Chapter Sixteen #2
“Oh, and I talked to Millie a bit ago. She and George decided to visit their youngest daughter down in Frisco for the weekend and hoped you or Mateo could feed and water their bulls and chickens tomorrow and Sunday. Said they’d be home early afternoon.”
“That’s kind of last minute,” Jake said. He’d watched the Coulters’ animals many times, but they always gave him plenty of notice when they needed him.
“My guess is they don’t like the look of the storm and wanted to get out before the roads were cut off.”
Mateo said, “I can go over there after I fix the Pritchards’ generator.”
“No need until the morning,” Penny said. “Millie said the animals were taken care of for the day.”
Jake said, “If you can do it in the morning on your way here? I don’t know what the fields are going to be like, whether I’ll be able to take a horse or an ATV over there.”
Mateo nodded. “Will do. I’m going to grab some food and head out, then.” He went into the house.
Jake was relieved he didn’t have to leave the house. He was worried about the break-in at Baldwin’s place, and that the thieves may come here. They didn’t have anything of value, but maybe the thieves didn’t know that. He was the man of the house, and he took that responsibility to heart.
Not to mention that the barn had been sabotaged and they had their own animals and land to care for.
“Lyla, take an ATV and check the level of Whisper Creek,” Jake said.
“I’ll call over to the Mendozas and find out when Bobby left.
I may have to drive over there and get him.
” If Bobby got the ATV stuck again, Jake would take away his privileges.
He’d spent more time fixing the ATVs after Bobby rode them than anyone else, and only two weeks ago he’d driven one into a ditch and Jake had to hook up his winch to get it out.
There was a deep dent in the front bumper.
“Will do,” Lyla said, sounding more excited than she should.
“Don’t take any risks,” Jake warned her. “But if the creek is past the third mark on the pole, the low pasture will flood.” He didn’t have to tell her that it would only get worse because the rain showed no sign of letting up.
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’t want to change. He just wanted to be left alone with his dog until he died.