Mercy Kill

by Lori Armstrong

  “Barbara lives for this kinda stuff.”

  Hope waved at me frantically from across the room. “Leo, if you’ll excuse me.” I wove through the crowd until I reached my sister. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing. Good news for a change. I’ve been talking to Kit. He has a line on a new double-wide trailer outside of Rapid that was in mortgage default. He said me ’n’ Jake can look at it tomorrow. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Very. Where would you put it?”

  Hope switched Joy to her left hip. “Where my old trailer was. Like Jake said, all the hookups are already in place, so it’d be a quick move in.”

  “But you’ll be okay living there?”

  “It wasn’t the location I hated, Mercy. It was the trailer. I hated the reminder that Levi wouldn’t ever slam that crappy door again. Or leave his pop cans all over the living room.” Her eyes welled with tears, and she hugged Joy closer. “There was just too much of him in such a small space. I felt like I was suffocating in the silence of him not being there.”

  “Hope—”

  “I’m okay. I miss him. Not an hour goes by that I don’t think of him.”

  Instead of witnessing the pain in my sister’s eyes, I poked Joy’s jelly belly. “You deserve a place of your own. But the house will be empty and quiet with you guys gone. I’ll miss you all.”

  “Prove it.” Hope thrust Joy between us.

  “Whoa. What are you doing?”

  “Making you hold your niece. She’s five months old. Don’t you think it’s time?”

  “I just can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. You did last night. I watched you.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I still don’t know why you were bleeding, but I figure if you’d wanted me to know, you’d tell me.” She stepped closer. “Now. Go on. Take her.”

  I panicked and started to back up. “But—”

  “No buts.” Hope softened her tone. “Mercy. You won’t drop her. I promise. I’ll be right here.”

  Shame heated my cheeks. “How did you know—”

  “Sophie told me. I trust you with her. But, that said, I wasn’t gonna let you hold her when you were drinkin’ all the damn time.” Her eyes narrowed on mine. “You haven’t been sneaking shots of whiskey tonight?”

  I shook my head. Then I looked at Joy’s perfect little face, her tiny little body. I had guns that weighed more than she did. The next thing I knew, Hope was pressing Joy against my chest. My heart galloped. “Wait a sec.”

  “You’re fine. Just hold her with your left arm, like this”—she pulled my forearm across Joy’s rounded belly—“and slide your right arm under her butt. Perfect. She likes to face the front so she can see what’s going on.”

  Joy made a funny noise, then turned her head to stare at me. Were her eyes scared? Did she sense my fear? Would she take advantage of my inexperience and squirm out of my arms?

  Something else caught her interest, and she looked away.

  Whew. I didn’t bounce her or adjust my position. At all. I was statue aunt.

  Hope beamed. “See? Is that so bad?”

  “Umm. No.”

  “So, after me ’n’ Joy and Jake move out of the main house, are you gonna come clean about the guy you’ve been seein’ on the sly?”

  “What guy?”

  She smirked. “Nice try, but I even know who it is.”

  I ignored the spike in my pulse. “Do tell, little sis.”

  Hope whispered, “Bobby Sprague.”

  “Eww. That’s gross.” Bobby Sprague was the fat, mean, stupid kid that everyone had hated. As an adult he was still fat, mean, and stupid, and I avoided him like Sophie’s bran-pumpkin muffins.

  Joy grunted and wiggled. My pulse spiked again. “Umm, Hope? I think Poopy’s trying to escape.”

  “C’mere, baby girl. We’ve taken up enough of Aunt Mercy’s time.” Hope plucked Joy from my arms. “And stop calling her Poopy.”

  For the next hour, I paced, although it appeared I was mingling. My cheeks ached from smiling. Geneva and the election crew were falsely upbeat, so I suspected either Rollie or Kit had an inside source for the preliminary election results.

  Things weren’t looking good for team Gunderson.

  The ten o’clock news came on. Few elections were taking place in West River, so it wouldn’t take long to learn the results.

  The room went still as the information scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

  Winner, Eagle River County sheriff race: Mason Dawson def. Mercy Gunderson.

  I lost?

  The screen didn’t change.

  Yes, I lost. In the county I was born in. In the county my father had served for two and a half decades.

  Dawson won with a margin of 70 percent to 30 percent of the votes.

  Disappointment floated around me so thick I could’ve choked on it. Any semblance of a smile was long gone—on my face and everyone else’s.

  Don’t be a sore loser, girlie; he won fair and square.

  Thanks for that pep talk, now, Dad.

  I knew I’d have to call Dawson and concede, but why in the hell did I have to make the call in front of everyone? In the name of good sportsmanship?

  Screw that.

  I turned my back on the room—I didn’t care if they thought I was hiding my teary face—and flipped open my cell phone to text Dawson.

  Congrats. You won. Don’t be a smug prick about it. Official phone call to follow.

  My unofficial concession made me feel better, if nothing else.

  His immediate answering text read: So noted, and so gracious.

  I faced the campaign workers—my family, friends, and locals who’d pinned their hopes on me. I almost wished they’d berate me; it couldn’t be worse than the guilt I was heaping on myself.

  Geneva approached me. “You all right?”

  “What do you think?”

  She leaned forward and whispered, “I think you did better than Bill O’Neil would’ve done.”

  I stared at her. Hard. Then it hit me. “You didn’t expect me to win.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why did you—”

  “Because the county needed a choice, Mercy. If Dawson had run unopposed, no one in the county would’ve respected him, or his authority, or thought he’d ‘earned’ the right to be sheriff for the next four years.” She squeezed my hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I would’ve loved it if you’d won. But I was looking at the bigger picture.”

  “You sure you’ve never been an army war strategist?”

  Geneva smiled. “I have six children. Knowing the right strategy is a necessity. Now that your guilt commitment is over, here’s some advice. Allow yourself to have something that doesn’t owe a damn thing to your father’s legacy, the Gunderson Ranch, or your military history. Dawson’s really not a bad guy. And now that I think about it, he is your type.”

  “What type?”

  “A cowboy in uniform.” She whistled to get everyone’s attention. “Listen up, Mercy is making the call.”

  I started to call him but realized people might be suspicious if I had Dawson on speed dial. “Who has the number?”

  Only I saw Geneva roll her eyes.

  Kit handed me a piece of paper. “Here.”

  I hesitated. “Look, I appreciate that you all put your trust and faith in me. I’m disappointed that I lost. But the voters of the county have spoken. Dawson won. So I’d appreciate it if you give Sheriff Dawson your full support so we can keep the county united and move on. I know I will be behind him one hundred percent.”

  The clapping following my impromptu speech actually sounded genuine and not perfunctory.

  I punched in the numbers and hit Dial.

  Dawson answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Sheriff Dawson. Candidate Mercy Gunderson officially conceding this election and wishing you the best of luck in the next four years serving the community and Eagle River County as sheriff.”


  “Thank you, Miz Gunderson. Your father would’ve been proud that you stepped up and filled in as a replacement candidate for Deputy O’Neil on such short notice.”

  “Thank you.”

  The conversation ended quickly.

  My family and friends left without saying good-bye. Even the campaign workers were scared off by my don’t-fuck-with-me vibe, and I found myself alone with Leo as he locked up.

  I trudged to the parking lot behind the building, feeling more melancholy than I imagined.

  He won. You lost. Get over it.

  Yeah, but I deserved to wallow for more than thirty lousy minutes, didn’t I?

  I heard a noise and looked up from staring at my feet.

  One sodium light flickered above where Dawson leaned against the driver’s-side door of my pickup.

  He didn’t look thrilled for a man who’d just handed me my ass in my own damn county.

  I stopped about ten feet from him.

  “You didn’t pull a gun on me,” he said dryly. “I think that’s a first.”

  “Geneva wouldn’t let me carry on election night.”

  “She’s such a spoilsport.”

  Silence.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He didn’t blink, or move; he just watched me.

  “Shouldn’t you be whooping it up with your committee?”

  Dawson kept his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans. He looked every inch the cowboy—new Wranglers, a gray pearl-snap shirt, a black leather vest, scuffed black cowboy boots. He wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat or championship belt buckle.

  Shame, really.

  “Dawson?”

  “Yeah, I probably should be popping a top with the crew.”

  “Then why aren’t you?”

  A heavy sigh followed another pause. “Here’s the thing. I’m damn happy that I won.” His eyes searched mine. “But the truth is, you’re the only one I want to celebrate with, which sucks, since I suspect I’m the last person you want to see right about now.”

  I studied him. A sharp ache—a combination of guilt and need—moved through me. Dawson could be anywhere, with anyone, and yet here he was. With me. Waiting on me. I shoved my hands in my pockets, mimicking his stance, unsure what to do.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  I shook my head, expecting he wouldn’t accept my silence. He’d verbally push me until my words erupted like a geyser. But Dawson just watched me patiently. That unnerved me even worse.

  “You know what bugs me about this situation? Here it is, not even an hour after I lost, and I’m not all that upset that you beat me. I’m … relieved. And that pisses me off. It pisses me off that I’m not spitting nails at you for winning.”

  “Why?”

  “Because … fuck, I don’t know. Maybe it was all about the competition. Maybe I was trying to live up to expectations that aren’t mine.”

  “Sounds like an excuse, and you ain’t the type to Monday-morning quarterback, Mercy, so try again.”

  “Fine. The truth? My dad picked you because he trusted you.”

  “And?”

  I struggled, trapped by the weight of my pride. “Despite claims to the contrary, if my dad was alive, I believe he’d still consider you the better candidate. He’d back you for sheriff, even against me, his own daughter.” I laughed. “Took me a while to realize this, and even longer to admit it, but the crazy thing is? I do trust you, Dawson. You are qualified, immensely so, and the comparisons I’ve made between you and my father aren’t justified and aren’t fair.”

  He lifted a quizzical brow. “Meaning?”

  “I was wrong.”

  “So you don’t think I’m a complete and total fuckup?”

  I shook my head. The glint in his eyes kept me from elaborating.

  “You’re withholding something.”

  Jesus, Mercy, just fucking say it.

  “And … I-I’m sorry. Okay? I’m just … sorry.”

  “You sure your tongue ain’t bleeding after choking those words out?”

  “Ha-ha. Don’t be a jerk, Sheriff.”

  His answering smile was a little slow, a little smug, but he’d earned it. “Apology accepted, Sergeant Major.”

  “So now what?”

  “You tell me.”

  I threw my hands up. “I don’t know. Do we kiss and make up? Do we just go on as we were before?”

  Dawson shook his head. “That’s not enough for me.”

  My face heated. “You saying I’m not enough for you?”

  “No, I’m saying it’s all or nothing.”

  The part of me that didn’t like ultimatums bristled. But it wasn’t strong enough to make me walk away. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  I gestured at the space between us. “Be in a relationship.”

  “You think I don’t know that this is uncharted territory for you? You think I don’t know you’ve been fighting me every goddamn step of the way?” Irritated, but attempting to stay calm, Dawson shifted his stance. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but we already have a relationship. It’s as dysfunctional as I’ve ever seen, but it’s there.”

  Relief swept through me that I hadn’t completely screwed this up. “I know that now.”

  “Do you?”

  “Stop bouncing everything back to me as a question,” I snapped. “This is hard.”

  Dawson shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “See, that’s why we need to establish some … ground rules. I relate better when I have rules.”

  “Fine. I’ll make the rules if you’ll follow them.”

  “Blindly?”

  “Yep.”

  Shit.

  Could I do this?

  Time to fish or cut bait, girlie.

  “I’ll try,” I offered.

  “Yes. Or no.”

  “Fine. Yes.”

  Dawson’s hands came out of his pockets. He pushed away from my pickup with deliberate ease, ambling toward me.

  Damn if my heart didn’t beat faster, but I didn’t move.

  He didn’t ask for permission to touch me, as he sometimes did. He curled one hand around the back of my neck and brought his mouth down on mine with purpose and intent. And heat. God. The heat between us always caught me by surprise.

  One kiss shouldn’t make the world fall away, but it did. I clung to him with my body, my hands, my mouth, until I realized how needy I must seem. I tried to pull away, but Dawson wouldn’t let me go.

  His lips slid to my ear. “Come home with me. Now.”

  “If that’s a rule, I like it.”

  He chuckled. “That’s not the first rule.”

  “Umm. What is the first rule?”

  “When I say get in the truck, you get in the truck.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Huh-uh. Second rule: don’t question the first rule.”

  I smiled against his chest. “It can’t be that simple.”

  “Oh, sugar, nothin’ with you is ever gonna be simple. I accepted that the first time I clapped eyes on you.”

  “And yet, you don’t sound like that’s a bad thing.”

  “It’s not. I like who you are, Mercy. I wouldn’t have snuck around in secret with you the last few months if I didn’t believe there was something worth sneaking around for.”

  Relieved—and yet terrified—I pressed my face into his neck and breathed him in, this man who was tough enough to stand firm … against the craziness that was me. “Dawson, we should—”

  “Ah ah ah. What’s the first rule?”

  “Get in the truck.”

  “So why are you still standing here?”

  I got in the truck.

  No. No. No.

  Stop. Please.

  I bolted upright, gasping, heart slamming in my chest, body sheened with sweat. Where was I? Why didn’t I recognize anything in my room?

  Because I wasn’t in my room.

  This was
why I rarely spent the night at Dawson’s place. In addition to dealing with the nightmare, I had to find my sanity in an unfamiliar place.

  Dawson didn’t stir as I pushed the covers back and escaped.

  The moonlight glinted off the white countertop in his kitchen. My hand shook so hard that I spilled half the glass of water on myself. Gripping the glass, I stared out the window facing the field behind his trailer.

  Part of me knew the nightmare stemmed from wrestling with my conscience on whether I should tell Dawson my suspicions about Anna.

  Hadn’t you already decided?

  No. Turn her in; let her go. Either decision seemed wrong. But I wasn’t sure what I could ever do to make it right.

  “Mercy?”

  I jumped. “Dammit, Dawson. Don’t sneak up on me.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been standing here awhile.”

  Now I felt the need to apologize. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I know. How bad was it?”

  I wasn’t surprised he knew. Maybe the gasps of terror tipped him off. “Bad enough.”

  Dawson didn’t push, which I appreciated. Even if I wanted to talk about it, I wouldn’t know where to start.

  But he did. “About six months after I got out of the marines, I had a flashback on a commercial plane. One second I’d dozed off, the next my hands were wrapped around the throat of the guy in the seat next to me.”

  “What happened afterward?”

  “I apologized to the guy. The flight attendants moved me to the back of the plane. After I checked in to my hotel, I proceeded to get very, very drunk.”

  “I’ve found that therapy doesn’t work long term.”

  “Me either.”

  I took another sip of water. If Dawson saw my hand shake, he didn’t mention it.

  He moved in behind me. “Mercy, come back to bed.”

  “But—”

  “Your choice. We stay up and you can explain if the combat nightmares are somehow related to the fresh knife wounds on your throat and the puncture wound on your chest. Or you can come back to bed, and I’ll find some … inventive ways to distract you from thinking about any of it.”

  My pulse quickened, in a good way for a change. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Anna was a no-show.