by Tess Sharpe
“I want to make things clear,” I tell the Sons. “You and I are in business. We are partners. I respect you, I respect your organization. But if any of you look the other way when a man lays his hand on a woman? Rapes her? Hurts her children? I will blame you.” I carve a line into Luke’s cheek, blood bubbles up as I dig in with the tip of the blade, and he screams. “And if you do those things to any women or children in your own life? I will find you.” I carve a second line into his cheek. He screams again, and blood pours down his chin. “And I will hurt you.” Then I carve the final line deep into the skin and wipe off the blood.
There it is, on his face. A bloody H.
My mark.
My choice.
My world.
“I am not my father,” I tell the Sons, circling around Luke so I’m at his back. “You broke his rules, he’d blow your head off. That’s a quick, painless death. You break my rules? I’ll cut your dick off and make you eat it before you bleed to death, nice and slow.”
A collective intake of breath breaks through the silence. A few of the Sons look at Paul in alarm, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered. He’s just sitting there, staring at me, a half smile on his face.
“This was my father’s county,” I continue. “But now it’s mine. You will abide by my rules. And if you don’t?” The knife skates down Luke’s stomach, resting on the outside of his fly. I can feel the Sons take in a collective breath. I raise my eyes. “I’ll spare you the sight this time,” I tell them. I draw the knife away, flipping it in my hand, and then sink the blade into Luke’s back with the precision of a surgeon. He screams again, this time an animal howl. He thinks he’s going to die, and so will the Sons. Perfect.
But I know exactly how deep to go so I won’t nick anything important. He’ll live.
He’ll just wish he hadn’t.
I draw my knife out of him, shiny with blood. As the red blooms across Luke’s gray T-shirt, he pitches forward and passes out with a muffled groan. I wipe the knife on the ground and sheathe it. Then Mo and I grab Luke by the arms, drag him across the road, and toss him on the other side of the county line.
I turn back to the Sons of Jefferson, my hands bloody, my eyes steady as I stare them down. They stare back, some of them shifting on their bikes, wide-eyed and unsettled, some of them grinning like I’ve just given them a show, some of them frowning, not sure they like this.
I have their attention now.
“First rule of North County,” I say. “Never fuck with the McKenna.”
Fifty-Nine
I’m twenty-two years old when I inherit what’s left of Duke’s empire.
Time passes slowly now that he’s gone. Will stays with me the rest of the summer, lending a hand, an ear, and anything else I need. But when summer leaves, so does he. It’s just until Thanksgiving—I’ve promised to spend Christmas with him and his family on the coast—but his absence makes me ache, all the same.
At first, everything’s hard. Like slogging through knee-deep mud. Running the legit businesses is almost as difficult as keeping a hold on the darker side of North County. But day by day, week by week, month by month, I learn, I manage. Cooper and Wayne are by my side, and I rely on Mo more and more until it becomes clear Jessa has to take over most of her duties at the Ruby. The Sons of Jefferson keep to their promise, and Paul’s more of a help than I expected, more of a businessman than I realized.
It’s almost November by the time I relax enough to think this might work. That I can do this.
Then I get a call in the middle of the night. It’s not on my regular cell, but the one whose number is given out to women who might need help.
I’m still awake because I don’t do much sleeping still, so I pick up on the second ring and leave Will, who’s come for the weekend, asleep in bed. I step over Busy snoring on the rug and walk out into the hallway.
“Hello?”
There’s a long pause, but I can hear breathing.
“This the McKenna?”
I don’t recognize the voice. It’s a woman’s. “Yes.”
“Exit six forty-eight on the Three. If you take the main road north ten miles, you’ll come to a dead end. Go east on foot. You’ll see the tracks. Follow them.”
I frown. “What am I looking for?” I ask.
“You’ll know it when you see it,” she says.
Another long pause. There’s a rustling sound. Is she running? She doesn’t sound out of breath.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“A friend,” she says. “They’re moving in. You need to take care of it.”
The line goes dead. I stare down at my phone.
“Harley?”
Will’s up. I look toward the bedroom.
“Coming,” I say.
I wait a day before I go searching. The first snow comes early this year, and when I get off on exit 648, I see that the road ahead hasn’t been plowed.
I take the road carefully—I never did like driving in the snow—and sure enough, in ten miles or so, there’s a dead end. I park my Chevy, shoulder my pack, and hop over the long chain that’s strung across the end of the road.
The forest is white-tipped and quiet, the sun filtering through the pines, making the snowy forest floor sparkle. My boots crunch as I move east, deeper into the forest.
I walk for hours, my legs and lungs burning from the effort of slogging through the snow. I’m just about to give up when I spot something in the distance—a disturbance in the smooth, untouched whiteness. I crest the hill at a jog, stopping dead when I make it to the top.
Tire tracks on a makeshift road, leading west.
My hand goes to my revolver tucked under my shirt in its holster, and I start to move slower, more cautiously. It takes another mile of following the tracks, but eventually the rough road they’ve cut through the forest opens up to a natural valley between the mountains.
I stay hidden behind the timberline, scrambling up one of the pines for a better vantage point. I pull my scope out of my pocket and focus it on the valley below.
And there they are: three trailers grouped in a triangle, with blacked-out windows and at least four sets of footprints in the snow.
I wait there, high in the trees, patient, gaining energy from the cold bite in the air. I start sketching it out in my mind: a new plan. To catch the runners, I’ll need guys stationed at all four corners of the valley and more on the road through the woods.
The triangle formation of the trailers makes it a little tricky. When they’re ambushed, the cooks might use the trailers as cover. But that’s risky, using meth labs as armor. One spark in the wrong place, and you’re done for.
One of the trailer doors bangs open, and a man steps out.
He’s wearing a gas mask and those white coveralls that zip up over your clothes.
My stomach clenches. This is organized.
Professional.
“Take off the mask and let me see you,” I whisper under my breath, staring at him through the scope. His arms are covered; I can’t see any tats.
He pulls the mask off.
White. Shaved head. I focus in and see it: the 88 tattoo on his neck.
Fucking neo-Nazis. Looks like they’re moving in.
And looks like my mystery woman on the phone—whoever she is—isn’t too happy about it. I don’t blame her. They’re the worst kind of scum. You steep yourself in that kind of hate, there’s no redemption.
Duke used to say they should be put down like rabid dogs, and my fingers itch to do just that. I bite my lip hard against the urge.
I wait until he pisses and goes back inside the trailer, then I slip down the tree and head back to my truck. I’m mindful of my tracks, worried they might see them when they head out.
When I reach my Chevy, I’m sweaty and I’ve got my jacket tied around my waist. I slick back a strand of hair that’s fallen out of my braid, climb into the cab, and grab the bottle of water I left there, guzzling it down.
Turning back to th
e highway, I head toward home. I should call Cooper and Paul, let them know what I’ve seen, but I wait. For now.
I’m halfway home when red and blue lights flash in my rearview. Before I pull over onto the shoulder, I gun the engine, just to be an ass.
I roll down my window and stick my arm out, waiting for the telltale crunch of boots on snow.
“Deputy,” I say.
“Harley,” she replies.
I look up at Frankie. Running for office looks good on her. Gone are the bouncy ponytail and fluffy bangs. Nowadays, she’s all sleek braids and strong shoulders.
“Heard Harris was thinking about dropping out of the race,” I say in a conversational tone.
“That’s the rumor,” Frankie answers with a shrug. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” She pauses, her voice lowers even though there’s no one around to hear us. “Was that tip you got solid?”
I nod. “It’s the Aryans. I didn’t recognize the one I saw. I don’t think they’re from around here. But they’re pros.”
“Sacramento branch?” Frankie suggests.
“Maybe. Or Southern Oregon. I tracked them to a spot about eight miles east from the trailhead, deep in the pines. Three trailers set up. Not that big, but not that small, either. And winter’s almost here. The rangers have already cut hours so they’ll have enough left in the budget to pay for fire watch this summer. So these people aren’t gonna have anyone bothering them out here for a while—and they know it.”
“They’ll have all winter to expand and train their guys.” Frankie taps her fingers against the edge of my window.
“Not if we let them know how unwelcome they are.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do I want to know how you’re going to do that?” she asks.
“Do you ever?”
She sighs. It’s taken her a while to come around. But she has. And so have I.
In some ways, at least.
“No killing,” she says.
“No killing,” I agree.
“Let me know if you need anything.” She turns back to her patrol car.
“Let me know when Harris drops out,” I call back.
“He’s not gonna,” Frankie says.
Even if he doesn’t, she’s going to beat him. I don’t know how to fix a ballot box, but I do know how to play the people, which is just as good, maybe better.
She drives off, heading toward town, toward that bright future and all that power I’m gonna make sure she has waiting for her.
It’ll always be risky having her around, because I can’t control her, not really.
But she can’t control me either. So we’ll circle…and sometimes we’ll be on the same side; sometimes we won’t.
She’s the best for the county, for the town. She can keep the law there.
But in the backwoods, she can’t, and we both know it. The backwoods never forget and rarely forgive. It was Duke’s domain, and now it’s mine.
As I pull back onto the highway, I keep my window rolled down. The temperature’s dropping each night as we head into winter. The cold air’s crisp in my face, and I breathe in deep, the smell of the forest in my hair, on my skin.
Will and Busy are waiting for me at home. It makes me smile just thinking about it. Him and home. Someday, there’s gonna be the sound of little feet to match the scratch of paws on the wood floors. There’ll be picnics at the park with the Rubies, where punch and the smell of tri-tip fills the air, and the kids run around in the grass, laughing. There’ll be holidays in Hoopa with his family, and Will’s hand will be at my back, always near.
I’ll get Frankie elected because McKennas don’t lose, and together we’ll build something new. It won’t be all good and it won’t be all bad, but it’ll be better than Duke and Springfield’s world.
There’ll be nights when I don’t come home when I’m supposed to. Nights when Will has to wonder if I’ll make it home at all. Nights when I can’t talk about what I’ve done as he helps clean off the blood.
I will become a troubled whisper on the wind. A rumor only the brave seek out. A shadowy figure in the woods who protects her people, who guards the land.
I will love the good parts of Duke I remember and hate the bad parts that haunt me and mourn all the parts of him and Momma and Jake that are dead and buried.
I will keep Duke’s lessons close to my heart, but never in it.
I will move forward: Eyes on the target. Hands steady. Aim true.
Only way, Harley-girl.
A Note from the Author
The neo-Nazi characters in this book play into society’s stereotypical view of white supremacy: the uneducated, poor, criminal, and rural man. While these characters are true to Harley’s world and the area I grew up in that North County is based on, it would be irresponsible if I didn’t acknowledge that these characters and their portrayal are just one facet of the evil of white supremacy, which is deeply entrenched in our country and society in covert and overt ways.
It is not just rural white men with swastika tattoos who espouse and act on these hateful beliefs. It may be a coworker. A neighbor. A family member. The politician you voted for. The well-dressed kid next door who mows your lawn. This hate is not restricted to the South or to the rural, poverty-stricken parts of the country. It is everywhere, a poison knit into the fabric of this country’s founding, past, and present. And it must be fought, denounced, and stamped out everywhere, especially if you benefit from the power of white privilege, like I do.
The organizations below are working to make sure that this hate isn’t part of the future:
NAACP: http://www.naacp.org
Southern Poverty Law Center: https://www.splcenter.org
Native American Rights Fund: http://www.narf.org
Black Lives Matter: http://www.blacklivesmatter.com
Anne Frank Center for Mutual Respect: http://annefrank.com
Much of Barbed Wire Heart is centered around surviving many forms of abuse. If you, or someone you know, is being abused, please know that it is not your fault and there are people who can help.
National Domestic Violence Hotline
1-800-799-7233
Online chat also available at www.thehotline.org
National Dating Abuse Helpline
1-866-331-9474
www.loveisrespect.org
National Sexual Assault Hotline
1-800-656-4673 (HOPE)
www.rainn.org
National Child Abuse Hotline
1-800-422-4453 (4-A-Child)
www.childhelp.org
Women of Color Network
1-844-962-6462
www.wocninc.org
National Indigenous Women’s Resource Center
855-649-7299
www.niwrc.org
Casa de Esperanza
Linea de crisis 24-horas/24-hour crisis line
1-651-772-1611
www.casadeesperanza.org
Deaf Abused Women’s Network (DAWN)
VP: 202-559-5366
www.deafdawn.org
Email: [email protected]
NW Network of Bi, Trans, Lesbian, and Gay Survivors of Abuse
1-206-568-7777
www.nwnetwork.org
Acknowledgments
Every book is a ride, but this one took longer than expected. I started this novel as a college dropout and chipped away at it all through my twenties and never really thought it’d come to be. But through the hard work of the following people, it did.
Lindsey Rose, my editor, who took a huge chance on this dark piece of my life and heart. Your wisdom, enthusiasm, and understanding truly carried me through.
Jim McCarthy, my incredible agent, who always has my back, who saw the possibility in this when all he had was the first 100 pages, a very long synopsis, and my promise to finish it in eight weeks. I will never be able to properly thank you for taking a leap with this book and me.
Lori Paximadis, whose eagle eye and attention to detail when it came to copyedit
ing this monster of a book was so needed. Thank you for fixing all my timeline discrepancies!
Jarrod Taylor, who created an absolutely beautiful cover.
Luria Rittenberg, managing editor extraordinaire, and the rest of the Grand Central team. Thank you all for your hard work.
Rebecca Roanhorse, whose honesty and insight enriched this work and these characters so much. Thank you for everything.
Elizabeth May, the best person a woman could ever have on her side in the wilds of publishing—and in life. I owe you for pushing me to finally finish this damn thing.
Lisa Yoskowitz, who saw a partial draft of this years ago and whose notes led me to create the Rubies and therefore something for Harley to really fight for.
Red, who didn’t sell Arden for a year despite other offers, because I promised that writer girl I’d sell it to her. Thank you for giving me the homestead I needed to finish this book. Rest in Power.
My mother, Laurie, who took a risk and a leap and brought me to the place that would become the inspiration behind North County when I was a child. I know it hasn’t been easy, but it shaped me and my work in ways nothing else could have, and I am grateful.
My wonderful writer friends: Charlee Hoffman, Kate Bassett, EK Johnston, Dahlia Adler, Jess Capelle, Jessica Spotswood, Sharon Morse, Kelly Stultz, RC Lewis, Paul Krueger, and the entire Fourteenery. Thanks for seeing me through the very rough year that came before this book’s sale. I know I was a pain, sometimes.
The old guard who helped grow a mountain girl into a writer: Arnie, Ellen, Georgie, Michael, Carol and Ted, Kitty and Paul, John and Antonio. Thank you for being a part of my raising up.
And my husband, the city boy I lured to the backwoods with promises of good food, good books, and the love of a (mostly) good woman. This piece of my heart, just like the rest of them, is yours. I love you.