No Mercy by Lori Armstrong

killed enough, kola ?”
    What else had his vision revealed about me? God forbid anyone found out what I’d seen. Or what I’d done. I pushed the empty shot glasses at him. “Another round, barkeep.”
    He pressed his lips together and turned away.
    I used the lull between us to drain my beer. The jukebox was silent. I twirled around on my stool to rectify the situation when I noticed someone was already making selections.
    Whoo-yeah. A tall male someone with an ass to die for, a perfect butt gift-wrapped in a pair of tight-fitting, faded Wranglers. A black-and-gray-plaid shirt stretched over wide shoulders and a broad back. I couldn’t see the color of his hair beneath his black Stetson, but I knew I was looking at a gen-u-wine cowboy.
    God save me. I’ve had it bad for cowboys my whole life. Since the first time I’d seen Clint Eastwood. Since my first rodeo, watching bareback and saddle bronc riders getting tossed on their asses in the dirt and then climbing right back up into the saddle and doing it again. Around age thirteen I fell in love with bull riders. I mourned the death of Lane Frost like some mourned the loss of John Lennon.
    Something about cowboys speaks to me on a visceral level. Rugged-looking men making a living from the land. Wearing dirty, mangled cowboy hats. Hearing the jingle of spurs. Seeing work-stained ropes draped over tired shoulders. Tight jeans. The faded circle on the back pocket of those jeans from the ever-present can of chew. Scuffed boots covered in manure. The tougher-than-shit attitude. The gentlemanly way a cowboy held a woman as they two-stepped. The brawling in the name of honor, dishonor, or just because a good fight seemed like a good idea.
    Oh, and don’t get me started on their big… belt buckles and pickup trucks.
    Being born on a ranch, I’d never stood a chance at wanting any other kind of man besides a cowboy. I’d tried to expand my horizons after I’d left South Dakota. Law enforcement guys and a few sweet-talkin’ soldiers from Dixie had come close, but ultimately they’d fallen shy of the mark. My dad—a throwback to the old cowboy ways and an honest and decent man—had set the bar high.
    I silently willed my object of lust to turn around.
    From the speakers, Toby Keith demanded, “Who’s Your Daddy?” and my cowboy sidled into the back room without letting me see if his front matched his back.
    Damn. Win some. Lose some. Maybe if I planted the seed with John-John, he could conjure up a vision of the next time I’d get laid. It’d been a while.
    John-John slid the Wild Turkey in front of me. He lit a Salem and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. “ Unci said you’re helping Estelle Yellow Boy.”
    “Sophie told you that?”
    He nodded. “Did she railroad you into it, Mercy?”
    “Doesn’t she always?”
    “Yep. That doesn’t mean you have to do it.” John-John set his elbows on the bar. “In fact, I wish you’d blow her off.”
    My gaze zeroed in on him. “Why? Is there something in your vision you’re not telling me?”
    “No. I never know what events can be changed by a single decision. I think poking around on the rez and asking the bad kids Albert hung around with questions is a bad idea.”
    “How do you know they’re bad kids?”
    “Didja forget I grew up there? I know firsthand what cruelty teens can inflict on one another, especially angry Indian kids. It’d be best if you stayed out of it.”
    “I don’t know how deep I’ll look, but I can’t blow off Estelle completely. She’s hurting. We both know there’d be no living with Sophie if I don’t do something.” I scowled. Shot number four joined shot number three gurgling in my stomach.
    I saw John-John debate on mentioning the amount of booze I’d sucked down, but he thought better of it and shoved a bowl of pretzels toward me.
    The music streaming from the jukebox became sappy and sentimental. I love a good