Barbed Wire Heart

by Tess Sharpe

  It’ll take the sheriff five minutes, tops, to get here. Faster if one of their patrols is in the area.

  I lean back against the trunk, keeping one eye on my scope, and wait. It’s so hot that sweat’s trickling down my back within a minute, but I ignore it.

  With Lindsay and Shawna far away when this goes down, I’ll be able to keep the damage from blowing back too much on them. There’ll probably be CPS checks, but Lindsay’s a good mom; she just has bad taste in men.

  Sirens. I can hear them in the distance.

  It’s time.

  My heartbeat picks up as I focus back on Buck’s house. There’s no movement inside that I can see.

  He’s oblivious. Distracted. Just like I need him to be.

  Fucking traitor. He should consider himself lucky that I’m the one dealing with him. Before he got sick, if Duke had found out Buck had been skimming off the top for Springfield, he would’ve torn Buck apart. Drawn and quartered, McKenna style. Instead of men on horses, Duke uses men on quads. More power that way.

  The sheriff’s cars screech down Riverside Road and turn onto Shasta, surrounding Buck’s house.

  They’re moving fast through the gate, guns up and ready, and bash the door open.

  Most of the windows have curtains, so from my perch I can’t see inside, and the minutes stretch out as I wait, my heart in my throat.

  They’ll find the guns, I tell myself. They’ll find the drugs.

  Hell, Buck might even try to shoot his way out. That’d take care of everything.

  I shouldn’t want that, though. I’ve already taken one kid’s father away.

  But there’s that voice inside me that tells me that maybe little Shawna’s better off without him. And then it whispers something else: Maybe I would’ve been better off without Duke.

  Movement ahead of me. The deputies are starting to trickle out of the house. My heart sinks. Their hands are empty.

  Was it all for nothing? How could they miss the bags full of guns I’d stashed in there? Had Buck paid them off?

  Goddammit, if he manages to weasel his way out of this…

  I squint through the scope, and though I’m not one for praying, in that moment, I pray. Minutes go by.

  Maybe it’s God’s answer…though probably just my smart planning—but there he is, cuffed, being marched out by two burly deputies. They push him down the path, and one crowds him hard against the squad car before shoving him inside. A bunch of deputies are still swarming around.

  As I watch them drive Buck away, triumph rises in my chest. I ignore it, though. This isn’t done yet.

  Buck is slippery. I have to pin him down completely so he has no way out.

  My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket and answer.

  “Hey, Cooper.”

  “I just got the strangest call,” he says. “From Sheriff Harris.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask, staring down at Buck’s front yard through my scope. They’ve got the garage door open, and they’re going through the boxes. Excellent.

  “Some of his deputies just picked Buck up. Harris is pretty upset. He was babbling about illegal guns?”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Harris is wandering around like a lost little lamb,” Cooper says. “You know he’s no good at taking charge. You might want to stop by. Give him some guidance.”

  “I’ll do that,” I say. There’s a long pause.

  “So the Buck problem’s taken care of?” Cooper asks.

  “That’s right.”

  Another pause. “You’re a damn smart woman, Harley.”

  It’s the first time he’s ever called me a woman. They—all of them—always refer to me as a girl.

  For some reason, it makes my throat tight. I blink a few times, clearing my throat. “Thanks, Cooper.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hang up, tucking the phone and the scope back in my pockets. I swing down from the branches, scramble down the trunk, and head toward my truck.

  I’ve got a sheriff to talk to.

  The North County’s Sheriff’s Department is in a two-story brick building that’s one of the oldest in Salt Creek. It has a little bell tower and a wide staircase that squeaks with every step, and the lights are always going out because the ancient wiring sucks.

  Sheriff Harris’s office is on the second floor, so I climb the steep stairs, creaking all the way to the top. I take a right and walk down to the end of the hall to the glass door marked SHERIFF in fancy gold letters that were painted almost a hundred years ago.

  I knock lightly.

  “Come in.”

  “Hi, Sheriff Harris.”

  He looks up from behind his desk, and when he sees it’s me, sweat pops out on his ruddy face.

  Harris has the unmistakable look of a long-term alcoholic—bulbous nose, red face, watery eyes. If he doesn’t get a drink in him by noon, he’ll get the shakes. His tan uniform is a little too tight, and his neck bulges around the collar.

  “Harley, it’s good to see you,” he lies. “Sit down.”

  I take a seat in the thinly upholstered chair. It’s uncomfortable, sticking me in the backs of my thighs. There are rows of antlers on the wall behind his desk—Harris likes his hunting and his booze. And his graft. I wouldn’t want to forget that.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he begins. “But I couldn’t get a hold of your father, and Cooper said it was best I talk to you.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “I’m in charge while Duke’s away.”

  “So, we picked up Buck Riggs today. My deputies were responding to a 911 call; we weren’t staking him out. But what we found inside his house was…not good.” He pauses, trying to find a way to soften what’s coming.

  “Now, Harley, I respect your father and your family. He’s been a good friend to me, and I value that friendship. But it’s gonna take a lot to look the other way on this. My deputies found enough guns in there to arm a militia. And a few minutes ago, I just got a report back that they’ve found a large quantity of drugs on the premises, too.”

  I widen my eyes and wait a few beats, as if I’m absorbing the shock. “I…I understand the position you’ve been put in, Sheriff,” I say. “And I discussed this with my father before I came here. It turns out Buck’s been stealing. Duke wants to make him an example.”

  Sheriff Harris frowns. “An example how?”

  I don’t blame him for being suspicious. If Duke was around, he’d be bailing Buck out of jail just to kill him himself.

  But I don’t want death; I just want safety.

  “Duke wants you to splash this across the headlines and the evening news,” I say. “Tell them you’ve taken down a major player. The Feds will be delighted. Hand over the guns and the drugs to them—and hand over Buck, too. And with such a monumental bust, when it comes time for funding next year, they won’t forget you. And neither will Duke and I.”

  Sheriff Harris clears his throat, looking hugely relieved. “We could use a win,” he mumbles.

  “Perfect,” I say briskly. “Then this works out for both of us. We really appreciate you and the deputies being so on top of it.”

  His chest puffs up a little at the ego stroking. “Well, it was pure luck.”

  “Knowing you, I’m certain it wasn’t,” I say, and he puffs up a little more. “Now, I do want to make sure Lindsay and her little girl aren’t gonna be bothered with any of this.”

  “The wife?” Sheriff Harris asks.

  I nod. “You know she’s not involved with this sort of thing. In fact, she’s been staying at the Ruby for the last few weeks.”

  “We’ll have to interview her,” he says. “But if her story lines up with yours, I doubt there will be a problem.”

  I smile, sweet as can be. “I’m so glad my father has a friend like you…and I’m sure he’ll be showing his appreciation come election time. I just have two little things to ask: Did your deputies happen to get hold of his phone?”

  Harris nodded.


  “You mind if I take that off your hands?”

  “It is evidence,” he says slowly.

  “Not if it’s not logged in yet,” I say. “If you’re going to turn Buck over to the Feds, my father would be very unhappy if any of his business was exposed to the wrong people.”

  “Of course,” Harris says, looking nervous. “I have it right here.” He stands up, walks over to an open box stacked next to his desk, grabs Buck’s phone, and gives it to me. I pocket it.

  “You’ve been so helpful,” I say. “I’ll be sure to tell my father.”

  Harris’s shoulders relax at the thought of Duke’s approval.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” he asks.

  “Do you mind if I have a few minutes with Buck?”

  He grins condescendingly. If I was close enough, he’d probably pat me on my head like a five-year-old. “You’re not gonna kill him, are you?”

  I laugh—I never quite learned how to giggle. “Oh, thanks to you, now I don’t need to.” He grins back at me conspiratorially at my joke, not realizing that for once I’m telling the truth. “I just want to give him a piece of my mind. My father raised me to believe in loyalty.”

  “Good trait to have. Sure, you can go back to see him,” he says, because he’s an easily swayed idiot, like the rest of them. In this whole department, Frankie Daniels is the only one with a brain.

  I stand up and follow him out of his office. We go downstairs to the holding-cell area, where he unlocks the door and ushers me inside.

  “Just tap on the door when you’re done,” he says.

  Two of the cells are empty. Buck’s in the one farthest from the door.

  His eyes narrow when he sees me, and he gets to his feet. “You here to bail me out?”

  I don’t say anything as I walk toward his cell, coming to stand in front of him.

  “Where’s your father?”

  I keep silent, staring at him.

  “Where’s my kid?”

  “She and Lindsay are safe.”

  Buck wraps his hands around the bars, staring at me. “What did you do?” he asks, gravel and guts in his voice and murder in his eyes.

  “What I had to,” I say. “I know what you’ve been up to with Springfield.”

  He goes a sick kind of white. “I—”

  “No excuses,” I interrupt softly. “You’re done.”

  “I can explain—”

  “No,” I say. “You’ll listen. And then you’re gonna sit here and think about what I said. You’ll think about how many ways I can get to you in prison. About how many men in there know the McKenna name, how many owe my father a favor. Then you’re gonna think about how I’ve got your wife in the palm of my hand and how I’ll be the one to tell her how you’ve betrayed my family, but of course I don’t blame her. The family will be there for her and her little girl. She’s one of ours, and we take care of our own.” I lean forward, smiling. “She’ll choose us over you,” I continue. “She’s smart, and frankly, you’re a shit husband who never deserved her anyway and now you’ll be a felon. You’re going away forever, Buck. There’s no deal you can cut—no one you can betray. If you do, I’ll have you killed.”

  His hands tighten around the bars. “What did you do?” he repeats.

  The door opens. “Harley.”

  I glance over my shoulder. It’s Frankie standing there, looking at me, all disapproving, as usual.

  “What did you do?” This time he yells it. He slams his hands against the bars, and I smile.

  I may look like my momma, but in that moment, I’m all Duke.

  “You should’ve remembered,” I tell him. “The first rule of North County: Never fuck with the McKenna.”

  I turn and walk toward Frankie.

  “Harley, goddammit…WHAT DID YOU DO?” he screams.

  The door swings shut behind me.

  Frankie crosses her arms, her thin lips twisting. Sheriff Harris is nowhere in sight—he’s probably retreated to his office to drink or nap or jerk off.

  “You gonna tell me what that’s all about?” she asks.

  “Well, I’m sure the sheriff will fill you in…if he wants you to know,” I say.

  “You’re up to something,” Frankie says flatly.

  “Then arrest me.”

  She glares, tapping her foot. “Just get out of here.”

  “Gladly.”

  “You’re gonna get hurt,” she calls behind me.

  I’m fine with that. As long as no one else does.

  Forty-Seven

  I’m nine years old when Daddy teaches me how to kill.

  We’ve been in the woods for almost two days, spending the night up in the deer blind, then the daylight hours tracking a buck I’d winged early the first morning, when we’d just started the hunt.

  I hadn’t listened to Daddy when he told me to hold my fire. I’d been so sure I had the kill shot.

  I don’t usually miss. It’s not the way he taught me. But this time I did, and I’m ashamed.

  I can feel the disapproval in his heavy steps ahead of me as he scans the area for the wounded buck’s tracks. Daddy’s light on his feet for such a big man, a natural hunter, with keen eyes and a steady hand. But right now he’s thrashing through the underbrush like he’s never been in the backwoods, and he doesn’t need to say a word for me to know how angry he is. I bite my lip to keep the tears from flooding my eyes as I follow after him, scrambling up the uneven terrain fast as I can.

  I’m a McKenna. McKennas don’t cry.

  Daddy stops ahead of me, his boots sinking into the red dirt trail as he bends down. “Over here, Harley-girl.” He beckons me forward curtly. When I get close enough, I realize his fingertips are smeared with blood. “He’s bleeding bad.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  His mouth flattens, his lips nearly disappearing. “You should’ve listened to me.”

  “I know.”

  Daddy sighs. “You know what’s coming when we find him.”

  My stomach lurches. “Daddy—”

  He holds his hand out and I shut up fast. I can’t stop staring at the buck’s blood on his fingers. “You’ll do as I say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “C’mon. I don’t think he’s far.”

  He walks slower now, so I can match him step for step. I’m getting tall like Daddy, but the rest of me seems to be taking after Momma, which I’m not sure is good or bad. Momma was delicate and pretty, with long brown hair and wide blue eyes, but she’s gone, and sometimes I think I remind Daddy of her in a bad way. Sometimes he locks himself in his office with the whiskey, like he did right after she died. But other times, his face clears and he smiles at me, tugging the end of my braid and taking me out back for target practice.

  We hike up the hill, where the ground’s so steep I have to dig in with my boot heels to stay steady. I’m panting, and by the time we get to the top, my cargos are streaked in red dirt. I stop as soon as Daddy reaches out a hand in warning. I’ve learned my lesson today about disobeying orders.

  “Right there.” Daddy tucks his Winchester underneath his arm, pointing thirty feet ahead, where the buck’s lying. Even this far away, I can see how he’s struggling to breathe, his flanks moving up and down shallowly as he dies slowly and painfully from my bad shot. He’s been in agony for two days, and it’s all my fault.

  Daddy moves toward the buck nice and slow, stepping over felled oak branches so the noise won’t startle him. I follow in his footsteps, paying attention to his movements, trying to imitate them like I’m supposed to. It’s the only way I’ll learn.

  The buck barely lifts his head as we close in on him, blood pooling and staining the dry leaves beneath it dark red.

  Daddy kneels behind the buck, and for one dizzying second, I think he’s going to do it for me. That he won’t make me, and I’ll just have to watch.

  But then he pulls out the knife and holds it out to me handle first. “Time to finish the job, sweetheart.”


  I take a shaky breath. His dark eyes shine at me above his silver-shot beard as I grab the knife and unsheathe it.

  “I’m going to hold the antlers. You want one long, clean cut to the throat,” he instructs quietly. “Press your hardest into it. He’s gonna thrash.”

  My hand clenches on the knife as I stare down at the buck. His eye is half-closed, his head and neck covered in half-dried blood.

  This is my fault. I missed the shot. It should’ve been clean. Quick. Daddy hadn’t spent the last few years running me through hours of target practice for me to miss a shot like that.

  “Harley,” Daddy says. “This is the right thing to do. The humane thing. You understand that, don’t you?”

  I nod. I keep sucking in air frantically through my nose, because it’s quieter. I don’t want the last thing the buck hears to be me panting in his ear.

  “Harley,” Daddy prompts. “Please do as I say: one long, clean cut. You can do it, baby.”

  I grit my teeth and my knees grind into the dirt as I lean forward, the knife in my hand. Trembling, I raise my hand and summon all my strength to bring it down.

  The second he feels the knife bite into his neck, the buck lunges. As he tries to rear up, Daddy holds onto his antlers hard, and I yank and yank, as hard as I can, pushing the knife through hide and skin, muscle and tendon. The blood gushes warm over my hand, and I can hear the gurgling sound before the point lands in the ground.

  I’m done.

  It’s done.

  I collapse backward. My shaking hands are covered in warm, wet red; my right one still clenched around the knife handle. I try to drop it, but I can’t let go. It feels like a part of me.

  “That was good,” Daddy says.

  I lick my lips. My mouth’s dry. I don’t think I can speak.

  I don’t think I want to.

  “You did good,” Daddy says. “You made a mistake. You fixed it. You took responsibility.”

  “I—I—” I can’t breathe.

  “It’s okay to feel bad, sweetheart,” Daddy assures me, rubbing my back. “That means you’re human. No matter what, killing something’s hard. If it isn’t, if taking a life’s easy for a man, there’s something very wrong. You know that, don’t you, honey?”