Chapter Twenty-Eight
Friday Evening
Travis was drunk. Not so drunk that he couldn’t function, but he was ready to call it a night—even though it was only five thirty.
The rain had lessened a bit, but it was still coming down and the wind was picking up.
He checked on Timber, who wagged his tail when he saw him. He cooked up a couple hamburger patties—one for him, and one each that he broke up and added to the dog dishes over their kibble. Timber limped over to eat, a good sign.
On his bun, Travis put a couple pieces of cheese, a thick onion slice, and his grandma’s barbecue sauce.
He drank water and popped four aspirin while he ate his burger and thought about what Clive told him earlier.
Something was going on with Verdacorp. There was no logical reason that Mitchell would trade eight hundred prime acres of Baldwin’s former land for the two-hundred-acre square that was better for grazing than growing.
Maybe he should have sobered up earlier, so he could think about the why.
And what about Monday morning was important? Why did Ellen have to sign before then?
If it wasn’t raining, he’d drive over there and look around.
He almost laughed. He’d grown up on this land. He knew this land. Until he was eighteen and enlisted in the Army, he had left Cooke County only to play football at neighboring schools. His parents weren’t big on vacations or time off—they lived and breathed farming.
There was nothing about that area that should appeal to Mitchell Robinson, except for the fact that it connected Robinson’s property to Coulter’s.
He rinsed his plate and stacked it in the drying rack. He took the dogs out to do their business, watching carefully that they didn’t wander. Timber returned first, and Travis dried him off with a towel and opened the door to let him inside. He then waited for Titan, but he was nowhere in sight.
“Titan!” he called. “Come!”
He counted to twenty; the dog didn’t come.
“Titan!”
The German shepherd responded with a bark from the far side of the house.
Dammit, he didn’t want to get wet. “Titan!” he ordered in his most commanding training voice.
Titan barked twice.
Resigned that his dog had something to show him—probably a dead animal—Travis shrugged on his rain parka, put up the hood, and walked down the stairs with his cane.
He hated using his cane, but the mud was slick and he needed the support.
His fake leg was fine for walking around the house or going to the grocery store, but uneven terrain was problematic.
Though it wasn’t yet six, the low, dark clouds made it look almost like night. The outdoor lights illuminated Titan, who stood fully alert at the door of his sub-basement.
Was it flooded? He had a pump down there because keeping it dry was always a problem. The doors weren’t locked, and they didn’t even close fully, but because of the awning his grandpa had built over the stairs, it usually didn’t get too much water.
He heard a hiss and thought snake, but he rarely saw snakes on the property.
Please don’t be a skunk.
Titan had been sprayed once as a puppy and it was days before he smelled more like dog than skunk.
He couldn’t see what captured Titan’s attention. “Come on, I’m getting wet.” He started back around the house; Titan didn’t follow. Instead, he barked again.
Travis went back inside, grabbed his flashlight and a crate. If it was a wild animal, he would trap it and take it out of the area tomorrow. If he tried to shoo it away, Titan would chase it.
Titan was a good dog and mostly well-trained, but he still loved chasing rabbits, foxes, and any critter smaller than him. He didn’t kill them, but Travis certainly didn’t want to chase his dog in this storm.
He went back outside. Now Titan was lying in the mud, head up, tongue out, tail wagging. He looked like he wanted to play.
Travis shined the light down the stairs.
Two eyes glowed back at him. At first he thought fox, but as he moved the light, he realized it was a black-and-white cat.
A cat trying to bring kittens up the stairs because the bottom landing was flooded.
Three kittens were on the third stair from the bottom and the cat had a fourth kitten in her mouth. She dropped it with the other kittens and went back down. She pulled another kitten from the water and went up three steps.
He didn’t know if that kitten was alive. But she didn’t go back down, instead watched him while she sat with the kittens.
She was wet, and likely cold and hungry.
He couldn’t leave her out here.
“Stay,” he told Titan firmly. He hoped he didn’t regret this. These stairs were slick stone even when it wasn’t raining.
He sat on the top stair and went down on his butt, bringing the crate with him. He was dizzy and his stomach lurched. The whiskey, the hamburger, the rain, sliding down these stairs on his ass. But he did it. One, two … seven stairs. The kittens were on the ninth stair down.
The cat hissed at him, but didn’t attack.
“You’re Cleo, I’ll bet,” Travis said. “There’s a little boy who is going to be very happy to see you.”
He reached down and picked up the first kitten. Cleo swiped at him and drew blood.
“Hey, I’m trying to save you and your brood,” he said. He got the other kittens and put them in the box. He thought they were all alive, but he couldn’t be positive. They weren’t more than a day or two old, their eyes still closed.
He tried to reach for Cleo, but she ran back down the stairs.
He brought the crate back up. Getting up was a lot harder than getting down.
He put the crate on the ground under the awning, but the cats were wet and getting wetter. Titan immediately came over to inspect them, sniffing, tongue out, and Travis thought there was a smile on his dopey face.
“You’re a strange dog,” he said affectionately.
He looked back down the stairs. “Cleo, get up here,” he called.
The cat just stared at him.
Well, shit.
Muttering and swearing to himself, he went back down the stairs, sliding halfway down when his fake leg went out from under him. He winced when he hit his knee hard on the stone.
“Damn cat. Come on, meet me halfway.”
She just stared at him.
Grumbling, thinking he should have just left the cat to fend for herself, he lunged forward and grabbed her, pulling her tight against him.
She struggled, but he had a good grip. She was skinny and frantic, but she was also a mom cat and he hoped she didn’t bolt and leave her kittens.
If she did, they would almost certainly die tonight because he couldn’t make it to the feedstore to get kitten formula for them until tomorrow.
He had to practically crawl up the stairs, the angry cat under one arm, balancing with his other arm and good leg.
He collapsed at the top and the cat fought him, hissed, but he held on.
He took off his rain slicker while still holding her and quickly shoved her in the crate with her kittens, keeping the jacket over the opening.
She hissed, jumped, tried to get out, but he held it firm.
Travis used Titan’s strong back to help him get up, then the dog trotted next to him as Travis limped back to the house. His fake leg was crooked and he hoped he hadn’t bent the metal attachments. He could probably fix it himself, but if it was broken, he’d have to go to the VA and get a new one.
It took him a good ten minutes to get around to the front of the house, up the stairs, and inside.
He put the crate down and closed the door so the cat couldn’t escape.
He took the rain slicker off the top of the box.
Cleo hissed, but didn’t jump out of the box.
Maybe she was hissing at Titan, who looked in as if he had found his new best friend.
Travis sat in the entry and caught his breath. Damn, he was out of shape. Too much alcohol and not enough exercise.
A few minutes later, he used the wall to help pull himself to standing. He took the crate to the kitchen, opened the pantry, and put it on the floor. The cat would feel safer, he thought, in a small, confined space.
He went to the linen closet and got a towel and an old wool blanket.
He brought them back and made a bed for her under the shelf.
He then filled a bowl with fresh water, and another bowl with tuna, since he didn’t have cat food.
He put them next to the new bed and then closed the pantry door.
He wasn’t worried about the dogs—they wouldn’t chase the cat—but he wanted the cat to feel secure.
He picked up his whiskey bottle and poured the rest into a glass. Brought it to his lips, then stopped.
What the hell was he doing?
He had been near exhausted just getting the cat into the house, and he hadn’t walked that far. He had to make some decisions. And the first decision was to get his fucking life together.
He poured the whiskey down the drain.
Instead of drinking, he took off his crooked leg, took a shower, and laid down in bed. He picked up the phone and called over to Ellen, to tell her he’d found Bobby’s cat.
There was no answer.
He’d try again in a bit.
Travis put his leg back on. Yeah, the metal was bent, but not too badly, and he forced it back into place. It now made a noise when he walked. He’d have to go in and get it fixed, but at least he could get around.
He went to the kitchen, dumped all his alcohol down the drain.
If he hadn’t been drunk, he probably wouldn’t have slipped down the stairs.
Or he might have thought of a better way to get that cat and her kittens into the house.
Then he cracked open the kitchen window to let in some fresh air—outside it was humid and thick, but it was better than the stale whiskey and sweat that filled the space.
He cleaned. Not just the kitchen, but the living room, too, and then he changed his sheets as well.
He doubted he’d changed them in a month.
An hour later, after he started a load of laundry, he opened the pantry door and peered inside.
Cleo was in the bed he had made her, four kittens nursing. He looked in the crate. One left. Travis touched it. It was stiff. He hadn’t made it.
“Good job, Mama. You’re a fighter.” He picked up the crate. “I’ll take care of this little guy for you. It wasn’t your fault.”
He left and closed the door behind him.