Barbed Wire Heart

by Tess Sharpe

  I’m so glad he can’t see me right now because I’m terrified, and keeping my trigger finger from shaking means letting everything else go.

  “I’m coming for you, girl. Sooner or later. You’re mine.”

  My trigger finger twitches. I want to put a bullet through Andy’s brain, right between the eyes. I want to send his body back to Springfield, trussed up like a ten-point buck, to show him what’s waiting for him.

  “You best be ready.”

  He hangs up with a click.

  I fall to the ground, my legs useless. My knees hit gravel and I don’t even feel it.

  Fifteen minutes later, that’s how Daddy finds me. Crumpled on the ground, covered in Jake’s blood, my .22 still in my grip, aimed at the unconscious wounded man in front of me.

  He screeches up in his Ford, shouting my name and Jake’s. He grabs me, yanking me to my feet as he spins in a circle. When he spots Jake’s body on the porch, he lets me go. His gun’s out, and the man—Andy—is dead before I can even blink.

  Daddy doesn’t notice the phone in the dirt. He runs up to the porch, and as he does, I bend down and pocket it.

  I don’t tell anyone about it. Not the sheriff’s men, when Daddy calls them in and they ask me a few questions, before he tells them that’s enough and they shut up real fast. Not Will, when he gets home and finds me on the couch and hugs me like he thinks it’s the last time. Not when finally, finally, everyone is gone and the lights have stopped flashing and Jake…Jake…

  Jake is gone, too. They took him away. The coroner did. I have to call the funeral home. Daddy’s no good with that stuff, and Miss Lissa’s memory isn’t what it used to be…and he was mine. Jake was mine. So the responsibility is mine, too.

  I curl my legs tighter underneath me on the couch. Will’s palm settles on the back of my neck, squeezing gently, and I want so badly to let him take the weight of me away. I don’t want to feel anymore.

  Daddy’s boots click on the wood floor, coming toward us. When I was little, before Momma died, it was a sound that made me think of him tucking me into bed and shooing the monsters from my closet.

  “Will, why don’t you go upstairs,” Daddy says. It’s not really a suggestion.

  Will’s hand falls from my neck, tracing down my back, between my shoulder blades, before pulling away. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says. “You should eat,” he tells me.

  He gets up, walking past Daddy without a word.

  Every year that passes, the more Will grows into a man Daddy loves but can’t control. It worries me.

  “We need to talk about what happened,” Daddy says. He sits down in his chair across from the couch. He hasn’t touched me since he pulled me away from Andy earlier. It’s like he’s afraid. Like my grief’s poisonous.

  That would hurt me, but everything else hurts more. So it doesn’t even leave a mark.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “We have to,” Daddy says. “We have to figure out who sent him. He didn’t say anything to you?”

  I look at him. With Miss Lissa’s memory nearly gone and Jake dead, he’s the only adult I have left.

  I know what will happen if I tell him it was Springfield. That he’s broken the truce. That he sent a man to kidnap me and bring me to him for…God, I can’t think about it. I won’t.

  I close my eyes, trying to block it out.

  If I tell, it’ll be war. Daddy won’t be able to stop himself. He’s been waiting for this my entire life.

  Everything will burn.

  Everyone will die.

  Daddy will die.

  It’s that last thing, the primal fear inside me that’s been there since the day Momma was killed, that stops me.

  I should tell him because he loves me. He’d kill for me—he has before and he probably will again. I’m almost glad for it, grateful he’s that man, even though that’s the reason this all keeps happening.

  How many men are rotting away in the wilderness, their blood on Daddy’s hands?

  I’ve lost so much. Springfield’s taken Momma and now Jake from me. He’s wiped out half of my family. I’m the last Hawes left.

  It’s never gonna end. Daddy will never give up. And neither will Springfield.

  For the longest time, I thought it would end in one of them dying. I thought that was the whole point.

  But now I see clearly. This didn’t start with Momma’s death. This started a long time before that. Before I was born, Momma was the prize. Daddy won her, but then Carl took her away.

  Now I’ve become the prize. A chew toy gripped between two vicious sets of teeth, neither letting go.

  Someone has to put a stop to this.

  To them.

  So I open my mouth and I lie.

  We bury Uncle Jake that Sunday, next to his parents, the grandparents I never knew. I wear a black dress that buttons in the front, and it’s a good day for Miss Lissa, so she helps me braid my hair, pinning it around my head like a crown. I don’t let go of her hand the entire church service, and Will never leaves my side as we follow the hearse to the graveyard.

  Long after the coffin’s lowered into the ground, I stand next to my uncle’s grave. Daddy has to take Miss Lissa home because she wears out fast nowadays. Will stays with me and we watch as they pull up the backhoe and start to cover Jake with the earth.

  “Do you want to go?” Will asks when they’re done.

  I shake my head.

  “Do you want me to stay?” he asks, because he always knows the right questions.

  I shake my head again.

  He sighs and pulls me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead. I close my eyes, my hand resting against his chest, over his heart for a moment, before I push away. “I’ll come back at five?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He takes Busy with him and leaves me at the foot of Jake’s grave. I’m grateful for the quiet.

  I don’t sit. I don’t press my hand against his headstone and make promises to his body.

  I stand there and I stare at the gravestone that I forced the funeral home to put a rush order on, and I wait.

  I don’t know how long it is—it could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours—but eventually, the hairs on my neck prickle. Without even looking, I know he’s standing behind me.

  I knew he’d come. He wouldn’t be able to resist.

  He’s finally shown his hand. This isn’t about him and Duke anymore.

  This has become about him and me.

  He wants to hurt me. By any means necessary. Which means…well, it means it makes the woman in me shriek, the terror real and true, to even think on it.

  I don’t look at him, but my hands curl into fists as he comes to stand next to me.

  “Such a shame,” Carl Springfield says. “He was a good man.”

  He says it like it’s a death sentence. And in our world, it is.

  I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from lashing out. My teeth grind down on my flesh, and I taste copper. It’s the only way I can stop myself from going for him. From soaking Jake’s grave with Springfield’s blood and some of my own.

  “I’ve been looking over my shoulder, expecting to find Duke there. So far, he ain’t coming.” There’s a reedy note of joy in his voice. “You didn’t tell him it was me, did you?” He laughs, the vicious delight rising to tangle with the branches of the old graveyard oaks. “That’s a mighty big favor you’re doing me.”

  “It’s not a favor,” I say. I keep my eyes fixed on Jake’s headstone. BELOVED SON, BROTHER, AND UNCLE. OUR LOVE WILL CARRY YOU HOME. “If I told Duke, he’d kill you.”

  “And you don’t want that? You getting fond of me, sweetheart?”

  “No,” I say. “This isn’t about him.”

  Something in his face flickered for a second. It almost looks like pride. “So are you gonna do it? Gonna try to kill me?”

  Finally, I turn and look at him, with my dead eyes and all my grief. I let him see it, I let myself feel it. I le
t it mark me and this moment. A promise that goes beyond blood or pain, into the pure, righteous kind of vengeance. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

  I walk away, my heart hammering in my chest.

  Each step away from him is a relief.

  Only way, Harley-girl.

  Each step away from him is a burden.

  A life for a life, Harley-girl.

  Each step away from him is a step closer to the woman I’ll become.

  Shoot to kill, Harley-girl.

  Part Three

  The House on Shasta Street

  Forty

  June 7, 10:30 p.m.

  I stare down at my phone, numb. “Brooke,” I say.

  “What?” Brooke asks.

  “Do you have the gun I gave you?”

  I hear her take a sharp breath. “Yes.”

  Have they already tortured the information out of Will? Do they know Duke’s dying? Do they know where he is?

  Are they already on their way to Burney?

  Heat sparks under my skin, an angry red crawling up my neck. I want to scream. But I grit my teeth instead.

  “Listen to me carefully,” I tell her. “You stay in Duke’s room. Lock the door and don’t let anyone in. Not even the nurses. Do you understand?”

  “Are they coming?” she asks.

  The guilt; it’s overwhelming. I put her there, a sitting duck. If they find out Duke’s dying, they’ll come.

  They’ll come for all of us.

  I’m not sure Brooke has it in her to pull the trigger. She’s good. She’s kind.

  She’ll get killed if they come. I’ll get her killed.

  Will might already be dead.

  My entire body shudders. Everything’s falling apart around me. I had a plan.

  And it’s failed. I’ve failed. Dread and fear, mixed together, rise in my stomach.

  “They have Will,” I say.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Get the gun. Lock the door. Wait for me.” Please, please, let it be enough. Please let him hold strong.

  But you torture a man the right way, he’ll crack open like an egg. I know this. I’ve seen it. I’ve been taught how to do it.

  “What are you going to do?” Brooke asks.

  I look down at Bobby’s text.

  “I’m going to get him back,” I say.

  It’s a promise to myself. A vow that I won’t go back on.

  I’m not like Duke—Will isn’t the only person I have left to love. But he is the one person I’d throw everything away for. Unfortunately, Bobby Springfield figured that out.

  “I have to go,” I say. “I’ll get him back. And Brooke? If they come…”

  “Shoot to kill,” she finishes for me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Don’t be,” she responds. “I made my choice.”

  I know both of us are wondering if it was the right one.

  “I’ll call you as soon as it’s safe,” I say.

  She hangs up. I close my eyes and picture her, huddling in Duke’s room, lights off, waiting, unable to escape.

  When I open my eyes, that photo of Will stares back at me.

  I did this.

  I scream. Busy scrambles away from the sound, and I can’t even be bothered to soothe her. I lash out, punching the steering wheel with my left hand. My knuckles split open, and I don’t even feel it. My hand bleeds, and I don’t even care. My throat aches, and I just keep screaming.

  Calm, Harley-girl.

  I can hear his voice in my head, and all I can think is Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. You left me. You stranded me in a den of fucking wolves. You gave me no way out.

  My voice gives way, my hand goes numb, and finally, finally, I am still.

  Busy whines next to me, nudging my side, lapping at my bloody knuckles.

  I press my palms against my eyes, trying to breathe. I want to cry—if there was any time for tears, this is it—but they don’t come.

  My instinct is to find a way out rather than to feel.

  Will might already be dead. If I just show up at the address Bobby gave me, I’m dead, too.

  They know I’m coming.

  I grab my phone, pulling up the address on the map. It’s a storage facility.

  One gated entrance and exit. Long rows of buildings, lots of paths and corners to hide, no one there late at night. They bribe security to look the other way, and it’s the ideal place.

  They have all the advantage. I can’t change that.

  That means I need all the leverage.

  I get out of the Chevy and grab my box of guns from the toolbox, loading them methodically. I place two in the cab and two more under my seat. My fingers trace the barrel of my favorite revolver. It was Momma’s. A twentieth birthday present from Duke.

  It’ll be fitting to use it now.

  I am going to crush Bobby Springfield like a cockroach under my boot. Bennet, too, for going along with this insanity. Clearly, Jessa’s love is not enough.

  If they’ve left any permanent marks on Will, I’m going to wipe their entire family off the face of the earth, like Carl tried with mine.

  But where he failed, I’ll succeed.

  I climb back into the truck, shutting the door, still holding Momma’s revolver.

  God help them if they stand in my way.

  The house is small and gray, set down the road from the gas station. There are no other buildings around, no neighbors to hear.

  It’s perfect.

  I park at the curb a few houses down the street, get my gun, and leave Busy in the truck.

  There’s a light on in the back of the house, and I crouch low, circling to the rear door.

  She’s in the kitchen. I can see her through the window, her dark hair falling down her face as she scrubs the dirty dinner plates.

  I test the doorknob. It’s unlocked.

  Stepping inside, I can see the shadows of a washer and dryer. I’m in the laundry room. A shaft of light falls ahead.

  Quietly, I move to the doorway, flattening myself against the wall, and peer around the corner.

  Her back’s to me, the water running. She’s humming, a song I don’t recognize.

  I move fast. I close the space between us in two seconds. My gun barrel’s against the back of her head before she even catches my reflection in the window.

  She goes very still, her hands still immersed in the sink, hidden by the soapy water. Caroline Springfield’s gaze rises to the window to meet mine in the reflection.

  “Harley,” she says. Her voice is steady.

  I press the barrel harder against her head. “Caroline.”

  “You wanna tell me what you’re doing?”

  “You wanna let go of the knife and show me your hands?” I shoot back. I don’t know how much she knows. Is she in on it, too? I want to say no. This woman is responsible for the uneasy peace between our families, and I’ve always admired her for it. For having the nerve to march right into the Tropics and barter for her boy’s safety.

  Except now her boys are fucking with my life. So I’m not taking any risks.

  She slowly raises her empty hands out of the water. Soapsuds drip down her arm, but she doesn’t shake.

  She could go for me, try to knock the gun out of my hand, but she knows it’s a bad idea. Caroline’s smart—smarter than the rest of her family.

  Which is why she just gets to the point. “What is this about?”

  “Your boys,” I say. “They took something of mine. You’re gonna help me get it back.”

  Forty-One

  I’m ten years old when Caroline Springfield walks into the Tropics.

  It’s a bold move—most men wouldn’t have the balls to do it—but she stalks in there like she’s ready to do battle.

  Daddy brings me along with him on his rounds a lot now. It’s his version of school. So I’m there the day she comes, sitting at the bar with the puzzle Sal and I are working while Daddy talks with his men.

  Everything goes dead
quiet when Caroline comes in. Every pair of eyes is on her. The silence is so abrupt, it makes me look up from the puzzle.

  I recognize her. I know what they all look like. Then the silence is broken by the sound of boots moving swiftly across the floor, and when I turn to look, I realize Paul and two other Sons have moved to guard me. Something sparks inside, the fear that Daddy’s built into me, and it would fan to a full flame if they weren’t there.

  “You need something?” Sal asks. I watch as her fingers close around one of the biggest bottles of whiskey she’s got, like she’s ready to use it as a club if she has to.

  “I want to talk to Duke,” Caroline says.

  Sal glances at Paul and then at me.

  “I’ll get him,” Paul says. “You stay there,” he tells Caroline.

  “Go back to your puzzle, Harley.” Sal smiles at me, bright and fake, like she thinks I don’t understand what’s going on. But I do.

  Carl’s been in prison for three months. He’s not getting out for a long, long time. Caroline’s got no protection—not the kind she needs against Daddy.

  Carl may be locked up, but Daddy hasn’t stopped targeting Springfields. Not when Caroline’s got what he wants.

  Daddy may take me with him on his rounds now, but he’s trying to keep me away from the drugs the best he can. Which is stupid. I know he’s cooking.

  But Daddy wants North County. And Caroline’s got most of it still, because the Springfields have been cooking since the dawn of time, it seems.

  Or the dawn of meth, I guess.

  “You’ve got some nerve coming in here.” Daddy’s voice booms through the bar, and I can feel everyone around us tense up.

  He walks toward the bar, toward me.

  “Come here, honey,” he says, picking me up like I weigh nothing, like I’m still a baby. I don’t like it, but I know better than to try to wriggle free. I loop my arms around his neck, and he turns to Caroline expectantly. “You wanna talk?”

  “Yes,” she says. Her face is like a mask, frozen and stern. I think she’s scared, but I can’t tell for sure.