Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

I’ve never seen him like this.

I’m shocked and hurt at Unc’s reaction, and Bobby is holding me protectively behind his back like he’s scared Unc is going to charge us. I’m ashamed to admit that I shrink behind Bobby a little, letting him take the brunt of it on his broad shoulders.

“Shit,” Unc hisses, holding his hand up, and blood drips down onto the porch.

“Oh!” I exclaim, my concern for him overriding everything else. I step out from my hiding spot and run up the steps to grab Unc’s hand. He tries to fight me, still mad as a hornet, but I glare at him. “Let me see it.”

With a pissed off sigh, he opens his fist. A gash stretches across his palm from the meat by his thumb toward his ring finger. He immediately closes his hand again, holding it over his head. “Damn screwdriver got me.”

He glares at Bobby as though it’s his fault when none of it is. Bobby is here because I asked him to be, doing work when I told him it would be fine, and Unc is the one who had a tantrum and grabbed the screwdriver.

All business and not allowing for any argument, I push Unc’s shoulders, turning him around. “Inside. Let’s get a towel, then you’re going for stitches.”

He relents on the towel, but when I shove him back toward the door, he refuses and plops himself down in a kitchen chair. “Don’t need no stitches. It’ll scab up in a couple of days.”

“And in the meantime, you’ll be dripping God knows what into the whole town’s beer. Nope. Stitches, bandages, and sterile dressing, or I’ll call Chief Gibson if you even step one cranky foot in the bar. I’ll report you myself for health violations.”

Unc isn’t moving, not swayed by my argument in the slightest. Probably because he counts Chief Gibson as a friend and trusts that he won’t shut him down. Bad thing is, I fear he’s right, which leaves me stuck on how to get Unc to go for the care he needs. Bobby steps up to the plate, backing my play.

“You catch anything this morning?” he asks like they’re just shooting the breeze.

Unc grunts and Bobby snorts. “How many and how big?”

Narrow blue eyes meet dark ones in a battle of wills. I’m honestly not sure which of these men will come out on top. Bobby’s got youth on his side, and size for sure. But Unc has old-fashioned iron will.

“Couple each, not more than a pound or two. Catch-n-releasers.”

Bobby nods. “You scrub up before you took a nap, old man? Not just rinse off at the creek, but wash up good and proper like you’re eating dinner at your mama’s table?”

Unc doesn’t say a word, but he glares at Bobby for a long minute. “Fine. Don’t want no creek funk infection. Probably lose a damn hand and it’d be your fault, Tannen.”

I have no idea what happened, but Unc is walking outside and heading for his truck.

“We’ll take you,” I say, hurrying alongside him.

“The hell you will. I can go get somebody to sew up my hand by myself, just like I could’ve fixed those stairs myself.” The accusation stings, but I have my doubts. If he could’ve, he would’ve already. Right?

“I was trying to help,” I argue. I’ve already figured out that apologizing doesn’t work with Unc.

“Hmph.” With that, he gets in his truck and leaves me and Bobby standing in the front yard.

“What just happened?” I ask, not really expecting Bobby to answer as I nervously nibble at my bottom lip, looking down the road where Unc’s blue truck disappeared around the corner. “I was trying to help,” I say again, quieter this time.

Suddenly, I find myself buried against Bobby’s chest, and tears are running hotly down my face, soaking into his shirt. He rubs my back soothingly. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Hank’s got a streak of pride a mile wide, and we rubbed up against it a little too much. That’s all.”

“You think he’s going to be okay?” This time, I do need him to answer, to reassure me that Unc’s hand is going to get stitched up and he’ll be good as new.

“Of course. Hell, if we hadn’t been here, he probably would’ve super glued it shut and kept on with business. He’s tough like that.”

I’d like to believe that. Except Bobby doesn’t know that there’s more to it. No one does.

Pulling myself together, I swipe at my eyes behind my glasses and snort very ungracefully.

“He’ll be okay, and he’ll get over it. At least until he shows up to work and sees what you did to his office,” he deadpans. “It’s all over then.”

There’s a beat of silence and I realize he’s kidding. Sort of.

“Oh, God, he’s going to kill me!” I wail, but through the last bit of tears, I’m laughing in shock, knowing it’s true. He is going to be so pissed. “How in the hell can he be mad that people want to do nice things for him?”