Gun was conscious, panting wildly and quaking beneath his blood-soaked fur. He made no attempt to rise.
Ethan ran his hands over the dog’s sides and back, down his limbs, over his head. Long, thick scratches raked through his fur, some just breaking the skin, others opening swaths of white, twitching tissue, all of it sticky with blood.
Gun’s eyes were enormous and Ethan noted with alarm that the color of his tongue had gone from bright red to a dull pink. Gently and carefully, he lifted the dog’s hind end to shift him and that’s when Gun reacted.
He whipped his head up and over, yelping loudly and snapping at Ethan.
A large laceration ran down the length of the dog’s inner thigh. Blood gushed rhythmically as Gun moved. An artery, then.
Ethan straddled the dog’s body backwards, to protect himself from Gun’s instinctive reactions, and slapped his hand over the wound. As expected, the dog howled and squirmed, his teeth grazing the back of Ethan’s jeans.
Damn, damn, damn!
Ashur and Mars, back now, but with bloodlust still coursing through them, danced around him, howling and growling at the scent of danger.
He needed a tourniquet of some kind. A bandage. A stretcher.
A muzzle.
Without taking his hand off the wound, Ethan yanked his t-shirt awkwardly over his head, and quickly slipped it over the gaping flesh. Then, again one-handedly, he fumbled at his waistband to undo his belt. Muzzle or tourniquet?
No question. He slipped it around the dog’s limb and, as best he could, tightened it to slow the flow of blood. He hoped he wasn’t doing some kind of irreparable damage. Gun was a natural athlete. It would break the dog’s heart if he couldn’t run anymore.
It would break Ethan’s heart if the dog died.
Now, all he had to do was get Gun from the field to his truck, without getting bitten on his bare arms and chest in the process. At seventy pounds, the dog was big for his breed, and all muscle, but still an easy-enough burden for a man Ethan’s size.
He bent down and scooped the dog up. Again, Gun flipped his head back in an open-mouthed howl. He wasn’t attempting to bite or slash, but on Ethan’s bare flesh it had the effect of being slammed with a mace.
“Come on, buddy,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Work with me.”
He staggered across the field, keeping his head as far back as possible to avoid Gun’s jaws.
He was still fifty yards away when the dog’s skull connected with his jaw and they both went down.
Chapter Eleven
‡
Carrie jerked her head up. Was that a gunshot? She fumbled with the latch, nearly falling out of the car in her haste.
“Ethan?” she called. “What’s going on?”
She ran toward the sounds of barking and howling coming from behind the house. She hadn’t seen this part of the property so she wasn’t sure where she was going.
“Ethan, where are you?”
Then she heard cursing, a yip, a whine, then a howl, suddenly cut short.
There, a gate.
Cautiously, she pushed it open, then blinked at the sight in front of her. The outdoor run had obviously once been used for equestrian training. Now, it held equipment that could only be for dog training. Jumps, rings, chutes, A-frames, boardwalks, poles, and other stuff she couldn’t identify.
But where was Ethan?
“Carrie, thank God!”
She looked down. He was on the ground, half-naked, smeared with blood and dirt and who knew what else. The dogs milled around him, their hackles raised, ominous growls rumbling deep in their throats.
Her heart stopped, then began again in a wild rush.
“What happened? Are you all right?”
She could see now that one dog lay in the dust in front of him, while the other two paced back and forth, first at his side, then behind, then in front. They looked up at her but didn’t wag their tails. Carrie’s grip on the gate tightened. All feeling disappeared from her legs and her guts turned to water.
She wanted to help, but whatever had happened had put those dogs into full alarm mode.
“Gun tangled with a bear. He’s bleeding out. Femoral artery, I think.”
“A bear. Oh my God. Is he okay?”
“No. I don’t know. I’ve got to get him to the vet.”