Rusty is our Australian Shepherd. He’s fourteen years old, which is about ninety-eight in dog years. He has hips full of arthritis and eyes clouded by cataracts. He spends most of his days sleeping on the porch rug, dreaming of the days when he could outrun a quarter horse.

But tonight, the rug was empty.

I ran to the pickup, my slippers soaking through instantly. The thermometer on the porch read twelve degrees. A man in flannel pajamas wouldn’t last an hour out here.

As I drove down the gravel driveway, the headlights cutting through the sleet, I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I thought about the man Travis used to be.

We met at a county fair. He was wearing a Stetson he couldn’t afford and I was eating cotton candy I didn’t want. He was the strongest man I’d ever seen. He could lift a transmission by himself. He could calm a spooked stallion with a whisper.
He was the protector. The provider. The rock.