confrontation between the bikers, a major spill, or even a disaster such as the accident at practice that injured Jake. Some few left, especially those who could not find seats, filing down and out from behind the highest bleachers.

During the intermission before the final round, the band entertained with the raucous tune, “Get Your Motor Running.” As the event headed toward its end and Zeni’s nervous stomach began to settle, she succumbed to temptation and bought a popcorn ball. She nibbled at it while watching Trey check his bike along with those of his cousins and friends, still guarding against mishap. It looked as if they were almost home free on that front, however, and she was able to enjoy her sweet and salty confection with a lighter heart.

Around and around the bikes went for Round Three. Zeni managed to keep her eyes on Trey this time, though they burned with the effort. He was racking up the rings in fine style, yet so were Lance and Beau. The final score was going to be close.

At last it was over. The last ring was snatched onto a lance; all the rings of this third round had been collected, leaving their empty cords dangling from the arch. The mayor and members of the medieval fair committee descended to the arena floor for the official count from each biker’s lance.

While that was going on, Zeni glanced up at the announcer’s booth, wondering if that part was being filmed. If so, a lot of footage would require editing. As far she could tell, the cameras were still rolling; she could see the cameramen behind them. Derek and Bettina must’ve grown bored and left, however, as they were nowhere in sight.

Finally, the count was done. The mayor mounted to the booth again to announce the winner. Against all expectation, it was a three-way tie between Beau, Lance and Trey, each having the maximum number of rings that could be collected. But in the generous spirit of true knights, so the mayor declared, two of the winners relinquished their claim to the honor of crowning the queen of the tournament. They insisted the prize should go, uncontested, to the man who had originated the idea of the ring tournament. That man was Chamelot’s own Trey Benedict.

The band director apparently had a sense of humor. The instant the mayor ceased to speak, he picked up his baton and led the members in a thunderous yet melodious version of “The Horse.” With that as their theme, Lance and Beau, led by Trey, began their victory laps, roaring around the arena three abreast, once, twice, and then a third time.

But then Lance and Beau peeled away, leaving Trey to ride alone to the riotous applause of the crowd. The noise grew deafening as he finished his victory lap and swerved to send his bike wheeling toward where Zeni sat.

Mandy and Carla, their faces alight with good humor, urged her to her feet and down to the railing just above the dirt floor. At the same time, Trey halted his bike, cut the engine and set the kickstand. Stripping off his gloves, he pulled a gold circlet from inside his tunic and displayed it to the crowd for an instant.

It flashed in the stadium lights, a modest and simple yet elegant tiara, not at all tacky. Zeni stared at it, euphoria and dread fighting it out inside her. It was true that most people in town knew she and Trey were engaged, but it was still a semi-private arrangement. Giving her this crown, claiming her in public as his ladylove, was an acknowledgment from Trey on a par with putting an announcement in the local paper and sending out wedding invitations; it would make it twice as difficult to end what was between them. Yet it was such a precious and moving prospect that she would not have changed it even if she could.

Trey walked forward with the crown in his hands and warm anticipation in the deep gray of his eyes. The band muted the last strains of its theme. The jubilant celebration of the crowd began to fade as they waited to hear what he might say, but also to see what Zeni would do.

It was then the popping noise came, like firecrackers going off. She heard a buzzing over her head. Sand kicked up around Trey. He started forward, his face grim as he stared up at the bleachers above her.

“Down, Zeni,” he shouted, “Get down!”

A final explosion sounded then. Trey stopped as if he’d hit a wall. He clamped a hand to his chest, clenching a fistful of the chain mail that draped it. He staggered, spun in slow motion. He crashed full length on the sand of the arena.

The crown he held flew from his hand, rolling in a dazzle of light. It struck the foot of the railed bleachers. It settled there, half-buried in the dirt, six feet below Zeni.

It was, like Trey, far beyond her reach.

A breathless hush gripped the crowd for a single instant. Then pandemonium broke out.

Screams, yells and the crying of children rose above the dull roar of exclamations and questions without answers. The mayor seized the microphone to call for calm, but the plea was ignored. People surged to their feet, pushing and shoving, stampeding toward the exit. They had expected excitement, but not like this. Too many crazy shootings by demented gunmen had been in the news in the past months.

Zeni moved with the maddened rush until she reached the short flight of steps down to the ground. Just beyond was the gateway into the arena. She fought her way to it, but it was padlocked. Without hesitation, she climbed over and dropped to the sand on the other side.

Her mind was clear; she had no time for panic or terror, no time for useless speculation. She had to get to Trey; that was all that mattered. Thinking or feeling could wait until she knew there was nothing she could do for him, nothing to be done by anyone.

From ground level, the open space of the arena with its windswept sand and glaring lights seemed vast, much bigger than from the bleachers above. The knot of people where Trey had fallen looked far away. She ran toward them, but seemed to make little progress, as if the air had congealed, holding her back. She could make out Trey’s long form sprawled on the ground, overshadowed by his friends; could see Beau kneeling beside him; Beau who was an EMT with the emergency squad and the local hospital. A sob caught in her throat as she saw that his hands gleamed red with blood.

Behind her, calling after her, others were running, running, as she was. Carla and Mandy she thought, in a distant part of her mind; Gloria, too, and the deputies who had been on duty at the entrance, even Granny Chauvin somewhere to the rear. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t wait for them.

Abruptly, she was where she wanted to be. A final lunge, and she fell to her knees next to Trey. She picked up his hand and eased closer, holding it as she blinked back tears.

He was so still, so white under his tan, all the power and vital force of his personality vanquished. His fingers were cold and lax in hers, without any sign of strength or movement. Blood shone wetly against the black of his shirt in the floodlights, beneath the red-stained chain mail he still wore, perhaps to keep from moving him. His wound was covered by a thickly folded pad Beau pressed to his chest, one made of the cloak he’d worn for the tournament.

Zeni glanced at Trey’s cousin. Horror leaped inside her as she saw the sympathy in his face. Her voice strangled in her throat, she asked, “Is he—?”

“No. He’s breathing, but going into shock.”

“Has someone called—?”

Thankfully, he didn’t allow her to finish that thought, either. “An ambulance is on its way. Lance is outside, clearing the parking lot so it can get closer.”

It shouldn’t take long to arrive. The hospital wasn’t that far away. Nothing was any great distance in Chamelot.

“I thought—that was shots I heard, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, he was shot.”

She clasped Trey’s hand closer, rubbing her palm over the backs of his fingers as if she could lend him some of her warmth. Staring down at his features that she knew so well, the broad brow, the straight nose, the sensual mouth, she tried to memorize them, though they kept blurring. Tears splashed down onto their joined hands. She barely noticed the others around her, standing over her, until a quiet question from Mandy snagged her attention.

“Did anyone see where the shots came from? I mean, most of you down here on the arena floor were facing in that direction.”

The other riders shook their heads, muttering negatives with the sound of regret and self-blame. They had been watching Trey and what he was about to do, they said. They’d thought any danger, any chance of anything happening, was over.

Zeni looked up. “They came from up higher in the bleachers, I think, maybe behind the last row. I’m not exactly sure, but somewhere like that.” She paused, then went on in semi-coherence. “I didn’t see the person, but I—I know it’s crazy, but I noticed something while the rings were being counted.”

“What?” Beau demanded in quiet authority when she came to a halt.

She bit her bottom lip, uncertain that what she’d seen had anything to do with Trey lying there with a bloody wound in his chest. But then she went on anyway.

“Derek Peabody wasn’t—no one was in the booth except the cameramen.”

Beau, still exerting pressure on Trey’s chest, turned his head to say something over his shoulder. Immediately, four or five of the bikers whirled away, heading toward the stands where Zeni had been sitting and where the bleachers were now almost empty. It seemed unlikely the shooter was still around, unless it was to gloat over his handiwork, but they might gain some idea of where he’d stood, where he’d set up for his target, and how he’d gotten there.

Zeni had no time to think about it. The wail of an ambulance could be heard, growing steadily louder. Within seconds, uniformed ambulance personnel hustled in from the back entrance, rolling a stretcher toward them with dust kicking up from every wheel.

She wasn’t allowed to go with Trey in the ambulance. She wanted to insist, but knew it was better if she didn’t risk being in the way if intervention was needed. The emergency was dire enough already.

She rode with Mandy instead, following Lance in his patrol SUV with its lights flashing and siren blasting out to clear the way ahead. The drive was almost as fast as the ambulance, as the sheriff spearheaded a phalanx of bikers, friends and neighbors in that high-speed dash through town. In mere minutes, he was also leading a mass invasion of the emergency room.

They were in time to catch up with the ambulance crew as they wheeled Trey straight back toward the trauma room. They stopped long enough for Zeni to touch his face, drop a brief kiss on his forehead, and whisper in his ear. Then he was taken away, rolled at warp speed beyond the double doors that allowed no admittance.

They waited, Lance and Beau, Mandy and Carla, Gloria and Granny Chauvin and a dozen more. They sent or answered text messages, and stepped outside to receive or make cell calls. They poured coffee and let it get cold; picked up magazines, flipped through them, and put them down again. Some prayed, silently or aloud.

Beau, being a privileged figure around the hospital, went to ask for a report now and then, and came back each time with no news other than that Trey was holding his own. Lance was in and out, cycling between his office’s crime scene investigation and the hospital. With Beau and one or two others, he speculated on who, how and why, and went over and over the run-in between Derek and Trey about Jake’s accident. Jake himself, on hearing the news, had himself driven from Turn-Coupe to join them with his neck in his padded brace, anxious to learn all they could tell him.

Basically, everyone paced, talked, and sometimes laughed aloud from sheer nerves. A few had to leave as the first hour, and then another, passed. Others took their places. But mostly, they all waited.

Zeni knew everyone who was there. Though she sat and stared at nothing, said little, she felt their caring and concern and was grateful to be with them, a part of a loving community that was like family in all the ways that mattered. She was one of them for these long minutes and hours, at least, and she was glad, so very glad to be within their tight circle.

At last the surgeon came out, still in his green scrubs and with protective bootees covering his shoes. He seemed at a loss as to where to direct his report. That was until Granny Chauvin, sitting next to Zeni and holding her hand, spoke up.

“This is Zeni over here, doctor, Trey’s future bride. She’s the one who most needs to hear what you got to say.”

It wasn’t true; everyone there had as much or more right than she did. With a quick glance around, she said, “I think we all need to know, if you don’t mind.”

The surgeon nodded, his face sober. “Trey came through the surgery okay, and is in recovery. He has two broken ribs and a bruised spleen, plus a large abrasion, actually a long gouge, caused by the bullet as it hit the chain mail he was wearing. That steel mesh might not have deflected a direct hit, but it probably saved his life since the round was traveling at an angle.”

“What kind of round?” Lance asked, his voice grim.

“Lightweight rifle, it looks to me, most likely a .22.” He dug into the pocket of his scrubs and pulled out a misshapen slug that he passed over to Lance. “Doesn’t help a lot, I know, but there it is. Rifles like that will likely show up in half the closets in town, leftover from when men were teens. Trey’s lucky it was nothing larger.”

“Yeah,” Lance said. “It’s also a good thing the shooter was either nervous or a bad shot, since it took four rounds at least to find the range.”

Zeni put a hand to her mouth, feeling warm tears slide down her face to pool against its edge. Close, it had been so close. It was a moment before she could control her voice enough to form words. ”He—he’s really going to be all right?”

“Trey’s strong and comes from good, healthy stock.” The doctor nodded in the direction of the cousins. “I’d say he’ll be up and around in a couple of days, and back to his old self before the month is out. That’s as long as he stays away from motorcycle sports.”