Chapter Seven
Uncle Travis was waiting on the small porch for Jake when he drove up on the ATV, Timber strapped to the attached trailer.
It had taken far longer than it should have to reach Travis’s house because Jake didn’t dare cross the muddy fields even on the ATV as the uneven terrain could have toppled the sled.
As it was, he had to take it slow along the road because of the extensive damage from last weekend’s storm.
Titan, Timber’s brother, bounded down the stairs to greet Jake. He immediately went to the sled and sniffed Timber, then whimpered and paced.
Travis limped down the worn stairs. He looked angry and said, “What the hell happened, Jake?”
“I told you. Someone robbed Baldwin, shot Timber. I don’t know much more than that.”
“Is Baldwin okay?”
Jake shrugged and shook his head at the same time. “It doesn’t look good, but he was alive when they put him on the medical chopper.”
Travis shook his head as he approached the sled.
He grunted as he squatted next to the dog.
Timber looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.
Travis petted his head while looking at his bloody hind leg.
“We’ll get you fixed up, boy,” Travis said, his voice cracking.
“I’ll help you get him inside, put him on the dining-room table. I already prepped the space.”
“Uncle Travis,” Jake said when his uncle unbuckled the straps. “I’ll do it.”
“I’m not a fucking invalid,” Travis muttered.
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 extra dog 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?”
“Because your mom wants you to go to college.”
Jake got up. “I have work to do,” he said. “If you need anything, call us.”
“I can take care of myself,” Travis muttered.
Jake left, walked over to the ATV, and looked back at his uncle’s house.
He knew about Travis’s struggles and frustrations, mostly because his dad had talked to him about them …
and Jake had overheard conversations between his mom and dad over the years.
He wished he could stay, because Travis acted like he wanted company, but he wasn’t going to talk to Travis about college or his dad.
Jake was eighteen. He was graduating from high school next month.
He knew what he wanted, and that was to save Whisper Creek.
He wished he could explain that to Travis—and especially wished his mom would understand. He didn’t like the tension that was between them, and he really hated that she had brought up the subject to his uncle.
Travis wasn’t his father. He never would be.
Jake rode off a bit too fast on the ATV, swerved in the mud, then straightened and headed home.
Through the front window, Travis watched Jake leave, then drained the last of his whiskey and slammed the glass onto the table, the echo sharp in the empty room. Titan looked at him as if he could read his mind, and Travis reached out for him. “Good boy, lay down with your brother.”
Travis motioned to the dog bed, and Titan hesitated, then sat next to the sleeping Timber, but kept his eyes on Travis.
Outside, the fading rumble of the ATV told him his nephew was finally gone. Good. He loved the kid, sure—but that smug, self-righteous tone? Too much like John.
And the self-sacrifice. Giving up his future for the past.
Like John.
John, the golden brother. The one everyone listened to. The one who never raised his voice but still made you feel small just by offering “helpful advice.” Go to community college. Study a trade. Move to town. Find something new.
Travis didn’t want something new. He wanted before. Before the war. Before he lost half his leg. Before his nights ended with too much whiskey and nightmares that woke him in a sweat.
He shut his eyes, breathing through the sudden spike of rage.
Damn, he missed his brother. Righteous or not, John was a good man who had raised a good family. He stared at the half-empty whiskey bottle across the room.
Stop it, he told himself. No more. What if Ellen needed his help?
Right, him. A broken man with a bum leg who drank too much because there was nothing else he could do.
Travis looked at Timber, an innocent dog who had been shot. He forced himself to be calm. The dog would get agitated, and Timber needed to rest and heal.
Dogs were pure souls who just wanted to be with their owners. A little praise and kindness, and they were loyal for life.
He sat down, leaned back, closed his eyes. His thoughts turned to Greg Baldwin. Who’d rob the guy? Why? Because people thought he was rich with the big, fancy house? Sure, he had money, but he put it all into the house and his horses and the stocks he traded. He didn’t collect expensive shit.
Baldwin was a good man, even if he had the wrong idea about farming.
He, John, and Travis had played poker with a couple other fortysomething men now and again.
Not for much money—mostly for bragging rights—but those evenings made Travis feel almost normal again.
Travis had made some money caring for his horses when Baldwin left for weeks at a time.
Even with his messed-up leg, Travis could still ride, exercise the animals, groom and feed them.
Besides, Josh Stuart, Baldwin’s usual caretaker, was next to worthless. More of a drunk than Travis.
Ellen had suggested that Travis should board horses, that he had a knack.
Board horses, train dogs, basically be a glorified pet sitter.
While she was correct that he had a gift with animals, what if he was having a bad day and could barely walk?
The horses couldn’t wait to be fed and watered and exercised.
What happened then? Would he have to call his sister-in-law to help?
Nope, he didn’t want help from anyone. He hated collecting disability, but there wasn’t much he could do and he needed the money. Even though he lived in this house—his grandparents’ old house—for free. Even though his sister-in-law brought him food so he didn’t have to shop or cook. It gutted him.
He wanted to do more, be more.
Stop wallowing in self-pity, get off your ass, and do something.
John had rarely gotten angry with him, but the week before he died, he and Travis had had a huge argument. John was disappointed in him. Travis knew it. But he couldn’t face it.
And then John was dead.
Baldwin.
Jake said he wasn’t even supposed to be in town.
Travis sat up. Was this another one of Verdacorp’s schemes? They were unscrupulous, but he never thought that Mitchell Robinson would try to kill anyone.
And Baldwin had sold out to them, so what was the point?
The Robinsons and the McKennas weren’t exactly the Hatfields and the McCoys, but they had been neighbors with multiple disagreements over generations. John would never have sold to Mitchell, but they hadn’t been enemies. They’d even played football together in high school.
Travis forced himself up, ignoring the constant pain in his leg, and walked to the phone in the kitchen. He dialed Mitchell’s number from memory.
Four rings later, he answered. “Robinson.”
“It’s Travis McKenna.”
“Travis. How are you?”
“Fine,” he said. “Someone shot Greg Baldwin last night. And his dog.”
“I heard.”
“Word gets around fast.”
Travis tipped a little whiskey into a glass and sipped.
“The sheriff called to inform me, worried we might be targeted. I reminded him I have an excellent security system. What can I do for you?”
“He wasn’t supposed to be home,” Travis said. “And you play dirty, Mitchell.”
“Watch your words,” Robinson said coldly.
“He signed over damn near all his land to you.”
“I have no grudge with Baldwin. You know that. And I don’t resort to violence to get what I want. I’ve never had to.”
“Good,” Travis said. He didn’t know why he was getting a bad feeling, but something just didn’t sit right with him.
“How’s Ellen?”
“She’s still not selling.”
“She’s made that clear,” Robinson said. “But things can change.”
He ended the call without a goodbye.
Travis stared at the phone, his blood running cold.
What was Mitchell Robinson up to?
Was his family in danger?
He stared down at his useless leg and swore. Even if they were, he wouldn’t be able to do one damn thing to help them.