Lori Armstrong - No Mercy

Home.

He’d reminded me of another complication to my decision. Like it or not, he was the sole heir to the Gunderson Ranch. How could I sell his heritage out from under him?

I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. As big as I talked about our options, and securing a solid financial future, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was anyone else.

I snapped the lid on the cooler, slammed the tailgate, jumped in the cab, and let old memories and guilt chase me all the way home.

In the dusky early hours when the gauzy veil of the spirit world is at its thinnest, visions appear.

The body is tethered to one world while the spirit journeys to the other. Eyes roll and jerk behind thin lids. Flesh burns. Sweat oozes from skin, thick as syrup.

Muscles tighten, bracing for the first silvery flare.

Flash- Blood pools in the dirt. Ugly black puddles, a poison even thirsty Mother Earth refuses to absorb.

Flash- Blood boils the heavens, whipping clouds into an angry scarlet horizon.

Flash- Blood trickles toward the riverbed. Swirling along the bank, seeping through the jagged stones to mix with the water.

Red ground. Red sky. Red water.

Three signs.

Scents overwhelm: roses, gun oil, peppermint. Rain, perspiration, fear, leather. Blood.

Then a malevolent chill pushes the stench of rotten flesh, of ruined innocence, of a diseased mind to the forefront of the subconscious.

Everything is red. So much blood and death.

A form covered in a dirty burlap robe appears, the face pointed skyward; the body turns circles as it is anointed with blood raining from the heavens. Slowly, the spinning stops. The chin tips down.

Cold, dead eyes stare back .

A screeched warning. “No!” is lost in nothingness, because without corporeal form, no sound emerges.

Unseen blows knock her down. Striking upon her head, her chest, her arms, her legs. She fights. Invisible sharp instruments score her flesh until the wounds seep. She is a sacrifice, purity splayed in the filth. Bruised, broken, and bleeding. Naked, sexless, useless, discarded.

Dead.

Staccato rounds of gunfire echo, create another silvery flash. A buzzing black cloud seals every inch of the space behind her. She is a white dot about to disappear into nothingness. She shimmers, caught between dark and light, before she vanishes.

The edges of the vision blur, then fade completely.

A light touch rests to the forehead. A cool cloth presses to the lips. Chanting brings awareness back to the body.

Another aroma wafts in. Sulfur, followed by the pungent scent of burning sweetgrass. Soft rustling sounds fill the space as the smoke stick purifies the air.

A large hand reaches out. The bone-crushing grip gentles, stroking a ragged thumb across bruised knuckles. Soothing. Allowing time to find breath, balance, and sanity.

“Come back to me” is whispered.

“I’m here.”

No judgment. No insistence it was just a bad dream. The blind acceptance is humbling. Eyes open. Pink and tangerine rays smear the familiar bedroom walls as the sun rises.

“I’m tired.”

“Then sleep.”

“But I need to tell her.”

“You will. Just not now.”

I spent the better part of the day on ranch business with Jake. We talked about updating equipment, and strategizing a way to incorporate buffalo into the operation.

After I returned to the house, I tried to reach the investors from Florida to tell them the ranch wasn’t on the market, but once again I talked to a recording.

I still hadn’t heard from Estelle. Maybe she’d changed her mind.

Another night at home would drive me crazy. I needed to get out. I showered and plaited my wet hair in pigtails. Slapped on enough makeup to make me presentable, but not to look like I was on the prowl. I tugged on my skintight Rocky jeans with the leather lacing down the outside seams and slipped on my beat-up red Justin ropers. Snapped the pearl buttons on my favorite shirt, a short, sleeveless red-and-white-gingham number from Cruel Girl.

I pawed through my extensive collection of rhinestone belts: b.b. Simon, Kippys, 20X, Montana Silversmiths, Old Man River. You could take the girl out of the country, but a gaudy bit of rodeo queen always remained. The Swarovski crystals on the skinny red Nocona belt glimmered as I threaded it through the belt loops, adjusting the silver studded buckle below my belly button on the low-riding jeans.

Damn. No place to put my gun.

As a civilian I didn’t need to carry everywhere I went. Still, it was hard to remember a time in my life when I wasn’t loaded for bear.

I clomped down the stairs and paused on the landing leading into the kitchen. The warm smells of home cooking hung in the humid air. Mashed potatoes and peppery gravy. Roasted meat, sugar-glazed baby carrots, and onions. Chocolate cake with white buttercream frosting. When I saw Sophie and Jake seated at the big table, plates set for Hope and Levi, and the empty melmac plate in my usual spot, I ignored my growling stomach.

“Why you all spiffed up for dinner, hey?”

Guilt, go away. “I’m not staying for dinner.”

“Where you going?”

“Out.”

Sophie’s eyes were curious as a crow’s. “Out where?”

As I snagged my straw hat off the coat rack and shouldered my purse, I swallowed the retort reminding Sophie I didn’t answer to her. I pocketed the truck keys and debated on racing back upstairs for my Walther, just in case.

“Mercy? You gonna tell me where you going?”

“No, Sophie, I’m not. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I left before she could change my mind.

The heat inside the truck blasted me like a woodstove. With the windows rolled down, the interior cooled as I zipped along the series of gravel switchbacks, a shortcut to my bar, my darling Clementine’s.

I belted out “Redneck Woman” along with the radio. The neon Coors Light winked at me across the barren field, the shadowy purpled Badlands a backdrop for the shadowy bar.

Clementine’s is a total dive. A cobbled-together shack where only the toughest locals dared to tread. A mix of cowboys, Indians, ranchers, bikers-anyone who wasn’t in the mood to exchange pleasant conversation. A place to knock back a shot, knock in a few pool balls, or knock heads together. Clementine’s was the roughest bar in five counties, and I considered it my own personal Island of Misfit Toys.

Oddly enough, Jake’s cousin, another one of Sophie’s grandsons, John-John Pretty Horses, owned the joint with his partner, Muskrat. I didn’t know Muskrat’s real name; everyone just called him Muskrat. Since he was about ten feet two inches and resembled Sasquatch, no one questioned him.

John-John and Muskrat were partners in the truest sense of the word. Woe to the idiots dumb enough to utter the phrase Brokeback Mountain.

The dusty parking lot was clogged with beat-to-crap Harleys, pickups with gun racks-loaded, of course-rusted-out midsized American-made sedans, and an SUV or two.

The steel door flew open as I walked up.

Muskrat had a scrawny biker in each ham-sized hand; two pairs of boots barely touched the weeds. He threw the guys to my left. They landed on hands and knees in a patch of creeping Jenny. “When I tell you to take it outside, I mean it.” Muskrat whirled on me.

Instinct had me bracing for a fight.

But his pale brown eyes lit up. “Mercy! Where you been keeping yourself? You’ll make John-John’s night.” He scanned the parking lot behind me. “You bring Jake along?”