Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [50]
“What’re you doing here?”
“I’m running as a replacement candidate for Bill O’Neil in the upcoming sheriff’s election.”
Her critical, birdlike eyes darted over me. “What makes you think you can do a better job than Sheriff Dawson?”
“No need to be rude, Nonie Jo,” Mike warned.
I plastered on a perky smile. “Dawson and I have different ideas on running the county, so it’s not about being better, but offering the voters another choice.”
“He’s definitely better looking than you, so he’s got my vote.” Nonie Jo spun on her pink flip-flop and vanished into the house. Mike slunk in after her.
Campaigning had been well worth the effort. I’d gotten more info on the investigation in two hours than Dawson had in a week.
During the first official meeting with the campaign committee early the next morning, I’d asserted myself more than they’d expected. And I’d done it without a gun in my hand.
I said no to wearing my military uniform.
I said no to playing up the Indian angle.
I agreed to campaign door to door.
I agreed to Q&As at the senior center, the elementary school, and the high school.
I agreed to hold an informal coffee klatch at the Blackbird Diner after they nixed my idea of a whiskey throwdown at Clementine’s.
After an hour, the reality of what I’d agreed to do started to sink in. I stared out the library window to the neatly mowed grass spread out like a manicured golf green. I’d spent so many years in monochromatic landscapes that the verdant hue didn’t seem real. None of this seemed real. Beyond the vivid swath was a single row of tulips, crimson exclamation points set against the blacktop.
“You haven’t said much,” Geneva said.
“I’ve been listening. Trying to take it all in.”
“I sense you’re having second thoughts, but we wouldn’t have asked if we didn’t believe you’re up to the challenge.”
I nodded. Voicing my concerns wouldn’t matter. Geneva would offer reassurances, and if I didn’t act like her pep talk was working, she’d get bent out of shape and accuse me of being a pessimist. Which was true, but beside the point.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Ranch stuff,” I said vaguely, because I couldn’t share with her how I planned to spend my afternoon.
“See you tomorrow. If you need anything, call.”
I practiced my fake politician’s smile. “Will do.”
I tracked Jake down behind the old barn.
He leaned against a shovel handle, studying me curiously. “I wondered if you’d show up, bein’s your daily schedule has changed.”
Nice dig. I gazed across the pasture. Tufts of green poked through the spots that weren’t trampled into goop and covered in cow patties. Hoofprints were scattered every which way. A single path trailed from the stock tank and up over the hill. “What’s on the agenda today?”
“Gotta spread a little hay around for the cattle.” He hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and headed toward his truck.
“With all the rain there isn’t enough new grass to graze?”
“It helps, but it also makes mud,” Jake said, after we climbed in the cab. “Nursing mothers require a lot of feed to keep up their milk production, so we have to supplement.”
“How many bales do you usually feed them?”
“Four. I’ll probably dump five today so I don’t have to come back out here tonight. Do you have gloves?”
“At the cabin.”
“Ain’t doin’ you much good there.” Jake stripped off his gloves. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Since I rode shotgun I had to open gates. Jake seemed surprised I didn’t complain.
By noon the cattle were fed and we’d finished fieldwork.
“I need to check something at the Newsome house. You can just drop me off at the shelterbelt along the east side.”
Jake didn’t seem too keen on the idea, but he didn’t argue.
I rummaged in the box on the floor, pocketing a wrench, a pair of wire cutters, a pair of pliers, and a flashlight before I slipped from the truck.
Sneaking around the Newsome house looked suspicious, especially since I owned the property. But I didn’t want anyone to remember seeing me, so I hunkered down, keeping low to the ground until I reached the propane tank. This older model still