Free No Mercy by Lori Armstrong

the face pointed skyward; the body turns circles as it is anointed with blood raining from the heavens. Slowly, the spinning stops. The chin tips down.
    Cold, dead eyes stare back .
    A screeched warning. “No!” is lost in nothingness, because without corporeal form, no sound emerges.
    Unseen blows knock her down. Striking upon her head, her chest, her arms, her legs. She fights. Invisible sharp instruments score her flesh until the wounds seep. She is a sacrifice, purity splayed in the filth. Bruised, broken, and bleeding. Naked, sexless, useless, discarded.
    Dead.
    Staccato rounds of gunfire echo, create another silvery flash. A buzzing black cloud seals every inch of the space behind her. She is a white dot about to disappear into nothingness. She shimmers, caught between dark and light, before she vanishes.
    The edges of the vision blur, then fade completely.
    A light touch rests to the forehead. A cool cloth presses to the lips. Chanting brings awareness back to the body.
    Another aroma wafts in. Sulfur, followed by the pungent scent of burning sweetgrass. Soft rustling sounds fill the space as the smoke stick purifies the air.
    A large hand reaches out. The bone-crushing grip gentles, stroking a ragged thumb across bruised knuckles. Soothing. Allowing time to find breath, balance, and sanity.
    “Come back to me” is whispered.
    “I’m here.”
    No judgment. No insistence it was just a bad dream. The blind acceptance is humbling. Eyes open. Pink and tangerine rays smear the familiar bedroom walls as the sun rises.
    “I’m tired.”
    “Then sleep.”
    “But I need to tell her.”
    “You will. Just not now.”
    I spent the better part of the day on ranch business with Jake. We talked about updating equipment, and strategizing a way to incorporate buffalo into the operation.
    After I returned to the house, I tried to reach the investors from Florida to tell them the ranch wasn’t on the market, but once again I talked to a recording.
    I still hadn’t heard from Estelle. Maybe she’d changed her mind.
    Another night at home would drive me crazy. I needed to get out. I showered and plaited my wet hair in pigtails. Slapped on enough makeup to make me presentable, but not to look like I was on the prowl. I tugged on my skintight Rocky jeans with the leather lacing down the outside seams and slipped on my beat-up red Justin ropers. Snapped the pearl buttons on my favorite shirt, a short, sleeveless red-and-white-gingham number from Cruel Girl.
    I pawed through my extensive collection of rhinestone belts: b.b. Simon, Kippys, 20X, Montana Silversmiths, Old Man River. You could take the girl out of the country, but a gaudy bit of rodeo queen always remained. The Swarovski crystals on the skinny red Nocona belt glimmered as I threaded it through the belt loops, adjusting the silver studded buckle below my belly button on the low-riding jeans.
    Damn. No place to put my gun.
    As a civilian I didn’t need to carry everywhere I went. Still, it was hard to remember a time in my life when I wasn’t loaded for bear.
    I clomped down the stairs and paused on the landing leading into the kitchen. The warm smells of home cooking hung in the humid air. Mashed potatoes and peppery gravy. Roasted meat, sugar-glazed baby carrots, and onions. Chocolate cake with white buttercream frosting. When I saw Sophie and Jake seated at the big table, plates set for Hope and Levi, and the empty melmac plate in my usual spot, I ignored my growling stomach.
    “Why you all spiffed up for dinner, hey?”
    Guilt, go away. “I’m not staying for dinner.”
    “Where you going?”
    “Out.”
    Sophie’s eyes were curious as a crow’s. “Out where?”
    As I snagged my straw hat off the coat rack and shouldered my purse, I swallowed the retort reminding Sophie I didn’t answer to her. I pocketed the truck keys and debated on racing back upstairs for my Walther, just in case.
    “Mercy? You gonna tell me where you going?”
    “No, Sophie, I’m