Lori Armstrong - No Mercy

WTF?

I expected her to grin and say, “Just kidding,” but I was doomed to disappointment when she remained mum.

Was she serious? No responsibilities? My days consisted of carrying out executions. How did her days compare? Rounding up cattle, checking the outlying fences for dry rot, hanging clothes on the line, whipping up a batch of chokecherry jam. The potential for deadly mistakes was considerably less in her world.

“Aren’t you going to argue with me?” she demanded. “Remind me that you have serious responsibilities, too?”

It was like she was baiting me. “Why should I defend myself? You’ve already made up your mind as to what type of irresponsible person I’ve become. Or have always been.”

A small sneer curled her upper lip. “You know, at times in the last twenty years, when you’d come back on leave, I felt sorry for you. Other times I’ve been incredibly jealous. I’ve never allowed either feeling to affect our friendship.”

Until now, apparently.

“I should be happy you’re here and happy there’s a possibility you’ll stick around permanently.” A wistful look was there and gone. “Sometimes I still feel like that crazy high school girl with nothing to worry about besides dances and rodeos and whether Dad would let me drive the car Saturday night. And other days it seems I’ve been a wife and mother my whole life.

“But you’ve done everything you set out to do. Left the family homestead and let someone else handle the responsibilities and drudgery. Traveled extensively.” She twisted her wedding ring around. “While I stayed here.”

“Geneva, you never wanted to leave South Dakota. You wanted to marry Brent and live on the family ranch. There’s nothing wrong with that. It just didn’t fit with how I wanted to live.”

“So why do I feel you’re rubbing your life and your accomplishments in my face?”

“What?”

Geneva leaned forward; her eyes were cold and cruel. “What’s it like to play at running a ranch? To have financial security? Not be forced to sell off chunks of your property just to pay your taxes? To employ a tribe of peons to do the chores? To appoint an accountant to keep track of the ranch finances? To hire a maid to cook and clean and wash your clothes?

“Do you have any idea how much that pisses the rest of us off? You showing up like nothing’s changed? Acting like you own this county? Driving around in your dad’s pickup or your fancy-ass sports car as if you don’t have a care in the world? We are all struggling, Mercy. Us. Your friends. The people you grew up with. And it’s like you’re… mocking us.”

I heard my molars crack I’d clenched my teeth so hard.

Geneva continued spewing poison. “If you decide to sell to one of those out-of-state hunting outfits-rumor has it they’ve offered you millions of dollars-the value of our ag land will increase. And unlike you, we won’t have a choice. We’ll be forced to sell. And it’ll be all your fault.”

If anyone else had spouted those nasty accusations, I would’ve walked away, without refuting their stupidity and without looking back. Instead, I remained in place, letting the hatred brimming in my best friend’s eyes burn me from the outside in, like I’d been dunked in lava.

I took a minute to let my temper cool. “You finished?”

Geneva nodded. Cautiously.

“Again, I’m not going to defend myself. But I will remind you why I haven’t been here for the last twenty years ‘playing’ at being a rancher.

“While you’ve been home, surrounded by the people you love, even when doing the drudgery and chores you supposedly despise-canning and cooking and cleaning and washing diapers-with unfettered access to clean water, fresh food, a real bathroom, and a real bed, complaining in your air-conditioned house about the high price of gas and electricity, and about the ridiculousness of war as you sit in front of the big-screen TV, I’ve been in Afghanistan and Iraq. Living in the desert. Eating sand. Getting shot at every damn hour of every damn day. Watching old, crippled civilians and young, hopeful soldiers die right in front of me. Wishing I could have one normal day of joyriding around in a vehicle where I’m not afraid a car bomb will go off and blow me and a hundred others into bloody chunks. While you’re complaining how life hasn’t treated you fairly, I haven’t been on vacation, Geneva. I’ve been in hell.”

The corner of her eye lifted, a cross between a wince and a twitch, but besides that, her face remained a porcelain mask. And I wanted to see it crack.

“We all make choices. You made yours, I made mine, but you have no right blaming me for a damn thing. And just because I don’t constantly whine about my responsibilities doesn’t mean I don’t have any.”

“I can blame you for one thing.”

My dark gaze hooked hers.

“From the moment you came home things in this area have been a nightmare.” Geneva ticked off the points on her fingertips. “Albert Yellow Boy was found dead on your land. Levi was murdered on your land. Molly’s friend Sue Anne was killed on your porch. And last night someone lit your buildings on fire. Maybe the gossip about your family being cursed is true.”

“You blaming all that on me, Gen?” I never imagined Geneva and I would grow apart. As the reality of the situation glared me in the face, a deep sense of loss started to sink in.

“Also, I am warning you to stop contacting my daughter. Sue Anne was murdered the very day she talked to you. The day before that you’d talked to Molly. She feels you bullied her into betraying her friend. She’s scared.”

“She should be. Three of her friends are dead. This isn’t a video game where if you screw up you hit Reset and start over.”

“I know that,” Geneva snapped. “Just because I’m not living in a foreign country dodging bullets doesn’t mean I’m naïve. That’s why I’m telling you to stay away from Molly. Don’t call her. Don’t stop by. I couldn’t take it if anything happened to her. Or to one of my other kids. I’m not like you, Mercy.”

I flinched. I couldn’t help it. “How aren’t you like me?”

“You don’t understand how much my family means to me.”

Trying to gain control of my temper and my tongue didn’t work. For once I didn’t give a crap if she thought I was the coldest, meanest bitch on the planet, because at times I was.

Like now.

“You think I don’t understand? Why? Because I haven’t given birth I’m incapable of understanding love? Or the loss that comes with it? I’ve lost a helluva lot more in the last two months than you have in the last twenty years, so fuck that, Geneva.”

She notched her chin higher and continued the self-righteous glare.

“I might not be able to break the Gunderson curse, but I can break the curse of having a friend like you.”

After I stormed to my truck, I cranked the music as loud as it would go and burned rubber in my race to escape.

My mood was black. I practically ripped off the doors at Clementine’s so I could belly up to the bar. Inside, no one gave a shit about my attitude. The assorted customers were busy adjusting their own moods with various grain-based remedies.

Some shifty, stringy haired biker squatted on my bar stool. I tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Get off my chair.”

He laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“Now.”

Before he opened his maw again, I fisted his leather vest in both hands and threw him on the concrete floor.

He hit. Hard.

The buzz in the bar stopped briefly.

I straddled the stool and didn’t bother to look behind me. If one greasy finger touched me, I’d kill him.