Jake tucked Joy in the crook of his arm and popped a baby bottle in her mouth. Greedy sucking noises sounded. “Did you kill her?”
“No.”
He frowned. “You didn’t shoot her?”
No. “I… ah, missed.” Liar.
“You missed? That’s a bad sign.”
Automatically, I assumed he meant I’d lost the weapons skills I’d spent years honing. I bristled. “Why?”
Jake and Sophie exchanged a look.
“What?”
Sophie pinch pleated the ruffles on the place mat. “You know about spirit animals, right?”
I nodded.
“They’re a reflection of ourselves. Sometimes they lead us to something; sometimes they lead us away. You must’ve seen a part of yourself in her. Destroying her meant you’d destroy that part of yourself, so you didn’t.”
Of all the… “I call bullshit on that, Sophie. I also saw two squirrels going at it for like twenty minutes, up and down a pine tree, bark flying everywhere, and I didn’t shoot them. So if what you’re saying is true about the lioness, I should also consider the mating squirrels… my spirit animals? I should read their intensive mating practices as a sign I’m dying to have wild squirrel sex, hanging upside down in a tree?”
A funny smile tilted the crinkled corners of Sophie’s mouth. “That’s exactly what it means.”
Jake and Sophie looked at each other again and busted a gut laughing.
I wasn’t sure if I’d been had. But I was happy to hear laughter in the house again, even if it was at my expense. I got up to leave.
“Seriously, Mercy,” Jake called out, “if you see that lioness again? Shoot her.”
“I guarantee it. But I’m still undecided on the squirrels.”
THREE
John-John was already hauling ice when I strolled into Clementine’s. “Hey, Mercy. Vivi’s got a sick kid, so you’re on mop duty.”
“Great.” For the next hour I scrubbed the floor and sang along to the tunes on the jukebox. I poked my head into the men’s bathroom. Nasty-ass place could stay dirty another night.
Cleanup duties complete, I poured a glass of Coke and studied my boss. It hadn’t been an easy transition, going from lifelong friends to an employee/employer relationship.
But some things didn’t change regardless if our roles did. John-John had always been more comfortable with himself-body size, skin color, spirituality, sexuality-than any person I’d ever known. We’d always joked he’d never outgrown that horny teen state, nor the husky/chubby stage boys do around age sixteen. So his weight loss concerned me. I knew he hadn’t been dieting. “Are you working tonight?”
“Why else would I be here?” he snapped.
I waited, biting back my bitchy retort.
“Sorry, doll. Just a little stressed and touchy about it.”
“Have I done something to piss you off, boss?”
“God, no, and stop calling me that.” He smoothed his hand over the top of his head and impatiently flicked his braids over his shoulder. “There’s some other stuff going on, stuff you wouldn’t be interested in.”
I lifted a brow. “If it has something to do with you, I’m interested. I remember when you used to tell me everything.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Some things might’ve changed, kola, but my ears still work the same as they did twenty years ago.” Would he recognize the words he’d thrown back at me when I’d retreated after Levi’s murder?
John-John hip-checked me. “Smart-ass.”
“So spill it.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well.”
The dark circles under his eyes supported that statement. “You having disturbing visions?”
He sighed. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. I dream, but I can’t make sense of it. I’ve always remembered the relevant points, allowing me to decipher Wakan Tanka symbols when I wake. Not lately. It’s frustrating. I’ve been stuck in that cycle for a couple months. Ever since…”
The vision he’d had about me. As far as I knew, it was one of the few times John-John’s visions hadn’t followed a path to becoming some form of reality. “What about Muskrat? Isn’t he your anchor? Can’t he help you figure it out?” My knowledge of Sioux rituals was sorely lacking, but I didn’t want to lose the conversational momentum since this was the first time he’d opened up to me for months. We’d been working opposite shifts, and I saw him less now than when I’d been on the stool side of the bar.
“Yes. But he’s part of the problem.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“No, after fifteen years together we’re both too stubborn to teach a younger pup our old tricks, so he’s stuck with me. But I ain’t happy with him neither. His back problems aren’t getting better, and he refuses to go to the doctor for treatment. I’ve suggested alternatives: a sweat, a chiropractor, a spiritual massage. He’s stalling; he’s in pain, and he won’t talk to me about it. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Why is he dragging his feet?”
“Because he’s scared it’s something serious.”
I couldn’t fathom Muskrat, a solid six-foot-eight-inch ape of a man, with the disposition of a surly bear, fearing anything. But people thought the same thing about me. “You want me to talk to him? Knock some sense into his thick skull?”
John-John sent me a stern look. “Absolutely not, and don’t you dare breathe a word of this to him.”
“I’ll point out I’m awful good at keeping secrets.”
“Too good.” He chucked me under the chin. “Speaking of secrets, what’s up with you and our delectable sheriff?”
I refilled my soda, considering my answer and his evasion. “Who knows?”
“He hasn’t been sniffing around lately?” he asked skeptically.
“I saw him last night.” I crunched a piece of ice. “Actually, I pulled a gun on him outside the bar after closing, and he still followed me home.”
His gaze narrowed. “Were you armed on shift?”
“Yep.”
“For Christsake, Mercy-”
“Relax. It was just a small handgun. It wouldn’t have made a very big hole in anyone.”
John-John mumbled something, probably a prayer. The office phone jangled, and he raced to catch the call.
His inquiry about my relationship with Dawson brought my own questions to the surface.
When the sheriff was off duty, hanging out in the bar, we ignored each other. People expected our animosity because he’d arrested me last summer. The unexpected bonus for us? Our secret sexual encounters after our public sniping were hotter than a blowtorch.
But a good chunk of our hostility wasn’t faked. We had differing philosophies, especially recently on the proposed Titan Oil pipeline that would literally cut our county in two. Dawson pointed out that building the pipeline would mean new jobs in Eagle River County for several months at least.
The short-term gain for a select group of specialized construction workers didn’t outweigh the cons: lowered property values for every landowner. Environmental concerns, including the landowner’s liability if a catastrophic event occurred, hadn’t been addressed. None of us liked that the powers that be in state government were willing to bend over for a Canadian oil company and turn a blind eye to the taxpayers’ concerns.
The facts were distorted on both sides. From what I’d heard, county residents were divided on the issue. As sheriff, Dawson’s opinion held weight. His opponent in the upcoming election, Bill O’Neil, was adamantly against the pipeline.
I wondered where my dad would’ve stood on the issue. He’d be opposed to the pipeline because of the deep gouge it’d cut across Gunderson land. But I also suspected Wyatt Gunderson, the politician, not the rancher, would’ve won out. He’d gauge which way the political wind blew on the issue before making a decision.