Mercy Kill Read online

  A day later I clocked in at Clementine’s for my first shift. John-John had shared his vision, something about fire and pain, watching my loved ones hurting, while I stood by and did nothing. I’d sort of tuned out the mystical gloom-and-doom forecast, because John-John always added a disclaimer about visions being subject to interpretation. But I knew it bothered him that this particular vision hadn’t materialized into reality. The only reality I cared about was that months after my niece’s arrival, I was still working as a bartender, unsure how to address my resentment over the situation at the ranch—or whether I even had a right to it.

  Shoonga whined, bringing me back to the present. Sophie hated the “dog mess” so Shoonga’s meals were served on the porch. I dumped food in his dish, and my stomach rumbled. I kicked off my muddy shoes on the porch and entered the kitchen.

  Jake, Sophie, and Hope stared at me like I should’ve knocked. Not exactly a friendly welcome. In my own damn house.

  “Ah. Hi, guys.”

  “Hello, yourself. You hungry?” Sophie asked.

  “I could eat.”

  “I’ll fix you a plate.”

  “No, finish your lunch. I can do it.” After I washed up, I uncovered the pans on the stove. Steamy scents of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and country gravy wafted out.

  Sophie gave my heaped plate a wry look. “Save room for dessert, hey.”

  Joy fussed. Hope murmured to her while trying to eat one-handed, which was ridiculous when a perfectly good high chair sat right next to her. But Joy rarely left her mama’s arms.

  I didn’t blame my sister for her overprotective instincts. She’d lost her son to a murderer. She’d lost a baby in utero. But her “my baby” attitude and near-agoraphobia were wearing thin for everyone. I’d never even held my niece, though, granted, that was partially my own fault.

  Jake pushed his plate aside. “I’ll hold her so you can eat.”

  “I don’t mind,” Hope said crossly.

  “I do.” Then Jake did a very un-Jake-like thing. He plucked the baby from Hope’s lap and said, “Now eat up so we can go.”

  Hope watched father and daughter, chewing her lip instead of her food.

  “Go where?” Sophie asked her grandson.

  “It’s a slow day. Thought I’d take my girls for a drive. Get Hope out of the house into the fresh air. Tempt her with a sundae from the Custard Cupboard.”

  Sophie and I exchanged an “oh crap” look.

  “Joy has finally settled into a regular naptime,” Hope snapped. “I won’t screw that up to go driving around the countryside with you.”

  “She’ll sleep just fine in the car seat.”

  Wasn’t Jake’s way to push, especially not with an audience. The fact he was doing both indicated he’d reached the end of his rope with my little sister.

  A feeling I was familiar with.

  “Jake, you don’t know—”

  “One afternoon, Hope. The three of us acting like a normal family.”

  Jake’s voice was calm, but pure steel.

  Impressive.

  Hope continued to gape at him with a mix of confusion and alarm. I half expected she’d snatch Joy and stomp upstairs, and that’d be the end of it.

  But Jake reached out, gently touching Hope’s cheek with a soft plea. “Please.”

  She smiled, almost shyly. “Okay. Right after I feed her and get myself ready. I’m kind of a mess.”

  “I’ll feed her. And you always look great,” Jake added.

  Hope flounced upstairs, her step lighter than I’d seen in months.

  Kudos to Jake for his well-played moves.

  Sophie’s foot nudged mine under the table. Twice.

  “What? You need help with the dishes?”

  “Shee, I think aliens done abducted the real Mercy and left this imposter who volunteers for chores.” Her strong, wrinkled hand briefly covered mine. “Ain’t it good to see things are getting back to normal around here?”

  “Define normal.”

  She harrumphed. “Such a smarty-pants. What are your plans for the day?”

  I glanced at the clock. “Working. My shift starts in two hours.” I focused on Jake, murmuring to Joy, waiting for the bottle to heat. “I wanted to tell you that I saw a mountain lion yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “Over by the prairie dog town in the northwest corner of the Newsome’s old place.”

  “What time did you see it?”

  “Morning. She didn’t look good. She was mangy. Starved. A bit too long in the tooth to have cubs.”

  “She attack you or anything?”

  As far as I knew, we’d never had a mountain lion attack our cattle, to say nothing of attacking a human. “Nope. Have you seen her around? Or any kind of tracks?”

  “I haven’t been up in that section for a while. But I ain’t surprised. Lots of people are reporting seeing mountain lions where they ain’t supposed to be.”

  In the last few years, the South Dakota Game, Fish and Parks started a mountain lion season to deal with the growing problem. Some folks were appalled, calling it a barbaric practice. But I figured they’d change their tune right quick when the lions started snacking on little kids.

  Jake tucked Joy in the crook of his arm and popped a baby bottle in her mouth. Greedy sucking noises sounded. “Did you kill her?”

  “No.”

  He frowned. “You didn’t shoot her?”

  No. “I … ah, missed.” Liar.

  “You missed? That’s a bad sign.”

  Automatically, I assumed he meant I’d lost the weapons skills I’d spent years honing. I bristled. “Why?”

  Jake and Sophie exchanged a look.

  “What?”

  Sophie pinch pleated the ruffles on the place mat. “You know about spirit animals, right?”

  I nodded.

  “They’re a reflection of ourselves. Sometimes they lead us to something; sometimes they lead us away. You must’ve seen a part of yourself in her. Destroying her meant you’d destroy that part of yourself, so you didn’t.”

  Of all the … “I call bullshit on that, Sophie. I also saw two squirrels going at it for like twenty minutes, up and down a pine tree, bark flying everywhere, and I didn’t shoot them. So if what you’re saying is true about the lioness, I should also consider the mating squirrels … my spirit animals? I should read their intensive mating practices as a sign I’m dying to have wild squirrel sex, hanging upside down in a tree?”

  A funny smile tilted the crinkled corners of Sophie’s mouth. “That’s exactly what it means.”

  Jake and Sophie looked at each other again and busted a gut laughing.

  I wasn’t sure if I’d been had. But I was happy to hear laughter in the house again, even if it was at my expense. I got up to leave.

  “Seriously, Mercy,” Jake called out, “if you see that lioness again? Shoot her.”

  “I guarantee it. But I’m still undecided on the squirrels.”

  THREE

  John-John was already hauling ice when I strolled into Clementine’s. “Hey, Mercy. Vivi’s got a sick kid, so you’re on mop duty.”

  “Great.” For the next hour I scrubbed the floor and sang along to the tunes on the jukebox. I poked my head into the men’s bathroom. Nasty-ass place could stay dirty another night.

  Cleanup duties complete, I poured a glass of Coke and studied my boss. It hadn’t been an easy transition, going from lifelong friends to an employee/employer relationship.

  But some things didn’t change regardless if our roles did. John-John had always been more comfortable with himself—body size, skin color, spirituality, sexuality—than any person I’d ever known. We’d always joked he’d never outgrown that horny teen state, nor the husky/chubby stage boys do around age sixteen. So his weight loss concerned me. I knew he hadn’t been dieting. “Are you working tonight?”

  “Why else would I be here?” he snapped.

  I waited, biting back my bitchy retort.


  “Sorry, doll. Just a little stressed and touchy about it.”

  “Have I done something to piss you off, boss?”

  “God, no, and stop calling me that.” He smoothed his hand over the top of his head and impatiently flicked his braids over his shoulder. “There’s some other stuff going on, stuff you wouldn’t be interested in.”

  I lifted a brow. “If it has something to do with you, I’m interested. I remember when you used to tell me everything.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Some things might’ve changed, kola, but my ears still work the same as they did twenty years ago.” Would he recognize the words he’d thrown back at me when I’d retreated after Levi’s murder?

  John-John hip-checked me. “Smart-ass.”

  “So spill it.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

  The dark circles under his eyes supported that statement. “You having disturbing visions?”

  He sighed. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. I dream, but I can’t make sense of it. I’ve always remembered the relevant points, allowing me to decipher Wakan Tanka symbols when I wake. Not lately. It’s frustrating. I’ve been stuck in that cycle for a couple months. Ever since …”

  The vision he’d had about me. As far as I knew, it was one of the few times John-John’s visions hadn’t followed a path to becoming some form of reality. “What about Muskrat? Isn’t he your anchor? Can’t he help you figure it out?” My knowledge of Sioux rituals was sorely lacking, but I didn’t want to lose the conversational momentum since this was the first time he’d opened up to me for months. We’d been working opposite shifts, and I saw him less now than when I’d been on the stool side of the bar.

  “Yes. But he’s part of the problem.”

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  “No, after fifteen years together we’re both too stubborn to teach a younger pup our old tricks, so he’s stuck with me. But I ain’t happy with him neither. His back problems aren’t getting better, and he refuses to go to the doctor for treatment. I’ve suggested alternatives: a sweat, a chiropractor, a spiritual massage. He’s stalling; he’s in pain, and he won’t talk to me about it. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Why is he dragging his feet?”

  “Because he’s scared it’s something serious.”

  I couldn’t fathom Muskrat, a solid six-foot-eight-inch ape of a man, with the disposition of a surly bear, fearing anything. But people thought the same thing about me. “You want me to talk to him? Knock some sense into his thick skull?”

  John-John sent me a stern look. “Absolutely not, and don’t you dare breathe a word of this to him.”

  “I’ll point out I’m awful good at keeping secrets.”

  “Too good.” He chucked me under the chin. “Speaking of secrets, what’s up with you and our delectable sheriff ?”

  I refilled my soda, considering my answer and his evasion. “Who knows?”

  “He hasn’t been sniffing around lately?” he asked skeptically.

  “I saw him last night.” I crunched a piece of ice. “Actually, I pulled a gun on him outside the bar after closing, and he still followed me home.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Were you armed on shift?”

  “Yep.”

  “For Christsake, Mercy—”

  “Relax. It was just a small handgun. It wouldn’t have made a very big hole in anyone.”

  John-John mumbled something, probably a prayer. The office phone jangled, and he raced to catch the call.

  His inquiry about my relationship with Dawson brought my own questions to the surface.

  When the sheriff was off duty, hanging out in the bar, we ignored each other. People expected our animosity because he’d arrested me last summer. The unexpected bonus for us? Our secret sexual encounters after our public sniping were hotter than a blowtorch.

  But a good chunk of our hostility wasn’t faked. We had differing philosophies, especially recently on the proposed Titan Oil pipeline that would literally cut our county in two. Dawson pointed out that building the pipeline would mean new jobs in Eagle River County for several months at least.

  The short-term gain for a select group of specialized construction workers didn’t outweigh the cons: lowered property values for every landowner. Environmental concerns, including the landowner’s liability if a catastrophic event occurred, hadn’t been addressed. None of us liked that the powers that be in state government were willing to bend over for a Canadian oil company and turn a blind eye to the taxpayers’ concerns.

  The facts were distorted on both sides. From what I’d heard, county residents were divided on the issue. As sheriff, Dawson’s opinion held weight. His opponent in the upcoming election, Bill O’Neil, was adamantly against the pipeline.

  I wondered where my dad would’ve stood on the issue. He’d be opposed to the pipeline because of the deep gouge it’d cut across Gunderson land. But I also suspected Wyatt Gunderson, the politician, not the rancher, would’ve won out. He’d gauge which way the political wind blew on the issue before making a decision.

  I stood firmly on the side of the landowners, no matter who tried to sweet-talk me or guilt me into changing my stance.

  The door blew open, cutting off my brooding thoughts. Time to get to work.

  Once again I was left to lock up Clementine’s all by my little self. I took a second to breathe in a lungful of clean air. My least favorite part about working at the bar was reeking of cigarette smoke at the end of my shift.

  So quit.

  And do what?

  Four vehicles remained in the parking area. Not an unusual occurrence since most folks were smart enough not to drink and drive. I’d nearly reached my truck when the back of my neck prickled. Déjà vu rolled through me until I realized I had been in this exact same position just last night. And like last night, immediately my gun was in my hand.

  “Show yourself.”

  “It’s me, Gunny.”

  “J-Hawk?”

  “Yeah.” He materialized beside me, seemingly out of nowhere, which sent a shiver down my spine. I had no idea he’d been so close.

  So much for my lightning-fast reflexes. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I just wanna talk to you.”

  I kept the gun leveled on him. “If you’re here to try and win me over about the pipeline, save your goddamn breath.”

  “Fuck that and fuck you. Jesus. That’s not why I’m here. You know I’d never …” He swore. “Can you put the gun down? Please?” He waved a six-pack like a white flag. “Near as I can tell, none of your regular bar rats are around to give you dirty looks for sharing a brew with me.”

  I ignored the bitterness in his tone, knowing he’d understood the downside of taking on such an unpopular job when he’d signed on for it. “A beer sounds good.” I jammed my gun in my pocket and dropped the tailgate. My ass absorbed the metal’s coldness, causing another shiver.

  The truck bounced as he plopped down. He handed me a Pabst Blue Ribbon. I laughed. “Where’d you find this?”

  “At Stillwell’s. I figured it’d be appropriate.”

  After we each cracked one open, I chinked my can to his. “To cheap beer.”

  “And priceless memories.”

  “Man, I forgot what a sappy dork you are.”

  Jason fake-coughed “bitch” in his fist.

  I laughed again and sipped my beer. “You know, this stuff ain’t half bad.”

  “Ssh. I’m trying to discern the origins of the different flavors of hops.”

  This was the J-Hawk I remembered. Not the bloated blowhard who’d been blathering bullshit across my home turf.

  We’d met in Afghanistan. As the only two Dakotans in our little slice of hell, we ribbed each other endlessly about the rivalry between our sister states, tossing jokes and insults, but look out if anyone else made a derogatory comment about “The Dakotas.”

  Major Hawley was an Army Ranger with the 3rd Battalion, 75
th Ranger Group, and one of the few clued in to our all-female Black Ops section of the 82nd Airborne Division. Being stationed together across Europe and the Middle East made us uncommonly close—some of us closer than others.

  The military discourages fraternizing, a rule I’ve adhered to for the most part. We all got lonely. We all missed the intimacy that only comes from sharing a bed with a lover. We all dealt with it in our own unique ways. But some chose to disregard the rules completely—like J-Hawk and my teammate Anna “A-Rod” Rodriguez.

  I figured out they were sneaking around long before anyone else. Not because A-Rod spilled her guts to me, but because they’d gone out of their way to avoid eye or body contact when in mixed company. Making goo-goo eyes at each other in the chow line would’ve been less obvious.

  Jealousy that A-Rod was getting laid on a regular basis while the rest of us weren’t wasn’t my issue. They were adults. They understood the repercussions if the brass caught wind of their hookups. But it bugged the crap out of me that J-Hawk had a wife and kids at home in North Dakota.

  Anna, who was the biggest skeptic I’ve ever met, actually believed the line of bullshit cheating men used: J-Hawk’s wife didn’t understand him. So Anna felt no guilt whatsoever about being with a married man. She fell helmet over combat boots in love with him.

  I dreaded the day it’d turn ugly between them, because it was inevitable. When that day came, I was the one who watched helplessly as two lives crumbled. Right then I swore no man would ever wield that much power over me.

  “Mercy?”

  My focus snapped back to him. “Yeah?”

  “I see you’re still throwing off those leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes.”

  “When something works, I go with it.”

  He laughed. “I take it Sheriff Dawson isn’t cowed by that attitude?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I waited out here to talk to you last night. Shouldn’t be sexy as hell when a woman pulls a gun on you, but for some reason it is. Then he was in your face, but arresting you was the last thing on his mind.” J-Hawk waggled his eyebrows. “So how long have you two been dancing the horizontal mambo?”