“I don’t know why you’re acting like this. I’m chalking it up to grief. But I will tell you that if you ever come at me like that again, you’ll be sorry.”
He stomped past me and out the door.
I let the adrenaline fade, picked up the broken plate, and poured myself a glass of water.
Christ. It’d already been a long-ass day. But it’d be an even longer wait until nightfall.
After a lunch of peanut-butter crackers and grapes, I called Geneva. No answer. I called Rollie. No answer. I called John-John. No answer. Why didn’t people answer their damn phones? I hated talking to machines, but I left messages anyway.
I hated to admit I was lonely and wished Sophie and Hope were around.
Sick of silence and my own crappy company, I flopped on the couch and indulged in an entire afternoon of TV. All classics: Petticoat Junction, Green Acres, and Hogan’s Heroes. Reminded me I’d always wanted a pet pig named Arnold. Maybe it was time to seriously look into it. Wouldn’t Sophie have a fit? Cheered by that thought I roused myself and ventured outside.
It neared Jake’s usual quitting time, and I needed to talk to him before he left. I assumed he’d be in the place he loved and I hated: the old wooden barn. As far as barns went, it was considered antique. Constructed of wide oak planks, painted red, with a hayloft; a Norman Rockwell portrait come to life. Charming, right? Wrong. For me it was a mausoleum.
I inhaled a calming breath and scooted inside. With the hayloft door closed, it stayed dark. The narrow walkway to the stalls was littered with loose pieces of hay. The smell never changed, even after everything had been scrubbed down. Horse sweat, horseshit, wet leather, wet wool, hay dust, dirt, and feed. Mud. Plus the chemical odor of the pesticide needed to keep the flies down.
Three of the four stalls housed horses. I didn’t linger, just made a straight line to the tack room.
Jake looked up at me with surprise. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just needed fresh air.”
“Then you’re in the wrong place. The air’s mighty stuffy in here.” He glanced down at the ropes in his hands instead of at me when he remarked, “Didn’t think you came out here.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“I seen Kit McIntyre’s fancy-ass rig pull up. What’d he want?”
“To buy the ranch. I said no. He didn’t listen. I said no with a little more force. Don’t think he’ll be back.”
“Shee. Watch out for him. He’s a sneaky one.”
“He doesn’t scare me.” I forced my foot onto the plastic milk crate by the wall so I wouldn’t run out. “Anyway, think you could get some specific information about the next meeting time and place for the Warrior Society from Bernie?”
Jake’s work-roughened hands stopped twisting the rope. Slowly his gaze met mine. “Why?”
“Randall let it slip they’re meeting with the leaders in the next couple of days. I want to know where and when.”
“I don’t know how much Bernie can help. Bernie said a couple of months after Axel was initiated into the group, Axel quit.”
“From what I’ve heard, no one can quit.”
“Huh. He did. Anyway, Axel refused to tell Bernie who the leaders are because of some secret oath.”
“Would Bernie talk to me?”
Jake frowned. “I don’t know. He’s kinda closemouthed. What’d you learn from Rollie?”
“About the same thing you just told me. But he gave his blessing for me to poke around on the rez.”
“Think you mean curse.”
I smiled. “What’re your plans for tonight?”
“Hang out. Watch TV.” His eyes narrowed. “What’re you doing?”
“Taking the Viper out for a spin. The girl gets antsy. Might see what’s up at Clementine’s.”
“I don’t like the look on your face, Mercy.”
I smiled again. Wider. “Just be damn glad that look isn’t aimed at you tonight.”
FIFTEEN
So I went looking for trouble.
I called John-John. Trey was at the bar, knocking back a couple of beers. Maybe my luck was about to change.
Gravel roads are hell on metallic paint. By the time I’d bumped into the parking lot at Clementine’s, an amethyst glow cast the Badlands in shadow.
The metal door banged open. An angry ranch woman stamped out. I paused to see if her significant other would chase after her. But she climbed in her Chevy truck alone and roared off in a powdery puff of dirt.
I sauntered inside and John-John came out from behind the counter to give me a big hug. He whispered, “I don’t like the gleam in your eye, Mercy.”
I almost said, “Which eye? The good one or the bad one?” but I offered him a toothy grin. “Trick of the light, kola.”
“Uh-huh. What can I get you?”
“A Coke. Straight up. But make it look like you dumped whiskey in it, okay?”
“You’re scaring me.”
I playfully slapped his cheeks. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.”
Trey returned from the back room the same time John-John slid my drink in front of me. He’d even added a maraschino cherry. I lifted the lowball glass in a mock toast. Trey loped over with a big cowboy smile.
“Hey, Mercy. Ain’t seen you around much.”
“Haven’t really been in the party mood.”
His grin died. “Yeah. I heard. Sorry about your nephew.”
“Thanks. I needed to escape from the house for a while, so I took my car out for a spin. Thought I’d stop in and get a little something to wet my whistle.”
“Car? You ain’t driving your truck?”
I shook my head. “Wanted to drive fast so I rolled out the Viper.”
Trey’s mouth hung open like a broken cellar door. “You have a Viper?”
“Yep.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
“A Dodge Viper?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“You pulling my leg?”
“Nope.”
“It’s out there right now? In the parking lot?”
“No. I parked it on the roof.”
He blushed. “Shit. Sorry. Can I see it?”
“Sure. Let’s go.” I downed my Coke and waved good-bye to John-John.
Even without light the black metallic paint on the car gave off its own radiance.
Trey was mesmerized.
“Pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yep.” Trey’s hand caressed the front quarter panel like the curve of a woman’s backside. He whistled. “This is one sweet machine, Mercy. How fast will it go?”
“It’ll blow the doors off anything around here.”
“Bull.”
I looked at him. Tried to keep from glaring at him. “Name one.”
“Boxy Jennings’s 1969 Barracuda.”
“Still won’t beat what’s under this hood.”
“You’ve raced her? On the track or on the road?”
“Both. Don’t argue with me on this point, Trey, because you cannot win. Some pissant forty-year-old muscle car can’t hold a candle to the performance of this baby.”
“What’s the fastest you’ve ever gotten it up to?”
I angled across the hood and flashed him a bit of cleavage. Smiled seductively as I twirled my keys. Yeah, I was feeling wild. Cocky. Cruel. “Wanna hop in and see what she’ll do?” Come on, I’m danglin’ the rope, cowboy. Grab for it with both hands.
His blue eyes lit up bright as the neon Bud Light sign. “Hell yeah.”
“A couple of conditions first.”
“Name ’em.”
“No telling me how to drive. No grabbing the steering wheel at any point. And we stop only when I say we stop.”
“That it?”
“No. If you mess your pants, you’re cleaning it up.”
“You’re serious? Like I’ll be so scared I’ll…” He drawled, “I ain’t skeered a’ nuthin’.”
At any other time that might’ve charmed me. “Remember you said that.”