Page 3 of Property of Mongrel

I was thirteen years old.

CHAPTER

ONE

Mongrel (present day)

I’m taking advantage of the beautiful day, as well as the fact that I haven’t had my surgery yet and am riding my bike to my doom. Okay, it’s not exactly my doom. However, when Doc told me I’d be laid up anywhere from eight to twelve weeks, after my pending surgery to repair my shoulder from when I was pushed off the road? Yeah, I didn’t take it all that well. Not that I showed how I felt in front of Doc, but later that day, when I was by myself, I let out all my frustration.

How can I help protect the ol’ ladies if I’m somewhat handicapped? While I’m grateful that it’s not my dominant hand and arm so I can still carry and use my gun, it’s beyond distressing to me.

I was older than the average prospect when I came to the Triple R, but I spent several years working the ranch and learning how to care for the livestock. Hell, Luis even taught me how to rope steers and while I no longer travel on the rodeo circuit, when we host one at our ranch, I compete. I plan to check with Luis to see how that’ll impact me being able to ride because both arms are needed; one to control the horse, and the other to guide the lasso.

I finally pull into Dr. Albertson’s office. The surgery center is not too far away, but today is about doing a physical on me, getting all the pre-op bloodwork drawn, and scheduling the actual surgery. Shutting off my bike, I pocket my keys, remove my helmet and hang it on the handlebars. Once off the bike, I take a few minutes to shake the injured arm, so it comes back to life, so to speak.

I get into the office and sign in, then pay my copay before I find a seat, plant my ass in it, then start scrolling my phone. When Issy found out I enjoy reading, she downloaded an app on my phone and had me sign up for a subscription service so I can read as many books in a month as I want, for under thirteen dollars. Most of them are indie authors, but I’ve found a few authors who write in the genres I prefer to read who aren’t on the subscription service, and I just buy those ebooks outright.

No romance books for me. I’m already longing for someone to call my own, I sure as hell don’t want to read about it, that’s for damn sure.

A nurse opens the door to the back and calls out, “Mr. Shepherd?”

“Coming,” I reply as I stand and head in her direction.

“First, we’re going to get your weight,” she says once I’ve reached her side. “Then, I’ll get a current MRI before we have the lab draw some blood. We want to make sure you’re hale and hearty before you go under the knife, after all.”

Great… doctor humor. Or, maybe I should say, nurse humor. Regardless, I follow her to each room, allowing the various tests to be performed until I’m finally put in an exam room to wait on Dr. Albertson. Nerd, our tech guy, did a deep dive on him to make sure I am getting the best possible care. After all of his research, I’m confident that the man I’m about to meet will get me fixed up and back to normal as quickly as possible.

My mind wanders to my younger siblings. I wonder where they are and think about asking Nerd if he can help me find them. The girls might not remember me, but I know Jonah will. While my club brothers have given me the home I desperately needed after losing my whole world, I have a huge hole in my heart that can only be filled by my brother and three sisters.

“Where are y’all?” I whisper in the quiet room. I’ve already checked out all the posters and bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing when I saw the shoulder one, complete with a ‘normal’ shoulder and one that had a torn rotator cuff, which is what I have, according to Doc.

There’s a quick knock on the door then a man strides in, a manila folder in his hand. He sets it on the counter, washes his hands then turns to me and says, “I’m Dr. Mark Albertson. I understand you’re one of Dr. Brooks’ brothers.”

“One of his club brothers,” I clarify.

“He’s something else, getting that clinic started. He always hated red tape, so I’m glad to see he found a work around. Too many people slip through the cracks, but with his clinic, he’s filling those places in. Now, I see you laid your bike down a month or so ago.”

“Yeah, give or take. Time seems to move differently when you’re a biker,” I reply, grinning.

He chuckles as he opens the file and quickly scans the test results. “Well, there hasn’t been much change from the MRI he did. Hopefully, I’ll be able to perform what we call the keyhole procedure.”

“What’s that?” I ask, my curiosity roused.

“We go in laparoscopically in three different places, here, here, and here,” he says, pointing them out on the diagram that’s on the wall. “We’re able to make the repairs with minimal invasion to the surrounding muscles and tendons that way. You still have to do physical therapy, of course, but the recovery time is a lot easier from what my patients have told me.”

“What happens if that won’t work?” I query.

“If we can’t perform the surgery that way, we’ll actually cut you from here to here,” he replies, again using the diagram. “Then, we’ll make the repairs and sew you back up.”

“Sounds like a blast,” I drily remark, earning myself another chuckle. “So, the pain I’m experiencing now will eventually go away?”

“Tell me about this pain,” he instructs.

“When I wake up, it aches, but the longer I use it, the worse it gets. When I’m riding, my arm goes numb from my shoulder down to my hand, but I also have muscle spasms that shoot across my shoulder blades. Won’t lie, it’s sent me to my knees a few times.”

“What do you do when that happens?” he asks.

“If I’m riding, I don’t have a choice but to continue until I can get back home,” I admit. “Then, I usually take some over-the-counter pain meds, grab the heating pad and chill out until it stops.”