No Mercy Part 3

"A club? Or a gang?" She leaped to her feet and got right in his pimply face. "Don't even think about it. Those gangs on the rez are bad news. You know that."

"It ain't a gang."

"Then what is it?"

"I told you. A club."

What type of "club," besides a gang, made potential pledges commit illegal acts?

None.

"Besides, it don't matter now," Levi added. "I got caught. They ain't gonna let me in. Can we go? Shoonga's been cooped up all day. Probably ripping the place apart."

Shoonga was Levi's corgi, a gift from Dad on Levi's seventh birthday. While Levi had debated on what to name his new pet, Sophie and Jake had taken to calling the unruly pup the Lakota word for dog, which stuck.

That was the only year I'd been home for Levi's birthday. Now, as I watched my nephew and the surly teenager he'd become, I wondered what'd happened to the boy with the ready grin and sweet disposition.

I half listened while Hope harangued Levi for another minute, which seemed to last an hour. When Levi began kicking the oak molding again, I said, "Enough. Take him home. Make sure you call the sheriff."

Levi shot me a grateful look. It shocked me. Maybe getting arrested had been a good thing for him. For us all.

Hope twirled her keys and brushed past me. "We're leaving. Right now."

No good-bye. No thanks. No surprise.

Sophie didn't stick around after she'd made me supper. I could've terminated her employment after Dad's funeral-as a single woman I didn't need full-time help in the form of a maid and a cook. I insisted on was.h.i.+ng my own clothes and cleaning my s.p.a.ce upstairs. But Sophie had taken care of our family since my mother's death, and she'd struggle without the salary we paid her. In some ways, it'd be like throwing her out of her own house.

I wandered through the main floor, at loose ends. I hadn't revived my TV habits since I'd been home from the war because I couldn't stand watching the news. Protestors and pundits and pansy-a.s.ses blathering on about what we were doing wrong over there-without having stepped a G.o.dd.a.m.n foot on foreign sand. They had no idea what it was like spending a night waiting for the patrols to return, not knowing which one of your fellow soldiers was headed home in a flag-draped coffin.

I had no interest in reading the thriller Sophie had bought at Besler's grocery. I had lived that edge-of-your-seat thrill ride every d.a.m.n day, and it wasn't nearly as fun as depicted in fiction.

Sadly, no lover waited in the wings for my call. Too early for bed. Too late to head into Rapid City to catch a movie. When in doubt, I exercised. I laced on my running shoes and took off.

The gravel road in front of our place has little traffic in the early evening. I hated to run. But there's nothing like it for keeping in aerobic shape. At times my life depended on being able to make a quick getaway.

But I almost stopped when I realized it was the worst time of day for me to see. Hazy purple twilight: not quite day, not quite night. I've always taken my perfect eyesight for granted. I never believed my body could fail me. Or medical science couldn't cure what ailed me.

Retinal detachment. The words were like shrapnel in my soul.

It'd come as a total shock when black shadows obscured the vision in my right eye. I'd been alone in Hilah, two days away from medical help. By the time I made it back to camp, a shrapnel wound and severe dehydration accompanied the eye injury.

Luckily, a Mobil Ophthalmic Surgical Team (MOST) performed the surgery on my eye immediately. Chances were good I wouldn't completely lose my eyesight, a better prognosis than initially expected. I should feel thankful.

Instead, I felt restless. There was no gray area in my field of expertise. Either I was 100 percent or I'd be rea.s.signed to a military desk/teaching job.

Or I could take my twenty and retire. Put my skills to use in the real world. Problem was, there isn't a big market for female snipers.

With my a.s.sorted injuries, the loss of my career, the grief and stress of losing my father, and my having to make a decision on the ranch, I doubted my life could get more complicated or out of my control.

Famous last words.

THREE.

The next morning my edgy feeling continued. For years my life had been scheduled down to the nanosecond. During rare downtime I reconnected with my family. Revived my s.e.x life. Hit the firing range.

Spending the day between the sheets with a naked man wasn't an option. I'd endured as much family time as I could stand. That left one thing. I pulled my guns out from beneath the bed.

Although I'd already cleaned them, I double-checked anyway. I shoved the ammo in the duffel bag alongside the gun cases and zipped it shut.

Sophie turned from the sink when I hit the last creaky stair tread. Her eyes zeroed in on the bag. "How many times do I have to tell you? I can do your laundry."

"It's not laundry. I'm going out for a little while to shoot."

"Good thing Hope isn't here to see you hauling around a bag of guns, eh?"

"Probably."

"She still has nightmares," Sophie said.

My hand momentarily stilled on the shoulder strap of my little black bag of death. I turned away and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. As I uncapped it and drank, my neck burned from Sophie's hawklike eyes boring into me. I couldn't blame her for her overprotective instinct when it came to my little sister. We all felt sickened and guilty for what'd happened years ago, and yes, I knew Hope still had nightmares. We all did.

Sophie made a harrumphing noise. "You're exactly like your father when it comes to dealing with stuff, Mercy. Anyway, I wanna ask you about something else."

I faced Sophie and couldn't keep the grumpiness at bay. "What?"

"You thought any more about talking to Estelle? She called me at home last night."

"About what?"

"About you helping find out what happened to Albert."

I forced myself to count to ten. "No, I haven't thought about it. I don't know why she's pestering you anyway. Why does it matter that Albert was found on our land?"

"Mebbe she sees it as your land, your responsibility."

"Have her take her concerns to Dawson. That's his job-his responsibility-not mine. Besides, it's not like I don't have enough to do around here."

"You?" Sophie's eyebrows lifted. "And here I thought you was pa.s.sing everything off to my poor, overworked grandson, eh?"

"You really want to get into Jake's job description with me, Sophie?"

She sighed. "I don't know what happened to you, Mercy. Now you and Jake don't talk about nothing."

"So?"

"So, you never used to be like this."

"Like what?"

"Cold. Hard. Mean. Unforgiving."

Sophie and Hope knew how to push my b.u.t.tons. Rather than take the high road, I loomed over her. "I'm exactly who I always was, so don't go coloring the past rosy and painting me as some Pollyanna who turned evil when I left the stabilizing influences of home and hearth. I've had darkness and secrets inside me since the day my mother died. The only difference is now I don't try to hide them."

A bleak expression flitted through her black eyes.

I didn't feel like appeasing her. And I sure as h.e.l.l wasn't about to explain myself any more than I already had. "Forget it. I'll be back later."

Sophie gave me one last wounded look before she returned to the dirty breakfast dishes.

The ATVs were missing, which meant Jake and the ranch hands weren't around. He'd left my dad's old Ford 250 diesel backed up to the barn door. Too much trouble to unload the posthole digger, roll of barbed wire, and a.s.sorted tools cluttered in the truck bed. I s.h.i.+nnied up the thick nylon rope dangling from the rafters in the barn. From the open hayloft door, I heaved a hay bale on top of everything and rappelled down.

In the pasture, I maneuvered the truck around rock piles and holes, swerving hard to avoid a rusted car door from a '57 Buick propped up like the start of Carhenge, the quirky tourist spot in Nebraska, where a few enterprising farmers had replicated Stone-henge-not with stones, but with vintage, American-made cars.

Tacky? Maybe. But not nearly as bad as the tourist trap that is Graceland.

Out here the vegetation was fairly high, indicating this section hadn't been grazed recently. From a distance, pockets of orangish-red and brown soil were laced with drought-resistant tallgra.s.s; blue grama, fescue, prairie dropseed, and the slender green stems of quack gra.s.s. Up close, the shorter buffalo gra.s.s spread out as a spotty carpet of gray-green sod. Velvety-soft lamb's ear plants ringed large and small clumps of silver sagebrush. Yucca spikes poked up intermittently. When the fat, dried yucca seedpods shook in the wind, it sounded like dozens of rattlesnakes coiled in wait.

In the grove of half-dead elm trees, I parked beneath the largest one, not for shade, but to stand on the cab roof to reach the branches. Climbing trees wasn't a hobby left over from my tomboy years; it kept me agile, kept my senses sharp. In my line of work, a clear shot was a rarity. Preparation for every contingency was a necessity.

I unwrapped a package of neon orange targets, small dots the size of a dime. When I'd scattered twenty targets, I cracked the case for my H-S Precision takedown rifle. I swapped out the modified barrel and was good to go.

No sungla.s.ses, no cap to shade my eyes from the morning sun. Just me, my gun, and my scope. If I missed a shot, I couldn't blame it on anything besides my s.h.i.+tty marksmans.h.i.+p.

That familiar tickle started low in my belly. Fear. Antic.i.p.ation. Confidence.

It'd taken longer to set up the course than to empty the magazine. My self-a.s.surance deflated when I studied the targets. Berating myself, I disa.s.sembled the rifle and packed it away. As I readied my handgun, a 9 mm Browning High Power, I knew my ego needed better than 50 percent accuracy, especially when I was used to 95 percent.

Tires crunching on bone-dry vegetation signaled unwanted visitors. A burgundy Dodge Silverado dually crept toward me. No clue who these people were. With a body discovered a week ago, I wasn't taking chances. I slammed a full clip in the gun, letting it dangle by my side.

My face remained neutral. My body appeared loose-limbed and relaxed. Inside I was wound tight as a new ball of baling twine.

The door opened. Bluish-white ostrich-skin cowboy boots thumped on the chrome running board. I gave a mental whistle. Those babies were high-end Lucchese boots, if I wasn't mistaken. I tamped down my envy as my mystery guest hopped down. He kept his back and the brim of his silver Stetson to me as he slammed the door.

When he faced me I groaned. Kit McIntyre. Real estate tyc.o.o.n wannabe. My gaze flicked over the s.h.i.+ny truck. More than a wannabe if he could afford to drop $65K on a rig and $3K on boots. Still, he was a pain in my a.s.s. He claimed a friends.h.i.+p with my father that Dad hadn't appreciated or reciprocated.

Old Kit had cotton white hair and a matching goatee. Add in his rotund carriage and he was the b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of Boss Hogg and Colonel Sanders-a description Kit wouldn't find the least bit distasteful. He even wore an off-white western suit with a bolo tie, and a silver-studded white leather belt with a buckle the size of my great-grandma's prized silver serving tray.

The pa.s.senger door opened. Hiram "Hi" Blacktower scrambled around the front end. Hi, a Lakota Sioux man, was tall as a spruce, broad as a barn, and dumb as a turkey. Dad always said Hi would be dangerous if he had any ambition. It appeared his ambition was to be a carbon copy of Kit. h.e.l.l, they'd even dressed the same.

Kit grinned at me. "We was wondering if we'd ever find ya, Mercy. Whatcha doing all the way out here by yourself?"

"Target shooting." I lifted the gun. Neither of them had noticed it. Kit's name fit: he had the survival instincts of a kitten.

"Is that military issue?" Hi asked.

"Nope. Personal. Why?"

"My brother Josiah was in the Gulf War, and he had a gun like that before..."

Before coming home a broken man in a wheelchair, courtesy of a land mine. My father had been freaked out about Josiah's injury when I accidentally let it slip I'd been in that exact area right before that particular b.l.o.o.d.y offensive.

"Anyway, it's good to see you, Mercy," Hi said.

"How'd you know where to look?"

"Sophie was kind enough to point us your direction."

Sophie earned herself a free a.s.s chewing. "So, why are you guys trespa.s.sing? No one would blame me if I shot first, given all that's happened round here in the last month."

Kit softened his good-ol'-boy grin until his jowls sagged. Blinked at me with puppy-dog eyes. "I sure am sorry about your daddy, Mercy. I know it's got to've been hard, coming back here after Wyatt's death and handling all this stuff, the ranch, your sister-bless her soul-and the estate legalities. Lot of responsibility for a single woman."

I didn't have to guess what Kit was getting at. Surprised me it'd taken him a month to get around to it.

"I saw Hope at Besler's grocery. She told me she's anxious for you to make a decision on what you're gonna do with the ranch."

"Did Hope talk to you about it?"

"Yep. Sounds to me like you might be convinced to sell." His eyes searched mine. "That true?"

"What's it matter to you if I sell it or not?"

"Well, now, I'm glad you asked. 'Cause I've put together a sweet opportunity. It's real exciting."

"Real exciting," Hi chimed in.

They paused, letting the silence build drama.

I made the on-with-it gesture. With my gun.

"First off, let me tell you I know better than anyone what this ranch means to the community. It's a piece of living history. We'd all like to see that history preserved, Mercy. In a beneficial manner to the Gunderson family, for all they've done over the years."

I muttered, "What a bunch of bulls.h.i.+t," but old Kit heard something else because he beamed an indulgent smile.

"Saddens me to see young folks being forced away from the country way they was raised in because they can't afford to ranch. Either because their older brothers and sisters are carrying on the family traditions, or because the price of the land is too d.a.m.n high for a young couple just starting out. I'd like to keep some of them around here and offer them the same chance that was given to their daddies and granddaddies. Keep the community young and thriving."

"I imagine you've got something in mind?"

Dollar signs lit his eyes. "As a matter of fact, I do. I've rounded up a group of investors that would like to buy the Gunderson Ranch from you. In its entirely."

"Yeah? What are their plans for it?"

"We'd keep a large chunk of it intact. The rest we'd parcel out, about five hundred acres each. It'd give some of these young ranch couples a place to start."