A dog barked in the distance. That must be Roscoe. He’d been little more than a puppy when Colt had left, and he’d been furious—once again—that his dad had spent several hundred dollars on a hunting dog rather than fixing the leaking roof on the single wide. “He can help us catch dinner,” his father had proclaimed proudly.
Colt hadn’t understood it then. Hell, he didn’t understand it now. No one in his family seemed to take responsibility for their poor living situation. The money for the dog could have bought T-shirts for his little brothers. But they weren’t mad, either. They’d been thrilled that they had a dog. And that was just one memory out of dozens.
His father had made a living when he was younger selling scrap metal and fixing junkers, or if they couldn’t be fixed, tearing out the useful parts and selling them. People had always dropped their broken shit at Henry’s trailer, and eventually it’d be cobbled and used up and taken away. But it looked as if Henry had let things pile up. Colt was revolted. He pushed to the front steps and noticed several bags of trash sitting next to the stoop. Fucking disgusting.
He banged on the door.
No answer.
Colt knocked again, harder. He could hear the radio on. He glanced back at the road—his dad’s junker truck was there, so he had to be home. He banged on the door one more time, and the dog began to bark loudly.
Colt sighed and pushed at the door knob. It wasn’t locked. He took a step in, then squatted as Roscoe came up to him, dancing with excitement. The dog’s muzzle was gray with age, and he looked a little worn out. Had it really been so long? Roscoe barked a warning, then licked Colt’s outstretched hand.
He smiled, petting the dog on the head. He’d hated the animal when he’d left, resenting the meals and clothing Roscoe had represented. Stupid to hate a dog.
“You need to answer your door, Dad,” Colt warned, then stood. The interior of the small single wide was a mess, too. Ramen noodle cups littered the counter, along with empty beer cans. The fridge was yellow with age, and the lone chair that sat in the living room was covered in masking tape on one corner, the upholstery destroyed.
Colt felt a twinge of guilt. Had his father been living in this heap with no help because Marlin was out driving his truck?
“Dad?”
No response. He thought he heard a thump in the back bedroom, but hell, that could have been trash falling over. Still, he took a step forward and frowned when the entire kitchen seemed to creak under his foot. Damn. The trailer was falling apart. He took another step forward, toward the door shut at the end of the single wide, where the lone bedroom was. He and his brothers had piled into that one room while his dad had slept on the couch. Colt glanced back at the living room. Back when he’d had a couch, anyway. “Dad?”
“Colt?” The sound was wheezing, faint, and made Colt’s heart clench in fear. He pushed forward, wincing when he stepped on a rotten patch and his foot nearly sank through the floor of the trailer. He pushed open the thin door and stared at the mess. The small room had a bed pushed to the corner. His dad was on the floor, covered in blood and bruises. His long, white hair lay stringy across his face, and several days’ growth of beard covered his worn face.
“Colt?” His dad struggled to get up. “I—I’m stuck.”
Underneath him, the floor of the trailer had collapsed in one section, rotted away. His dad had fallen through, his leg trapped somewhere under the trailer. His father winced, in obvious pain, and there was blood on the floor next to him.
Colt moved in carefully, his heart pounding. He knelt beside his dad, gripped his hand. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said softly, guilt and fear crashing over him. “We’re going to get you out of here and take care of you, okay?”
And he pulled out his cell phone and called 911.
The next few hours were a nightmare for Colt. The emergency vehicle couldn’t get close enough to the trailer, so Colt and a few of the paramedics had to haul his father out of the trailer and carry him across the junk-strewn field. From there, he’d followed the ambulance to the closest hospital, thirty miles away. His dad had been taken to emergency, leaving Colt in the waiting room, sick at heart. Berry was working a double shift and would be by when he was done, and Marlin was currently en route to Vegas, and wouldn’t be back for days. Browning was on the rig and couldn’t be contacted.
That left Colt.
Colt, who was racked with guilt. He’d deliberately ignored his father’s requests to see him. He’d been furious at the old man, holding grudges for his upbringing. It had taken a pissing match with Allan to get him to go see his father. What if it had been a few more days?
His father could have starved to death, a prisoner in his own damn trash heap of a trailer.
Colt didn’t like to think about that. He didn’t know what to do, either. He’d called Beth Ann and she’d promised to be on her way as soon as she finished with her customer.
They’d wheeled his dad into a room a bit later. He’d simply been dehydrated from being stuck in the floor. His leg was bruised and the enormous scrapes covering his leg infected, but they’d given him antibiotics and set him up on IV fluids. He could go home in the morning, the nurse had assured him, and then they’d discussed payment. His father had no insurance, naturally. Colt gave them his address to send the bill.
The nurse had pulled him aside and talked to him for a bit longer, concerned about his father. He showed poor nutrition for a man his age, and was suffering from several vitamin deficiencies. She asked what he’d been eating—Colt couldn’t tell her. She also cited concerns about his living conditions, and again, Colt had no answers.
All he knew was that he couldn’t let his dad go back to the trailer. It was not fit to live in, and if he went back, Colt’d just be fishing him out of it within weeks. He couldn’t let the thing fall down around the old man’s ears. They discussed options—the nursing consultant suggested a home, but Colt shook his head. His dad was stubborn. He’d never stay in a home.
It had been one of the longest hours of his life—the nurse grilling him about his father’s care, and Colt having no answers. He felt…ashamed.
Like a bad son.
When he returned to his father’s room, Beth Ann was already there. She sat next to his father’s bed, filing his nails with a pink buffing file. She chatted gaily as Henry looked on with a baffled smile. She’d cut the old man’s hair, too, Colt noticed, and the gray locks had been carefully smoothed down over his head.