No Mercy by Lori Armstrong Page B

not most people. I’d scared him. Good. But I knew he wouldn’t let it slide.
    “Who are you? Maybe a better question is: What are you?”
    “Just a simple enlisted girl keeping the country safe from the evils of terrorism.”
    He tipped up the brim of his hat so he could bend down and whisper in my ear. “I don’t buy it. You can fool other people, Mercy, not me.”
    “Then I’ll be careful to watch my step around you.”
    Dawson angled his head back. Still too close for my liking. “Speaking of… I didn’t get my chance to two-step with you the other night.”
    I made out the strains of “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” above the usual bar noises and the strange pounding in my heart.
    A dark brown hand with ruby nails appeared on his chest. Teased and frosted hair brushed my jawline as a woman crammed herself between us.
    “I’d love to dance with you, Mason. You wandered off and left me all alone in the back room.”
    Dawson’s face stayed neutral at her little-girl pout. “Just getting a fresh round. Laronda, this is Mercy. Mercy, Laronda.”
    “Nice to meetcha,” she said, leaving her hand on his shirt, practically digging her claws in as a sign of ownership.
    This was the type of woman Mad Dog went for? Beauty queen meets Elvira? I could understand his liking her huge boobs. But having to put up with a bad dye job, fake nails, a fake tan, clown makeup, and a quart of perfume just to get his hands on those enormous jugs? Not worth it.
    Plus, she couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. That made him roughly twice her age and me… in desperate need of another shot. I caught John-John’s eye. He poured the Wild Turkey and slid it in front of me. It went down the hatch smooth as honey.
    “You from around here?” Laronda asked.
    “Used to be. How about you?”
    “From Belle Fourche, originally. What do you do?”
    Kill people . Nah. Not a good midwestern response. “I’m a rancher. You?”
    Her witch’s beak wrinkled as if I smelled of cowshit. “I’m a secretary. For now. I’m studying for my real estate license.”
    “Sounds interesting.”
    Awkward silence.
    Laronda looked from Dawson to me. “How do you two know each other?”
    “We don’t.” I swallowed a big drink of beer. “Actually, I was trying to pick him up and drag him back to my place to have my wicked, nasty way with him. You’ve got incredibly bad timing, Laronda.”
    She glared at me.
    Some people have no sense of humor.
    “She’s pulling your leg. Mercy’s dad used to be sheriff. That’s how we know each other.”
    “Oh.”
    When Laronda made no move to skedaddle, Dawson said, “I ordered a round. Let me settle up and I’ll be right there.”
    “Don’t be too long.” She smiled at me—a feral flash of crooked teeth—and raked her talons down his arm.
    After she stomped off I said, “She seems nice.”
    Dawson stared at me like I’d grown horns.
    John-John swept up the empty shot glasses. “Need anything else?”
    “Four pitchers for the back room.” Dawson tossed thirty bucks on the counter.
    “Mercy?” John-John paused in front of me. “How you doing?”
    “I’m good.”
    “You’re never good, Miz Mercy.”
    I half chided, “Not the best information for you to share with the sheriff, John-John.”
    “True. But I’m hoping he’s talking some sense into you.”
    “About?” Dawson asked casually.
    “Keeping her from getting involved with the Yellow Boy family’s troubles.”
    The beer mug stopped halfway to Dawson’s mouth. “Come again?”
    But John-John was oblivious to the tension. “ Unci had no right guilting Mercy into helping Estelle, no matter how close she was to Estelle’s grandmother.”
    As if Sophie could guilt me into anything. I had this perverse habit of finding trouble on my own, and I had just stepped into a heaping pile of it. I sent John-John a cold look, but he’d fled the scene.
    Dawson’s eyes burned with fury. “You messing in my investigation, Miz Gunderson?”
    I