by Tess Sharpe
The eight-year-old inside me wants to run.
The fifteen-year-old needs to face him.
The eighteen-year-old would charge, firing without fear.
But I’m almost twenty-three, and I have been all those girls. I’ve made our mistakes and learned our lessons and felt our rage.
It’s hardened me. Honed me.
I am smarter now.
I am patient now.
I wait, barely breathing, just a few yards away from his searching eyes. I stay still, frozen to the tree, praying the darkness will hide me.
The seconds tick by. It seems like forever, but eventually he turns around and walks back to his trailer, steps inside, and closes the door behind him.
I run. My heart hammers in my chest, and branches whip my face and chest as I stumble through the forest down the sloping, rocky ground. Twigs and pine needles crunch under my heels and I snag my feet against roots and rocks, but I keep going until I reach the road and my truck, pulled over to the side.
I can’t catch my breath as I climb in. Busy’s ears go straight up when she gets a whiff of me.
I smell like fear. She whines, pawing me, her claws scratching my arm.
I’m still panting as I start the engine and get the fuck out of there.
My phone’s ringing again. I can’t focus now that my suspicion’s been confirmed: Buck’s been working with Springfield. Or, at the very least, dealing whatever extra he’d been cooking up to him.
Is that where those missing six bags of product he accused Troy of stealing went?
My stomach swoops. Jesus. Of course it was. How fucking stupid am I?
That fucking bastard. He killed Troy just to cover his own bullshit.
My phone keeps ringing. I’m almost to the on-ramp. I want to put as much space between Springfield and me as possible. I need to think about this. If he and Buck have been in contact, if Buck’s been selling drugs to him, that changes things.
I pull over to the side of the road, grabbing the phone, putting it on speaker.
“What?” I say into it.
“Harley?” Brooke’s voice is frantic. “Is Will with you?”
I frown. “No. He should be with you.” What time is it? I look at the clock.
It’s been hours since I texted him. I look down at my phone.
There are three missed calls from him, but no messages. My heart tightens like a fist is closing slowly around it, testing its strength.
“He called me three hours ago, telling me he was on his way. He never showed up. I’ve been calling, but he’s not answering his cell.”
“Did you check the hospitals?” I ask. Maybe there was an accident. The road to Burney is twisty. He’s on his bike. He could’ve gone too fast. Spun out.
My throat’s dry as bone. The fist around my heart squeezes. Because I know. I know. I’ve always known.
Loving that boy will get him killed, Harley-girl.
My phone buzzes. Incoming message.
My hand shakes as I open it.
It’s a picture of Will. His arms are yanked back behind him and his face is a mess of blood.
But he’s alive. The relief bursts inside me like the water through the makeshift dams we used to build in the creek when we were kids. But it’s there and gone, because I recognize that tattoo on the arm pushing Will’s head forward.
It’s Bobby Springfield’s.
My phone buzzes again.
867 Butte Street. Come and get him, bitch. I dare you.
Thirty-Nine
I’m almost eighteen the first time I shoot a man.
It’s summer, the second year that Will’s been sent to work on the grow for the Sons of Jefferson. Daddy’s in town that day, and Busy’s at the vet because she’d tangled with a rattler, so it’s just Uncle Jake and me in the big house.
I’m up in my room, and when I hear the front door opening, I don’t even give it a second thought. I turn the page of my hunting magazine, thinking the footsteps I hear on the porch are Uncle Jake’s heading out to the barn.
The gunshots that come a minute later make me think otherwise.
I roll off my bed and onto the floor, the years of Daddy bursting into my room at all hours to scare the instinct into me paying off. I stay flat on my belly, my back squeezed tight against the box springs. I yank out my Winchester .22 barrel first, searching blindly through the dust bunnies to locate the box of ammo.
I breathe in and out, loading the bullets, my lips moving silently as I count. I pull the bolt, the first bullet slides into place with a click, and I thumb the safety off.
I strain my ears, but there’s nothing to hear. No more footsteps. No more gunshots.
No way in hell would Uncle Jake be shooting off a gun without good reason. And he’d have shouted for me by now if he wasn’t…
I swallow and scramble across the floor, the rag rug in front of my window tickling my skin as I slowly raise myself up to peer out. I can see part of the porch from here if I angle my head right.
I spot the edge of a plaid shirtsleeve, and then Uncle Jake’s arm comes into sight, hand scrabbling across the porch, trying to pull himself forward.
I watch in horror as he crawls into view, belly down and leaving a long, dark drag of blood behind him on the porch.
He’s hit.
This is on me now.
My head whips around at the sound of the front door closing, followed by a steady thump of footsteps up the stairs.
I need to get to Uncle Jake. He’ll bleed out if I don’t.
My eyes track across the room as I put the pieces together. My door’s half cracked open, and my bed’s not gonna provide enough cover. I could maybe get off a few rounds if I needed to, but a .22 isn’t exactly made for close quarters.
Window’s my best option.
The shooter’s footsteps are getting louder.
I flip the safety on, sling the .22’s strap over my shoulder, open the window, and heft myself out feet first, my belly pressing against the pane. My feet dangle in the open air as I ease the rest of my body out until I’m hanging by my fingertips twenty feet in the air. The barrel of my .22 hits the back of my knees, and I grunt, swinging my legs hard, pushing off with as much might as I can, stretching.
I hit the porch roof hip-first with a thump, losing control of my roll halfway through and almost falling off the edge because of it. I grab for something—anything—to stop my momentum, latching onto the gutter pipe at the last moment. My muscles scream and pull, but I hang on. It takes me a few seconds to swing down onto the porch railing, trying to land as lightly as I can.
“Uncle Jake,” I hiss, running in a low crouch to him. He’s lying facedown on the porch, his shoulders rising and falling in horrible, jerky movements.
I kneel next to him and push at his shoulder, rolling him over. He moans, and if I didn’t have to press my hands down on the gaping pulpy mess of flesh that used to be his stomach, I’d be clapping them over my mouth.
“Harley,” he slurs, his eyes barely open. “Run, baby. Run.”
“No.” Shit, his stomach. I pull at the tattered ends of his button-down shirt, trying to make some sort of bandage or compression or…
Oh God.
I strip off my T-shirt, spreading it across his middle and pressing down hard. The blood stains the white material a horrible rusty color, darkening by the second, until it’s soaked through.
I can feel something slick and fleshy beneath my hands, like I’m just a thin layer of cotton away from touching his intestines. He smells like copper and shit, like burnt meat and bile, and I keep pressing down, trying to keep his guts from spilling out of him as his blood soaks my skin.
He groans, too loud.
“Shh, shh,” I whisper. “He’ll hear.”
Something whizzes by my head, and I flinch, feeling something sharp striking my cheek. Not taking the time to press my hand to where warmth’s spreading down my face, I throw myself down and back until I’m hugging the corner of the house
, partly hidden.
Another shot lands in the porch railing. I peek my head around the corner just a sliver.
The shooter’s sitting in my bedroom window. I can see his dark silhouette moving slightly through the curtains. He lowers his gun, the shot rings out, and a bullet sings inches above my head. I jerk back to safety.
Uncle Jake’s still in range.
The next bullet goes into his leg. He doesn’t have the energy to scream, he just jerks, and his breath stutters and wheezes in his chest at the impact.
I throw myself forward, grabbing his foot, the only thing I can reach and pull. He screams then, screams and screams, kicking out at me with his good leg as I yank at the bad one. His foot catches me in the stomach; it steals my breath, but I keep going until I’ve got him out of range, behind the porch swing.
“Harley,” he pants again, but I can barely make it out, and then his head lolls against the swing, and for an awful second I think he’s dead. Then he sucks in a sharp breath and coughs out blood.
“It’s okay,” I say, one hand on my gun, the other on his heart.
His hand reaches out to cover mine. I can’t breathe. My throat hurts.
All of me hurts.
He looks up at me, his eyes dim. “Look so much like your momma,” he gasps out, and his fingers tremble, like he’s trying to squeeze my hand but can’t summon the strength. “But you’ve got his eyes. Never wanted this for you. Wanted more…better. Harley…”
“I’m here,” I say. “I’m with you.”
His gaze snaps to mine like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
“Run.”
I’ve never been so close when it’s happened before—but with that last word, his hand tightens on mine for a moment and then drops away. He’s gone.
It’s his dying wish. A command I can’t ignore.
I run.
The paths of the forest are known to me like each wrinkle on Miss Lissa’s face. They spiderweb out in all directions, through the hundreds of acres of trees and cliffs and valleys. They spread for miles, tangled and wild, twisting and turning until you don’t know which way’s back unless you walk them as much as I do.
This is my home. Jake was my family.
I will not yield.
But I run. The rifle slung across my back, I race across the meadow, toward the trees. My heels pound across the field so hard I can feel them sinking into the underbrush with each step. And then I hear the screen door bang open—he’s coming for me.
Is it Springfield? I can’t risk looking back. I’m almost to the trees.
I plunge inside the forest, dodging between scrub oak and digger pine, my bare feet slipping on the slick needles as I race up the old mining trail. My lungs feel like they’re going to burst, but I keep running, faster than I ever have in my life, deeper and deeper into the woods.
My hand swipes a bush as I race past, smearing blood on the leaves. The trail rises, and my legs ache as I climb the slope. I strain to hear footsteps, branches cracking, anything to indicate that he’s coming.
I stop at the top of the slope, looking around frantically.
Find a perch, Harley-girl. Somewhere high.
There.
The rifle bangs hard against the back of my knees as I scramble up the oak tree, my feet digging into the trunk and then scraping against the rough branches. Fifteen feet up, I hook my leg around the thickest one, gripping hard with my thigh as I pull myself up to settle on it. Tucking my legs out of sight, I push my back against the trunk for stability as I raise my rifle into position.
From here, I have a perfect view of the trail.
I’ll see him coming—whoever he is.
And then I’ll make him pay.
I can’t catch my breath. I try to control it, calm it. But…
Uncle Jake. I feel sick. My stomach and my head swoop in a circle at the thought of him. I left him alone…
My fingers clench around my rifle stock.
Focus, Harley-girl.
I lick my lips, staring down at the trail. Unless he’s stupid and doesn’t see the puddle of blood I left behind, he’ll be here any minute now.
Fifteen bullets. That’s all I have.
But I need only one to kill him.
Crack. Someone’s thrashing through the brush.
I peer through the scope, my heartbeat filling my ears.
He’s short and stocky, with a shock of red hair that shines like a perfect target at me. I’ve never seen him before in my life, but that doesn’t matter.
I’ll remember his face until the day I die. He took the one good man in my family away.
He’s walking slow, looking for clues—more blood, broken branches, anything to track me. I just need him to move a few more feet closer.
Something rustles to my right. Shit. My head snaps toward the sound, and so does he.
He starts to move, away from me…in a few seconds, he’ll be out of range.
It’s now or never.
My rifle’s up and settled into the crook of my shoulder, nestling there like it’s a piece of me that’s been missing. I don’t feel one lick of fear as my finger comes to rest on the trigger. This is where I fit, with a gun in my hand, pointed at the right person.
I breathe. One, two, squeeze.
I get him in the right arm. He yells, clapping his hand against it as blood spills down. He staggers in a circle, his gun swinging wildly, trying to find me.
My rifle moves with him: one, two, squeeze.
The bullet buries itself in his left thigh. He falls to the ground, swearing up a storm. He shoots in the air, blindly, enraged.
One, two, squeeze. Right thigh this time.
One, two, squeeze. Left arm.
Now he’s screaming. It echoes through the forest, and I hear the rustle of birds flying out of the trees, up and away to safety. And it feels better than it should to hear him scream, to know that he’s hurting, that he’s in agony.
My eyes narrow as I peer through the scope again.
He’s on the ground, flat on his back, but he’s still got his hand on his shotgun. I think about those shells, the buckshot that shredded Jake’s gut. How close he must’ve been to tear through him like that.
I flex my fingers around my .22, breathing in and out slow, just like Daddy taught me. I focus on his hand through the scope. It’s a tiny target to hit. Tricky.
It’d be easier to kill him. I want to kill him.
But something stops me. Jake stops me. His words echo in my head: Never wanted this for you.
And just as clear, I can hear Daddy: Killing a man changes you, Harley-girl.
I’m already changed. So does that even matter?
If it’s not this man, it’ll be someone else. I already have blood on my hands. That is my life.
My finger settles on the trigger.
This is my gift.
One.
Two.
Squeeze.
I climb down the tree, my rifle trained back on him the second my feet touch ground. I kick his shotgun out of the way as he cradles what’s left of his bleeding hand to his chest. His eyes are still open, and I stare down at him, holding the end of the barrel just inches from his face.
“Who are you?”
He just moans. I blew two of his fingers off. I can see the bloody stumps.
I jab the .22’s barrel at him. “Who sent you?”
He shakes his head, his eyes widening as my finger goes to the trigger.
I want to pull it. I want him to pay for what he’s done.
Jake is gone. The grief, it wants to swallow me. But I need to be smart.
I was raised to be smart.
My hands shift, bringing the rifle butt down hard on his head. He lets out a huff of surprise, and then he’s out cold on the forest floor.
I wipe my hand across my forehead, smearing the sweat out of my eyes. Then I unhook the leather strap on my rifle and tie his wrists, looping the extra length of leather in my hands.
I take a deep breath and dig my feet into the dirt as I start to drag him through the forest, toward home.
If I can’t get an answer out of him, I’ll just wait until Daddy comes back.
Daddy always gets answers out of them.
By the time my feet hit the gravel of the driveway, I’m panting and covered in sweat. I leave Jake’s killer lying there, and I run up the stairs of the porch to where I left my uncle.
His blood, a dark stain, has spread across the porch. It’s dripping off the steps and Jake’s staring up at the sky, his blue eyes cloudy and blank.
I say his name, I sob it, and I put my .22 down long enough to reach out and press his eyes closed.
It’s not much. It’s not anything. But it’s all I can do.
No. It’s not. Resolve hardens around the part of me that wants to scream and cry. I grab my rifle and march back across the porch toward Jake’s killer.
He’s still out cold. I push his bound hands out of the way and dig in his jeans’ side pockets. Nothing.
I grunt as I push him onto his stomach, exposing the back pockets. I can see the outline of his phone.
I grab it and step away from him. He’s beginning to moan softly. I bring the rifle up, circling around him so I can see his face, but his eyes don’t open.
The phone’s cheap, prepaid. I page through his calls received. There’s only one number.
I press Call and raise it to my ear.
It rings three times, and then halfway through the fourth, a rough voice clicks on the line: “Are you coming with the girl?”
I’m acutely aware of the blood in my mouth. I know that voice.
“Andy?” Springfield asks. Then I hear his breath, taken in quick at the silence.
“Jake?” he questions.
I don’t answer.
“Duke?” There’s a tremor of fear in him now; I can hear it.
I don’t answer.
I’m waiting.
I want him to know it’s me. I want him to know he failed.
I want him to know that he hasn’t taken everything. He’s taken Momma. He’s taken the man Daddy was.
And now he’s taken Jake.
But he won’t get me.
“Harley.” It’s never a question. It’s half a breath, half a groan curled around his tongue, filled with a longing that makes me want to shove my knife in his gut.