He was still refusing to get onto a stretcher for his own hardheaded reasons, and every time Jeffrey tried to talk to him, Robert just shook his head, as if he could not speak. Jeffrey offered, “I’ll be by the hospital as soon as Hoss gets here.” Robert shook his head for the hundredth time. “No, man. I’m okay. Just make sure Jessie gets to her mama’s.” Jeffrey patted his shoulder. “We’ll talk tomorrow when you’re more up to it.” “I’m okay,” Robert insisted. Even when they loaded him into the back of the ambulance, he only said, “Make sure you look after Jess.” Jeffrey walked back to the house, but he did not go in. Instead, he sat on the front steps, waiting for Hoss to show up. Clayton Hollister was the town’s sheriff—had been as long as Jeffrey could remember—and when he’d called about the shooting, Jeffrey had learned that the old man had literally gone fishing. Hoss was heading back from Lake Martin, which was about half an hour’s drive away.
