Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Murmurs of assent.

“I see a lot of Wyatt in you, Mercy. We all do.”

My hands clenched into fists, a little appalled they were laying it on so thick with the “your father” line of guilt.

“I’ve embraced Dawson’s way of doing things. Some I’ve agreed with, some I’ve disagreed with, though never publicly,” Kiki added.

“Why don’t you step up to the plate, Deputy Moore? You have the experience and community commitment.”

Kiki seemed shocked by my suggestion. “God, no. I’m a better Indian than a chief.” She turned to Rollie. “Umm. No offense.”

“Speaking of Indian… since you finally enrolled in the tribe, you’d get the Indian vote,” Rollie pointed out.

“Don’t discount all the people who listened to you lay into them oil people at the first town hall meeting,” Kit said.

Another situation I’d found myself in that was out of my realm. But the underhanded way Titan Oil set up the meeting with the affected landowners, during calving season, had made me see red.

And why had this call to duty happened now? Despite their claims that I’d be a chip off the Wyatt Gunderson block, Dad had never said he wanted me to follow in his footsteps for law enforcement. He’d wanted me to follow in his footsteps and keep the ranch alive.

He did both, why can’t you?

Could I see myself slipping on the uniform and the ugly hat every morning? Strapping on my gun and a set of handcuffs? Hadn’t I just left that regimented life?

“You running for sheriff shows the whole county you care, Mercy,” Geneva said.

Kiki said, “I know your dad would be behind you.”

“You’d be good for the community,” Kit added.

“And this would be good for you,” Rollie said.

“You’ve given her enough to think about.” John-John’s gaze darted between them. “Mercy doesn’t have to decide at twelve-thirty after she’s worked a full shift. When do you have to have her answer?”

“We’ve got forty-eight hours to find a replacement.”

“Why so fast?” I asked.

“The ballots are scheduled for printing in three days, according to the county regulations for providing absentee ballots.”

“Well, then she has some time to think it over.” John-John set his hands on my shoulders. “Get your stuff and go on home, doll. I’ll close up and keep your wannabe campaign managers occupied until you’re gone.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is. You’ve had enough shitty things happen to you in the parking lot of this bar. You don’t need harassment from your friends added to the list.”

I kissed John-John’s cheek and whispered, “Thank you.”

As I putted home in the old ranch truck, I wished I’d driven my Viper. I had the overwhelming urge to drive as fast and as far away from Eagle River County as I dared.

My headlights reflectedoff Dawson’s truck parked under the carport, and I wondered if I was hallucinating.

Or maybe I was sacked out in my bed in the middle of a bizarre nightmare. My friends and enemies conspiring to get me to run for sheriff against the man sharing my bed?

Had to be an alcohol-fueled dream.

But after I hopped out of the truck and caught a whiff of Dawson’s aftershave, my belly swooped. We hadn’t spoken since the night he’d arrested Molly, and I was ridiculously happy he’d made the first move.

Then my happiness dimmed. Had he gotten wind of Bill O’Neil’s campaign workers’ plans for me? I braced myself, not for his sexy, hey-baby, wanna-get-lucky smile, but for accusations. Anger. Harsh words.

Dawson just said “Hey” from where he’d sprawled in the chaise longue, Shoonga snoozing at his feet.

“Kinda late for a social call, isn’t it?”

“Not for us.”

“True. You been here long?”

“About fifteen minutes. Shoonga clawed at the door, so I let him out. I stuck around to ensure he didn’t run off.”

I knocked my knee into his. “So you’re my petsitter now?”

Dawson shook his head. “You really should lock your door.”

“Worried about my safety, Sheriff?”

“No. I’m worried about someone breaking in and stealing your massive gun collection.”

“The guns are locked in the gun case at the ranch.”

He squinted at me. “All of them?”

“Should I include the one you confiscated in my official count?”

“Smart-ass. That gun wasn’t used in the crime at Clementine’s.”

He’d known that when he’d taken it, and he’d still taken it. “Is that why you’re here? To tell me I’ve been cleared as a suspect?”

A scowl crossed his face. “No, that’s not why I’m here. But you can come by the station and pick it up tomorrow if it’ll make you happy.”

“Finally. I’ve been missing that piece something fierce. It’s my favorite small cal handgun.” The clip on the Kahr Arms P380 wasn’t much bigger than a cigarette lighter. It didn’t have much stopping power, but it was cute. In a deadly sort of way.

“They’re all your favorites,” he said dryly. “So are your firearms locked up?”

“All but four.”

“You keep four guns…” His gaze lingered on some highly improbable hiding spots on my body. “Where?”

“One on my person, one in my truck, and two in the cabin.” Sometimes two on my person, but I didn’t share that tidbit. I added, “But I did leave my Taurus in the truck when I saw you were here.”

“You scare me sometimes.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

His rich, warm laughter loosened the tension. When he tugged me until I sat crossways on his lap, I didn’t resist.

Dawson wasn’t a snuggler, nor did he give casual affection easily-a trait we shared. So his action left me more unbalanced than if he’d yelled at me. Yelling, I could handle just fine. Snuggling? Not so much.

Maybe he thought it’d be easier to ask about my potential candidacy if he didn’t have to look me in the eye. Or maybe he planned to ask about my past with J-Hawk.

Or maybe he just wants to sit outside with you on a starry spring night.

I wasn’t sure I bought that argument, but I went with it anyway. I nestled my cheek against his neck and curled my body into his. Absorbing his heat. Sucking up his sweet side like candy.

We stayed locked together for a nice long while, existing in the same space without antagonism, mistrust, or the ulterior motives that sometimes clouded our alone time.

When I squirmed to get more comfortable, he sighed. “I bet you sucked at staying in stealth positions for very long.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you’re wiggly as a worm.”

“I’m not used to sitting on your lap,” I retorted.

“And that’s a damn crying shame.”

I elbowed him lightly in the gut. “Smart-ass. FYI: I once hid in a ghillie suit, flat on my belly, in the freakin’ desert, for thirteen hours straight.”

“Impressive.” His lips brushed the top of my head in a move that was both sweet and seductive. He did it twice more.

Was he building up to the question by softening me up?

I veered the conversation a different direction. “Tell me something about you that I don’t know, Dawson.”

His body stiffened, and not in a good way. “Why?”

Because tit for tat. If you share something with me, I’ll share my oh-so-interesting chat with Bill O’Neil’s campaign committee with you.

“Mercy?”

“Because we’re either fighting or fucking, and there’s a lot I don’t know about you.”

“There’s a lot you haven’t wanted to know about me,” he corrected.

“So here’s your chance, Dawson. Talk to me. Tell me something juicy.”

Dawson toyed with my hair, a sure sign he was deep in thought. “This is a whopper of a secret. You sure you’re ready?”