Merciless

5

It was an indication of how crappy my morning had been that I was actually looking forward to my trip to the dreaded Hellmart-aka Walmart. As usual, the parking lot was jam-packed, and I practically had to park on the moon. But I gave myself props for remembering to remove my gun, since I was always way too temped to use it in the store.

Once inside the building, I cut through the health and beauty aisles to reach the dog food. Might as well stock up. I zipped past the gun department, briefly stopping to price bullets.

I spent so little time in the household-goods section of the store it took me a couple of rows to find it. And holy hell, the color choices for comforters fanned out before me like a rainbow. Couldn’t go wrong with navy blue. I piled a blanket, a comforter, a sheet set, and matching plaid curtains on top of all the other junk.

Seemed Hope was always running out of diapers, so I detoured to the baby section and threw two packs into the cart. I couldn’t resist a new outfit for Poopy, a darling pair of denim overalls with glittery butterflies appliquéd on the butt.

I skipped the food section and wished for the hundredth time Sophie knew how to text so she could send me the weekly grocery list since I was already here.

My cell buzzed while I waited in line. I debated ignoring it, except I wouldn’t want to miss sexting with Dawson because I was avoiding Turnbull. The text wasn’t from either man, but from Hope, asking me to pick up diapers. One step ahead of ya, sis.

Since I had no place to be, I stopped at Wendy’s for lunch. Afterward, on a whim, I pulled into Runnings, a ranch supply store. Seeing the display of hunting gear, I realized I didn’t have the mandatory neon orange article of clothing required for all hunters. It went against everything ingrained in me to wear something so blatantly obvious. I picked the least offensive item I could find: a knit hat. I tossed one in the cart for Dawson, too. Checking the prices of various calibers of bullets, I was surprised they were a buck less a box than at Walmart, so I scooped up a box of.308 for my rifle, a box of.270 for Dawson’s Remington bolt action, a box of.223 for my AR, and a box of.22 for target practice.

Since I’m a sucker for western clothes, I detoured through the women’s clothing department and found two rhinestone shirts a little on the tacky side that I couldn’t live without.

My last stop was the candy aisle. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I’m the only one in my family. Sophie loved old-fashioned horehound candy. Jake had a thing for lemon drops. Dawson could eat black licorice by the truckload, and Hope preferred maple nut goodies. I bought two packages of each and wondered what kind of candy Lex liked.

I flashed back to Levi as a kid and how crazy he’d been for circus peanuts-those disgusting molded blobs of orange fluff. But I hesitated to throw in a package. Sometimes the simplest thing would start Hope on a crying jag. She’d gotten better in the last few months. At least now she and I could talk about Levi without either of us breaking down every time.

I loaded everything into the truck and finally started for home. I’d managed to shove aside the morning’s events during my shopping foray, but as soon as Rapid City reflected in my taillights, those suppressed thoughts surfaced unbidden and unwanted. Dammit. I’d been in such a happy-albeit girly-place with the lunch and the shopping. Needing to stay out of my head, I cranked the country music and belted out tunes about cheating, drinking, and more drinking.

Hope’s car was parked next to Sophie’s. I unloaded everything myself. After I dragged the last bag into the kitchen, I heard Sophie and Hope talking in the office. Or were they arguing?

“She says she’s fine, but I know she ain’t telling me all of what the doctor said.”

Another conversation about the perils of Penny Pretty Horses.

“Well, it’s stupid that she doesn’t let you go to the doctor’s office with her,” Hope retorted. “You never should’ve let her get away with it the first time. Demand to go with her.”

Sophie shook her finger. “Don’t be pretending you know what it’s like to have this kind of confrontation. You always back down from conflict. Always. And you’re tellin’ me to make demands of my daughter… who is dying?” She snorted. “You have no idea-”

“I’ve lost a child, too,” Hope snapped.

This discussion was headed into dangerous territory, so I cut in. “Hey, ladies, what’s going on?”

Hope’s angry gaze flicked to me from behind our father’s desk. “Hey, Mercy. Sophie is leaving early to spend time with Penny.”

Sophie gave Hope her back. Her eyes were hard, and her jaw was tight.

“I know this is hard on you. Is there anything I can do, Sophie?”

A beat passed. She shook her head, but a sly smile appeared. “Just don’t leave no more of your clothes in the kitchen, hey.”

I would not blush.

Sophie patted my arm as she walked past me, and I wanted to hug her. Normally, I squashed such impulses, but today, I gave in to it. Her familiar scent, a scent that hadn’t changed in thirty years-Jovan musk perfume, a faint whiff of cooking grease, laundry soap, and Lemon Pledge-enveloped me, and I sighed. Maybe I’d needed the hug more than she had. “Tell Penny hi from me.”

“Will do.” She stepped back and straightened her coat. “I stripped the bedding in Hope’s old room, so it’s ready for the boy.” Her dark eyes pinned me. “You’d better be washing them sheets before you put ’em on the bed, ’cause who knows what kinda chemicals and junk they got on ’em in China.”

I was happy to see the flash of the old bossy Sophie. “Yes, ma’am.”

After Sophie left, without saying good-bye to Hope, my sister said, “Since Sophie feels entitled to interrupt me whenever the hell she wants because I have nothing important to do”-she sneered the last part-“I have about an hour and a half left of bookwork. Are you gonna be around to listen for Joy?”

And despite the tension in the room, my day just got a whole lot brighter. “Sure. Do your thing.”

I shoved the bedding in the washer. Then I snuck upstairs to peek at my niece, indisputably the cutest baby on the planet. Tempting, to pick her up and snuzzle her chubby cheeks just to hear that darling giggle. But Mama would whup my ass if I woke her. Plus, the kid was so sound asleep, she snored.

I ditched my FBI duds for my favorite pair of Aura jeans and slipped on my new red-and-black thermal “burnout” western shirt dotted with what looked like bloody roses. In the living room, I opened my laptop and logged on.

Feet propped on the coffee table, pen jammed in my mouth, I didn’t move beyond getting up to toss the bedding in the dryer when the cycle beeped. I hadn’t found much information, and I suspected that was because the two local Indian papers had only recently started uploading content to the Internet.

Hope passed by the living room with a blithe, “Joy’s up.”

“What? I’ve been listening, and I haven’t heard her.”

“She turned over in her crib, which is a signal naptime is over.”

Whoa. Hope had heard that all the way in Dad’s office? Talk about batlike senses. I shut down my computer and grabbed the clean bedding. I met Hope halfway up the staircase.

“False alarm. Joy is still sacked out.” She pointed to the bundle in my arms. “Need help?”

“Sure.”

In the bedroom, I stretched the fitted sheet across the top corner of the mattress.

Hope tucked her end of the sheet around the opposite corner on the bottom of the bed. “So… Dawson’s son is coming to stay for a while.”

We each automatically moved to the other end of the bed, the motions familiar from doing this a hundred times. “I guess.”

“Have you ever talked to Lex?”

I shook my head. “Dawson talks to him in the afternoon when Lex gets home from school. It worries him that Lex is a latchkey kid.”

Hope snapped out and smoothed the top sheet. “Will that be different when he’s living here?”

“A lot of that is up in the air until Lex is enrolled in school.”

“Middle school. God, Levi hated middle school. Kids were so mean. It was probably the only time I thought about pulling him out and homeschooling him, but Daddy wouldn’t let me. Said I wasn’t gonna coddle the boy and Levi had to learn to deal with adversity.”

“That sounds like something Dad would say.”

“He also told me that since I’d barely graduated high school, I had no business teaching.”

I hugged the pillow to my chest instead of punching it. “Hope, did Dad say mean shit like that to you all the time?”

She shrugged. “When I look back on it, usually he only said that stuff when I was being a brat about something. It made him crazy because he always wished I’d be more like you. He’d hoped for that up until the day he died.”

My sister knew so many more facets of my father than I did. In the time I’d been home, I’d discovered not all of those facets put Dad in a good light.

We adjusted the comforter and piled on the pillows. I stood on the step stool to take down the sheer baby-blue curtains with layers of ruffles and hung the navy-blue and hunter-green plaid panels.

“It looks great, Mercy. No remnant of me in this room at all.” She smiled wistfully and balled up the curtains. “Levi would’ve loved to have another boy around.”

I experienced that crushing sensation around my heart again. “Think Lex will push boundaries with me because I’m not his mother?”

“Yes. But you’ve got the tough love down pat, sis. Levi called you a ball buster, but he knew you’d give it to him straight. You expected more out of him than I did.”

Joy screeched and added a ma-ma-ma-ma-ma that sent Hope scurrying. When I heard my niece bouncing up and down with happiness at seeing her mama, I smiled. The baby girl’s name was apt; she’d brought such joy into all our lives.

• • •

Dawson and I were up well before the crack of dawn on Saturday, eager as two kids on Christmas morning for our first hunt together.

He hadn’t had a chance to scout the ranch for the best place to find antelope. Although it’d been several years since I’d done any hunting, I figured animal behavior patterns probably hadn’t changed. I’d find antelope in the same place I had two decades ago.

We opted to use the ATVs rather than drive a pickup. Antelope were smaller than deer, and we could each easily strap a carcass onto the back of an ATV and haul it home before the meat spoiled.

By first light, we’d arrived at my suggested starting point and left the machines parked at the bottom of a small hill. At a balmy forty-five degrees, it didn’t feel like November. The wind blew like a bitch, which was actually good-antelope have a finely tuned sense of smell. With the fastest animal land speed in North America, once antelope catch a whiff of human, all you see are those white butts bouncing away.

Antelope prefer wide-open spaces, so I’d chosen a two-mile-long bowl-shaped draw with water at the bottom and great vantage points above. The grass was tall in some places, providing excellent cover and hidden resting points as we zigzagged over the terrain.

I’d slung my H-S Precision.308 takedown rifle over my shoulder. As a kid I’d hated using a shoulder strap. I preferred to carry my gun as I belly crawled. As an adult I wanted both hands free.

Dawson wasn’t one of those never-shut-up types of hunters. The ones who really don’t give a damn if they shoot anything. For them, securing a hunting license, slipping on camo clothes, and toting around a fancy gun were really just excuses to hang out with the guys and drink beer.

I kept my binoculars trained on the area around the water, while he kept scanning the ridges and hidden dips in the vast landscape. There wasn’t a speck of snow on the ground, allowing the antelope to hide in plain sight. The dead grasses with hues ranging from the faded gold of dried corn stalks to the darkness of coffee grounds provided perfect camouflage. The one advantage we had? This time of year the males were slaves to their baser instincts and deep in rut. The bucks were constantly sniffing for females, which meant they were always on the move, looking for more action. And if they couldn’t fuck, then they’d lock horns with other horny males of their species, trying to keep them from fucking.

Dawson tapped my arm and pointed.

I refocused, making minute adjustments for the change in distance and my eyes. About twenty antelope were hunkered down, on the edge of a ridge. But they were a good fifteen hundred yards away.

Over the next ten minutes, we watched the group, comprised of does, probably hiding from the amorous attentions of the bucks. But rest assured, our targets were very close by.

Target. How quickly I slipped back into sniper lingo when I wore camo and held a gun in my hand.

We moved our position closer to the watering hole. Ducking low. Moving slowly. Creeping quietly. My guess was the bucks would wander from their hidey-holes to the water and quench their thirst before seeking out the herd of females. The harem was farther downwind than we were, so chances were good we’d have first crack.

After we settled into our new position, I nudged Mason and whispered, “We didn’t talk about who gets first shot.”

“I’m sure you think you do, Sergeant Major, since you outrank me.”

“Yep.”

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” he hissed. “I should get the first kill since I applied for the hunting licenses.”

“Yeah? You wouldn’t be hunting if not for the fact I own this chunk of land, Sheriff.”

“How do you suggest we decide this problem, now that you’re a crime-solving specialist in the FBI?”

A pause.

We said, “Rock, paper, scissors,” at the same time.

Dawson grinned at me, and I grinned back.

Hands out, fists on palms, we locked gazes, whispered, “One, two, three,” and looked at our hands.

He’d chosen rock.

I’d picked paper.

I won.

I leaned over and pecked his puckish mouth. “Don’t pout. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and I’ll miss.”

He snorted. “Not likely. And that’s the first time I’ve ever had a huntin’ buddy kiss me. It’s kinda weird.”

We returned to our watchful stance.

As much as I loved the pulling-the-trigger part of hunting, I also loved this quiet time. I might’ve felt differently if I was stretched out on frigid snow-covered ground, trying to hide my white puffs of breath as the cold seeped into my bones. But I was content, lying on my belly in the tall grass, scanning the area with my binoculars, grateful my hood blocked the wind from my face.

I never thought I’d miss spending my days and nights in the great outdoors. While lying in the sand or on a rooftop, or standing in the back of an assault vehicle, I had dreamed of a soft mattress. Of crisp sheets that carried a freshly laundered clean scent. Of cool, puffy pillows beneath my weary head. Of one night of uninterrupted slumber. Of early-morning tendrils of light teasing through the window blinds as a gentle wake-up call. Not mortar rounds. Not machine-gun fire.

After all the years I’d spent in the army, my days and nights fighting heat, cold, bugs-intestinal and the creepy-crawly types-insurgents, insomnia, cramped quarters, and no quarters, and the weeks without a shower, I swore I’d never willingly subject myself to such primitive situations ever again. No camping, no hiking, no wilderness treks for me. My new idea of roughing it would be no complimentary breakfast at my vacation hotel.

So why was I stretched out in the dirt, weeds poking me in the face, surrounded by the warning scent of male animal urine?

Because my man had done something special for me, reminding me that I’d missed this. Reminding me this reconnection with nature and where I was raised also defined me.

I hadn’t been to this part of the ranch for years. I suspected the watering hole had dried up during the almost decade-long drought. For a few decades, the Gunderson family had hayed a small section at the bottom, leaving the bales as emergency feed if any of the cattle got stranded during a blizzard. This area didn’t produce enough feed in comparison to other areas with easier access, so it’d been allowed to go fallow.

Fallow was good for wildlife. With access to water, and a stand of scrub oak and pine trees to run and hide in, this was an ideal place for them to gather.

Time passed in a pleasant void. I wasn’t getting antsy as much as worried our entry into the animals’ domain hadn’t been stealthy enough. Were the bucks hunkered down watching us?

I considered asking Mason how long he wanted to wait these animals out, because he had to leave for Denver today, when three big bucks picked their way to the edge of the water.

Hello, boys.

They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. When they were spread out, I whispered, “Mine is the far right.”

“I’ll take the left side.”

Chances were high this would be our only shot today, so we had to make it count. “You sighted in?” I asked Dawson, keeping the antelope in my crosshairs.

“Yep.”

“Count of three.”

“One,” he said.

“Two,” I said.

“Three,” we said together.

Ba-bam. Ba-bam.

Near perfect symmetry.

My buck dropped.

Dawson’s animal struggled and acted confused. By the time it staggered a few steps then lay down, the third buck was long gone.

As soon as Dawson’s buck quit twitching, we grabbed our stuff and hightailed it down the hill.

We stopped first and looked at his buck. Nice clean kill, a few inches behind the front leg, which was a perfect heart/lungs shot. The buck had a decent set of horns. Then we walked to my kill.

Dawson said, “Jesus, Mercy. That’s fuckin’ nasty.”

My shot had been a head shot. The buck’s brain had exploded, horns hanging off what was left of the skull. I found Dawson staring at me strangely. “What?” I asked.

“Why would you shoot…?”

Because I was used to taking head shots.

Other snipers might talk about hitting center mass. But at ranges below two hundred yards, I always aimed for the head.

A habit that was hard to break, apparently. I also had no intention of having a mount made. Another habit I shunned-showing off a kill. Just knowing I’d hit my target satisfied me.

But maybe… I should’ve done it differently. Should I pretend I’d missed the spot I’d aimed for?

“If I’da known you weren’t interested in mounting it, I’d have gotten you a doe tag.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Good thing I brought a hacksaw. No need to drag the head back now,” Dawson said dryly.

“Yeah. Good thing. ’Cause all I brought was a knife.”

Mason stood and smirked at me.

“What?”

“Is that your way of asking me to gut your antelope, little lady?”

“Fuck off.” I unsheathed my knife. “And just for that smart-ass remark, I’ll race you. Let’s see who gets their kill cleaned up fastest.”

“God, I love you.”

I blew him a kiss before my hands were covered with blood.

As soon as he stood above his buck, I said, “Ready?”

“Yep.”

“Go.” I dropped to my knees. I rolled the buck on his back and carefully sliced through the hide and muscle, starting at the sternum and ending at the tail. Then on the second pass, I separated the tough membrane covering the body cavity. Using the tip of the knife, I cut around the anus and the genitals, mindful not to cut into the urinary tract or the poop chute. Then I sliced into the body cavity itself, turning the blade side up as I cut, so the knife didn’t go in too deep and nick the stomach. I scored the breastbone with the blade three times and pushed down, cracking it.

I took a break and glanced over at Dawson, who already had his hand in the cavity and was pulling out the guts.

Son of a bitch.

He flipped his buck over to drain the last of the blood, resting on his haunches.

I half expected him to throw up his hands like a tie-down roper.

Mason ambled over, and I still hadn’t gotten to the gut-removal portion yet.

“Lagging behind, Sergeant Major.”

I grunted, then made the cut across the esophagus that allowed my hand to get inside that still-warm cavity and start yanking out innards.

Point for Dawson that he didn’t offer to help.

Minus two hundred points that he started whistling “No Guts, No Glory” while I was shoulder deep inside my kill.

“It’s too damn warm out to let these hang once we get them back to the ranch,” he said. “We’ll have to get the meat cleaned up and frozen as soon as possible.”

“I’ll bow to your expertise. To be honest, I’ve never butchered my game.”

“Never? Why not?”

I rubbed the end of my nose. “My dad usually struck a deal with someone at Baylor Brothers Meat Processing.” That wasn’t the whole truth. For some reason, it hadn’t bothered my father to watch me kill something, but it’d bothered the heck out of him to watch me butcher it. In fact, counting this antelope, I’d only gutted a kill three times. My father had taken over, gutting the animal himself. Which seemed strange, because Dad never treated me like a girl who might be squeamish. I hadn’t been, but that hadn’t mattered. Every time we’d gone hunting, I made the kill shot; someone else cleaned up the mess.

It struck me, then, how I’d carried that mind-set with me during my sniper years.

Dawson made a disgruntled noise and pulled me back to the present. “It ain’t that hard to butcher. There’s not that much meat on antelope anyway.”

I finally scooped the last of the innards out and rolled my buck to let the blood drain out.

He crouched down and scrutinized my kill. “This is one plump little sucker. He’ll have more meat on him.” Then he said, “Hold still,” and took out a handkerchief. “You’ve got blood on your face.” He dabbed at it. “It’s gone.”

“Thanks.”

“You want that hacksaw now?”

“Yeah.”

Really didn’t take much effort to lob off the head.

We both pushed to our feet, and he handed me another hankie to use on my hands and arms. “Seems crazy that we both got our bucks on the very first shot.”

I shrugged and wiped at the blood. Didn’t seem that odd to me. The one shot, one kill mantra had been drilled into my brain during sniper training.

“Did you bring another gun?” Then he laughed. “Of course you did.”

“You wanna have a little shooting contest? I gotta redeem myself somehow since you whipped my butt in quick field dressing.”

“What’d you bring?”

“H &K P7. Nine mil.”

Dawson shook his head. “I’m not easily intimidated, but Christ, woman, you have a lot of guns.”

“Think of it as the equivalent of other women’s obsession with shoes.”

He laughed again. “Show me.”

I let him go first.

I still won.

By a lot.

Even with my bad eye.

Luckily, my man was a good sport-even if I was a much better shot. We wrapped and strapped up the kills, then started toward the ATVs. Packing out the animal was probably the worst part of hunting. I was surprised birds weren’t already circling above the two piles of guts, waiting for us to leave so they could fight over a quick-and-easy meal. The birds would get the first go, and then the bigger predators would come in and chase them out.

Circle of life and all that shit.

Dawson shouted, “Double time, Sergeant Major, you’re lagging behind.”

• • •

At the ranch, we had to lock up the dogs.

I watched Dawson part out the carcass. He’d rinse and cut and rinse some more. Antelope were hairy creatures, and nothing ruined a piece of meat like a bunch of hair frozen to it. But luckily, antelope hair was very fine, and once it floated to the top of the water, it could easily be skimmed or poured off.

His expertise didn’t surprise me, but his efficiency did. He had both bucks skinned, butchered, cleaned, and parted out in two hours. I helped as much as I could-or as much as he’d let me. I was secretly happy I wouldn’t have to walk past an animal kill for several days waiting for the meat processors.

As soon as he finished, he hit the shower. By the time I cleaned myself up, Mason was packed and anxious to go. It’d take at least seven hours to reach Denver.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” he asked.

“It’s best if you and Lex have time to talk, without his mother or me around.” I kissed his cheek. “Besides, you’ll be back in twenty-four hours. I can find something to occupy myself.”

He kissed me. Hard. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

“Drive safe.”

• • •

“What are your plans tonight now that the sheriff is gone?”

I tore my attention away from a riveting episode of Ice Road Truckers and looked at my sister. “Been a while since I’ve been to Clementine’s. Thought I’d catch up with the crew and the regulars.”

Hope swayed with Joy on her hip, softly biting her lip. I braced myself for the don’t-start-drinking-again plea. But she blurted, “Can I go with you?”

I think my jaw hit the floor. “What?”

“I never get to go out. I’d like to have a conversation with an adult that’s not Jake, Sophie, or you. No offense.”

Had Hope ever been to Clementine’s? The place had a bad reputation-deservedly so. Plus, I considered it my bar. Might be stupid, but I had the urge to protect it even from my sister.

“Of course, me goin’ would boil down to Jake watching Joy for a few hours.” She bit her lip again.

The fact Hope was willing to leave her baby, a baby she rarely let out of her sight, proved to me she needed a break. I smiled at her. “Sure, if you wanna come along, that’d be great. You can keep me from drinking until the wee hours so I’m not hungover when Lex gets here tomorrow.”

“Great. Umm… what should I wear?”

I checked out her outfit, a brightly patterned blue-and-black poet’s shirt paired with black leggings. “You look awesome. I’m not changing. I’m wearing this.”

“Can I borrow some makeup?”

“Knock yourself out. It’s in the top drawer on the right side.”

“Okay. Be right back.” Hope passed me Joy.

“Hey, Poopy.” When I smooched her crown, her little bitty pigtails tickled my nose. She smelled like graham crackers, apple juice, baby powder, and sweet innocence. I’d dealt with my fears-a butt load more than I’d first suspected-and let her become part of my life, which might seem like a no-brainer to most people, but I was at a dark place after I killed Anna. I thought by staying away from Joy, I was actually doing her a favor.

But Hope hadn’t allowed my distance from her child. It amazed me when I uncovered my sister’s pockets of strength.

The barking dogs alerted me to Jake’s presence right before he walked in. Joy squirmed and tried to jump from my arms to get to her father.

Jake only had eyes for her. He plucked her away and blew a raspberry on her neck until she squealed. Only then did he acknowledge me. “Hey, Mercy.”

“Jake. How did things go today?” He’d been dreading moving cattle. I didn’t know enough about what that entailed, except he did it multiple times a year.

“Better than I expected, to be honest. I had good helpers with Luke and TJ and their boys. Where’s Hope?”

“I’m right here.”

We both turned to see Hope leaning against the doorjamb.

“Wow, babe, you look great. Do we got a hot date or something I forgot about?”

She laughed self-consciously. “Mercy’s going to Clementine’s to have a drink, and I asked if I could tag along.” Her eyes anxiously searched his face. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is. You deserve a night out.” He paused and looked from me to Hope and back to me. “Who’s your DD?”

“I plan to have only one drink, Jake. So we should be fine. Besides”-Hope smirked at me-“Mercy don’t want the sheriff to get wind of her arrest while he’s out of town.”

“You’re hilarious, sis.”

“Well, you two have fun. I’ll take lil’ punkin home.” He mock-whispered, “Now that your mama’s outta the picture for the night, I can teach you how to wrassle gators.” Jake shot me a smile before he took off.

Hope insisted on driving. Which meant it took us fifteen minutes longer to get there than if I’d been behind the wheel.

Clementine’s was hopping. Something had put this out-of-the-way, hole-in-the-wall bar on the map in the last year. John-John halfheartedly complained about Clementine’s becoming mainstream, but the steady stream of income softened the blow.

Muskrat was the bouncer. He didn’t give me one of his signature bear hugs, where I felt my spine brush the skin behind my belly button as he squeezed me tight. Maybe his lackluster response was a result of seeing Hope, since, like John-John, he wasn’t fond of Jake. “So what brings the Gunderson girls by tonight?”

Hope tittered. God. I hoped she remembered she was a married woman and didn’t flirt with every guy who paid attention to her, as the old, needy Hope would have. “Just looking to get out of the house for some social time.”

Some of the same regulars filled the bar. Vinnie, the biker, and his posse holding court beneath the TV. Construction workers and cowboys in the back shootin’ pool and shootin’ the shit. Lots of folks in here I didn’t recognize. I weaved through the crowd until Hope and I reached the main bar.

John-John saw us, but he was too busy mixing drinks to do more than nod.

I could tell Hope was trying to play it cool and not gawk at the customers who were blatantly checking her out.

Winona gave me a one-armed hug from behind. “Mercy! Damn, girl, I miss working with you. Why you hauling yourself in this mangy hole? You and the sheriff have words?”

“No, smart-ass. I’m here with my sister and we’re thirsty.”

“I’ll get you two beers since John-John’s glaring at me.” She slid two bottles of Bud Light in front of us.

Hope was stuck sitting next to Lefty. I intended to warn her about the crotchety old rancher. But Lefty, who hated everyone, seemed taken with my little sister.

I sipped my beer and kept playing Name That Regular to amuse myself. I was more happy about who I didn’t see-no Cowboy Trey, no Kit McIntyre, no Tiny, no Laronda. Didn’t appear Saro’s group was around, but that didn’t shock me.

I’d learned through the FBI that Saro was restructuring his organization after his brother Victor’s murder. Shay had hoped the resident rez drug runner would be crippled by the loss, but Saro rallied, although he and his group were staying pretty far off the radar.

John-John stopped in front of me and wiped his brow.

“Looks like business is booming.”

“I’d hate to see what crazies it’d bring out if we actually ran happy-hour specials.” He tossed a handful of nuts into his mouth. His eyes locked onto mine. “Why are you palling around with Hope?”

“Last-minute thing,” I said, and didn’t explain further. “When it dies down, I’d like to pick your brain about a couple of things.”

“Did Unci put you up to grilling me about my mom?”

“No.” Was he touchy and snappish tonight, or was it just me? “She’s worried about Penny.”

“Join the club.” He pulled taps and opened the cooler.

I should’ve waited to get a better bead on his mood, but the question had just popped out. “Has Saro been in lately?”

John-John lifted his head abruptly. The war braid with the red feather tip swung into his face, and he impatiently batted it aside. “Why are you asking me for this information?”

“I’m asking because I’ve had Saro’s blade at my throat, and I’m not eager to repeat the experience.”

He shot me a look that I interpreted as distrustful. Before I could cajole him or try charm, he said, “Why don’t you ask your partner? He’s been in here several times.”

Partner? At first I thought he meant Dawson, but I figured out he meant Shay. “Why has Turnbull been in here?”

“I asked him the same thing. He said he can drink anywhere he wants. Which sucks for me. If I blackball him, he’ll show up with a federal raiding party to see what I’m hiding, even though I ain’t hiding a damn thing.”

Christ. Talk about paranoid. But my defense of my employer and Shay would only piss him off, so I bit my tongue.

“So I serve him. He’s been in here once when Saro showed up. They ignored each other, although the brooding G-man was awful damn interested in Saro’s new recruits.”

“And here I hoped Saro had given up his evil ways after his brother was murdered.” I sipped my beer. “Is Saro recruiting in here?”

“Doubtful. He’s only been in a half-dozen times in the last five months. But he don’t have to do much to recruit anyway. People line up to get in with him, even after all the shit that went down. People you’d never expect.”

That comment caught my notice. “Like who?”

“Like punks with no other job choice. Like idiots who have a falling-out with their family.”

I frowned. He wouldn’t give me names; he expected me to guess. Or he expected me to know. Except I didn’t have insight on the inner workings on the Eagle River rez. I never had. The one person who had that knowledge, Rollie, was currently pissed off at me. Rollie was pissed off at everybody, it seemed. Me. Verline. His son.

Wait a second. My eyes met John-John’s. “Junior Rondeaux?”

He nodded.

“Holy shit.” Jesus, I was an idiot.

It hit me, then, the seriousness of my rookie mistake, keeping the information Mackenzie Red Shirt had given me about Junior Rondeaux to myself. It could have tremendous impact on this case, since Junior had ties to that murderous bastard Saro, and to Arlette. Turnbull would have every right to dress me down when I finally came clean with him.

John-John leaned closer. “Why’s this so surprising to you?”

“Because I tried to track Junior down yesterday.”

“Why?”

“Some of that pesky fed stuff you don’t wanna know about and I can’t tell you about anyway.”

He shrugged. “Well, you ain’t gonna find him in here because he’s banned.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“What did he do to get blackballed?”

“He’s a Rondeaux.”

“That’s it?”

John-John glanced away and then refocused on me with eyes as hard as concrete. “I know you’re friends with Rollie. But he ain’t no friend of mine or my family. I’d lose customers if him or any of his spawn stepped foot in here. So they ain’t welcome. Ever.”

“Rollie knows this?”

“Yep.”

“But… you let him in when Geneva’s group talked me into running for sheriff.”

“They didn’t give me a choice.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this Rondeaux clan ban when I worked for you?”

John-John ignored me and walked to the end of the bar.

Goddammit. I hated not knowing shit like this, even when I told everyone to leave me out of their family dramas. For years Rollie had made barbs about John-John’s psychic abilities. And about Sophie being uppity. I don’t know why I hadn’t drawn the parallels that there was bad blood between him and the whole Red Leaf family. I’d always chalked it up to Rollie being an ass.

I spun my bar stool toward Hope.

“What’s wrong?”

“Do you know why the Red Leaf family and the Rondeaux family are enemies?”

She picked at her thumbnail before she met my gaze. “No. And that’s not me protecting Jake. He won’t talk about it, Sophie won’t talk about it. But it seems to be more a problem between the Pretty Horses and the Rondeaux. The Red Leaf kids and grandkids got caught in the middle.”

Sophie had two kids-Penny and Devlin-with her first husband, Von Pretty Horses. After he died, she remarried Barclay Red Leaf, and they had three sons: Del, Jake’s dad; Terry, Luke and TJ’s dad; and Ray, who’d fathered a half-dozen kids before he’d passed on, leaving the small Red Leaf Ranch, adjacent to our ranch, to Terry. I’d never met Del or Ray. They’d both died by the time Sophie came to work for us.

“Even now that I’m married to a Red Leaf, they won’t discuss family matters if I’m around,” Hope said.

“But you’re family to them. Hell, I’m practically family to them.”

Hope shook her head. “Not in their minds.”

Maybe it was beer causing the sudden ache in my belly. “Is that because so many of them have worked for us for so long?”

“That’s part of it. Sophie is different to me when we go over to her house. She… snaps a lot. Not at me. Then she and her grandkids start speaking Lakota, and I can’t understand. It makes me uncomfortable.”

That piqued my anger, but I also realized Hope might be a wee bit paranoid. “Do they treat Joy like an outsider, too?”

“No.” Hope reached for her beer and sipped. “Still, because of… that and some other stuff, Jake’s even suggested to Sophie that she retire from workin’ for us.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard Sophie’s response to that. Do you think-”

Out of the blue we heard, “Hope Gunderson? Is that you?”

Hope faced the woman bellied up to the bar next to her where Lefty had been sitting. “Betsy? Omigod! What are you doing here?”

A lot of squealing and hugging, and then my sister disappeared into the back room with her old high school friend.

And once again, I was drinking alone.

After five minutes, the rush of people up to the bar sent me outside for fresh air. In hindsight I should’ve snuck out the back door. My one complaint about Clementine’s has always been the lack of lighting in the parking area. It’s a bitch even for people who don’t have my night vision problems.

I jammed my hands in my pockets and glanced up at the sky. No stars. No moonlight peeked through the thick cloud cover. I half expected to feel snowflakes hitting my face, the temperature had dropped so drastically since this morning.

I paced, mind racing, and I’ll admit none of my thoughts were very flattering to the Red Leaf, Pretty Horses, or Rondeaux families. But I wasn’t so deep in thought that I wasn’t aware someone moved between the parked vehicles off to my left.

Of all the times not to be carrying. I called out, “I know you’re there.”

No response.

“I’m not in the mood to play hide-and-seek.”

No response.

Screw this. I started to back up, slowly, facing forward, hoping like hell I didn’t stumble into a hole and fall on my ass before I reached the bar door.

A shadow solidified into a man. He moved toward me, both his hands up in the air, his head covered by a hood so I couldn’t see his face.

“Stop right there. Keep your hands where they are and identify yourself.”

He stopped. “It’s Junior.”

“Junior… as in Junior Rondeaux?”

“Uh-huh. I heard you was lookin’ for me yesterday.”

“How’d you know I was here?”

“I got my ways.”

Somebody was spying for Saro at Clementine’s. “So Junior, you were just waiting out here in the cold hoping I’d come out alone so you could jump me.”

“I wasn’t gonna jump you. Doncha think I learned that shit don’t fly with you last time? When you held a fuckin’ gun to my head.”

“You armed?”

“Nope. Left it in the car.”

“You alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Drop the hood. I feel like I’m talking to Kenny from South Park.”

He used one hand to slide the hood back.

I took two steps closer. I’d seen Junior Rondeaux one time. During our lone meeting I’d used my gun barrel to shove his face into the dirt so I really didn’t remember what he looked like. Junior didn’t strike me as handsome. He looked nothing like Rollie. He resembled any number of the young Indian men on the reservation; pockmarked skin, prominent nose and cheekbones. His unkempt black hair hung past his shoulders. He topped my height by four inches, but with his baggy clothes I couldn’t tell if his build was lanky, muscular, or flabby.

“Who told you I was looking for you? Mackenzie? Or Verline?”

“Verline. But I’m sure Mac was talkin’ smack about me.”

“Why would you say that?”

Junior scowled. “She’s a drama queen. She lives for that shit.”

“Is that why she introduced you to Arlette Shooting Star?”

“Yeah. Mac’s the type of girl who racks up and trades favors. I owed her one. So when she asked me to meet this high school girl, I said no. At first.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Mac told me Arlette was the tribal president’s niece. I knew it’d piss my old man off when he got wind of it, because he hates Latimer Elk Thunder. And I thought, What the hell, right? It was only one time.”

“Did you meet with Arlette more than once?”

He nodded. “I was supposed to flirt with her, get her to like me, then Mac was gonna tell her a bunch of that catty, mean-girl bullshit to make her cry. I didn’t want no part of that.”

“So what happened?”

Junior blew out a short burst of air. “I realized that Mac is a bitch. She zeroes in on another girl’s weakness and goes for the throat. After I met Arlette, I told Mac to back off and leave me ’n’ Arlette alone, which is probably why Arlette thought we had a thing goin’ on. We didn’t. I hung out with her. We were friends.”

“Why? I mean, it started out as a prank. And you’re what? At least five years older than her? What was Arlette’s appeal?”

“Gimme a break. I wasn’t banging her or nothin’. Arlette knew a lot of history and Indian legends. The cool stuff that we didn’t learn in school. I didn’t tell no one about it, ’cause none of my friends would believe I cared about that kinda junk. Our meetings were on the down low, know what I mean? Her uncle woulda freaked if he heard we were hanging out.”

“Like your dad freaked when he found out?”

“Yeah. Like, I thought the old man was gonna have a stroke.”

Rollie. That lyin’ SOB. I don’t know what the hell kind of game he was playing with me. It was almost as if he wanted me to consider his son a suspect. “When was the last time you saw Arlette?”

“A little over a week ago. She told me she thought we were soul mates or some stupid thing like that. But we were friends,” he reiterated. “That’s it.”

“Did your friendship with Arlette contribute to your dad booting you out of his house?”

Junior muttered about Verline having a big mouth. “That had nothin’ to do with it.”

Since this wasn’t an official FBI interview, I could be more blunt in directing the conversation. “Why did Rollie kick you out, Junior?”

His attempt at a withering stare was almost laughable. But after a minute of silence, I knew I had to play my card first.

“Lemme guess when this all went down. When Rollie found out you were working for Saro?”

“Who says I am working for him?”

“Are you?”

Junior shifted his stance, making his answer obvious.

“Come on, Junior. Don’t try to bullshit me now. How long have you been Saro’s”-lackey-“associate?”

“Two months. And my old man can’t blame me for doin’ exactly what he told me to do: get a job. He’d been a real dickhead about it, too, but he wouldn’t hire me to work for him, even when I’m his kid.”

Unemployment on the Eagle River Reservation was around 70 percent, so jobs were damn scarce. I realized the appeal for young guys like Junior, working for Saro. It gave them something to do, money in their pocket, and a place to belong.

Too bad Saro was a crazy murderous bastard who used and discarded these young men just because he could.

“Do you wanna know what he did? He pointed a gun in my face and told me to get out of his house and his life and never come around again. Verline tried… to stand up for me. But Rollie told her if she sided with me, he’d kick her ass out, too. She don’t have anyplace else to go.” He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Sometimes I fucking hate him.”

I waited until he’d calmed himself. “I appreciate you tracking me down and explaining your side of the situation. But you will need to come in and repeat this on record.”

He took a step back. “No way. You think I did it. That I killed Arlette. You get me there as a trick, and then you’ll throw my red ass in jail.”

“Which is why you need to tell my colleagues exactly what you told me. It’d be best if you came in on your own instead of us trying to track you down.”

“I can’t. Don’t you understand? If Saro catches me showing up to talk to the FBI, he’ll never trust me again.”

“Hate to break it to you, but Saro doesn’t trust you now.”

“So you say,” he spat. “Typical bullshit FBI move. Man. I thought I could trust you.”

“Why? Because I’m friends with your dad? Wrong. My priority is to figure out who killed Arlette. And right now you’re pretty high on the suspect list.” I got right in his face. “Prove me wrong, Junior Rondeaux. Show up to talk to us.”

“I can’t.” Then he ducked and disappeared into the darkness before I could grab him.

Shit.

My first lead, and I’d let it slip through my fingers.

I returned inside, my foul mood palpable.

Some bimbo-around my age, wearing an extra hundred pounds and a polyester shirt straight out of the ’70s-had parked her fat ass on my bar stool. Looked like she’d even helped herself to my beer. She yakked at a guy who had the expression of a trapped rabbit.

I tapped her on the shoulder.

“What?” She deigned to half turn my way.

“You’re in my seat.”

“Don’t got your name on it.”

Where was John-John? He’d point out that’d always been my seat at the bar. “I just stepped outside for a minute.”

“Tough shit. You leave, and the space ain’t yours no more.”

I tapped her shoulder again. I’m nothing if not persistent.

“What the hell do you want now?” she snarled.

“To tell you to get your bloated ass off my seat.”

Then she and all her three hundred pounds loomed over me. “Or what?”

“Or”-I grabbed a handful of her oversprayed hair and yanked, turning her sideways so I could chicken wing her arm-“I move you myself.”

“Ow. Stop. You’re hurting me.”

“That’s the point.” I tried to make her body parts touch, jerking her head back and her arm up. “Sit. Somewhere. Else. Understood?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let go of my arm.”

I released her. Stupid mistake on my part. She threw a haymaker that clipped me in the lower jaw. Before she could throw another wild swing, I ducked, backtracked, and swept her feet out from under her.

She bounced on the dirty floor.

I left her there and returned to my seat.

But John-John shook his head, and I followed his gaze to where Muskrat helped the rotund one to her feet.

“That’s it, Mercy, you’re outta here.”

“What? You’re throwing me out? Why?”

“Because it’s not okay for you to just beat the shit out of Clementine’s customers whenever the hell you get an urge.”

“But-”

“No buts. I used to let it slide with you, but no more. You know better than to throw your weight around.”

I opted not to point out my opponent would’ve crushed me like a bug had she chosen to throw her weight around.

“You’re banned, Mercy. I better not see your face around here for a month.”

The bar had gone quiet, like the patrons were anticipating additional fireworks or some firepower from me. I looked for my sister.

But Hope was too busy glaring at John-John to look at me.

He lifted a brow. “Got something to say, cousin?” The last part with more sarcasm in it than I’d ever heard from my friend.

“Yeah, you’re a dick. You were a pompous prick to me even before I married Jake. You’ve had a bug up your ass about Mercy since we walked in. So go ahead and ban me, too. Your unci ain’t gonna be happy about this, cousin.”

John-John’s face turned a darker shade of red. “Muskrat. Get them outta here.”

Muskrat was smart enough to obey John-John, and to know not to touch me when he escorted us to the door.

I was too pissed off to be drunk, so I snatched the keys.

She sighed. “I’m sorry, Mercy. I didn’t mean to screw that up for you.”

“You didn’t. I’ve been in there one time since I got back from Quantico. And it isn’t like my phone’s been ringing off the hook with calls from John-John to hang out.” Now that I thought about it, had John-John called me at all?

No.

And he had acted paranoid when he spoke of me working for the feds.

Screw him. I’d accepted him for who he was. He could return the favor.

“Well, there’s one thing we can check off our bucket list.” She gave me a sly look. “Getting kicked out of a bar together. Only next time? Let’s get really, really drunk first.”

“Deal.”