“Hey. What’s up?”
“Look, do you think you could come over?”
The reception out here sucked. Or Geneva sounded frantic. “No problem.” I squinted at the tiny numbers on the receiver. Whoa. I’d been dozing for an hour. “What time?”
“Umm. Now? I need to talk to you about Molly. And what happened with Sue Anne. Molly is really freaked out. The priest has even been by, and he can’t get through to her. No one can.”
Had Geneva expected Molly to buy into the church’s automatic Sue-Anne-is-in-a-better-place line of bull? How could she expect me to reassure her daughter when I hadn’t been able to find solace regarding Levi’s murder? Or with the fact Sue Anne had been killed on my doorstep?
“Yeah. I’ll swing by.”
“See you in a bit.” And she hung up.
“Hey, Gen, what’s up?”
“Same old, same old.”
“Where is everyone? Inside?”
“No. Brent took them to Wal-Mart in Rapid City.” I followed her to a picnic table in front of a cluster of chokecherry bushes heavily laden with the bitter red fruit.
“I wanted to have uninterrupted time together to talk.”
That weird spidey sense that I’d recently developed kicked in. “I thought I was here to talk to Molly?”
“No. I want to talk to you.”
It wasn’t like Geneva to mask her motives. “Talk about what?”
“Everything that’s been going on around here.”
“Everything meaning . . .”
Geneva scowled at me. “Gee, I don’t know—Albert, Levi, and Sue Anne all turning up dead on your property. And I believe the only one you didn’t discover personally was Albert.”
Okay. “I know—”
“You’ll get your turn to talk, but can you just listen to me to first?”
I nodded warily.
She picked at a cracked piece of barn-red paint on the picnic table. “Dawson getting appointed sheriff seven months ago shocked a lot of people. None of us knew how sick your dad was. Guess we all figured if the invincible Sheriff Gunderson really was that bad off, then the prodigal daughter would return home.”
Prodigal?
That was bitchy. I waited for her to regale me with snippets of gossip on who in the community had decided I’d been reincarnated as the Wicked Witch of the West for not holding bedside vigil or Dad’s hand as he’d died. But her snappy tidbits didn’t come. Consequently, my back snapped straight.
“You haven’t been around for years, Mercy. Yet, the more things change, the more they stay the same.” Geneva looked me over like I was a soil experiment. “Strange thing is, you’ve probably changed less than the rest of us.”
“Meaning what?”
“You’re still waltzing around, no real responsibilities. Coming home when you feel like it. Traveling to exciting places all over the globe.”
Whoo-yeah. Mideast hot spots were all the rage. The discos were hopping and jam-packed with celebrities. The exclusive spas were first class. The shopping was to die for.
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.
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.
He must’ve sensed my murderous intentions because he disappeared.
Muskrat lifted a brow.
I threw my keys at him. “Don’t let me drive.”
“You got it. Whatcha drinking?”
“Two shots of Cuervo. In single glasses.”
“Lime?”
“No.”
Muskrat lined them up. I worked my way from left to right until they were empty. Took two minutes, tops.
“More?”
“Just one. And a pitcher of Bud Light.”
The golden liquid went down the hatch before Muskrat finished pulling the pitcher.
He slid an empty pilsner glass in front of me and I said, “Good man.”
“Anything else?”
“Does the jukebox take fifties?”
“Twenties.”
I dug a wad of money from my purse. Peeled off a hundred and handed it over. “Then I need change.”
“You wanna start a tab?”
“Yeah.” I peeled off another hundred. “Tell me when I’ve used this up.”
Muskrat frowned at the cash.
“What? If you tell me my money’s not good here, I’ll get shitfaced someplace else, Muskrat.”
“Your money is good, Mercy.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing.” He punched buttons on the cash register and passed me five twenties in change. “Pick something good.”
“Dwight, George, and Gretchen coming right up.”
He sort of smiled.
I played every song I loved, liked, and the stuff making the rounds on country radio. A Benjamin buys a lot of tunes. I parked my ass back on the stool, glaring at the bowl of soggy pretzels Muskrat not so subtly placed by the pitcher. “What the hell is this?”
“A buffer before your next round.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Muskrat gave me a flinty-eyed stare.
A measure of guilt made me amend, “Works for me.”
I crunched pretzels, sang along to “Little Sister,” and drank. And drank some more. I leaned across the bar. “You sure you didn’t water down that tequila? ’Cause I don’t feel anything.”
“You will.”
I drained the last of my beer. Looked around.
Interesting crowd. No one I knew. Maybe it was time to make new friends since I was a pariah to the few I had.
Even Geneva had turned on me. I could understand her wanting to protect Molly, but she didn’t have to go off on me with such a vicious, personal attack. Fuck that. Fuck her. Fuck everyone on the whole fucking planet.
The tequila hit me like a donkey kick to the head.
Thank God. Rarely did I purposely pursue a falling-down drunk, but when I did I wanted instant gratification.
I sucked down a glass of beer to ensure I wouldn’t sober up in the next ten minutes.
More folks crowded in.
My gaze landed on a young, buff cowboy at the end of the bar. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.
He lifted his head.
Ooh. Check out those baby blues.
He smiled.
I went one better and crooked my finger at him.
He sauntered over. Hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his skintight Wranglers so I could see his Badlands Circuit Rodeo Champion belt buckle.
“Hey there, darlin’,” I said, full of tequila charm.
“Hey there, yourself.”
“Nice buckle.”
“Thanks.”
“How long it take you to win it?”
He grinned. “Four years.”
“Still rodeoing?”
“Now and again.” His smile dimmed. “So, didja call me over to hear my roping and riding stats? Or for something else, sugar?”
“Actually I need a dip. Whatcha got?”
“Skoal.”
“Flavored?”
“Hell no.”
“Bandits?”
“Bandits and Long Cut.”
“Bandits it is.”
He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a can. Popped the lid open, held it out, and the smoky scent of tobacco wafted up.
I picked a pouch and slid it back by my left molars. I couldn’t stand to have chew under my lip. The tang of mint and tobacco burst in my mouth. I fell into that category of “social” tobacco users; I could take it or leave it. “Thank you . . . what’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. But it’s Riley.”
“Thanks, Riley.”
“My pleasure.”
He didn’t ask my name and I didn’t offer. “Whatcha drinking?”
“Jack and Coke.”
I motioned to Muskrat. “My friend Riley here needs a Jack and Coke.” I poured myself another beer from the pitcher.
Gretchen Wilson belted out “One Bud Wiser.”
“Do you believe in karma, Riley?” His pretty, smooth brow wrinkled with confusion. Probably didn’t know what karma meant. No matter. I gifted him with my party-girl grin. “Never mind. Let’s dance, cowboy.”
We stopped in front of the jukebox. I led until he got over whatever made him uneasy. Then we did a jitterbug/two-step combo. Whoo-ee. The kid could move. Must’ve looked like we were having fun because two other couples joined us.
Yeah, I’m a real trailblazer.
While Martina McBride warbled a sappy tune, we knocked back our drinks. Riley kept sneaking strange looks at me. I suspected ol’ blue eyes wanted to scamper off, but was scared I’d toss him on his ass if he tried to escape my evil clutches. Smart man. Still, it wasn’t my thing to force him to stay in my company, so I cut him some slack. “Could I get another Bandit? For the road?”
Riley offered his can again. “You leaving?”
“No. I don’t want to monopolize your time.” I dropped the extra pouch in my shirt pocket. “Thanks for the dip.”
“Thanks for the drink.”
He had a nice ass. Lewd, but I openly ogled that fine bit of Wrangler-clad flesh as he strutted out the door. I sucked down my draft, feeling my thirty-eight years. Truth was, he was too young for me. Too green. I needed a man with at least a couple years of a steady sexual relationship under his big belt buckle. A man who knew his way around a woman’s body. A man with stamina.
Someone like Dawson.
“Fuck that,” I said out loud to shut up the smarmy voice inside my head.
“You’d like to fuck that. Too bad your luck ain’t holding.”
I didn’t respond. Just drank. Steadily.
Laronda slithered into the space next to me. The gold bracelets on her arms clattered like a rattlesnake’s tail as she waved down Muskrat.
Her overprocessed hair brushed my cheek like a piece of cheap carpet. Too bad I didn’t smoke. One flick of the Bic and her starched mane would flame up like underbrush in August.
“Maybe it’s not bad luck. Maybe it’s your attitude.”
“Fuck off, Laronda.” I reached for an empty ashtray.
“Then again, maybe it
is
your age.”
“You want to go a round or two with me tonight?”
“No. I was taught to respect my elders.”
Shake it off
, some helpful voice inside my head suggested. I didn’t listen. I spit a stream of tobacco juice. It missed the ashtray and splashed on her manicured hand.
“Watch it!” Her gaze narrowed until her ratlike eyes nearly disappeared. Her laugh rang as phony as every other thing decorating her person. “You are a class act. No wonder you’re sitting here alone glaring at your beer.”
After she paid for her vodka sour, she sashayed away to dick with someone else.
The alcohol soaked in. On my return from the bathroom, I paused to observe a game of darts in the back room. Barely thirty seconds passed before I smelled her. Coating her slimy skin with cheap perfume wouldn’t mask the venom in her blood. I waited for her to open her big trap and her forked tongue to emerge.
It didn’t take long.
“I suspected you’d be back here trolling.”
“You would know all about that.”
“Ooh. Meow. You are an old sourpuss, aren’t you?”
Jesus. I needed another drink, and I was already three sheets to the wind. I started to walk away.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
Laronda made the mistake of sinking her claws into my shoulder.
Instinct kicked in. I grabbed her hand and twisted her arm behind her back. “Don’t ever touch me.”
“That hurts!”
“Good.”
“Let go.”
I did.
When she whirled around to attack me, I smashed her back into the concrete block wall until her head cracked. I braced my forearm across her windpipe, hindering her hands with my free arm and blocking her legs with mine. Boring. I could take her even when I was shitfaced.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. If I even think you’re breathing in my direction, I will fuck you up. Understand?”
Laronda glared, but didn’t answer.
So I pressed harder on her throat.
Her eyes began to water. Her face turned as red as the cherry in her sissy-ass drink.
“Are you clear on that?”
She tried to nod. When she couldn’t, she panicked.
I let her.
She thrashed.
I let her.
I whispered, “Stay away from me.”
She thrashed some more.
I didn’t care. I had a burning desire to get her to that elusive point right before she passed out where she couldn’t breathe. Where she thought she might die. And my apathetic eyes would be the last things she’d see.
“Mercy,” he said my name sharply. “Let her go.”
I removed my forearm. Laronda coughed and gasped, dropping to her knees, which I figured was a natural position for her.
It’d be smug and voyeuristic to watch her wheeze, so I faced John-John. “What?”
“What were you doing to her?”
“Um . . . punching her dance card?”
“Not funny.” He leaned in to sniff my breath. “I oughta have Muskrat throw you out for that stunt.”
“Do it. I don’t give a damn.” I sidestepped him. The crowd granted me a wide berth as I headed back to my lonely bar stool.
At the bar I upended the remaining beer.
John-John edged up beside Muskrat. “Are you drunk?”
“Close.” I hated the sympathetic look in his eyes. “You tossing me out?”
He shook his head.
“Good. Then bring me another round.”
“I don’t think—”
“Leave her be, John-John.” Muskrat swapped the empty glass for a full one. “She’s entitled.”
For that, Muskrat deserved a big tip. I toasted him and blew him a kiss.
“So whatcha gonna do for fun next?” John-John asked. “Kick a few senior citizens?”
“Dance. Think any of these guys will give me a spin?”
Muskrat snorted.
“You could always use force. That seems to work for you.”
“Fuck off, John-John.” I smiled meanly. “Then again, some guys prefer to be dominated, don’t they?”
“I see you overdosed on vitamin bitch today,” John-John shot back.
“Knock it off, both of you,” Muskrat said.
“I’m just getting started.” I twirled on my bar stool. Grabbed the first guy who walked past: a fifty-year-old biker with faded prison tats, and a gray soul patch around his hard mouth. “Wanna dance?”
His four teeth made his grin interesting, if not downright charming. “What the hell. My old lady ain’t here.”
We danced. I drank. I found another willing victim to two-step to “Right or Wrong” by George Strait. Another fearless young Indian brave slow danced with me to Keith Urban’s “Raining on Sunday.” The partners and songs began to blur. Dancing didn’t alleviate the too-tight feeling of my skin. The booze didn’t diminish the ache in my soul.
When I returned to my seat for another shot, John-John placed his hand on my drinking arm. “Is this helping, doll? Because you don’t look like you’re having fun.”
“I don’t know what fun looks like anymore.” I closed my eyes and knocked back a shot. It made me very, very dizzy. I was very, very loaded. I’d passed the
I love you, man
stage and reached the
my life sucks
stage.
“Where were you before you decided to drink yourself into oblivion?”
“At Geneva’s fortress of self-righteousness.”
“Did you two have a fight?”
My soft laugh held a bitter edge. “Takes two to fight. She treated me to a diatribe.” I shivered. The excessive alcohol had thinned my blood. Or, if I believed Geneva, I was already cold-blooded. “I don’t want to talk about it.”