Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

Numbness spread. I welcomed it. But it wouldn’t last. It never did. My subconscious would play this scene over and over, mixing it into the soup of combat nightmares for a little spice and variety.

You fell right into her trap. You could’ve wounded her. Instead, you took the shot and killed her.

I did my job.

More shouts, more footsteps. Tan uniforms blew past.

But one uniform stopped directly in front of me.

Dawson.

Rough fingers nudged my chin up. I didn’t want to look in his eyes, afraid of what I’d see, so I squeezed mine shut. Tears leaked past my defenses anyway.

“Mercy.”

“Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“Anything,” I whispered.

Silence.

My knees buckled, spots swirled behind my lids, and my gun hit the ground.

Dawson clamped his fingers around my biceps and held me upright. Not speaking. Not really touching me. Just keeping me from collapsing.

When the light-headedness didn’t dissipate, I breathed slowly. Steadily. Trying to level the adrenaline in my system. Trying to keep it together.

“Sheriff?” someone shouted.

Duty called. Dawson had more important things to do than babysit me. “Thank you. I’m fine now.” I attempted to retreat, but he held fast.

“You’re far from fine. Let me take you home.”

“That’s okay. You’ve got work to do.”

“I’ll delegate.”

“Dawson-”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“Goddammit. That was not a request.”

I opened my eyes.

Something dark and fierce stared back at me. “I am not leaving you alone.”

My gaze flickered to the action by the barn.

But Dawson’s right hand slid up and curled around my jaw, holding my damp face in place, keeping my physical focus on him. “Nothin’ you need to see over there.”

“But-”

“Listen to me. There’s nothin’ you need to see. I’m getting you out of here right now.”

“Last time I shot someone you threw me in jail. Is that where you’re taking me?”

“You’ll never let me forget that, will you?” he murmured.

“Probably not.”

“No. I’m not taking you to jail.”

“But what about taking my statement?”

“I’ll get it later.”

Why was Dawson being so goddamn nice to me? I’d just killed a woman. Not any woman. A friend. A good friend. A friend who’d pulled my ass out of the fire more times than I could count. And I shot her. I just pulled the trigger and ended her life.

How many more pieces of your soul can you lose before it’s gone completely?

“Hey, Sergeant Major. Come back to me.”

I looked in Dawson’s eyes since he was about an inch away from me. I flinched. Shuddered. The coldness was overtaking me.

His thumbs skated over my cheekbones. “Let me help you, Mercy. Please.”

“How?”

The determination in his eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”

At least he hadn’t lied and given me platitudes about everything being all right. We both knew it wouldn’t be.

Someone approached from behind, but Dawson never looked away from me. “What is it, Deputy Moore?”

“The ambulance is en route for the hostage.”

“Good.”

“What do you want me to do next?”

“Secure the scene. We’re leaving, and you’re in charge, Deputy.”

“Ah. Sure, boss. But I’ve never-”

“Then it’s past time you learned. Besides, this is linked to the FBI’s case, specifically Agent Turnbull’s case, and he’ll be here any second to take over. Defer to him.”

“This is the feds’ case?”

“Yes. And I’ve never been so glad to say that in my life.”

Dawson’s hand fell from my face. He came alongside me, blocking my view, draping his arm over my shoulder. I leaned on him. At another time in my life I would’ve been resentful, prideful, mindful of appearing weak. Right now I didn’t care. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and hide.

Three weeks later…

Being cooped up in the house made me antsy. Six guns and six hundred rounds of ammunition should’ve been enough to blow my blues away. But it wasn’t.

The first week following Anna’s death had been a blur. Dawson dealt with Agent Turnbull. He dealt with the county prosecutor. He dealt with media and speculation. Then he dealt with me.

Dawson hadn’t let me retreat to the cabin, which would’ve been my preference. He hadn’t let me crawl into a bottle, which had been my intention. I appreciated that he didn’t push me to talk. He didn’t hover, but he didn’t leave. Dawson was just there for me in a way no man had ever been. Not even my father.

I was tired of keeping him at arm’s length. Denying us both a chance for something real. Something permanent. Something good.

In typical Dawson fashion, once he’d sensed the change in me, he’d gone on the offensive. He moved in. Completely. Bringing his dog, his horse, his guns. The fact I let him share my gun vault and my bed was a good indication I had strong feelings for him.

And he fit in with my family, too. He asked Hope for advice on the best way to connect with his son. Sophie baked his favorite cookies and set a place for him at the dinner table. Jake asked for his help setting up their new trailer. Even Poopy charmed him with gummy grins and cute baby antics.

I didn’t ask if everyone in Eagle Ridge was aware of the change in our relationship. To be honest, I didn’t care.

So while everything was going swimmingly on a personal level, on the professional front, I was back to square one. I realized, like Dad, I needed more than ranch work to fulfill me. Jake and I had a long talk, an honest talk, and we were both pleased with the result.

Dawson asked me if I’d consider applying for the deputy position left vacant after Bill O’Neil’s resignation. I declined. I’d finally drawn a line between Dawson the sheriff and Dawson the man, and I intended to keep it that way.

While I contemplated my place in the universe, I lined up my shots. It wasn’t pointless to keep up with a skill that’d defined who I was-and who I still am. I practiced because I liked it. Because it soothed me. Chances were slim I’d ever use my sharpshooter skills in another occupation. While that was bittersweet, I’d finally accepted it.

I’d also accepted that I needed professional help coping. Not only with killing Anna, but also with the aftermath of my military retirement.

During my outprocessing, the army shrinks detailed the stages of the loss I faced in the transition from soldier to civilian. Loss of purpose, loss of power, loss of camaraderie, loss of skills, loss of structure… blah blah blah. Yeah, whatever. I’d convinced myself I was truck tough. Rock solid. Good to go.

I’d been so insistent that past combat and deployment issues would never affect me that I hadn’t recognized it had affected me. Isolation. Physical exhaustion. Insomnia. Irritability. All of which culminated in excessive drinking, rigorous training, violent thoughts, and depression.

And nightmares.

So I called the VA and self-identified. In the past I’d secretly sneered at those combat soldiers who admitted needing professional help with combat-related stress issues. But when I took a good hard look at myself, I picked up the phone. Dawson volunteered to drive me, but I declined. I wasn’t afraid that he’d see me as weak or in a bad light, but Rollie was a better choice, and he’d been happy to take me.

Shoonga started to bark at something beyond the tree line. Not his squirrel-chasing bark but the one that warned me an animal was nearby-of the human variety. I flipped the safety off the Sig and waited.