by Brandon Witt
He cut her off. “No, Mom. Things are fine. The people are really nice.” He never could lie well, especially to her. He’d learned long ago, if he was going to successfully lie to Anne Ryan, he needed to weave in some threads of truth. “I’m just stressed is all. I had to call Animal Protection this morning to report one of the farmers.”
She hesitated momentarily, possibly waiting for him to crack. “Is it going to cause an issue? Are you worried about him trying to get back at you?”
He hadn’t even thought about that, though how he’d missed that possibility he wasn’t sure. Maybe that was why he’d taken over a day to make a report, subconsciously feeling a threat. “No, nothing like that. I’m sure there won’t be any fallout. I just… I just didn’t want to get down here and stir up trouble.”
“Well, I’m sure you did the right thing, Wesley. You wouldn’t have taken such measures if you hadn’t felt it right. That’s what it takes to own a business. Do what has to be done. Period.”
How many times throughout his life had he heard that sentiment in one form or another? Over a forty-year career, and still going strong as the head art director for Hallmark, Anne often spoke of simply doing what you had to do, what was right and what was honest, regardless of how unpleasant it might feel. Firing someone, layoffs, and “going another direction” were all ways of doing what had to be done.
“I know, Mom. The guy’s cattle were in horrible shape. It’s just not pleasant to have to make that kind of report.”
Another hesitation.
Oh, crap.
“Your father and I were talking. We were thinking, now that you’ve decided to get your head back into the game, that we’d like to invest in a veterinary clinic here in K.C. Somewhere near the Plaza or close to work. Nothing lavish, but something nice, tasteful.”
Charles, Wesley’s father, was also a big name within the Hallmark Company. Money to invest in a new clinic wouldn’t be an issue. Money was never an issue. Wesley could imagine what his parents’ view of “not lavish” would consist of. “No, Mom. Thank you. Tell Dad thanks too. I just need to do this on my own.”
“Well, dear, if you tried to work things out with Todd, you wouldn’t have to do it alone. Maybe—”
Irritation flared in his voice. “For the last time, Mom. He left me. For some twink. He. Left. Me.”
“No need to get snippy, dear. I was merely suggesting—”
“I’m not moving back home. I need to be here in El Do right now.” He drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. “For now, at least.” Crap! He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
His mother’s voice sounded hopeful again. “Well, if it’s just for now, I’m sure we can manage. Your nieces and nephew miss you, you know.”
Wesley glanced at the framed photo that sat under the desk lamp. It was all of them. The whole Ryan clan. Charles and Anne and their three sons. Both of his brothers’ wives and all of their combined offspring. Four girls and one boy, ranging from three to fifteen.
“I miss them too, Mom.” He really did. “They can come down some weekend to visit. Well, maybe not Marley, she’s too young.”
His mother let out a laugh. “Can you really see Jack in El Dorado Springs? He spends more time shopping in the malls than you did at that age! He’d be miserable.”
Guilt sliced through him as he looked at the kids’ faces. He’d done a pretty pathetic job of being an uncle during the past couple of years. “Well, mention it to them. I’d love to have them. I’m sure we’d find something fun to do.”
Anne paused once more, concern in her voice more than prying. “Are you sure you’re okay, darling? You already sound… different.”
THE GINGER bear galloped beside a pond, his reflection a red blur. Behind him bounded an orange dog—short legs, long hair, flapping ears. Something seemed to be chasing the dog… or maybe the bear. He could almost make it out. It was still too far away. Something pink. Maybe yellow. Something that… sparkled?
A loud buzzing cut through the chill in the air.
The reflection of the scurrying trio distorted in the water’s surface.
Another annoying buzz.
Wesley groaned and stretched out a hand, partly tangled in the sheets, and slapped at the air.
More buzzing.
More groaning.
Sitting up, Wesley leaned toward the nightstand and finally smacked the offensive alarm clock.
Another buzz.
His eyes narrowed, and he glared at the clock’s red numbers. 4:30 a.m. That made no sense at all. He smacked it again.
Still more buzzing.
Oh for crying out loud. Moron. Twisting, he thrust his legs out from the covers, pushed himself off the bed, and stood on the cold floor. Rubbing his eyes, he padded over to the bathroom, where his phone was plugged into an outlet by the sink and vibrating over the tiled countertop.
If his mother had talked his dad into calling in an attempt to convince him to move back to Kansas City….
Without looking at the ID, Wesley swiped his thumb across the screen and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hell—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello?”
“Where is Dr. Fisher? I’ve tried her home phone a billion times already.”
Why did his dad want to know where Cheryl Fisher was? And why was he so angry about it? “Uhm, what?”
“Where the fuck is Dr. Fisher? She’s not answering her phone, and her message said to call this number if there was an emergency.” There was something familiar about the voice.
Emergency? Oh, right! “Sorry, just trying to wake up. Dr. Fisher went out of town for the week. This is Dr. Ryan. Is there anything I can do for you? What’s the emergency?”
“I know who this is. Why do you think I kept calling Dr. Fisher? You’re the one who didn’t fix the problem to begin with. You said it wasn’t cancer.”
The puzzle pieces fell into place, the click of their joining loud enough to finally wake him up. Red Bear. Right. “Is Dunkyn’s face swollen again?”
“Yes, I woke up—” The growl went from accusatory to suspicious. “How did you know that?”
Wesley returned to his bedroom and retrieved his pants from the floor. Despite the anger in the other man’s tone, talking to Travis Bennett when he didn’t have clothes on was exactly the type of thing his imagination didn’t need. “Mr. Bennett, remember that I was worried the swelling might return if the infection was greater than we hoped.”
The fury from the other end of the line sent a chill down Wesley’s spine. “You said it wasn’t cancer.”
Hot or not, the guy had an unhealthy obsession with cancer. “Mr. Bennett, Dunkyn doesn’t have cancer. It’s just the infection from the abscess. The antibiotics simply didn’t take care of it, and he needs surgery. The procedure is routine and common for dogs.”
There was a pregnant pause, and then the voice returned, fear replacing the anger. “Surgery.”
It was strange to hear the desperation in the man’s voice. He didn’t look like he would be afraid of anything. “Yes. I tried to mention it the other day. It’s simple. I’d just start with a couple of X-rays to determine which tooth has damage, and the surgery would remove that tooth and clean the infected area. It wouldn’t—”
“No. Surgery.” Back to the anger.
One of his first clients, or the owner of one of his first clients during his internship, was an elderly woman who’d lost her husband. Her little dog had seemed nearly as old as the woman herself. She never stopped crying from the time she brought in the tangle of white fur to the time Wesley returned the dog to her. The surgery had been a success, although the dog died of other age complications less than two months later. The old woman’s pain had been nearly enough to cause Wesley to rethink all his years of preparation and applications to get into the program. As impossible as it seemed, he heard the same note of terror in Travis’s voice as he had in the old, frail woman.
Wesley lowered his voice, doing his
best to be soothing without sounding patronizing. “Mr. Bennett. Travis. You seem like a man who likes to be told the way things are, a straight shooter.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “This surgery is simple and routine, as I’ve already told you. However, without this surgery, Dunkyn will die. The infection will become too great. Maybe another round or two of antibiotics would hold it off for a bit, but it wouldn’t solve the problem.”
No sound came from the other end of the line.
Wesley waited a full twenty seconds. “Mr. Bennett?”
“Fine.” The word was barely more than a croak.
Wesley sighed in relief. “Dunkyn will be all right, Mr. Bennett. I give you my word. Just bring him by the clinic later this morning, maybe around—”
“No. Now. If Dunkyn needs surgery, then he will get it now.” The anger was back, but the fear was still audible underneath.
The image of the old woman rose in Wesley’s mind, cutting off his objection, erasing the need for more sleep. The dog might not need the surgery this very hour, but the human did. “I’m just going to hop into the shower to make sure I’m fully awake, and I’ll meet you there. Half an hour at the most.”
The pause led Wesley to believe the man was going to argue about the shower. “Fine. We’ll be there.”
WESLEY WAS fairly certain he saw Mr. Bennett scowl at his yellow Miata when he drove up. Maybe it was just the sweep of headlights hurting his eyes in the still-dark morning. Maybe, but he doubted it.
The man had beaten him to the clinic and stood by the front door, holding the squirming Dunkyn. He followed Wesley in, making impatient sounds every time they paused to turn on a light, power up the computer, or flick all the switches on all the different machines and tools that would be needed. Still, they were only noises. Just irritated vocalizations.
Wesley tried to concentrate on that. On the scowl. On the dislike radiating from the man. He was only partially successful. Travis Bennett had apparently been asleep not too much before he’d called Wesley. Baggy sweatpants were stuffed into worn-out cowboy boots—sweatpants that were well-used and clung to places that kept beckoning to the vet. A dirty tank top highlighted the massive cords of muscles that wound up forearms, heavy biceps, triceps, shoulders, and spread under a bulging, furry red chest. Even the way the thin material hugged the hard small belly was tantalizing. Although a few inches shorter than himself, the bear of a man, holding the large ball of fur, was a compact mass of testosterone. Wesley had to make a concerted effort to keep from getting close enough to attempt to smell Travis. Literally.
Despite his inability to corral the lustful thoughts, and Travis’s endless string of irritated noises, everything was going relatively smoothly, right up until the moment Wesley put the surgery release form on the counter for Travis Bennett to sign. Even as he rushed through the explanation of the risks, he knew the explosion would come. Knew the precise moment when it would arrive. He almost skipped over the form entirely in order to avoid it.
Travis Bennett’s large white teeth seemed to gnash through the man’s sneer and did little to lessen his likeness to a bear. “That’s exactly why I said no to this fucking thing! You said there was no risk. That it’s a common procedure. That it’s simple. Now you want me to sign saying I acknowledge that I’ve been informed of the risk of death? That the surgery might fucking kill my dog?” The growling Wesley thought he’d heard on the phone was nothing. This was growling. Low, quiet, and filled with venom. More terrifying than if the man had been screaming. “No surgery. I’ll wait till Dr. Fisher gets back.” Travis turned away from the counter and started walking toward the door. “I want a real vet working on my dog. Not some fucking faggot.”
Twice. Twice in less than three days. That word! This time it didn’t fill him with terror like it had dripping from John Wallace’s lips. This was different, but it made him mad just the same.
“Mr. Bennett!” Wesley raised his voice but managed to keep it from sounding like he was yelling. Though it wasn’t filled with the same rage he’d heard during the thunderstorm, he couldn’t help but wonder where this new person had risen from within him.
At his name, Travis wheeled around, ready to battle, but paused when he saw the vet’s expression.
Wesley walked from behind the counter and stepped up to Travis. Even though he stood taller, even with this new anger or whatever it was, it didn’t keep him from feeling like he was walking up to a grizzly. “Most importantly, Dunkyn needs this surgery. There is risk with any surgery, and I’m sure you know that. You’ve probably signed that form any time you’ve had a minor procedure. Your dog needs this. Is there risk? Yes. Will he die? No. I won’t let him. I’m a good vet, and outside of some bizarre fluke, there is no risk, despite what that form says.”
Travis started to open his mouth.
“I’m not done.” Wesley was pretty sure he stamped his foot. God, I hope I didn’t stamp my foot. “Regardless of the stress you are under because you love your dog, never call me that word again. Never.” Wesley thought he was done, but that new voice just kept going. “I would suggest you never use that word again, period. However, that is your choice, ignorant though it may be. Either way, never use it in my presence.” He felt like there needed to be a threat, an “or else.” It didn’t come.
Travis simply stared at him, blue eyes wide and pupils contracting. At last he nodded.
Although the man didn’t say anything, Wesley could have sworn a swarm of emotions flowed behind Travis Bennett’s eyes. He was fairly certain one of them was shame. He also thought he saw desire.
That one he knew was his own imagining.
“I want to stay in there with him during the surgery.”
Wesley started to say no.
“Please. I won’t get in your way. I just need to be with him.”
There were no tears in the man’s eyes, but Wesley heard them in his voice—heard the fear, heard the hurt. Suddenly he understood, as if someone had whispered it in his ear. Travis Bennett loved Dunkyn, there was no doubt, but his fear was only partially for his dog. The pain was about something more. Something much more. So had been his anger.
Chapter Seven
“It’s just a precaution, Mr. Bennett. I’ll have the best anesthesiologist with me. He’ll be there with Shannon the entire time, monitoring her vitals, making sure everything is perfect. He won’t leave her until she wakes up. Like I’ve told you both, the hysterectomy is a massive surgery, but routine. I could do it in my sleep.” The surgeon’s lips curved into a self-satisfied smile. He actually smiled.
Travis stuffed his fists deep into his pockets to keep from slugging him. He looked at Shannon, doing his best to keep his anger at the doctor hidden from her. He wasn’t sure why he even tried. She wouldn’t have to see his face to know he was furious. Likewise, in spite of her raised chin and clear, dry eyes, he could tell she was terrified. Suddenly all anger toward the doctor swirled around and engulfed him. Shannon was more afraid than he’d ever seen her. His wife’s life was in danger, and here he stood, nothing more than some hick, trying to understand the implications of choriocarcinoma, chemotherapy, hysterectomies. Trying to comprehend why this cancer was deadlier if it occurred after a child’s birth.
After the twins’ births.
He couldn’t understand. He’d been trying for weeks. Months. He couldn’t understand. Couldn’t do a thing. His wife sat beside him, holding his hand, refusing to cry, refusing to let her fear show. He couldn’t do a fucking thing.
He looked back at the surgeon, glaring once more, though the doctor was too caught up in his own glory to notice.
“Then why do we need to sign any forms saying we acknowledge that one of the risks of anesthesia is d—” Shannon’s hand clinched in Travis’s grip, cutting off the word. He doubted she even realized she’d reacted.
The smile never wavered. “Just procedure. Nothing more than hospital and legal protocol. Trust me. Shannon will pull through without a glitch. She will wake up from this su
rgery and be cancer-free. Even the chemo will be just that—protocol, a safeguard.” His narrow eyes brightened, focusing on Shannon. “And, there’ll be little scarring with all the technical advances. You’ll be back in a bikini in no time, Ms. Bennett.”
Travis’s fists nearly tunneled through the pockets of his jeans.
The doctor had been true to his word. Anesthesia hadn’t killed Shannon.
TRAVIS STROKED Dunkyn’s muzzle, his large hand moving tenderly. He’d tried to leave the dog alone, but he had to keep touching him, assuring himself the dog was really there, that he’d made it through the procedure. It wasn’t bothering Dunkyn anyway; he kept right on snoring.
Travis pulled the covers tighter around Dunkyn. Without shifting his weight too much, trying not to shake the bed, he scooped up another pillow and stuffed it under his head, allowing himself to curve his body around his dog.
All in all, Travis thought he’d done pretty well. During Dunkyn’s surgery, he’d kept one hand clinched in his pocket, the other resting over Dunkyn’s hip. He would have placed a decent-sized bet that the veterinarian had no idea how many times he’d almost gotten punched in the face.
There hadn’t been much blood. Dr. Ryan had removed two teeth. Both were damaged, but the molar had been the main cause of the infection. Even the root had been cracked right down the middle. Travis was willing to bet it had been one of the times Dolan had smacked right into Dunkyn’s face. Jason was right. That fucking dog was getting dumber each and every day. If he didn’t mean as much to Caleb as Dunkyn meant to him, Travis was certain there would be one less corgi in the world that night.
Truth be told, Dunkyn was doing better than Travis was. Other than being tired and slower than normal, the dog didn’t seem any the worse for wear. The vet had even said Dunkyn could return to his normal routine in a day or so, as long as he stayed away from chasing the buffalo for a few weeks.
