Travis had been a medic in the Army. He’d been shot three times in the left leg while performing triage during a firefight and had an artificial limb below his knee. Travis helped on the farm when he could, but he couldn’t walk far, especially in the field. It had turned him bitter, but he tried to hide it most of the time.
But Jake saw the bitterness, the anger, the sorrow behind his uncle’s commanding presence. He’d have more sympathy if Travis didn’t drink so much.
At least he recognized that carrying the hundred-and-fifty-pound dog would be tough and difficult on his leg. Frustrated, Travis turned and went back up the stairs.
Timber yelped when Jake picked him up. “I’m sorry, buddy. I know you’re in pain.” He carried him into the house, Titan at his side, ears and tail on alert.
Travis had put a sheet on the kitchen table, and Jake laid the dog on it. He tried to get up, but Jake held him down while Travis prepped a sedative. Running a ranch meant they often had to take care of their animals’ needs—you couldn’t call in the vet every time a horse or sheep got injured. It’s one of the reasons Jake wanted to be a vet, he wanted to help people care for their working animals.
But it was more important to take care of his farm now, instead of other people’s animals in the future. He wished his mom would understand that he didn’t resent postponing college—or foregoing it completely. He needed to be here, at Whisper Creek, not just for his mom and their ranch, but for his dad’s legacy.
His father would expect it of him. More, Jake expected it of himself.
“It won’t knock him out, but it’ll make him sleepy and take the edge off the pain,” Travis said. “Stroke his neck, I’m going to put a muzzle on him.”
Jake did as Travis said, murmuring soothing words while Travis put on the muzzle, then injected the animal.
Jake looked around, and his eyes narrowed when he saw several empty whiskey bottles on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area. He didn’t say anything. Since Travis left the Army twelve years ago, when Jake was six, he’d struggled with sobriety. He’d been better for a few years, until his brother’s death last year. Sometimes, Jake thought Travis could justify anything he did, blaming his circumstances for his drinking. Yes, he was disabled and lived on disability, he couldn’t do everything he wanted. But he wasn’t worthless. Jake’s dad had told Travis that over and over, but Travis just avoided his brother when he didn’t want to listen anymore.
He’d started training dogs, something he was good at, including Titan, who had two years ago been certified as a service dog. Jake’s mom was trying to convince him to start a business training service dogs, which were always in demand. But Travis had a hundred excuses as to why he couldn’t do it.
Jake felt Timber relax shortly after being given the sedative, and then Travis said, “I need to shave the area, clean the wound, see what we’re dealing with here.” He motioned to a stainless-steel tray where he’d already laid out his sterilized tools. “Hand me what I need when I ask.”
They worked in silence for the next thirty minutes as Travis shaved fur, cleaned the wound, and extracted each piece of buckshot from Timber’s leg. There were six, one pretty deep, which started to bleed again as Travis dug it out.
Finally, he said, “I think I got them all. I’m going to dress the wound and then I’ll need you to lay Timber on the extradog bed.” He motioned to where he had put a thick mat next to Titan’s bed.
After, Travis brought water to where Timber lay. He wasn’t trying to get up, but he was more alert now, watching them. It helped that Travis had raised and trained Timber the first six months of his life and saw him regularly, building trust. Travis poured himself a whiskey and sat heavily on the couch.
“As soon as the storm passes, I’ll take him to the vet for X-rays, make sure we got all them buckshot. I have some meds here for him, but he still needs to be examined.” Travis motioned to a chair. “Why don’t you sit a spell?”
“Thanks,” Jake said. He tried not to glance at Travis’s hand, holding the whiskey glass. “But I need to get home. Mateo got the run-in fixed and the cattle should be okay where they’re at, but there’s still a lot of work to do at the house.”
“I can come by, help some.”
“I don’t know how bad the road is going to get.”
Travis didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that Jake didn’t want his uncle to come over, but if Travis got himself stuck, it would put one more task on Jake’s growing list.
“Did you talk to Sheriff Rick?” Travis asked.
Jake nodded. “He was there when I left Baldwin’s place. They’re investigating, apparently a couple other people have been robbed this week, just over the county line. Baldwin wasn’t supposed to be home, Mom said. It really sucks. I hope he makes it.”
“Me, too,” Travis said. “Thank your mom for the stew she brought over last night. She looked tired. She works too hard.”
Jake didn’t know why the observation bothered him. They were all exhausted this week, but he didn’t think it needed to be said. “She’s good,” he told his uncle. He squatted next to Timber and gently stroked his neck.
“She mentioned you claim you’re not going to college.”
Jake didn’t want this conversation. “Not now,” he said.
“Don’t make the same mistake your dad did.”
“Dad didn’t make a mistake,” Jake said, agitated. “He didn’t have any regrets.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I do, because he told me. Why are you bringing this up?”
