He went inside to call the Mendozas.
Travis checked on Timber, then poured himself another whiskey, brought it outside, and sat heavily in the padded rocking chair on his porch. Titan followed him, laid at his feet, watching him. Concerned.
“I’m okay,” he lied as he scratched the dog between his ears.
Dogs loved unconditionally. Feed them, speak kindly, shelter them, and they were loyal for life. He didn’t need people when he had a dog.
He stared out at the muddy yard. The field of wildflowers that started to pop out again after the hailstorm was drenched, flowers of every hue pressed into the ground, choked and dying. The rain was destructive, coming straight down, the gray clouds dark, fierce, angry. It wasn’t cold, he could sit here all day and night if he wanted, just watching the storm move in and move out.
He’d done it before.
He sipped his whiskey, reached down to itch the leg that was no longer there, and swore. Drank more, because being drunk was the only thing that erased the phantom itch.
He knew it could have been worse. He knew he could have been dead. Or lost his entire leg instead of just the half below the knee. Or both legs, like a buddy of his who’d stepped on a land mine and was unlucky enough to have survived.
That’s what Travis thought, but Chris was a better man. Chris had no legs, but moved around better than Travis. Last year, a couple months before John died, Travis had gone down to Houston to spend the weekend with Chris and his family. Chris, whose wife didn’t leave him like Travis’s had; Chris, who had two kids before losing his legs and three more since; Chris, who had to be in pain 24/7 but didn’t drink or complain. Chris had gone to college and now taught U.S. history in high school and said he had never been happier. He laughed as he wheeled around in his “sports chair” as he called it. His upper body strength enabled him to navigate short distances on crutches.
Chris was a good man who had been given a bum rap and hadn’t let it stop him.
Travis scowled. Damn fucking pity party. Chris would be so disappointed in him if he saw him now.
John would also be disappointed. Would be? He had been, and then he was dead, and Travis couldn’t prove anything to his perfect brother. John would never know if he turned his life around.
So why even try? Why did he even care?
Because Jake looks at you not with pity, but with disgust.
His nephew hid it well, but Travis saw the truth in his dark eyes that were so much like his brother’s. He was a drunk, and Jake knew he wouldn’t change.
He didn’twantto change. He just wanted to be left alone with his dog until he died.
Travis drained his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the handmade wood table. His grandpa had made this before Travis had been born. Cut, sanded, built, all from wood in the yard and his own hands.
Usually, Travis could hear any approaching vehicle before he saw it, but the storm was loud, masking the engine of the Ford truck. So, when he saw it turn the bend he stared as if he was hallucinating. Until he recognized Clive Robinson.
Titan’s head came up as Travis tensed. The dog watched, ears alert, looking as if he might attack. Travis had never trained Titan to be an attack dog, but he was a German shepherd, and they were naturally protective. Travis had trained him to be a service dog, to help him if he fell, to bring him his pain meds when he couldn’t walk. To remind him to eat when he rarely felt hungry.
Travis didn’t move. He watched as Clive pulled the truck almost up to the porch. The house itself was on a small knoll, mostly safe from the flooding in the fields. His grandparents had lived here for nearly twenty years, after Milton and Penny had given the big house to John and Ellen when they got married.
Travis had moved in when Penny lost her driver’s license and moved in with John. He hadn’t wanted to, but John convinced him. And maybe, Travis realized, he would have died in that pitiful apartment in Dallas. At least here, he could die in a slice of paradise, on the land he grew up on and still loved.
Clive was drenched as soon as he stepped from his truck. He frowned as he trekked up the stairs to where Travis sat. Titan watched him, unmoving. Clive smiled at the dog. The dog didn’t smile back. Neither did Travis.
“You’d better go home before you won’t be able to make it home,” Travis said. “Because you’re sure as hell not staying here, and Ellen will kick you out faster than boots hit the saloon floor on payday.”
“I dropped off a contract for Ellen to look at, but she needs to sign this weekend. We need it Sunday night so we can file first thing Monday morning.”
“Ellen isn’t selling to you or anyone,” Travis said.
He had pushed Ellen to sell right-of-way to Verdacorp because it would have given her the money she needed to keep the farm. But she didn’t want to, and she had good reasons—well, some good reasons, and some reasons that were just stubborn. But he respected his sister-in-law, and if she didn’t want to sell, he would back her play.
“We need the two hundred acres between the Coulters’ house and our property line.”
Travis frowned, thought. “That square that abuts Privett Road?”
“Yes.”
“That’s part of our primary grazing land. Why do you want it?”
