Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“Hi,” she said, a bit of a smile teasing her full lips as she let her gaze stray from him to his son. “How’re you, Eli? Taking care of that arm?” She had to have passed the vet on her way out, had to have seen his wounded dog, and her concerned face spoke volumes.

“Sarge is hurt!” Eli blurted, his small face pulled into a knot of worry, just the way it had been since the dog had stumbled into the house, one leg bleeding and slashed to the bone.

“I, uh, saw,” she said softly, “but he’s with Dr. Eagle, and she’s a pretty darned good vet.” She knelt down next to Eli but glanced up at Trace. “What happened?”

“Don’t really know. Looks like Sarge was on the losing end of a fight with God knows what. Maybe a bear or raccoon, even a cougar, I suppose. He was with me when I did the afternoon chores and then went nosing around like he always does. I called for him and waited, went back to the house to relieve the woman who looks after Eli here, and just as I started out to look for him, he came dragging back.” His jaw tightened as he remembered first seeing Sarge limping and bleeding on the snow-packed trail to the back door. He felt like hell for the dog and worse yet for his kid, who was blinking against a tide of unshed tears. Like he was grown up or something. It killed Trace. More than a little. “We called the vet.”

“ ’Cuz he’s hurt real bad.” Eli’s face was red; his lower lip quivering. “He can’t die!”

“Let’s not go there,” Trace said gently.

“Miss Wallis died!”

“I know.” Boy, did he know. It had been one helluva devastating week for all of them.

“But Sarge is a fighter.”

“Dr. Eagle will do her best to fix him up,” Kacey concurred.

“He won’t die, will he?”

She squeezed his good hand. “I don’t know. We have to just wait and see.” Glancing up at Trace, she said, “Why don’t I take Eli over to Dino’s and get him a pizza or something? Then, when you’re done here, you could come over.”

Since Dino’s Italian Pizzeria was just across the street, the doctor’s idea made sense, he supposed. Until they knew the extent of Sarge’s injuries, there was just no reason for Eli to wait and worry. And if it came down to actually having to euthanize the dog, Trace wanted to handle it his own way. Better for Eli not to witness that decision. “I guess that would be okay,” he said, knowing that Eli liked the woman doctor. “What do you think?” he asked his son.

Eli looked up at Kacey, and she took his small hand in her own. “How about we pick out our ice cream even before we order the pizza?”

“Can we eat it first?” Eli asked.

“Well. .” She looked at Trace.

“Knock yourself out. I’ll be right there,” Trace answered, and they headed out the door together.

A blast of wintry air swept into the room, and the tiny bell over the doorjamb jingled, announcing their departure.

Through the front windows Trace watched as Kacey bustled his son across the street. She glanced up and down the snowy street, then over her shoulder, her forehead wrinkling with concern.

About the nearly nonexistent traffic?

Or was there something more in her quick scan of the area?

Don’t borrow trouble. She’s just being cautious, for crying out loud.

What was important was the way she guided his boy gently onto the sidewalk. For a second Trace’s stupid heart twisted as he realized his son’s own mother had never seemed so concerned about Eli’s welfare.

Then again, Leanna hadn’t been a prize as far as mothers went.

Funny, he thought as he watched Kacey open the door to the restaurant, whose modern style was at odds with the overall Western theme of the town. The pizzeria’s storefront was all windows, now decorated for the season with painted snowmen and snowwomen skating, hoisting pizzas on their shoulders across a sea of glass. It was eerie how much Kacey reminded him of Leanna. An odd, almost sinister sensation slithered down his spine and burrowed coldly in his gut at the comparison. Hadn’t there been that same thought with Jocelyn Wallis?

Weird, he told himself, bugged at the turn of his own thoughts as the door to the back room opened and Jordan Eagle, her expression grave, returned to the reception area.

“It’s bad,” he said before she could open her mouth and say one word about Sarge’s condition.

“Well, at least not good.”

“Are we gonna lose him?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure about his leg. The tendons and muscles are pretty mangled.” Her dark, honest gaze held his as she explained that she wanted to do surgery, to mend as much as she could.

“Do what you can,” Trace said. He’d grown up on a farm, seen animals suffer, others die, knew his old man had “put down” more than his share on his own, with his rifle or pistol, depending. Death was just a part of life. Trace accepted it. But he was thankful Sarge was going to pull through. He didn’t want Eli to face losing the dog. Not yet. Not when he’d already been abandoned by his mother and just learned about his teacher’s death.

“Do what you can,” he repeated to the veterinarian.

“It could get expensive.”

His jaw tightened. “Just keep me posted.”

“I will.”

“Thanks.” He squared his hat on his head and made his way out the door.

In his mind’s eye he saw the dog, wrapped in a blanket, usually bright eyes dulled with pain as he lay beneath Eli’s short legs on the floor of the pickup. Damn, he hoped the mutt pulled through. Hands buried in his pockets, Trace jaywalked across the street, then peered through the glass doors of the pizzeria, where a Friday night crowd of patrons sat on benches surrounding long tables littered with half-eaten pizza pies and near-empty pitchers of beer.

Kacey had lifted Eli off his feet so that he could get a better view of the ice cream in the display case. Nearby a couple of grade-school girls in skinny jeans and oversized sweatshirts were discussing the options.

He pushed the door open, and the niggling sensation that something wasn’t quite right followed after him into the noisy restaurant. The air was thick with conversation and the scents of oregano and tomato sauce, warm bread and beer. A bevy of teenagers cleaned tables and waited at the counter, where a man in his seventies, sporting a thick gray mustache, striped shirt, and black pants, barked orders, manned the kegs and wine bottles, and kept an eagle eye on the cash register all at the same time.

As if by a sixth sense, Eli heard the door open. His head jerked up, and he twisted around, spying his father. Sliding out of Kacey’s arms, the boy hit the floor running. “Is Sarge okay?” he asked anxiously, his small face tight with concern.

“So far, so good, but he needs surgery.” Trace swung his son into his arms. “Dr. Eagle is doing her best.”

“You left him.” Tears puddled in his son’s accusing eyes. Embarrassed, Eli tried to swipe them away with the fingers poking out of his blue cast.

“Just for the night. The doc said she’d give us a call tomorrow.”

“But he’ll be okay?”

“As far as I know.”

“Can I see him?” Eli asked as a heavyset girl behind the pickup area spoke into a microphone. Her voice rang through the barnlike building. “Forty-seven. Brown party. Forty-seven.”

“Can I see Sarge?” Eli repeated.

“Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see.”

Eli wanted to argue; Trace saw it in his boy’s eyes, so he tried to derail the endless questions. “What do you say we get dinner?”

“She said I could have ice cream!” Eli swung his casted arm toward Kacey.

“That’s right,” she answered smartly. “And I think you wanted Christmas Cookie Swirl, right?”