Page 21 of Within These County Lines

“Stetson!” she yells. She seems out of breath. I straighten my back as panic rips through my spine. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It’s Bennie . . . He got attacked . . . Oh my gosh.”

“Attacked? How? Is he okay?”

“I think so. But it’s bad. I can’t get him up.” Her voice quivers. “I need your help.”

“Hold on,” I say. “I’m coming over. Where are you?”

“Behind my house. Along the river. Hurry!”

I tear down the winding roads so fast my truck nearly lifts off the ground over the shallow hills. Gravel spits from my tires as I slam to a stop in front of Whitley’s house. I barely kill the engine before I’m out of the driver’s seat, leaving the door wide open as I sprint into the woods.

The sound of rushing water grows louder with every stride.

Then I see her.

She’s kneeling on the riverbank beside a motionless Bennie, her fishing rod and tackle box abandoned in the grass. The golden-hour sun catches her wide, panicked blue eyes—and the deep gash splitting Bennie’s right hind leg. Clumps of dried blood mat his short brown fur into dark, tangled patches.

“What the heck happened?” I ask.

“He got in a fight with a damn coyote,” Whitley says. Tear marks line her cheeks. “I was casting my line and it came out of nowhere. It must’ve been rabid. There’s no reason for it to be out at this time of day. The coyote ran away when I screamed, but it got Bennie . . . It got Bennie.”

“It’s okay, Whitley. I have my truck. We can take him to the animal hospital.” I swallow, looking over Bennie’s leg.

She shakes her head. “The hospital is an hour away and it’ll probably cost a million dollars. I can take care of this at the house. But I need your help lifting him. C’mon.”

I place my hand gently beneath Bennie’s shoulders. Whitley wraps her arms around Bennie’s hips, avoiding his back leg.

“One, two, three,” I count before we hoist Bennie into the air. He lets out a series of high-pitched cries.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Whitley says through gritted teeth. “It’s okay. We got you.”

We crab walk through the woods with beet red faces. My forearms burn. Neither of us asks to take a break. I want to. Badly. Bennie is bleeding out in front of me and all I can think about is Murray’s angry face as he ran away from me at the diner and Xander’s sad eyes as he darted toward me at the pool. The images deflate me, weakening my muscles and dragging my feet like weights on a fishing line. This week is horrible. And it won’t seem to end.

But Bennie holds no responsibility for it, so I keep on moving.

At the house, we lay Bennie on a rusty patio table. I step back, inhaling deeply, trying to steady myself. Whitley is inside for first aid supplies in seconds. I whisper softly into Bennie’s ear, hoping to soothe him, but before my words can even settle, Whitley is back with bandages, scissors, and a bottle of alcohol.

“What can I do?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. Her fingers move with sharp precision, like they do when she plays her clarinet. She wraps Bennie’s leg with such confidence she might as well be a first-chair EMT—if there were such a thing. Helpless, I run a hand over Bennie’s head. His tail flops weakly, a tiny sign of relief.

With a final snip of the scissors, Whitley secures Bennie’s bandage and stops the flow of blood. Then she claps the dust from her hands like she’s applauding a job well done.

I exhale and fall back into one of the patio chairs.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Whitley asks. She stomps across the backyard and disappears into the shed.

I jump up from the chair. “Is there something else?”

She emerges from the shed with a rifle. “Have you ever been coyote hunting?” Her face is expressionless.

I laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” She loads the gun.

“Whitley, there are probably hundreds of coyotes around your house.”