No Mercy Part 31

We reached 130 mph five miles from the turnoff to Clementine's. Once I hit that magical number, I whooped, "Yee-haw!" and gradually dropped back to the legal speed limit. "Feels like we're crawling now, doesn't it?"

Trey didn't say a word. Poor baby appeared to be pouting.

Didn't mean I had to put up with his sullen att.i.tude. We were in my car. "Swallow your tongue, sugar?"

"Just shut up. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, you need professional help, Mercy. I swear to G.o.d, if you were a man, I'd-"

I slammed on the brakes again and skidded to a stop on the shoulder. "Get out."

"What?"

"Get the f.u.c.k out of my car."

"But . . . We're a mile from the bar."

"I don't give a s.h.i.t. Get out."

He opened his mouth. Shut it when he noticed my expression.

"You ever threaten me again, I will cut you open and yank your tongue out through your nose, got it?"

His hand froze on the door handle.

"I said, got it?"

He nodded.

"I know you're working for that son of a b.i.t.c.h Kit McIntyre. I don't know what you've done for him in the past, or whether it involved me and my family, but I'm warning you now: if I see you put one toe on my property, I will shoot you. And I will make it hurt before I let you die."

Trey ran away from me so fast his boots were smoking.

I smiled and headed home.

The TV was blaring in the living room when I walked into the house. It was surprising to see Hope's Honda parked out front. Normally she'd say her good-byes after Sophie left.

But tonight she looked more fragile than usual. Pale and wan and I just wanted to . . . feed her. To take care of her. To mother her, which was a new sensation for me. "Can I get you anything?"

She said, "No," but she followed me into the kitchen.

"You sure?" I rummaged in the fridge until I found the foil-wrapped baking pan. "Sophie made peach cobbler. That wouldn't upset your stomach."

Hope shook her head.

"Where's Shoonga?" I asked, just to make conversation.

"Jake took him."

I dished up a healthy portion for myself and saw her watching the digital clock on the stove. "You don't have to sit here with me, Hope."

"I don't mind."

"You want to talk about what's bothering you?"

She didn't answer for so long I was afraid she wouldn't.

"I miss him. Everywhere I go in that trailer I see him. Yesterday I tripped over a pair of his stinky old running shoes. Know the ones with gra.s.s stains? The shoelaces are completely frayed, they're too small, and I hated those shoes. Couldn't make myself touch them, but I can't make myself toss them in the burning barrel neither."

Tears poured down her ashen face.

My hands clenched into fists on the table.

"And last night, I woke up about midnight and laid in my bed, listening for him to come home. Waiting for that cheap tin door to slam. Waiting for thumping rap music to turn on. I lay there and lay there and I worried. I worried something happened to him. Then I drifted off again, and when I woke up, I realized something has happened, the worst thing I could ever imagine has happened to my boy."

"Hope-"

"Oh G.o.d, why would someone do that to him?" Blindly, she reached for my hands. "Shoot him like a dog? Why? I don't understand . . ."

Hope cried so hard I was afraid she'd forget to breathe. She squeezed my balled fists like they were lemons. But my bitter tears stayed inside me, acidic as vinegar.

"I can't go back there. Not tonight. Maybe not ever."

"You can stay here as long as you want. This is your home, too."

She pulled away and dabbed her eyes with a soggy tissue. "Yeah? But for how much longer?"

A warning screamed in my brain. Her mood could change at the drop of a hat. Rarely was the change for the better. "If you've got an opinion on what you think we should do with the ranch, I'd like to hear it." I emphasized we.

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

Hope paused and studied me. "I guess when you came back I thought you'd keep things the same, letting Jake or whoever run the ranch until Levi was old enough to take over. Not that it matters now."

Tick tick. The pressure valve on my patience was about to blow. "Your opinion matters to me. I don't know why you don't understand that."

"Yeah? Know what I don't understand?"

Off on another tangent. Big surprise. "What?"

"Why Daddy made you the executor. Why he left you in charge when I've always been here. When everybody knows you don't want nothing to do with this place."

"You think you could handle all the details?"

Eyes completely dry, she gave me a dull stare. "We'll never know, will we? Unless something tragic happens to you and the responsibility would fall to me by default."

At least she had full grasp of the situation. "Dad made that decision, not me. What do you want me to say? I can't change it."

She harrumphed.

"You know, I'm tired of p.i.s.sing around with this. People second-guessing me. Trying to sway me on what I should do." I angled closer and locked my gaze to hers. "If you had to make a decision right now, what would it be?"

Hope didn't even blink. "Sell it."

My jaw nearly hit the table.

"Not what you were expecting?"

I shook my head.

"If you'd asked me two weeks ago, I would've said keep it. Now I agree with Theo. I need to put all this behind me and move on."

Move on? Levi's funeral had been a few days ago. Yeah, Theo was the father of Hope's baby, but his advice seemed a bit harsh and more than a little selfish. "Has Theo been staying with you?"

"Sometimes. Might sound mean, but since Levi died I don't care whether he's around. Most days I wish he wasn't. That's part of the reason I'd like to stay here."

"I'm sure Sophie made up the guest room."

"But I always sleep in the front bedroom," she said softly, pleadingly.

It figured she'd want my room; it was the nicest, and she always wanted what I had.

Truthfully, it didn't really matter where I tossed my pillow since I wasn't sleeping much these days anyway. However, it'd be a complete b.i.t.c.h to move my guns. But I'd do it. I slapped on a happy face. "No problem. I'll grab my stuff right after I finish eating."

While Hope indulged in a bath, I indulged in Wild Turkey. I sat on the porch swing, soaking in the beauty of the night.

When my vision doubled and the harsh edges of the day blurred, I stumbled into the house. I shut off the lights. Checked on Hope. She'd fallen asleep sprawled in the middle of my bed with a pink towel wrapped around her head turban-style. I covered her with our mother's wedding-ring quilt.

The mattress in the guest room sucked. I can take hard beds. I'd rather sleep on the ground than spend the night tossing and turning on softball-sized lumps, so I curled up on the braided wool rug, next to my guns. Exhaustion-emotional and physical-sent me to dreamland almost immediately.

Baghdad burned. The thick, black smoke roiled over the skyline like an apocalyptic snake. Car and store alarms blared. Chunks of buildings crashed to the street, cracking the concrete like stones rippling in an empty pool. The continuous sound of gunfire jarred my brain. When I did get a brief respite from the noise, I panicked, because then I could hear screams of terror. The stench of burning garbage. Of rubber. The sickly sweet odor of fried skin.

My partner had left hours earlier. I'd stayed behind-voluntarily-to tie up the last loose end, a diplomat named Rajeem who'd gone into hiding in the Fadhil district. In addition to leaking cla.s.sified information, which had gotten five American soldiers killed, he'd raped and murdered a few orphans.

My mind kept returning to the pictures I'd seen, the horrified expressions on those dead boys' faces. The blood. The damage a full-grown man can inflict on supple young bodies.

If I had my way, Rajeem would've seen my wet work up close and personal. I didn't get to use a knife often; consequently, I'd spent way too much time planning how to cut off Rajeem's d.i.c.k and b.a.l.l.s with one slice. How I'd keep him from bleeding to death before I pried his jaw open and rammed his genitals down his own throat as I watched him choke to death on them.

But circ.u.mstances changed, as they did so often in war, and there was no safe way for me to get close to Rajeem. I had to satisfy the parameters of my op with a simple kill shot to the head. I felt cheated, but I finished the job.

I shuffled through the melee on the streets, hunched over, dirty burka dragging through the rubble, my head covered, but my eyes hyper-alert. I was another injured Iraqi woman, running from destruction and certain death at the hands of the Allies. No one bothered me. No one knew I'd strapped my stripped-down rifle to my right leg under my burka. Scary, how women are part of the background. Scary, how realistic the dreams were becoming. I even smelled smoke.

Smoke. I coughed and opened my eyes. Saw the French blue curtains in the guest room billowing against the red sky.

I sat up. I wasn't in Baghdad or lost in a dream. I was at home. On the ranch. In South Dakota. The sky never looked red like that unless . . .

Something was on fire.

I raced to the window. The chicken coop was engulfed. Orange flames licked the black sky like angry demonic tongues.

Hope.

I dropped to all fours and crept down the quiet hallway toward Hope's room. No flames crackled, no stifling heat, nothing but a bluish-gray haze filled the s.p.a.ce. At her door, cool wood met my palm. The metal handle wasn't hot, so I pushed inside.

The windows were closed; smoke hadn't breached the room. My gaze zeroed in on the small white foot dangling off the edge of the bed. "Hope. Wake up."

No response.

She was still sprawled on her stomach with the towel askew. "There's a fire. Wake up."

She didn't move.

I shook her shoulder. My fingers connected with sticky wetness. I felt a b.u.mp on the back of her neck that hadn't been there earlier.

Cold fear seized me. I pivoted into a fighting stance as my eyes scanned the room. No one jumped out at me. I picked up the receiver from the nightstand and punched in 911. The line was dead. d.a.m.n d.a.m.n d.a.m.n. And I'd left my cell phone on the coffee table in the living room.

On instinct I flung back the quilt and cradled Hope to my chest. Her weight didn't register as I hustled from the room. Despite the muscles in my chest being strung rubber-band tight, I inhaled deeply, dashed down the steps and out the front door. Once my bare feet hit concrete, I headed for the gazebo.

Hope didn't stir as I set her on the ground. I raced back inside the house, grabbed my cell phone, and dialed 911 as I sprinted back outside to keep vigil over my sister.

After dispatch rattled off their initial spiel, I said, "This is Mercy Gunderson. 43007 Gunderson Way. There's an injured woman here who requires immediate medical attention. At least one structure on the property is on fire . . . No, ma'am . . . I'm outside . . . Yes, ma'am . . . Thank you."

My cell rang not three seconds later. Jake. I flipped it open. "Mercy! You outta the house?"

"Yes."

"Where are you?"

"By the gazebo. Where are you?"

"On my way."

Two minutes later Jake came hauling a.s.s around the corner. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. But . . . someone broke in and hurt Hope before they set the fire."

"What? Hope is here?" He looked at the cell phone clutched in my hand. "Did you call it in?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Stay with her. I have to see if TJ put Queenie and Comet in the stables in the old barn. The north side of the small barn and the gra.s.s beside it are on fire, too."

s.h.i.t. Three fires? "Anything else burning?"

"I don't know. I'll check and be back."

Jake seemed startled when I grabbed his forearm. "The horses aren't worth risking your life."

"I know, but I ain't about to let an animal burn to death if I can get 'em out."