“Did you cry?”
“Yeah. But it would’ve been worse to watch Mooshu suffer.”
“That’s true.” I took another drink. “Doing the right thing isn’t always the easiest thing, is it?”
“Nope. But now… I don’t think I could shoot Shoonga.”
“Because Grandpa gave him to you? And now Grandpa is gone?”
Levi shrugged. “Mostly. Shoonga is the one thing in my life that’s just mine.”
Silence.
We seemed to have lost our momentum. I could let the conversation die, or I could take it to the next level.
“You can tell me to take a flying leap, but I have to know why you really broke into Mr. P.’s place.”
His shoulders slumped almost as if he’d known the question was coming. “You swear you won’t tell my mom or no one else?”
“Absolutely.”
He squirmed. “Because of Albert, I’d been trying to hang with Moser and Little Bear and them guys. They was always teasing me that I was a white kid and all the Lakota classes in the world wouldn’t make me more Indian.”
Levi wanted to be more Indian? Why? Most days he could pass for a full-blood Sioux, with his tawny skin and brown eyes. What a bizarre reversal. Most Indian kids tried to be white, or—in the case of clothing and music—black.
“They asked me if I’d ever seen something I’d wanted but couldn’t have.”
“I suppose you told them something specific?”
“I told ’em about the knife Mr. P. showed me once when I was with Grandpa. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. They said they’d let me into their group if I stole it. And if I didn’t, it just showed I was too white to hang with them.”
“The sheriff didn’t list the knife as one of the things you stole.”
“He don’t know about it.”
No judgment. Just let him continue. Let it unfold at his pace, not yours.
“The pills and booze and other stuff was to throw Mr. P. off. Even after I was caught, Mr. P. wouldn’t press charges. Moser and Little Bear said it proved I was too white to be in their club, because if a real Indian kid woulda broken into Mr. P.’s house, his red ass would’ve been tossed in jail.”
True. “That’s what you were fighting about?”
“Yeah. I did what they told me to for initiation, and now they
still
won’t let me be part of the club.”
“Was Albert in the club?”
“We had a big fight about it when I found out Albert didn’t have no say in who could join. He wouldn’t tell me why they were trying to keep me out. Some friend, huh? He claimed Moser is in charge, even when some other person is the main leader.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. Don’t get to meet them until you pass the Warrior’s Challenge. Which means I probably won’t never meet ’em because I failed it.”
Why was he so desperate to be part of a group that didn’t want him? Boggled my mind. Rather than ask him to explain something even he probably didn’t understand, I changed the subject. “Where’s the knife now?”
A sheepish smile appeared, then he stared at his stained sneakers. He swung his feet, and the suspension creaked as the truck bumped up and down. “I took Ma’s car when she was sleeping and drove back to Mr. P.’s. Left it on the workbench in the garage. Might make me a pussy, but I would’ve given it back even if I had passed the stupid initiation.”
There it was, that glimmer of a decent human beneath the surly teenage behavior and bad choices. He could change. He’d already won half the battle because he
wanted
to change. “Smart move.”
“Thanks.”
Another round of quiet.
“Look, I just want to throw it out there that you can talk to me about stuff like this anytime. I won’t go running to your mom with what you tell me.”
“Cool. He always said the same thing. I miss him, you know? We used to talk all the time.”
“Your dad?”
“No. Grandpa.” Levi smacked a mosquito on his arm. “It sucks that he died.”
Sometimes I forgot I wasn’t the only one mourning the loss of Wyatt Gunderson. “Sucks big-time.”
Somewhere behind us I heard girls giggling, which reminded me I hadn’t passed along the message from Molly. “Hey. I saw Molly and some other girl hanging out inside. They asked about you.”
“Who was the other girl?”
“Sue… Ellen?”
His eyes lit up. “Sue Anne? Sue Anne is here?”
“Yeah. Is she your girlfriend?”
Levi snorted. “I wish.” He looked up at me, red spots on his cheeks. “She’s cool, even if she used to go out with that asshole, Little Bear. She’s in summer-school classes at the rec center with me. Sometimes we… never mind.” He hopped off the tailgate, touching the spot on his jaw where a bruise would pop up come morning. “Maybe she won’t mind if I’m a little beat up, eh?”
“She’ll probably swoon right into your arms, tough guy.”
“
Swoon?
You sound like Gramps. Old-fashioned. Kinda dorky.”
“Dorky?” I gave him my Eastwood flinty-eyed stare. “I’ve kicked ass for a lesser insult.”
Levi grinned. “You ain’t as mean as you let on either.”
I lifted my brows. “Now that’s pushing it, boy.”
Before he disappeared into the darkness, he said, “I’m glad you came home, Aunt 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.
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 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?”
My back stiffened. “No. Not my day to entertain him.”
“No need to snap at me.”
“Sorry. Habit. I’m just sick of everyone around here assuming Jake and I are still some star-crossed lovers. That time apart has mended our broken hearts and we’ll ride off into the sunset together on white horses and live happily ever after.”
“Ain’t a romantic, are ya?”
“Not a single bone.”
“Good. You can find someone better’n him anyway.”
My brows lifted with surprise. “You think?”
“Yeah. Jake might be John-John’s cousin, but I ain’t got much use for him. Takes that wooden cigar Injun bit too far.” He held the door open for me.
I ducked under his beefy arm without commenting.
Creedence Clearwater Revival blasted from the jukebox, which separated the central core of the bar from the back room. Both pool tables were in use. Ditto for the dartboards.
In the far corner, several guys straddled chrome bar stools, sipping mugs of beer, vacant eyes glued to some sports event on a big-screen TV suspended from the metal rafters.
I’d barely stumbled in when I heard my name shouted as a benediction. I was wrapped in a bear hug so tight my eyeballs threatened to pop out. A feather tickled my nose.
The burly bear in question, John-John, resplendent in black jeans, a black silk shirt, purple velvet vest, and a matching beret (complete with a red feather) gave me a slow once-over.
“Don’t you have the wholesome Mary Ann from
Gilligan’s Island
meets slutty Daisy Duke look? Love the belt.”
“Thanks. You can borrow it anytime.”
“Honey, if I had a waistline like yours, I’d take you up on that.”
“Aw. Turn a girl’s head, you talk so sweet, John-John.”
Muskrat snorted.
“Trey, you’re in Mercy’s spot,” John-John said, and shooed a very good-looking, whipcord-lean young cowboy off my favorite bar stool.
“I’ll move. No problem.”
I smiled at him. “Thanks, Trey.”
He gifted me with one of those playful, cocky male grins, and my stomach actually fluttered. “I’ll be over there if you need anything. Anything at all.”
My flirting skills were rusty, not corroded. I winked. “I’ll keep it in mind, cowboy.”
I set my forearms on the shellacked bar top, elbowing aside the ashtray Trey used as a spittoon.
“Whatcha drinking?” Muskrat asked.
“Double shot of Wild Turkey and a Bud Light chaser.”
John-John grinned. “Bad day?”
“Might say that.”
He slid the first shot in front of me. The bitter taste hit the back of my throat and ate a path through my stomach lining. I could afford expensive whiskey, but old habits die hard.
It made me laugh, those pretentious people who looked down at the Scots and the Irish and their homemade hooch. Now those same snobs consider themselves whiskey aficionados and search high and low for the “real thing.” Spare me. Only two types of whiskey in my book: free and not free.
I chased the shot with an icy cold glug of beer. “Ah. I’m feeling better already.”
“That’s why we’re here.” He murmured something to Muskrat and Muskrat lumbered to the other end of the bar.
John-John’s soulful black eyes connected with mine, mirth gone. “We need to talk. I had a vision about you.”
I sucked down another mouthful of beer, fortifying myself.
John-John and I had been best pals since we were kids. He is what the Lakota Sioux people call
winkte
, or two-spirited, a person born with both a male and female spirit.
In the days before Indians were relegated to reservations, it was a sign of good luck from the Great Spirit if a
winkte
was born into a family. The
winkte
was allowed to hunt with the men. Cook and sew with the women. It didn’t matter which sexual organs the
winkte
was born with, he/she had always been an honored and welcomed member of the tribe.
Part of being two-spirited also meant a closer tie with
Wakan Tanka—
the Great Spirit—and what I considered the woo-woo factor in Lakota religion, so it’d always freaked me out that John-John experienced visions. Mostly because they were dead-on.
I shivered.
He saw it. “If you hadn’t come in here tonight, I would’ve stopped by the house tomorrow.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Subject to interpretation, as always, but yeah, it is disturbing.”
“Well? Let’s have it.”
John-John squeezed my hand. “Somebody wants to hurt you, Mercy. Real bad.”
“Physical or emotional kind of hurt?”
“Physical.”
“I don’t suppose in this vision you’ve seen who?”
“No.”
“You have any idea when this will happen so I can try and stop it?”
“No.” He winced. His eyes filled with pain and guilt as he remembered. We both remembered.
When we were kids, John-John had had a vision about my mother’s death. Nothing that could’ve prevented it, just an impression of blood and horses.
It wasn’t until a year after we’d buried my mother that he’d mustered the guts to tell me of how, on the day of her funeral, he’d confessed to his
unci
Sophie what he’d seen.
Sophie realized the onset of puberty had started John-John on the sacred path. She’d taken him to the tribal elders for advice and guidance. John-John was lucky his grandmother hadn’t abandoned the traditional Lakota ways, or he could have floundered for years to understand who and what he was. Unlike kids who struggled with a conflicting sexual identity, he’d always been comfortable in his own skin.
“Mercy? Hon?” John-John prompted.
“Sorry. Lost focus for a sec. What did you see?” I asked, even when I really didn’t want to know.
“Red ground, red sky, red water. Though the impressions were blurry.” He frowned. “Don’t you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. I just wondered if I should avoid blow-drying my hair in the bathtub or shoving a knife in the toaster.”
“Don’t be flip.”
“I’m not. I hope nothing happens tonight because I left my guns at home.”
“Don’t you think you’ve killed enough,
kola
?”
What else had his vision revealed about me? God forbid anyone found out what I’d seen. Or what I’d done. I pushed the empty shot glasses at him. “Another round, barkeep.”
He pressed his lips together and turned away.
I used the lull between us to drain my beer. The jukebox was silent. I twirled around on my stool to rectify the situation when I noticed someone was already making selections.
Whoo-yeah. A tall male someone with an ass to die for, a perfect butt gift-wrapped in a pair of tight-fitting, faded Wranglers. A black-and-gray-plaid shirt stretched over wide shoulders and a broad back. I couldn’t see the color of his hair beneath his black Stetson, but I knew I was looking at a gen-u-wine cowboy.
God save me. I’ve had it bad for cowboys my whole life. Since the first time I’d seen Clint Eastwood. Since my first rodeo, watching bareback and saddle bronc riders getting tossed on their asses in the dirt and then climbing right back up into the saddle and doing it again. Around age thirteen I fell in love with bull riders. I mourned the death of Lane Frost like some mourned the loss of John Lennon.
Something about cowboys speaks to me on a visceral level. Rugged-looking men making a living from the land. Wearing dirty, mangled cowboy hats. Hearing the jingle of spurs. Seeing work-stained ropes draped over tired shoulders. Tight jeans. The faded circle on the back pocket of those jeans from the ever-present can of chew. Scuffed boots covered in manure. The tougher-than-shit attitude. The gentlemanly way a cowboy held a woman as they two-stepped. The brawling in the name of honor, dishonor, or just because a good fight seemed like a good idea.
Oh, and don’t get me started on their big… belt buckles and pickup trucks.
Being born on a ranch, I’d never stood a chance at wanting any other kind of man besides a cowboy. I’d tried to expand my horizons after I’d left South Dakota. Law enforcement guys and a few sweet-talkin’ soldiers from Dixie had come close, but ultimately they’d fallen shy of the mark. My dad—a throwback to the old cowboy ways and an honest and decent man—had set the bar high.
I silently willed my object of lust to turn around.
From the speakers, Toby Keith demanded, “Who’s Your Daddy?” and my cowboy sidled into the back room without letting me see if his front matched his back.
Damn. Win some. Lose some. Maybe if I planted the seed with John-John, he could conjure up a vision of the next time I’d get laid. It’d been a while.
John-John slid the Wild Turkey in front of me. He lit a Salem and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. “
Unci
said you’re helping Estelle Yellow Boy.”
“Sophie told you that?”
He nodded. “Did she railroad you into it, Mercy?”
“Doesn’t she always?”