“Better than a broken neck,” he muttered.
“True.”
“Need a ride to the airport?”
“No. Rollie is picking me up in a little bit.”
He lifted both brows. “Rollie?”
“Seems strange, huh?”
“Very.”
Rollie had inserted himself into my life on a regular basis. I was still sorting out my feelings about that, too, not sure I needed him to act like a surrogate father.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Three weeks.” I lifted my sling. “I’m hoping this will get me the sympathy vote and speed up the process.”
“Good luck. If that administrative bunch at Fort Bragg is anything like the marines, they’ll take however long they want with the outprocess paperwork.”
“The army is more organized than a bunch of jarheads, who just bull their way through everything.” That caught his attention.
Dawson’s eyes tapered to fine points.
“I’m kidding, Sheriff.”
His gaze narrowed farther. “I thought we’d moved beyond you calling me Sheriff, Mercy.”
“That was before you arrested me.”
He didn’t defend himself, but I sensed his patience stretching as he fought to stay polite. “So what are your plans when you get back?”
“Riding, roping, and arithmetic. I’d better learn everything about how to run a ranch. Jake already has his hands full.”
“Maybe you should tell that to Rollie. Since you two are so chummy, he’s been hinting to anyone that’ll listen you’ll be working for him as a PI.”
Rollie. What a troublemaker. I still owed him a favor. I wondered how long before he’d collect. “Or maybe…” I floated a dramatic pause. “I’ll run for sheriff.”
That steely blue gaze collided with mine again. “Are you serious?”
“Why? Does the thought of me running against you make you nervous, Dawson?”
He snorted and snapped the stem on a fat yellow dandelion growing out of a crack in the cement.
I could let him off the hook, or I could make him squirm.
Guess which one I chose?
“Besides, a little friendly competition would be good for you. No one else has announced their candidacy, have they?”
Another snort.
“I wouldn’t want you to think you’ve already sewn up the election this many months out.”
“Sewn up. Right.”
“Plus, it might be fun. Fighting with you has been… interesting so far.”
Lightning fast, Dawson inserted himself between my thighs and curled his warm palms over my knees. His face was inches away; his body not nearly close enough. “Here’s something to remember if you decide to run against me; I don’t fight fair. So if you think the fact that you are a g-”
“Girl?” I supplied with a hint of venom.
“No.” He lightly butted his forehead to mine. “I was going to say a grunt. Actually, I was going to say a lowly army grunt, but you outrank me.”
“Yep.” I cocked my head. “Clever, having your old CO try to crack my service files.”
No surprise or remorse crossed his face. “That didn’t take long to get back to you.”
“Uncle Sam likes to keep a close eye on his investment.” I smiled. “Maybe you should start saluting me, Marine.”
“Like that’ll ever happen.” Keeping our eyes locked, Dawson brushed his lips over mine. Softly. Teasingly. Repeatedly. Never fully connecting our mouths.
A quiet, disgruntled sigh escaped from me.
He angled back. That sexy cowboy grin appeared. “Heal up, Sergeant Major. Then I’ll take you on, anytime, anyplace. Officially or unofficially.”
My heart thumped.
Dawson gently tucked the wilted dandelion behind my ear. He leisurely traced the outline of my jaw from my temple up one side of my face and down the other with his knuckles. “I’m glad you’re sticking around, Mercy. Eagle River County is more… interesting with you in it.”
For all the cowboy swagger Dawson packed into his exit, he should’ve been wearing chaps and a white hat, and riding a horse.
I looked around at the historic place that for better or for worse, had always been my home. I listened to the bawling calves. I smelled manure and warm earth and marigolds and Sophie’s lemon sponge cake.
This was my life now. I wasn’t the only Gunderson who’d cursed the land, the sky, and the futility of pretending we had control over either. Or questioned the sacrifices we’d made to live out here, in the middle of nowhere. Or the middle of paradise, depending on the day and my mood.
Wasn’t everything in life about sacrifice?
Yet even in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t alone; I had the ghosts of the past, the blood, the sweat, the tears, the joy, and the sorrow of those ancestors who’d gone before me to keep me company.
Instead of feeling trapped by that knowledge, I was freed.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First off, I can’t say enough about how wonderful it was to work with my terrific editor, Trish Lande Grader. I’m honored to have had her expertise and vision for this book as well as the insight from Pocket editor Abby Zidle, and to get me (and Mercy) on the right course. A sincere thank-you seems inadequate.
Thanks to my agent, Scott Miller.
I need to thank several people in my life who read through this book in its various stages: Mary LaHood has been a steady, honest, and valued critique partner for years; my buddy, author Toni McGee Causey, for letting me bounce ideas off her up until the very end; and also to my author friend Mary Stella, who has offered support in many forms; and my blonde trouble twin, Cat Cody.
My First Offenders blog pals, Jeff Shelby, Karen Olson, and Alison Gaylin, who are so much more than “just” blog partners; and Jeff, the hilarious video announcing the “deal” was above and beyond, my friend.
A twenty-one-gun salute to the folks at H-S Precision in Rapid City for letting me shoot the prototype sniper rifle and for not balking at my bajillion questions.
And a huge debt of gratitude to the soldier/sharpshooter who gave me the lowdown on army life in wartime.
Thanks to our friends Mark and Lisa Sanders, who graciously opened their beautiful ranch to us, patiently answered every question I asked about life as a rancher in western South Dakota, drove us all over the gorgeous chunk of earth they call home-anytime I asked. Truly, your friendship and generosity knows no bounds. I’m humbled… and jealous, ’cause damn do I love your spread.
To J. Carson Black for all her expert equine help, many, many thanks… and yes, I do throw good fillies.
To my family, daughters Lauren, Haley, and Tessa, thanks for not minding when I’m in my own little fictional world. And lastly, a big wet kiss to my husband Erin, for his unwavering belief in me and this unpredictable career of mine, and for being the real gun expert behind the scenes.
I owe a big thank-you to all the readers, librarians, bookstore personnel, and fans who’ve contacted me and have been supportive from the very first book. It means more than I can possibly express.
Lori Armstrong
aka Lorelei James
Lori G. Armstrong left the firearms industry in 2000 to pursue her dream of writing crime fiction. She is proud to be a fourth generation South Dakotan. Lori lives in Rapid City – yes, by choice – with her husband and three daughters.
