House of Mercy by Erin Healy Page B

rancher.
    “It’s your hook!” he shouted. “You ought to be dangling there all alone!”
    She stood up under his accusations and just nodded.
    “When that judgment comes down, you’re the one who’s going to pay. I’ll make sure of it.”
    “If I could take back everything, I would. I’m so sorry.”
    “You’ll need a miracle.”
    “Maybe God will—”
    “Shut up. It was a figure of speech. There are no miracles, Beth. There’s only sweat and blood.”
    “But hear me out. I’m not lying to you.” She pointed to the antelope. “I don’t know what it means, but that animal was dying, and I . . . and I . . .”
    On this side of the spectacular moment, the scene looked unremarkable. Her story sounded outrageous. She was trying to find a way to put it into words that Levi could hear when he lifted the rifle to his shoulder.
    “No. Levi.”
    He leveled the sight at the antelope’s shoulder. Air caught in Beth’s throat.
    “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t.”
    Her brother took the shot even while Beth was moving toward him and lifting her hands. She recoiled at the rifle’s great kick. She heard bones shatter and sensed the buck collapse before she could cover her ears. Under the ringing in her head she heard the body splash down. Her mouth was open to gasp or scream, but she didn’t hear herself do either.
    “No miracles. See? End of story.”
    She dropped to her knees, and her brother stalked off.
    A rumble of thunder rolled overhead, and she felt the first raindrops on her bare arms.
    As her brother’s footsteps faded, the wolf returned. The canine trotted so close to Beth that its tall shoulders brushed hers when he passed, but she hardly registered the sensation. He padded directly for the fallen pronghorn.
    Shaking, frightened of what Levi might do if he saw the wolf too, Beth rose and followed her brother. And she didn’t look back when she heard the wolf finally help himself to his meal.

8
    G arner’s plans to catch a ride down the mountain as soon as the storm yielded to morning light were thwarted by the stomach flu.
    He had left Cat’s office near four in the morning after warm tea and pleasant conversation, feeling reassured that he would see his long-lost daughter in due time, in the most pleasant of circumstances, which included blue skies and sunlight. All that was left of the storm by then were a few sloppy puddles that didn’t interfere with his brisk walk back home. The fresh air rejuvenated him, and he considered skipping sleep altogether.
    Against such optimism, he woke on the floor of his bedroom late the following morning, unable to recall having gotten out of bed. Perhaps he had never climbed into it. He still wore yesterday’s clothes, and the odor of sickness that oozed out from the nearby bathroom was witness to events he was glad to have forgotten.
    As a soldier battling liver cancer, Garner was familiar with illness, but this affliction was different. Within an hour of waking, the aches that pooled in his joints spread to his muscles and then to his stomach. He groaned aloud.
    There was a pounding on his front door that matched the throbbing in his head. He wished it away. Whoever it was would have to come back later, because he was in no condition to sell tea. He didn’t even know what to advise himself to take.
    He cursed under his breath when he heard the front door open anyway. This was the problem with small-town life in which everyone was more neighborly than average; there was no need to lock doors in a place where everyone looked out for each other.
    An icy draft swirled into his bedroom and poked him on the floor where he lay.
    “Garner?”
    The voice belonged to Cat. He had a vague recollection that she’d agreed to pick him up at eleven thirty for the long drive into the valley. Was it so late already?
    “What on earth happened to your kitchen window? The carpet’s soaking wet! Garner? Where are you? It’s freezing in here.”
    It was terribly glaring