Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Amid my silent internal grumbling, a squishing noise sounded off to the left. My eyesight might be for shit, but my hearing wasn’t.

The Kahr Arms P380 was out of my back pocket and in my hand instantly. I swung my arms in the direction of the noise, keeping the barrel at my eye level. “Show yourself or I start shooting.”

“Jesus, Mercy, are you seriously pointing a gun at me?”

“Dawson?”

“Lower your weapon. Now.”

I did.

He sauntered into view. When my stomach dipped, I assured myself it was a delayed adrenaline reaction-not a reaction of pleasure at seeing him.

“What’re you doing here, Sheriff? Chasing after bad guys?”

“No. Chasing after you.”

“Such a sweet-talkin’ cowboy.” Dawson and I had been making mattress angels since I’d started working at the bar. We’d kept our relationship-for lack of a better term-on the QT.

“FYI: I’d gone my entire shift without anyone aiming a gun at me.”

“So it was a boring day, huh?”

He laughed lightly. “Only you would think that, Sergeant Major.”

Then his imposing maleness loomed over me, invading my personal space as only a lover can. He wore his Eagle River County uniform, although he’d ditched the ugly hat. Like me, he carried a sidearm. Unlike me, he hadn’t even unsnapped the strap on the holster.

“I can’t help it if I’m of the shoot-first mind-set.”

“Acting like a soldier when you’re a civilian is liable to get you into hot water with the law.”

“Bring on the hot water, lawman. I need a shower anyway.”

“Feeling a little dirty tonight?”

“You’re in a mood,” I murmured.

Dawson curled his hand around my hip, letting his thumb sweep the bared section of skin between my jeans and my shirt. “Wanna guess what kind of mood I’m in?”

Damn distracting man. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you plan on talking about your mood or acting on it.”

Dawson lowered his face to mine until our lips were a breath apart. “Talking is the dead-last thing on my mind tonight, Mercy.”

“Good. Meet me at the cabin. You can park-”

“In the carport so no one sees my vehicle from a half mile up the road. Yeah, I’m familiar with the damn drill by now.”

Huh. Dawson almost sounded… resentful.

But I knew that wouldn’t stop him from following me home.

I woke alonein tangled sheets. Sun blazed through the bedroom window. Tending bar until the wee hours made it hard to haul my ass out of bed at the crack of nothing.

Not that I had a reason to get up.

I heard Shoonga whining and scratching at the door. I let him in, resisting his attempt to herd me back outside.

“Not before my first cup of coffee, dog.” I yawned and shuffled to the tiny kitchen. I saw the note taped to the coffeepot:

You’re out of coffee again-MD

Mason Dawson. In the months we’d been together I’d never called him Mason, just Dawson. Did that bother him?

Probably not as much as the fact you won’t acknowledge you’re knocking boots with him.

I didn’t want to drive into town for a cup of joe, and coffee was always on at the house. Plus, Sophie would be making lunch soon. I could run over, make nice with the fam, fill my belly, fuel my caffeine fix, and get my aerobic exercise in one fell swoop.

Shoonga barked happy circles around me as I laced up my running shoes. Damn dog made me smile. Although Shoonga spent half his time with Jake at the ranch, I considered him my dog, and I’d gotten used to his company in the nine months since my nephew Levi’s murder. Shoonga had adjusted to life without Levi much better than the rest of us.

I slipped on my shades and we set off. With the excessive spring rain, the shortcut through the pasture to the main house was a mud bog, so I ran on the road. The gravel made a sodden squish, squish with my every pounding footfall.

My mind blanked to everything but the sounds of my huffing breath, the feel of sweat coating my skin, and the endorphin rush that was almost as good as sex.

Almost. But not quite.

Once the familiar jagged tree line of the Gunderson Ranch solidified, I slowed to a jog. Home sweet home. Not that I was hanging my hat here full time these days.

After Levi’s murder, I asked my grieving, pregnant sister, Hope, and Jake Red Leaf, her baby daddy and the ranch foreman, to move into the house we’d inherited from our father. I’d lived in group housing during my military service, so I was accustomed to being surrounded by people almost 24/7. I even believed it might be fun.

Wrong.

The first month of our communal living arrangement, Hope started to miscarry the twins. With the miracle of modern medicine, they managed to save one baby. Upon her release from the hospital, the doctor confined her to complete bed rest for the duration of her pregnancy.

Asking Sophie Red Leaf, our elderly housekeeper, also Jake’s grandmother, to play fetch and carry for Hope was ridiculous when I was underfoot and unemployed. Besides, I’d barely dipped a toe into the responsibilities of running a ranch; Jake was essential to the Gunderson ranching operation, not me. So I temporarily shelved my aspiration of becoming a hands-on owner and helped Sophie tend my fragile sister. I nagged Hope to eat, to take her vitamins and stay in bed. I held her hand during the bouts of false labor. Wiped her tears when our conversations shifted to Levi, which they always did.

Growing a new life-form tuckered Hope out, leaving me at loose ends. Overwhelmed with boredom-and probably slightly drunk-I decided to repaint the living room, dining room, and main-floor bathroom. I bought new furniture. Installed new carpet. I paid for everything out of my pocket, not out of the ranch-operating fund.

No one liked the changes in the house. I hadn’t cared.

Although Hope appreciated my spending time with her, she preferred Sophie’s company to mine. Any need Hope had for me evaporated after Jake finished his daily ranch duties. So every afternoon, as soon as Jake’s boots hit the welcome mat, I hit the bar.

No one liked the changes in me. I hadn’t cared about that either.

Two months into the living arrangement, I started crashing at the foreman’s cabin. I got tired of apologizing for my guns. I got tired of apologizing for my late nights. I got tired of the looks passing between them whenever I cracked open a beer. Contrary to their silent accusations, I craved some semblance of normalcy, not just booze. My life was nothing more than marking time: waiting for the baby, waiting for my retirement checks, waiting for the bank to approve our loan, waiting for calving. I drank to blur the slow passage of time. But I ended up with gaps in my memory and too much pride to ask anyone what I’d said and what I’d done. No one came forward to fill me in.

Except Rollie Rondeaux. Rollie was a full-blooded Sioux Indian with a sketchy past that included a love affair with my mother before she’d married my father. He relished playing the part of the wise old Indian and maintained an arsenal of secrets that he wasn’t opposed to sharing-or keeping a lid on-for a few bucks or for a favor. Since my return to the ranch, Rollie had become a serious pain in my butt, determined to fill a father-figure role in my life. But other times, I knew he was the only person who understood me, who saw the real me, and didn’t judge me for it.

Rollie had shown up the morning after my drunken middle-of-the-night phone call-a call I hadn’t remembered making. He hadn’t cared that I suffered from the mother of all hangovers. He’d dragged my ass out of bed and into the kitchen of the cabin. Through bleary eyes, I’d noticed he’d centered a.45 cal Smith and Wesson on the table.