Free No Mercy by Lori Armstrong Page A

not. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I left before she could change my mind.
    The heat inside the truck blasted me like a woodstove. With the windows rolled down, the interior cooled as I zipped along the series of gravel switchbacks, a shortcut to my bar, my darling Clementine’s.
    I belted out “Redneck Woman” along with the radio. The neon Coors Light winked at me across the barren field, the shadowy purpled Badlands a backdrop for the shadowy bar.
    Clementine’s is a total dive. A cobbled-together shack where only the toughest locals dared to tread. A mix of cowboys, Indians, ranchers, bikers—anyone who wasn’t in the mood to exchange pleasant conversation. A place to knock back a shot, knock in a few pool balls, or knock heads together. Clementine’s was the roughest bar in five counties, and I considered it my own personal Island of Misfit Toys.
    Oddly enough, Jake’s cousin, another one of Sophie’s grandsons, John-John Pretty Horses, owned the joint with his partner, Muskrat. I didn’t know Muskrat’s real name; everyone just called him Muskrat. Since he was about ten feet two inches and resembled Sasquatch, no one questioned him.
    John-John and Muskrat were partners in the truest sense of the word. Woe to the idiots dumb enough to utter the phrase Brokeback Mountain.
    The dusty parking lot was clogged with beat-to-crap Harleys, pickups with gun racks—loaded, of course—rusted-out midsized American-made sedans, and an SUV or two.
    The steel door flew open as I walked up.
    Muskrat had a scrawny biker in each ham-sized hand; two pairs of boots barely touched the weeds. He threw the guys to my left. They landed on hands and knees in a patch of creeping Jenny. “When I tell you to take it outside, I mean it.” Muskrat whirled on me.
    Instinct had me bracing for a fight.
    But his pale brown eyes lit up. “Mercy! Where you been keeping yourself? You’ll make John-John’s night.” He scanned the parking lot behind me. “You bring Jake along?”
    My back stiffened. “No. Not my day to entertain him.”
    “No need to snap at me.”
    “Sorry. Habit. I’m just sick of everyone around here assuming Jake and I are still some star-crossed lovers. That time apart has mended our broken hearts and we’ll ride off into the sunset together on white horses and live happily ever after.”
    “Ain’t a romantic, are ya?”
    “Not a single bone.”
    “Good. You can find someone better’n him anyway.”
    My brows lifted with surprise. “You think?”
    “Yeah. Jake might be John-John’s cousin, but I ain’t got much use for him. Takes that wooden cigar Injun bit too far.” He held the door open for me.
    I ducked under his beefy arm without commenting.
    Creedence Clearwater Revival blasted from the jukebox, which separated the central core of the bar from the back room. Both pool tables were in use. Ditto for the dartboards.
    In the far corner, several guys straddled chrome bar stools, sipping mugs of beer, vacant eyes glued to some sports event on a big-screen TV suspended from the metal rafters.
    I’d barely stumbled in when I heard my name shouted as a benediction. I was wrapped in a bear hug so tight my eyeballs threatened to pop out. A feather tickled my nose.
    The burly bear in question, John-John, resplendent in black jeans, a black silk shirt, purple velvet vest, and a matching beret (complete with a red feather) gave me a slow once-over.
    “Don’t you have the wholesome Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island meets slutty Daisy Duke look? Love the belt.”
    “Thanks. You can borrow it anytime.”
    “Honey, if I had a waistline like yours, I’d take you up on that.”
    “Aw. Turn a girl’s head, you talk so sweet, John-John.”
    Muskrat snorted.
    “Trey, you’re in Mercy’s spot,” John-John said, and shooed a very good-looking, whipcord-lean young cowboy off my favorite bar stool.
    “I’ll move. No problem.”
    I smiled at him. “Thanks, Trey.”
    He gifted me with one of those playful, cocky