Lori Armstrong - No Mercy

Thin tendrils of smoke rose from the rubble. I wandered to the porch. At three in the morning the thermometer read 77 degrees. I couldn’t make myself go inside to clean up, despite the fact I stank like smoke and sweat and fear. First time all night I realized I’d been putting out fires in what I’d worn to bed. Good thing I slept in ratty old shorts and a tank top and not naked.

I grabbed the hose and cranked the spigot. Holding my lips to the stream of water, I greedily welcomed the cool wetness in my throat, wishing it’d quench the burning in my lungs.

Washing my arms and legs proved difficult with one hand. I held the hose above my head and doused myself, closing my eyes as the icy cold water flowed over my body. Mainly I wanted the smell gone. It brought back memories of war. Of death. Of the first time I’d run for my life through smoke-clogged streets while everything and everyone around me burned.

I’d felt as sick and helpless and confused then as I did now. Filling my cupped hand with water, I inhaled the liquid through my nostrils. I coughed until my lungs were clear.

Once I could breathe again, I noticed Jake standing at the end of the sidewalk. “Is everything okay?”

“For now, the horses are in the west pasture. Unci kicked me out, so I’ll head home, unless you want me to stay.”

“I’ll keep an eye on things. Doubt I’ll be able to sleep anyway.”

“Then I’ll see you in the morning.” He vanished.

A sliver of moonlight gave the quart of Wild Turkey on the wicker table a halolike glow. I palmed the bottle and sat on the porch steps, fighting the urge to take a big swig.

After the last pumper truck pulled away, Sheriff Dawson crossed the yard in that loose-hipped, confident stride exclusive to cowboys, bull riders, and law enforcement officers. Since the poor man could lay claim to all three, he came by that swagger honestly.

I couldn’t help but watch him.

Dawson was an imposing man out of uniform. I still didn’t trust him, but my body didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. My mind kept flashing to what an impressive sight Mad Dog must’ve been in a pair of leather-fringed batwing chaps. After a long hard ride with a 1,500-pound bull between his legs.

When a spark flared inside me, I realized I hadn’t hosed myself down nearly enough to deal with him.

Dawson plopped next to me. Without comment, he plucked the bottle from my hands, placed it against his chapped lips, and drank steadily.

“That’s what I needed.” He gulped another mouthful and handed it back.

I let the bottle dangle in my right hand between my dirty knees.

He frowned. “How did you get all wet?”

It should’ve bothered me, the way he stared at the clothes clinging to my body, especially since he didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t looking closely. Very closely.

“An accident with the hose.”

He grunted.

“What’d Klapperich say?”

“Arson.”

“No. Really? How long did it take him to come up with that brilliant theory?”

Dawson’s muscled forearm abraded the inside of my thigh as he snatched the bottle. “Is that a character flaw, thinking everyone around here is incompetent?”

“If the cowboy boot fits-hey! Quit drinking all my whiskey, Dawson. Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?”

“Do I look like I’m on duty?”

I gave him a once-over. Scuffed boots. New blue Wranglers. Championship belt buckle. Gray T-shirt smeared with black soot. Hooded eyes. “No, you look like you were on a date.”

“I wasn’t on a damn date.”

“You got here pretty fast after the call went out.”

His gaze returned to my face. “What were you doing when you noticed the chicken coop was on fire?”

“You asking me if I torched my own buildings?”

“Hell no.”

“Is this an official interview, Sheriff?”

“Smart-ass,” he muttered. “Would it kill you to cooperate with me just once?”

“Fine. I was sleeping. Hope didn’t want to go home, so she crashed in my bedroom while I was tossing and turning on the floor in the guest bedroom.”

“Hope was staying with you?”

“Just for tonight.”

“Does it happen often?”

“No. It was kind of a last-minute thing.”

“Who knew she was here?”

“No one. Why?”

His eyes narrowed. “She was attacked in your bedroom. I don’t need to spell out what it means, especially to a smart cookie like you.”

Instead of stinging him with a rude comment, I closed my eyes. I heard the steady swell of crickets. No other animal noises caught my attention. Damn. Something was wrong besides the absence of wind. I couldn’t place my finger on it. It was like someone was watching me.

Tingles raced up my spine.

Dawson’s big hand closed over mine. His ragged thumb swept a continual arc over my knuckles, and his breath tickled my ear. “Talk to me.”

I shook off the lure of his touch. “Ssh. I’m listening. Do you hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly.”

He went still and listened.

Then I heard it: pebbles shifting on the path between the house and the barn. Someone was out there. No time to run inside for a gun. My adrenaline kicked in, and I was on my feet and slithering through the darkness before Dawson knew I’d left.

Everything fell away and I became one with the night. I dropped to my haunches in the shadow of the ash tree. Listened for the sound of clothing rustling. Or heavy breathing. Or more footsteps.

Nothing.

A twig snapped. By the machine shed? I couldn’t tell. I crept closer.

My bare feet barely registered the bite of gravel as I tiptoed to the corner of the barn. The odor of charred wood lingered. Should I cut through? Surely the not-so-sneaky bastard wouldn’t be stupid enough to hide in the barn.

Part of me wished for my rifle and scope, but I knew I’d be tempted to follow my training and shoot first.

Screech. Bang. The clank of the gate opening.

A diversion? Or was the idiot really taking off through the field with a quartet of nasty bulls ready to give chase?

My senses narrowed to auditory. Fury charged my system, but I kept my breathing normal. Then I heard light footfalls creeping alongside the barn. I braced myself to attack.

One leg appeared, then two. I kicked my foot between the gait midstride and the person toppled to the ground.

Before I had a chance to immobilize my prey, the man rolled me and I landed on my ass.

I jumped up. So did he. He rushed and knocked me into the side of the barn, pinning me against the warped wood.

“Jesus Christ, Mercy. What the hell are you doing?” he hissed in my ear.

Dawson? How had he gotten over here so fast? “Me? What were you doing?”

“My goddamn job.”

I snorted.

“Don’t start.”

“Well? Did you see anything?”

“Besides a coyote hightailing it out of here?”

“A coyote? Where?”

“Over by the propane tank. It must’ve smelled the burning feathers or something to bring it this close in.”

So much for my sharpshooter’s instincts. “You didn’t see anyone?”

“No.”

Even if my vision wasn’t perfect in one eye, I had a hard time believing I’d miss an animal that size. I got the feeling the sheriff hadn’t seen a coyote. “Quit screwing with me, Dawson.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since when has a coyote grown smart enough to open a gate?”

“You heard the gate open?”

“Didn’t you?”

Pause. “No.”

I attempted to shove him. “I’m sick of your lies. Who are you really working for? Kit McIntyre? What do you get for trying to burn my place down, Dawson?”