Target. How quickly I slipped back into sniper lingo when I wore camo and held a gun in my hand.
We moved our position closer to the watering hole. Ducking low. Moving slowly. Creeping quietly. My guess was the bucks would wander from their hidey-holes to the water and quench their thirst before seeking out the herd of females. The harem was farther downwind than we were, so chances were good we’d have first crack.
After we settled into our new position, I nudged Mason and whispered, “We didn’t talk about who gets first shot.”
“I’m sure you think you do, Sergeant Major, since you outrank me.”
“Yep.”
“Not a fuckin’ chance,” he hissed. “I should get the first kill since I applied for the hunting licenses.”
“Yeah? You wouldn’t be hunting if not for the fact I own this chunk of land, Sheriff.”
“How do you suggest we decide this problem, now that you’re a crime-solving specialist in the FBI?”
A pause.
We said, “Rock, paper, scissors,” at the same time.
Dawson grinned at me, and I grinned back.
Hands out, fists on palms, we locked gazes, whispered, “One, two, three,” and looked at our hands.
He’d chosen rock.
I’d picked paper.
I won.
I leaned over and pecked his puckish mouth. “Don’t pout. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and I’ll miss.”
He snorted. “Not likely. And that’s the first time I’ve ever had a huntin’ buddy kiss me. It’s kinda weird.”
We returned to our watchful stance.
As much as I loved the pulling-the-trigger part of hunting, I also loved this quiet time. I might’ve felt differently if I was stretched out on frigid snow-covered ground, trying to hide my white puffs of breath as the cold seeped into my bones. But I was content, lying on my belly in the tall grass, scanning the area with my binoculars, grateful my hood blocked the wind from my face.
I never thought I’d miss spending my days and nights in the great outdoors. While lying in the sand or on a rooftop, or standing in the back of an assault vehicle, I had dreamed of a soft mattress. Of crisp sheets that carried a freshly laundered clean scent. Of cool, puffy pillows beneath my weary head. Of one night of uninterrupted slumber. Of early-morning tendrils of light teasing through the window blinds as a gentle wake-up call. Not mortar rounds. Not machine-gun fire.
After all the years I’d spent in the army, my days and nights fighting heat, cold, bugs—intestinal and the creepy-crawly types—insurgents, insomnia, cramped quarters, and no quarters, and the weeks without a shower, I swore I’d never willingly subject myself to such primitive situations ever again. No camping, no hiking, no wilderness treks for me. My new idea of roughing it would be no complimentary breakfast at my vacation hotel.
So why was I stretched out in the dirt, weeds poking me in the face, surrounded by the warning scent of male animal urine?
Because my man had done something special for me, reminding me that I’d missed this. Reminding me this reconnection with nature and where I was raised also defined me.
I hadn’t been to this part of the ranch for years. I suspected the watering hole had dried up during the almost decade-long drought. For a few decades, the Gunderson family had hayed a small section at the bottom, leaving the bales as emergency feed if any of the cattle got stranded during a blizzard. This area didn’t produce enough feed in comparison to other areas with easier access, so it’d been allowed to go fallow.
Fallow was good for wildlife. With access to water, and a stand of scrub oak and pine trees to run and hide in, this was an ideal place for them to gather.
Time passed in a pleasant void. I wasn’t getting antsy as much as worried our entry into the animals’ domain hadn’t been stealthy enough. Were the bucks hunkered down watching us?
I considered asking Mason how long he wanted to wait these animals out, because he had to leave for Denver today, when three big bucks picked their way to the edge of the water.
Hello, boys.
They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. When they were spread out, I whispered, “Mine is the far right.”
“I’ll take the left side.”
Chances were high this would be our only shot today, so we had to make it count. “You sighted in?” I asked Dawson, keeping the antelope in my crosshairs.
“Yep.”
“Count of three.”
“One,” he said.
“Two,” I said.
“Three,” we said together.
Ba-bam. Ba-bam.
Near perfect symmetry.
My buck dropped.
Dawson’s animal struggled and acted confused. By the time it staggered a few steps then lay down, the third buck was long gone.
As soon as Dawson’s buck quit twitching, we grabbed our stuff and hightailed it down the hill.
We stopped first and looked at his buck. Nice clean kill, a few inches behind the front leg, which was a perfect heart/lungs shot. The buck had a decent set of horns. Then we walked to my kill.
Dawson said, “Jesus, Mercy. That’s fuckin’ nasty.”
My shot had been a head shot. The buck’s brain had exploded, horns hanging off what was left of the skull. I found Dawson staring at me strangely. “What?” I asked.
“Why would you shoot …?”
Because I was used to taking head shots.
Other snipers might talk about hitting center mass. But at ranges below two hundred yards, I always aimed for the head.
A habit that was hard to break, apparently. I also had no intention of having a mount made. Another habit I shunned—showing off a kill. Just knowing I’d hit my target satisfied me.
But maybe … I should’ve done it differently. Should I pretend I’d missed the spot I’d aimed for?
“If I’da known you weren’t interested in mounting it, I’d have gotten you a doe tag.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Good thing I brought a hacksaw. No need to drag the head back now,” Dawson said dryly.
“Yeah. Good thing. ’Cause all I brought was a knife.”
Mason stood and smirked at me.
“What?”
“Is that your way of asking me to gut your antelope, little lady?”
“Fuck off.” I unsheathed my knife. “And just for that smart-ass remark, I’ll race you. Let’s see who gets their kill cleaned up fastest.”
“God, I love you.”
I blew him a kiss before my hands were covered with blood.
As soon as he stood above his buck, I said, “Ready?”
“Yep.”
“Go.” I dropped to my knees. I rolled the buck on his back and carefully sliced through the hide and muscle, starting at the sternum and ending at the tail. Then on the second pass, I separated the tough membrane covering the body cavity. Using the tip of the knife, I cut around the anus and the genitals, mindful not to cut into the urinary tract or the poop chute. Then I sliced into the body cavity itself, turning the blade side up as I cut, so the knife didn’t go in too deep and nick the stomach. I scored the breastbone with the blade three times and pushed down, cracking it.
I took a break and glanced over at Dawson, who already had his hand in the cavity and was pulling out the guts.
Son of a bitch.
He flipped his buck over to drain the last of the blood, resting on his haunches.
I half expected him to throw up his hands like a tie-down roper.
Mason ambled over, and I still hadn’t gotten to the gut-removal portion yet.
“Lagging behind, Sergeant Major.”
I grunted, then made the cut across the esophagus that allowed my hand to get inside that still-warm cavity and start yanking out innards.
Point for Dawson that he didn’t offer to help.
Minus two hundred points that he started whistling “No Guts, No Glory” while I was shoulder deep inside my kill.
“It’s too damn warm out to let these hang
once we get them back to the ranch,” he said. “We’ll have to get the meat cleaned up and frozen as soon as possible.”
“I’ll bow to your expertise. To be honest, I’ve never butchered my game.”
“Never? Why not?”
I rubbed the end of my nose. “My dad usually struck a deal with someone at Baylor Brothers Meat Processing.” That wasn’t the whole truth. For some reason, it hadn’t bothered my father to watch me kill something, but it’d bothered the heck out of him to watch me butcher it. In fact, counting this antelope, I’d only gutted a kill three times. My father had taken over, gutting the animal himself. Which seemed strange, because Dad never treated me like a girl who might be squeamish. I hadn’t been, but that hadn’t mattered. Every time we’d gone hunting, I made the kill shot; someone else cleaned up the mess.
It struck me, then, how I’d carried that mind-set with me during my sniper years.
Dawson made a disgruntled noise and pulled me back to the present. “It ain’t that hard to butcher. There’s not that much meat on antelope anyway.”
I finally scooped the last of the innards out and rolled my buck to let the blood drain out.
He crouched down and scrutinized my kill. “This is one plump little sucker. He’ll have more meat on him.” Then he said, “Hold still,” and took out a handkerchief. “You’ve got blood on your face.” He dabbed at it. “It’s gone.”
“Thanks.”
“You want that hacksaw now?”
“Yeah.”
Really didn’t take much effort to lob off the head.
We both pushed to our feet, and he handed me another hankie to use on my hands and arms. “Seems crazy that we both got our bucks on the very first shot.”
I shrugged and wiped at the blood. Didn’t seem that odd to me. The one shot, one kill mantra had been drilled into my brain during sniper training.
“Did you bring another gun?” Then he laughed. “Of course you did.”
“You wanna have a little shooting contest? I gotta redeem myself somehow since you whipped my butt in quick field dressing.”
“What’d you bring?”
“H&K P7. Nine mil.”
Dawson shook his head. “I’m not easily intimidated, but Christ, woman, you have a lot of guns.”
“Think of it as the equivalent of other women’s obsession with shoes.”
He laughed again. “Show me.”
I let him go first.
I still won.
By a lot.
Even with my bad eye.
Luckily, my man was a good sport—even if I was a much better shot. We wrapped and strapped up the kills, then started toward the ATVs. Packing out the animal was probably the worst part of hunting. I was surprised birds weren’t already circling above the two piles of guts, waiting for us to leave so they could fight over a quick-and-easy meal. The birds would get the first go, and then the bigger predators would come in and chase them out.
Circle of life and all that shit.
Dawson shouted, “Double time, Sergeant Major, you’re lagging behind.”
• • •
At the ranch, we had to lock up the dogs.
I watched Dawson part out the carcass. He’d rinse and cut and rinse some more. Antelope were hairy creatures, and nothing ruined a piece of meat like a bunch of hair frozen to it. But luckily, antelope hair was very fine, and once it floated to the top of the water, it could easily be skimmed or poured off.
His expertise didn’t surprise me, but his efficiency did. He had both bucks skinned, butchered, cleaned, and parted out in two hours. I helped as much as I could—or as much as he’d let me. I was secretly happy I wouldn’t have to walk past an animal kill for several days waiting for the meat processors.
As soon as he finished, he hit the shower. By the time I cleaned myself up, Mason was packed and anxious to go. It’d take at least seven hours to reach Denver.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” he asked.
“It’s best if you and Lex have time to talk, without his mother or me around.” I kissed his cheek. “Besides, you’ll be back in twenty-four hours. I can find something to occupy myself.”
He kissed me. Hard. “I’ll text you when I get there.”
“Drive safe.”
• • •
“What are your plans tonight now that the sheriff is gone?”
I tore my attention away from a riveting episode of Ice Road Truckers and looked at my sister. “Been a while since I’ve been to Clementine’s. Thought I’d catch up with the crew and the regulars.”
Hope swayed with Joy on her hip, softly biting her lip. I braced myself for the don’t-start-drinking-again plea. But she blurted, “Can I go with you?”
I think my jaw hit the floor. “What?”
“I never get to go out. I’d like to have a conversation with an adult that’s not Jake, Sophie, or you. No offense.”
Had Hope ever been to Clementine’s? The place had a bad reputation—deservedly so. Plus, I considered it my bar. Might be stupid, but I had the urge to protect it even from my sister.
“Of course, me goin’ would boil down to Jake watching Joy for a few hours.” She bit her lip again.
The fact Hope was willing to leave her baby, a baby she rarely let out of her sight, proved to me she needed a break. I smiled at her. “Sure, if you wanna come along, that’d be great. You can keep me from drinking until the wee hours so I’m not hungover when Lex gets here tomorrow.”
“Great. Umm … what should I wear?”
I checked out her outfit, a brightly patterned blue-and-black poet’s shirt paired with black leggings. “You look awesome. I’m not changing. I’m wearing this.”
“Can I borrow some makeup?”
“Knock yourself out. It’s in the top drawer on the right side.”
“Okay. Be right back.” Hope passed me Joy.
“Hey, Poopy.” When I smooched her crown, her little bitty pigtails tickled my nose. She smelled like graham crackers, apple juice, baby powder, and sweet innocence. I’d dealt with my fears—a butt load more than I’d first suspected—and let her become part of my life, which might seem like a no-brainer to most people, but I was at a dark place after I killed Anna. I thought by staying away from Joy, I was actually doing her a favor.
But Hope hadn’t allowed my distance from her child. It amazed me when I uncovered my sister’s pockets of strength.
The barking dogs alerted me to Jake’s presence right before he walked in. Joy squirmed and tried to jump from my arms to get to her father.
Jake only had eyes for her. He plucked her away and blew a raspberry on her neck until she squealed. Only then did he acknowledge me. “Hey, Mercy.”
“Jake. How did things go today?” He’d been dreading moving cattle. I didn’t know enough about what that entailed, except he did it multiple times a year.
“Better than I expected, to be honest. I had good helpers with Luke and TJ and their boys. Where’s Hope?”
“I’m right here.”
We both turned to see Hope leaning against the doorjamb.
“Wow, babe, you look great. Do we got a hot date or something I forgot about?”
She laughed self-consciously. “Mercy’s going to Clementine’s to have a drink, and I asked if I could tag along.” Her eyes anxiously searched his face. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is. You deserve a night out.” He paused and looked from me to Hope and back to me. “Who’s your DD?”
“I plan to have only one drink, Jake. So we should be fine. Besides”—Hope smirked at me—“Mercy don’t want the sheriff to get wind of her arrest while he’s out of town.”
“You’re hilarious, sis.”
“Well, you two have fun. I’ll take lil’ punkin home.” He mock-whispered, “Now that your mama’s outta the picture for the night, I can teach you how to wrassle gators.” Jake shot me a smile before he took off.
Hope insisted on driving. Which meant i
t took us fifteen minutes longer to get there than if I’d been behind the wheel.
Clementine’s was hopping. Something had put this out-of-the-way, hole-in-the-wall bar on the map in the last year. John-John halfheartedly complained about Clementine’s becoming mainstream, but the steady stream of income softened the blow.
Muskrat was the bouncer. He didn’t give me one of his signature bear hugs, where I felt my spine brush the skin behind my belly button as he squeezed me tight. Maybe his lackluster response was a result of seeing Hope, since, like John-John, he wasn’t fond of Jake. “So what brings the Gunderson girls by tonight?”
Hope tittered. God. I hoped she remembered she was a married woman and didn’t flirt with every guy who paid attention to her, as the old, needy Hope would have. “Just looking to get out of the house for some social time.”
Some of the same regulars filled the bar. Vinnie, the biker, and his posse holding court beneath the TV. Construction workers and cowboys in the back shootin’ pool and shootin’ the shit. Lots of folks in here I didn’t recognize. I weaved through the crowd until Hope and I reached the main bar.
John-John saw us, but he was too busy mixing drinks to do more than nod.
I could tell Hope was trying to play it cool and not gawk at the customers who were blatantly checking her out.
Winona gave me a one-armed hug from behind. “Mercy! Damn, girl, I miss working with you. Why you hauling yourself in this mangy hole? You and the sheriff have words?”
“No, smart-ass. I’m here with my sister and we’re thirsty.”
“I’ll get you two beers since John-John’s glaring at me.” She slid two bottles of Bud Light in front of us.
Hope was stuck sitting next to Lefty. I intended to warn her about the crotchety old rancher. But Lefty, who hated everyone, seemed taken with my little sister.
I sipped my beer and kept playing Name That Regular to amuse myself. I was more happy about who I didn’t see—no Cowboy Trey, no Kit McIntyre, no Tiny, no Laronda. Didn’t appear Saro’s group was around, but that didn’t shock me.
I’d learned through the FBI that Saro was restructuring his organization after his brother Victor’s murder. Shay had hoped the resident rez drug runner would be crippled by the loss, but Saro rallied, although he and his group were staying pretty far off the radar.
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