Lori Armstrong - No Mercy

“What makes you think I’m planning anything?”

“Let’s just say my spidey sense is tingling.”

“I have some of that ‘spidey sense’ myself.”

“I know. About damn time you owned up to it; you ain’t all white, you know.” He playfully slapped my thigh. “Nice try, changing the subject. You ain’t gonna tell me what you’re up to, are you?”

“Probably not.”

“These visions are disturbing, Mercy. Trust me when I tell you it’d be best if you don’t get involved.”

“Best for who? Not best for Levi. Maybe if I’d acted a little quicker helping Estelle, Levi might still be alive.”

John-John reached for my hands. He peered into my eyes, and I swear he saw all the secrets I’d buried. “You’re wrong. Don’t do this to yourself. You have enough guilt burning holes in your soul. Levi wouldn’t-”

The screen door banged. I jumped. John-John swore and Shoonga barked once before rolling over on his back into a patch of sunshine.

Iris Newsome stopped, readjusting the avocado green Tupper-ware bowl sliding off the Pyrex casserole dish. She looked up at us. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t. Here, let me help you.” I shot off the swing, thankful for the interruption, and caught the plastic bowl before it crashed to the porch.

“Thank you. I have a case of butterfingers today.”

I followed her to her car. She stacked the dishes in the passenger seat and straightened. She didn’t smile; instead, she stared at me, waiting for me to say something.

I almost wished she’d broach the subject of the countywide petition drive and break the thorny silence between us. “Thanks for bringing food, Iris, and helping out. We appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I could do. I just wish I could do more.” Her gaze flicked to the house. “Poor Hope. First losing her dad. And now this?” She looked back at me with watery eyes. “I know what it’s like to bury a child.”

I stood there like an idiot. Not knowing what the hell to do. Words of comfort escaped me. I wasn’t much of a hugger. I couldn’t even offer her a stupid Kleenex.

Iris wiped the tears with the tips of her fingers and gave me a wan smile. “Sorry. It’s just hard, seeing her like this. It’s not fair.”

Nothing seemed to kick my vocal cords into use.

“I’d better get going. I’ll see you at the service.”

As she drove off I glanced at the empty porch swing. John-John had gone inside. Good. He couldn’t ream me for sneaking a nip or two.

Then again, given his spidey sense, he probably already knew.

After the short service and the burial in the Gunderson Cemetery, we headed to the ranch. The women congregated in the house; the men milled outside. I alternated between hovering over Hope and waiting for Estelle to show up.

I watched Kathy Lohstroh rip off a chunk of plastic wrap and cover a pan of pumpkin bars. She gave me a sympathetic half smile and set about tidying the kitchen.

After she joined the throng of women in the living room, I grabbed the flask I’d stashed in the junk drawer. I’d just poured a generous splash of self-medicating goodness into my coffee when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around guiltily.

Hope’s loser boyfriend, Theo, said, “There are some guys outside who want to talk to you.”

“I’ll be right there.” I assumed more offers of condolences. I drained the coffee and stepped into the late-afternoon heat.

Never assume. Two shiny matching Chevy pickups parked in the middle of the yard blocked in a half-dozen cars. Several men dressed in black pseudo-fatigues leaned up against the pickup’s side panels, talking in low voices and pointing to the area past the barns.

Not locals. Hunters? We had a great number of guys-local and out-of-staters-who stopped at the house for permission to hunt on our land. Dad usually said yes if they asked. But if we caught people hunting on Gunderson land without permission? I’d learned the “shoot first” philosophy straight from the horse’s mouth-good old Dad.

The men straightened up as I approached. “Is there something I can do for you guys?”

The bulky guy with a buzz cut-no doubt a former soldier-stepped forward. “Hi, Miz Gunderson. I’m Richard Amiotte.”

I frowned. His name sounded familiar.

“We’ve been playing phone tag. I’m with the Swamp Rats Investment Group in Florida? We’ve been trying to set up a time to check out this property. We were on our way through from a fishing trip in Canada, and were in the area looking at other properties and thought we’d stop by.”

“Sorry, Richard, we’ve been dealing with some family issues in the last few days-”

“Sorry to hear that. Unfortunately, we are pressed for time, so we understand if you’ll just want to do a quick overview.”

“Excuse me? An overview of what?”

His gaze narrowed on the cars and trucks, the men dressed in western suits. Finally back on me in my little black dress. “Is this an auction? You already sell this place?”

“That’s hard to do when it isn’t even listed.”

His face relaxed. “Then what’s the problem with letting us take a look around?”

A crowd had gathered behind me. Before I could answer, Theo said, “What would it hurt, Mercy? Whoever he is, he might make a better offer than Kit McIntyre’s group.”

How did the pompous asshole know about Kit’s offer? I whirled on him. “What would it hurt ? We buried my nephew today, you moron.”

Theo turned beet red. Then he glared at me as he brushed past and headed back into the house.

“We don’t need a guided tour,” Richard said quickly. “We can get all the information we need just by a drive-through.”

“Not possible. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.”

Another man, around sixty, tanned, his hair bleached from the sun, and dressed for an afternoon on a sailboat, sidled up beside Richard. “What’s the problem? We contacted you weeks ago about purchasing this tract of land here in the Dakotas.”

Several ranchers behind me snickered. The Dakotas. Didn’t this southern-fried idiot realize North and South Dakota had been recognized as separate states since 1889? Probably pointless to mention that the Gunderson Ranch had been in my family since the 1890s.

I paused, giving him a moment to rethink his stupid, smarmy statement. He didn’t. He merely stared at me. Dared me. Creeped me out to the max.

Too bad these guys hadn’t listened to their damn voice mail. I’d left them a message renouncing my intention to sell, or to consider their offer. “There’s been some misunderstanding. The Gunderson Ranch is not for sale. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave immediately.”

“But-”

“I’m not asking again.”

Murmured conversation began behind me. The rumor mill would run rampant in Eagle River County in another hour. My neighbors figured the conversation was over. They dispersed, leaving me alone with these gate-crashers.

The other men with Richard climbed in their trucks. I watched until their pickups were a red blight on the landscape and then gone.

After the Swamp Rats scurried away, I snuck into the house. My black satin heels were scuffed from the rocks, caked with dust, and completely ruined. No wonder I never wore girly shoes.

In my bedroom I changed into worn boots and jeans, carefully placing the flannel-wrapped bundle inside my right boot. Downstairs I made nice with our neighbors for the next couple of hours. Hope seemed to appreciate me sticking around.

When I’d endured my limit of politely restrained conversation, I wandered outside. Leaning against the weathered fence, I wrapped my hands around the rail and propped my foot on the bottom rung.