Finding Mercy

by D. L. Jackson

  He couldn’t blame her. He looked like Frankenstein under that shirt. Pieced and patched like a jigsaw puzzle. Not pretty at all.

  Justin punched the counter and yanked his hand back, shaking it. How could he get her image out of his head? Her taste off his lips? Or the scent of her freshly washed hair from his mind, where it seemed to have embossed itself. His dick sure wasn’t going to let him forget it.

  Beer. Or something harder. If he could buy it on Sunday. He didn’t drink, for a lot of reasons. That demon had taken hold of him once before, and he knew even thinking about it was a bad idea, but couldn’t let the suggestion go. Drinking had nearly killed him. He’d been clean for two years, and shouldn’t entertain it. Justin, above all others, knew he could no more drown his memories than he could his loneliness.

  There were things he could do, besides sink into the bottom of a bottle. Go for a ride. Read a book. Do one of a hundred exercises they’d taught him to help fight the addiction.

  Sit-ups.

  Push-ups.

  Sex. Well, his cock thought it would work.

  He turned and stared at the bathroom door. Fuck it. Shower. Jack off. Go to town and get supplies. He’d need a lot of them if he was going to exorcise that woman. Better drunk than getting involved with the old man’s granddaughter. At least as a drunk, he could live with himself. One bottle, one time. He wouldn’t go back to town for it again. Today, he was weak.

  Tomorrow he’d be stronger.

  ***

  Mercy, not hearing a word he said, smiled at Reverend Snow as he went on and on. Her thoughts were on the hero, that kiss, and what the sex would have been like if it had progressed any further. Hot damn. Heat rushed to her cheeks and the reverend stopped talking to her grandfather and turned his attention to her.

  “Are you okay, Mercy?”

  “I’m fine, Reverend. Just hot in here.” She gave him a smile and fanned herself with the handout for the church’s spaghetti supper next week, their excuse for their weekly disaster preparedness meeting. Her grandfather had already convinced her she needed to attend in order to meet a local rancher about her age, since it didn’t look like she’d be going back to Cheyenne to work. That was her granddad, ever the matchmaker. She’d hated to tell him no, and found herself roped into attending because of it. She’d be back to work. What happened wasn’t going to be the end of her career.

  “It is a bit warm in here, isn’t it?” Reverend Snow went back to discussing the sermon with her grandfather, and she went back to dreaming about the tall drink of cowboy. She sure as heck couldn’t talk to Gramps about it. He hadn’t mentioned Justin at all, other than to tell her she couldn’t stay in the bunkhouse because he had a tenant. Her gramps liked him. No doubt. He didn’t give away dogs to anyone. He made a good profit breeding and training the Mountain Shepherds, and was tight with his money. That he’d given the pup to Justin said a lot.

  Why he hadn’t introduced them was a mystery. Perhaps he thought to protect Justin’s privacy, knowing she’d be sniffing around for a story. Gramps hated her moving away to the city, working for a news station, always poking her nose where it didn’t belong. “If people want you to know, they’d tell you,” he’d said. “Nobody likes a busybody.”

  He always complained that a complicated life brought complications, and if she wanted to be happy, she needed to get back to her roots and stop trying to prove to the world she was somebody. This suspension from work, well, he claimed it proved she needed to reevaluate her path.

  He’d tried to convince her to join the community, and she’d hesitated because she wasn’t sticking around. Justin was to be her salvation and her job wasn’t going anywhere once she got the story. She could admire the Cooperative for what they were doing, but that wasn’t her. She didn’t hide from disaster. She ran head on into it, looking for a story.

  Her grandfather had raised her after she’d lost her parents in a car accident, and she guessed he just assumed she’d take over for him someday. But she loved the challenge of digging up a story, standing in front of a camera as she broke news to Wyoming. She always came back for the peace, when she needed to get away from the stress, but after a couple of weeks, she’d grow restless and hungry for something more.

  Sometimes, Gramps had told her, the hunger masked something else.

  Maybe she was just lonely. Maybe he was right. Who knew? But at the moment, she wasn’t ready to settle down and commit the way they’d need her to. The doors opened and directly across the street, in plain view, was Justin’s Ford pickup—her escape vehicle.

  She bit her lip and eyed the door. No guts, no glory. She and that cowboy had some unfinished business. “Gramps, I’m catching a ride home with a friend.”

  Will waved her off without looking.

  Chapter Three

  It does not take an majority to prevail…but rather an irate, tireless minority, keen on setting brushfires of freedom in the minds of men.

  ~Samuel Adams

  Justin glanced down an aisle inside the small convenience store in the little, blink-and-miss-it town of Evans Point, or what was left of it after several tornados had touched down a couple of years back. What had once been a thriving municipality of a couple thousand now had just over four hundred residents who were crazy enough to stay and rebuild. The store had very limited items, and magazines with naked women were not one of them. Grabbing a rodeo magazine, he’d figured he’d at least see pretty cowgirls.

  Justin gave a disgusted snort. Who was he kidding? He didn’t need pictures of pretty cowgirls. He needed them on their backs with their legs wrapped around him. Dropping the magazine on the rack, he walked away, only to turn back around and pick it up again. A quick left took him toward the forbidden, where he grabbed a bottle of whiskey, not caring what brand or the cost. Cheap—expensive—it served the same purpose.

  Out of habit, he snagged some potato chips and a tube of toothpaste, so he didn’t look like a drunk, and eyed a box of condoms he didn’t need, but tucked under his arm before heading for the counter.

  “Can we buy on Sunday?”

  When he set his purchases down, the gray-haired man at the counter scanned the whiskey and stuck it in the bag without batting a lash. “Yup.” The toothpick in the clerk’s mouth twitched and he looked up. “You met the old man’s granddaughter, I suspect.”

  “How did you…?”

  “She makes every single male around here crazy enough to drink. What a piece of work. Just like her mother. A beauty, but watch out. She’s always got some kind of agenda, asking too many questions, sticking her nose where it don’t belong. A fella like you, someone who doesn’t like attention, would do well to avoid her.” He finished scanning and bagging.

  “How do you—?”

  “Everyone around here is either related to one of the six big families or here because they want to be in the middle of nowhere. You’re not one of the relatives, at least not one I’ve ever met, and I know them all. So that makes you what?”

  “New to the area.”

  “Right. And in a place without jobs or a reason to stick around.” He studied Justin’s face before swiping his card. “Two kinds of men come here to hide. Those that are haunted, and those that have done something criminal. You don’t look like a criminal, son, and I don’t think you are. My gut is usually right on about things like that. Besides, you’re using a debit card.” He held it up. “Criminals don’t leave trails. I ought to know. Was a U.S. Marshal for years.” He handed it back. “Piece of advice, stay away from Mercy. She’s trouble, and Will’s real protective. His granddaughter’s the only family he’s got left.”

  “I fully intend to—stay away.” Justin slipped his plastic back in his wallet and lifted the bag. “Thanks.”

  The man at the counter nodded, but didn’t looked convinced. The box of condoms and lack of eligible females within a fifty-mile radius might have had something to do with that. Hell, he didn’t even know why he’d bought them. After kicking her out like that
, he doubted she’d come back for an encore, and honestly, he really didn’t want her to. The woman was trouble.

  Justin headed for the door, stopping as he spotted Mercy leaving the church across the street, heading in his direction. Crap. He lifted the bag to block his face and hightailed it for his pickup, hopping she didn’t look in his direction.

  He tossed the bag on the passenger side floor and fumbled in his pocket for the keys, having the damndest time getting ahold of them. He arched up and dug deeper. Relax. She doesn’t know what your truck looks like. She’s just picking something up from the store.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Going my way, stranger?” She didn’t wait for an invitation, but yanked the door open and plopped down on the seat next to him. Bang, the door slammed shut and she turned to him. “How about a lift home?”

  “Get a ride from your grandfather.” Justin shoved the key into the ignition. Didn’t this woman get the hint? Damn. He kept his eyes forward, watching the churchgoers across the street, his nerves strung out like overstretched barbed wire. Will had stopped to talk to a group of elderly ladies and hadn’t noticed him. Yet.

  Reaching up, Justin pulled the brim of his cowboy hat down, hiding his eyes. A trickle of irritation wiggled up his spine. “I don’t have room.”

  “Whoa. What did I say to become the enemy?”

  “Everyone keeps telling me you’re trouble, and I’m beginning to believe them. Just what is it you want, Mercy?”

  “Who says I want anything more than stimulating conversation?”

  “If that’s what you’re looking for, you jumped in the wrong truck.”

  She laughed, reached down, grabbed his bag, and began to rifle through it.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. “Get out of my bag.”

  “What does a single guy shop for nowadays?” A smile crept onto her face and she yanked out the rodeo magazine, lifting a brow. “You looking for a cowgirl?”

  “No,” he snapped, hearing the bite in his tone, something that would send any savvy female running. Mercy didn’t make a move to get out, but continued to dig around. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

  “Just saying.” She eyed his knuckles. “You’re tense. I could do something about that.”

  “I’m a simple man, Mercy. I don’t need complications in my life. You are a complication. I’ll pass.”

  “Oh. What’s this?”

  Justin’s heart jumped into his throat.

  She pulled out the bottle of whiskey and whistled. “And you call me a complication?” He sighed in relief. She still hadn’t spotted them.

  He reached over and shoved it back in the bag. “That’s none of your concern.”

  “You know what I think your problem is?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

  “You have been alone for so long, you don’t know what to do with company.” She pointed his rolled-up magazine at him. “This is not socialization. This is loneliness. Come on, who reads rodeo magazines?”

  “It’s Wyoming. Everyone does. I do, and I like being alone.”

  “Right. Nobody likes being alone. Now put this truck into gear and get us out of here before I have to flag Gramps over.” She turned toward the window and looked over to where the church patrons gathered, but he could still see her devious smile in the reflection on the glass.

  Justin ground his molars together. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, but I would.” She sat back and quirked a brow, daring him to test her.

  He snorted, eyed the old man, and pulled out into the road, driving away before Will noticed. How the hell was he going to get rid of her? He kept his eyes ahead as they passed the post office, a small saddle shop, and the combination police and fire department. This was the end of the town tour, and the last chance to kick her out of his pickup, but instead of stopping, he kept going.

  The trip to the ranch from town took a good fifteen minutes in clear weather. Today it was icy and cold. With the wind blowing across the open land, temperatures would dip way below zero, rendering it unsafe for anyone to attempt walking. And dressed in her somewhat-church clothes, Mercy was less of a candidate to brave the weather than someone who’d actually worn something appropriate for a Wyoming spring.

  She kicked off her shoes and threw her bare feet up on the dash, smoothing her floral skirt down over her knees and shins. The heater blew out, teasing the edge of the light fabric. Justin glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She wore a thin denim jacket and underneath, a top cut a little low for Sunday services, but he wasn’t about to complain. Nothing wrong with looking, and that, he quickly reminded himself, would be as far as it would go.

  “So, what did you do in the army?”

  “That topic is not open for discussion.”

  “Hmm.” She reached down and started digging in his bag again, her brow furrowing in concentration. “I don’t see any.”

  Justin frowned. Any what? He had a magazine, whiskey, chips, toothpaste, and the damned condoms she wouldn’t see, if she stayed the hell out of his groceries. Had she seen them? Was she goading him? “See any what?”

  “Pesticide.”

  “Huh?” Another sigh of relief. The chick had to be nuts. What was she talking about, anyway? He hadn’t seen roaches or ants; the latter wouldn’t be out until spring.

  “To get the bug that’s crawled up your ass.”

  Justin fought to keep a straight face. Yeah, he’d walked right into that one. Dumbass. Score one for the cowgirl. “Was that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

  “This is more serious than I thought.” Her eyes widened. “You have a major infestation.”

  Justin shook his head and a smiled tugged at his lips. Okay, maybe he deserved that one. “Anyone tell you you’re nosy?”

  “All the time.” She opened the rodeo magazine and began to thumb through it, forgetting about the bag. The tension in his shoulders eased. “You ever compete in the rodeo?”

  “No.” He wanted to tell her he was a city boy, and the amount of what he knew had come from helping dairy farmers for a summer work program when he was in high school, but something told him giving her any information would be dangerous.

  “Oh, she’s pretty.” She held up the picture of last year’s barrel racing champion, a skinny brunette with too little meat on her frame for his taste.

  “She’s okay.” He preferred blondes. One blond in particular came to mind, not that he planned to elaborate.

  “No, she’s hot.” She said hot more like hawt. A drawl he’d become familiar with since he’d moved west. Everyone tended to draw their words out, not like the rapid-fire language he’d grown up with on the Eastern seaboard. People in the city rushed everything, including their speech. Here, life moved slower, and it had grown on him.

  “I’d love to have legs like that.”

  “You do, but better.”

  She gave him a big smile. “You think?” She plucked at her skirt, displaying a tan she’d either gotten from a bed at one of those salons or an island getaway. She definitely didn’t get it from sunbathing in Wyoming in April.

  He nodded.

  “That’s one of the sweetest things anyone’s said to me.” Mercy flipped another page and froze, snapping the magazine shut.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She stuffed it back in the bag.

  He furrowed his brow. What had she seen? “You know I’m going to look at that magazine when I get home, so why don’t you just spit it out?”

  “I thought I saw the picture of an old boyfriend.”

  “Sure.” Bullshit. Justin picked up his travel mug and took a sip of black coffee that had long gone past lukewarm. Maybe the storekeeper was right and Mercy Evans’s calling in life was to make men crazy. She certainly was doing a good job now.

  “So, you got any plans for tonight?”

  He shook his head. So this was what, small talk, to get off the prior topic? He could do small talk, as long as it didn’t
include anything about him, his past, or that box of condoms he’d been an idiot to purchase. As far as the prior topic, what she’d seen in the magazine—that wasn’t a problem. He’d know soon enough.

  “Then what are these for?” She reached into his bag and pulled out the box.

  Coffee sprayed from his mouth, covering the steering wheel, dash, and splattering the windshield. Justin slammed on the brakes and the truck’s back end swung around and the entire pickup began to slide sideways down the highway, coming to a stop in the middle of both lanes. He coughed and leaned forward, doing his best to extract the bitter fluid from his windpipe. Christ!

  “Cat got your tongue?” Mercy reached over and thumped him between the shoulders.

  No, but she’d caught him red-handed. Fuck.

  He shook his head as the coffee was forced deeper, and sucked in a raspy breath. He coughed again and turned to her. “Seriously. Have you ever heard of being…?”

  “Subtle. Yeah, but it’s never crossed my mind.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Does it make me a bad person?”

  “I don’t know what it makes you, but we need to get something clear.” He lifted the brim of his hat and looked her in the eyes. “I’m a very private man. I like to be alone. I don’t want a relationship. I’m not marriage or boyfriend material. I’m not a nice guy, the kind a girl would want to bring home to meet her parents. Far from it.” He wanted his hard words to be true, but even as he said them they sounded like a lie. They weren’t. He’d killed a lot of people. Friends, brothers in arms, men he’d considered family.