"You boys have fun." She kisses my cheek, then pecks my dad on the lips. "Bring back my son in one piece."
My eyes protestas the binoculars press into the skin around my eyes. We've been glassing all day, and my limbs are stiff from sitting in one place for so long.
This is day two of the hunt, and I'm not looking forward to repeating all this tomorrow. The entire experience isn't the worst, there are parts of it that are actually enjoyable. I like the smell of the campfire. The quiet, and solitude. I don't mind sleeping in a tent, especially when I can see through the flap at the top and stare at the stars. I wish my dad was more of a talker, but it's not like his tendency to keep his thoughts to himself is a big surprise.
I don't even mind it when—
"There, there," my dad whispers with quiet urgency. He points out in the distance, and I train my binos in that direction.
"Buck, a hundred yards out," he whispers excitedly. "Ten-pointer."
The animal is huge, beautiful, a deep, tawny brown with lighter-colored ears. It nibbles at something on the ground, unsuspecting.
"Get your rifle, Wyatt." His voice is low, his tone holds irritation that I didn't automatically grab for my gun.
I do as he says, setting up the gun and training my scope on the animal, even as my stomach sinks with a lead feeling.
"He's quartering," my dad says, squatting beside me. "Aim for the shoulder you can see."
The shot is lined up. Everything is in place. The cold steel trigger feels more like a flame against the pad of my finger.
My breath sticks in my throat, my heartbeat thunders against my ribs.
"Go on, Son. Now."
This is the moment I show my dad a third son wasn't the worst thing, that I can be worthy too. But the longer I look through that scope, the deer in my sight, the more I know I can't sacrifice its life.
The deer lifts its head, spooked by something unseen to me, and darts up, skirting the hillside and disappearing from view.
"Damn it," my dad shouts, the need to care about noise long gone. "What the hell, Wyatt?"
His hands are in the air, and his eyes hold that old familiar look.Disappointment.
I'm not sure what to say next, but it doesn't matter, because he has plenty to say.
"Wes and Warner both bagged good-sized bucks on this hunt, and neither of them had the opportunity you just choked on."
"I—"
He steps closer, near enough I can smell the burned black coffee he's been sipping on all day. "Don't tell me you didn't have a clear mark. He was close range and you have the best shot of any of your brothers."
I gnash my teeth together, thoughts and words flying through me, turning to grit on my tongue until finally I let them out. "I don't want to shoot an animal."
He laughs, a disbelieving sound. "The cattle rancher's son doesn't want to kill an animal. How ironic."
"At least not that animal," I explain, in an attempt to salvage something out of this. "It was unaware. Eating something. Innocent."
"Is that your criteria? It must be aware of your presence, hungry, and guilty of something?"
My jaw aches from how tightly my muscles clench. "Maybe that last one." It strikes a chord with me, the idea of something bad happening only when you've done something bad. Some might call it karma, but I think of it as some other type of justice. Vigilante, maybe, or outlaw.
My dad stares at me for a long time, and I pretend for a brief second that he is going to drop the macho act and open his arms, tell me he accepts me for who I am, and doesn't need a third son who behaves just like the other two.
My daydream is snatched away when he breaks the silence by asking, "Do you know what you just gave up?"
I look into his eyes that match mine, a face that I will likely resemble more and more as I age, and answer, "Yeah. I do."
We walk back to camp. We pack up, disassemble our tent, and make sure all our trash is picked up. Neither of us speak, and we don't say anything the entire two-hour drive home.
