“Geneva filled me in. That issue has been going on a long time. But Nancy realizes a meeting with the commissioners is no guarantee the county will allow them to reconfigure their access road, right?”
“Nancy said it sounded promising for a change. Lots of folks are willing to vote for him if there’s something in it for them.”
Dawson’s platform was murky, mostly because he didn’t need one. “What else has Dawson been pledging?”
Steve flicked a column of ash off his cigarette. “Nothin’ major. Talking about adding more patrols. Harsher penalties for underage drinkers and the businesses selling liquor to minors.”
“Do you have problems with minors?”
“Owning an off-sale liquor license means there’s always kids who try to buy beer and booze. Usually the same ones. Chaps my ass they think I’m so damn stupid. But we’ve had two teenage drunk-driving deaths in the last year, so it is a problem.”
“Why isn’t Dawson already focused on that?”
“Exactly my point.”
The waitress dropped off my meal, and I tucked in. Thinly sliced roast beef piled on top of four squishy pieces of white bread, surrounded by homemade mashed potatoes, covered in thick, salty brown gravy. My near orgasmic moans of bliss sent Steve scurrying toward other customers.
More people wandered in, and the booths filled. Busy place. The panel of mirrors behind the glass shelves reflected the bar happenings. I recognized about half the customers. Two hotshot cowboys showed off their pool skills, attempting to catch the eye of the chippies rocking low-cut blouses, big smiles, and even bigger hair. Singles and couples socialized. Some couples even played bridge. Definitely a different clientele than Clementine’s.
Belly full, I focused on the TV screen above the bar, featuring ESPN Classic. I wondered why anyone would watch a sporting event for which the winning outcome had been determined years ago. Then I realized it wasn’t any different than watching a repeat episode of a favorite TV show or a movie. ESPN was running an encore presentation of the 2002 National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas.
South Dakota cowboys were well represented in the bareback and saddle-bronc categories. I groaned along with the two older Indian guys at the bar, when the heelers in the team-roping division had a devil of a time catching a single hind leg on the calf, let alone two. Trevor Brazile wore the sponsorship colors and insignia of the U.S. Army, which made him my favorite for the coveted all-around title.
The bulldogging section started. I liked watching buff cowboys launching off a galloping horse and throwing a steer into the dirt as much as the next woman, but nature called. And I did not want to miss my favorite event: bull riding.
A crowd in the bar meant a long line for the ladies’ room. Five minutes later I couldn’t cut through the mob to get back to my seat. No surprise a fight had broken out. I looked around for the bouncer and remembered Stillwell’s didn’t employ one.
About then the group shifted, and I saw a jock pummeling a cowboy half his size.
Money exchanged hands among the spectators. Betting on a fair fight was one thing. The scared-rabbit look in the cowboy’s blood-caked eye indicated he was way out of his league.
I looked at the bully-an Indian male in his late teens. A fatheaded, ham-fisted, mean-faced bully. When he smacked the cowboy in the jaw and his teeth clacked together, I’d seen enough.
Snagging a pool cue, I wound through the crowd of voyeurs and moved in behind the jock. I whacked him on the back of the thighs, dropping him to his knees. Then I pulled the pool cue across his windpipe and jerked him against my body, trapping his calves between my boots.
All this took about ten seconds.
His hands clawed at the stick that was cutting off his air supply.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded, directing my question to the bully as much as the worthless ghouls watching the scene unfold without stopping it.
Infuriated and humiliated, the cowboy regained his composure. He roared and charged, his pointed boot connected with the jock’s groin. Hard.
Male groans filled the air, and a few even cupped their nuts in sympathy.
Although I had zero compassion for the bully, I released the pool cue, allowing him to clutch his crotch and curl into a fetal position on the floor. Before I could enjoy hearing him gasp in pain, I was blindsided by a fist to the head.
Dots wavered in front of my eyes. Motherfucking son of a bitch, that hurt. On autopilot, I turned, blocked other blows with the pool cue, and swept the guy’s feet out from under him. Once he was flat on his back, with my foot pressed into his throat, I placed the chalked end of the pool cue on his forehead. “Consider yourself lucky I didn’t crack your skull open for that sucker punch, asshole.”
Red-faced jock number 2 glared at me as he gasped for breath.
I hadn’t even broken a sweat. Fights lasted an eternity on TV and the movies, but in real life? Sometimes it just took one punch. I twirled the chalked tip of the cue across his brow, leaving a blue smear. “Get the hell out of here. Both of you.” I released him, gripping the pool stick like a baseball bat until they scampered away like cockroaches.
Murmurs started. The buzz danced up my spine like burrowing insects. People avoided me, including one stoop-shouldered man I recognized as my dad’s buddy, Denver Jordan, who gave me the stink eye.
I braced myself for his recriminations. Putting myself on display. My utter lack of femininity. Shaming my sweet-as-pie dead mother and smearing my dead father’s reputation-yeah, I’d heard it before.
“Folks, this is your candidate for sheriff. Mercy Gunderson.” He raised his mug. “Vote for her. Tell everyone what you seen here tonight, and tell them to vote for her, too.”
In addition to the relief Denver hadn’t lambasted me, I felt an honest-to-God blush rising up my neck when some people clapped. A bar fight probably wasn’t the type of PR Geneva hoped for, but, hey, word of mouth got my name out there.
As the crowd dispersed, Denver clumsily patted my shoulder and trudged outside.
I squinted over the lump swelling on my cheekbone and plopped back on my bar stool.
Steve passed me an ice pack and a fresh draft. “If you don’t win the sheriff’s race, maybe we oughta hire you away from Clem-entine’s as a bouncer.”
“With all due respect, Steve, I ain’t looking to stay in the bar business permanently. I’m too damn old.”
“You’re too ornery.”
“That, too.” I swigged my beer, holding the ice pack to my face, and focused on the TV. Good. Barrel racing had just started. Bull riding was up next.
I was so engrossed in watching the final ride I didn’t notice them until the hair on the back of my neck stood up. My gaze tracked their approach in the mirror.
Of all the nights not to be carrying.
Victor Bad Wound and Barry Sarohutu eased onto the bar stools on either side of me. I nonchalantly sipped my beer and watched the credits roll for the next program on ESPN Classic. Boxing.
Steve stopped in front of Victor. “Getcha guys something?”
“Two double shots of Chivas.”
“Don’t got Chivas. Crown’s the closest.”
Victor leaned in front of me to address Saro. “This is why we don’t come in here, bro.”
I made a mental note to tell John-John to stop carrying high-end whiskey. Might solve his “undesirables” problem.
Victor angled his head to speak to Steve, but kept me blocked in. “Two double shots of Crown.” As soon as Steve hustled down the bar to fill the order, Victor addressed me. “So we hear you like mixing it up?”