Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [43]
Jolene manned the front desk, not Robo-Barbie. Dawson had stepped out, but she told me to hang out in his office—a natural reaction after all the years she’d sent me back to wait for my dad.
With time to kill, I examined Dawson’s meager personal effects. A framed commendation and a silver star from the president of the United States for bravery, valor, and service in Desert Storm. A diploma from a vo-tech school in Minnesota for his law enforcement degree.
I stopped in front of the last item on the wall; a sizable shadowbox. Inside was a gigantic fancy silver-and-gold championship belt buckle with a hand-tooled brown-and-black leather belt, from the PRCA Midwest Circuit, for first place in bull riding, inscribed to Mason “Mad Dog” Dawson. Alongside the buckle was a picture of a much skinnier, much younger cowboy, wearing chaps, a neon-green western shirt with red flames on the sleeves, holding the buckle, almost with a look of surprise on his lean, handsome face.
With my propensity toward picking cowboys, if Mad Dog and I had crossed paths in our younger years, would we’ve given each other a second look? Was part of the reason we ended up together now because neither of us had a better option?
Such a cynic.
I wandered to the chairs across from his desk. The same desk my dad had used, but neater. The out-box was emptied. Campaign promotional materials were strewn across the surface. Notes scrawled in a spiral-bound notebook sat directly below the phone. I told myself it’d be wrong to snoop so I plopped into the chair on the right side of the desk.
And that’s when the in-box caught my eye, seemingly empty, save for one envelope. A familiar envelope. The envelope I’d dropped off at Dawson’s request.
A solid minute passed. I don’t think I blinked as I stared at that envelope.
Maybe he kept it there for quick reference.
My hand was in the basket before I’d thought it through.
Heart pounding, I flipped over the plain cream-colored envelope with the Gunderson Ranch logo in the upper-left-hand corner. The envelope I’d personally sealed.
Almost a week ago.
The fucking thing hadn’t been opened at all.
Oddly, red rage didn’t consume me. I was plenty mad, but the feeling that followed on the heels of disbelief was worse than blind fury.
Disappointment.
In him. In myself.
Had I really believed Dawson would do his job? It was obvious he hadn’t. Every doubt I’d ever had about him resurfaced.
His heavy tread stopped behind me when he saw the envelope in my hand.
“Mercy?”
I very carefully replaced the letter where I’d found it. My resolve helped me get to my feet and face him.
Something—regret or guilt—flashed in his eyes, and then it vanished. He sidestepped me and skirted his desk. I heard his chair squeak as he sat. I heard him sigh. What I didn’t hear? An explanation. An apology.
An excuse?
There was no excuse. I let him stare at the rigid line of my back for another minute before I whirled around.
“Why are you here?”
“To pick up my gun and to tell you that Bill O’Neil’s campaign committee asked me to run as his replacement candidate.”
No change in his expression. “And what did you say?”
“Yes.” My gaze swept his office before my eyes caught his. “Don’t get too comfy here, Sheriff.”
I spun on my heel and walked out.
TEN
Geneva dragged me to the courthouse to officially verify my candidacy. One of my stipulations for running was working with her for this campaign, not Kit.
An hour later we sat in the Blackbird Diner, poring over preliminary campaign strategy. She counted off the talking points on Bill’s election platform.
“How do you feel about the county commissioners slashing the emergency services budget by ten percent?”
“Pissed off.”
She rolled her eyes. “Language. Remember, no one likes a gutter mouth.”
Stupid double standard. Dawson could say pissed off, and he’d be lauded as a “straight talker,” whereas I’d be called a gutter mouth. I slapped on a beauty contestant smile. “I’m upset with the commissioners shortsightedness. Injuries and tragedies don’t cease because we don’t have the