Free Where Mercy Flows by Karen Harter Page A

or a fence down. My dad pretty much takes care of the horses but there
     are a lot of things he just can’t do anymore.”
    “Is he sick?”
    He glared. “You really have been out of touch. Four years ago August, a hay fork came out of the loft and nearly nailed him
     to the barn floor.”
    My jaw dropped. “A hay fork
came
out of the loft? How? How did that happen?”
    “I threw it.”
    I stared at him and waited. He swirled his beer like it was a fine merlot before taking a sip and setting the glass down.
     “I didn’t mean to hit him. We were up in the hayloft, rigging up a pulley. You know how he can be. A first-class jackass.
     He expects everything, appreciates nothing. I put off law school for two years because he needed me at the ranch. I was all
     set to go to the U Dub that fall, and he starts in on me again. Tells me it’s a waste of money and a lost cause. ‘Sixty percent
     of all law students drop out in the first year,’ he says. He reminded me for the thousandth time that I was just a country
     hick and I could never hold my own against those slick city boys. ‘Your place is here, boy,’ he says, and he goes down the
     ladder. I thought he had left the barn. I started kicking things. I grabbed the pitchfork and hurled it into space like a
     javelin. Then I heard him scream.” He paused. “It got his right thigh and severed a tendon in his knee. He walks with a limp
     now. Has to use a cane on bad days.”
    I whispered a curse. “I’m sorry. Sorry for you mostly.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he’s got you now. He’s got you right where he wants you.”
    Don pushed away from the table. “Let’s get out of here.” He threw some bills on the table and took my arm.
    “Let me go to the bathroom first.” I stopped at the restroom and when I came out there was the cigarette machine looking right
     at me. What the heck, I thought. I’ll be good starting tomorrow. Donnie was already outside on the porch with his back to
     me. I popped my money in and a pack of Kool filters slid out. As I tapped the first one out of the package, someone shoved
     a lighter in my face and flicked it to flame. It startled me and I recoiled. The man’s face was too close to mine, lit up
     by an orange glow, with deep grooves running from the outer corners of his eyes down to his jaw. He lit my cigarette. “Those
     things’ll kill ya, you know.”
    “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Thanks.” When I stepped toward the door, he blocked my path. He just stood there staring at me like the
     Big Bad Wolf with an evil smile that made me feel sick. I pushed him aside with a few choice expletives and stormed out the
     door.
    “You okay?” Donnie asked. He glanced at my cigarette and frowned.
    I held up my hand. “Don’t say it.” I gestured toward the man who was still watching me through the tavern window. “Who is
     that guy?”
    “Him? That’s Dwight Enrich. Was he giving you a hard time?” I nodded. “He’s just a bitter old drunk. Remember Ron Enrich?
     The kid who bashed his mother’s head in? That’s his dad. Fraser’s is his home away from home. Ignore him.” We hopped in his
     shiny Ford truck, leaving my Jeep behind in the parking lot in a cloud of dust.
    The moon was a half disk of white neon in a glittered sky. Scents of green alfalfa and honeysuckle rode the wind through the
     open windows, and Ray Charles sang “Georgia on My Mind” on the radio. We sang along until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
    “Okay. That’s it,” I said. “You sing the blues like a cowboy.” I pulled a pencil out of his console and tapped demonstratively
     on the dashboard. “From now on you’re rhythm; I’m blues.”
    The next song was peppier. He drummed on the dashboard, the window, the steering wheel and my head. I sang my heart out, making
     up words wherever necessary, and we laughed all the way to Dixon, where we stopped for a bag of chips, huge navel oranges
     and some beer. After that we pulled off at a rest stop