Titus: Book Two of the Cantrell Brothers Series

Chapter Eleven

“Damn it,” Titus cursed, looking down at his forearm's shredded skin.

He glared down at the culprit, willing the inanimate barbed wire to magically repair his now bloody arm. Nothing happened. Sighing, Titus packed up his toolbox, placed decking boards over the barbed wire, and walked back to his Canadian pacer. Mounting Bullet, he ignored the sharp pain in his back and focused on just getting to the ranch without bleeding all over the horse.

The six inch gash proved the task to be more than difficult. Even with his forearm slightly elevated above his heart, the red shock of blood still had large rivulets dripping down his elbow and then onto his bare stomach. Bullet's steady, even pace made it worse, each step causing blood to spatter in unpredictable directions.

Only a few acres away, the ranch house was right in sight, promising of thick Ace wrap that would staunch the steady flow and give a short relief to this almost unbearable day. Wind, hot and harsh, whipped against his face, the sun overhead scalding any and every part of visible skin. It was just one of those days – the ones in which Titus would tell himself that he would do the bare minimum but actually wouldn't, his father's ever present voice rebuking his laziness.

“Fences can always be improved. Stalls can never be too clean. Horses can always be watered. The garden could always use weeding. Machinery can always be checked and double-checked,” his father used to tell him everyday of his life.

He was always there. A steadying hand on Titus's back, his dad was always there, instructing him on what was best for the Circle T and the rest of its property. Just like back then, it still didn't matter that the temperature was over one hundred, for there was always work to be done until suppertime. Always work. No time for anything but the ranch, homework, and football.

“How's that shoulder doin'?” his father had asked him one day during dinner.

After rolling the tender region, he had just shrugged and tried not to wince at the string of pain that shot up and down his right shoulder. A heavy yet surprisingly fast lineman had tackled him head-on at the Eagles' last game. He could still remember the impact of the hit and watching his helmet fly into the air as he was plowed into the ground.

“Doin' fine,” he had finally managed to reply after noticing that his father was looking at him, pride and expectation in that steely gaze.

“Good. We'll go to the field later tonight.”

Titus had cringed, looking over to see Thrane open his mouth and snap it shut quickly. The fifteen-year-old had always wanted to tag along, but Dad had never let him. His father had always claimed that Thrane was too young and too inexperienced to ever be as effective as Titus was, and for that, Titus sometimes hated himself for being that one child.

Because he was. Titus was the one kid in the family who got a say in everything anybody did. It didn't matter that what he had said had sometimes been selfish or completely idiotic, for his parents had looked to him as if he was some prodigy. His brothers, on the other end of the spectrum, weren't exactly shunned but weren't favored either.

They had gotten more free time than he had as a child, but they were also neglected for it. Titus could still remember Tobias asking their mother for help on homework, and she had told him to go Taivon, Tawson already occupying her. Although he and the rest of his brothers loved their parents to death for all of their hard work, Titus knew better than to blindly put his trust in anybody but himself.

He had learned from experience that nobody was more reliable than his own self, the countless hours he had put into his body, assignments, and work having proved that to him awhile ago. People came to him with their problems, always asking him for answers that he did in fact have. He always had the answers. That was just how it was, he had figured out awhile ago. He had never had to ask for help and still didn't need to.