Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [7]
Asking Sophie Red Leaf, our elderly housekeeper, also Jake’s grandmother, to play fetch and carry for Hope was ridiculous when I was underfoot and unemployed. Besides, I’d barely dipped a toe into the responsibilities of running a ranch; Jake was essential to the Gunderson ranching operation, not me. So I temporarily shelved my aspiration of becoming a hands-on owner and helped Sophie tend my fragile sister. I nagged Hope to eat, to take her vitamins and stay in bed. I held her hand during the bouts of false labor. Wiped her tears when our conversations shifted to Levi, which they always did.
Growing a new life-form tuckered Hope out, leaving me at loose ends. Overwhelmed with boredom—and probably slightly drunk—I decided to repaint the living room, dining room, and main-floor bathroom. I bought new furniture. Installed new carpet. I paid for everything out of my pocket, not out of the ranch-operating fund.
No one liked the changes in the house. I hadn’t cared.
Although Hope appreciated my spending time with her, she preferred Sophie’s company to mine. Any need Hope had for me evaporated after Jake finished his daily ranch duties. So every afternoon, as soon as Jake’s boots hit the welcome mat, I hit the bar.
No one liked the changes in me. I hadn’t cared about that either.
Two months into the living arrangement, I started crashing at the foreman’s cabin. I got tired of apologizing for my guns. I got tired of apologizing for my late nights. I got tired of the looks passing between them whenever I cracked open a beer. Contrary to their silent accusations, I craved some semblance of normalcy, not just booze. My life was nothing more than marking time: waiting for the baby, waiting for my retirement checks, waiting for the bank to approve our loan, waiting for calving. I drank to blur the slow passage of time. But I ended up with gaps in my memory and too much pride to ask anyone what I’d said and what I’d done. No one came forward to fill me in.
Except Rollie Rondeaux. Rollie was a full-blooded Sioux Indian with a sketchy past that included a love affair with my mother before she’d married my father. He relished playing the part of the wise old Indian and maintained an arsenal of secrets that he wasn’t opposed to sharing—or keeping a lid on—for a few bucks or for a favor. Since my return to the ranch, Rollie had become a serious pain in my butt, determined to fill a father-figure role in my life. But other times, I knew he was the only person who understood me, who saw the real me, and didn’t judge me for it.
Rollie had shown up the morning after my drunken middle-of-the-night phone call—a call I hadn’t remembered making. He hadn’t cared that I suffered from the mother of all hangovers. He’d dragged my ass out of bed and into the kitchen of the cabin. Through bleary eyes, I’d noticed he’d centered a .45 cal Smith and Wesson on the table.
“What the hell is that, Rollie?”
“If you’re gonna kill yourself, be a man and do it quick. Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger.” He gestured to the empty bottles of Wild Turkey, lined on the counter like good little soldiers. “Save us who care about you the misery of watchin’ you kill yourself slowly with that shit.”
My reaction left a lot to be desired. I hadn’t burst into tears and thanked him for his concern. Instead, I got in his face and pushed back. “Maybe I will just end it. It’s not like anyone cares. Oh, right. Unless it comes to the cash I’m kicking into the Gunderson Ranch coffers every month.”
“You’re wrong, Mercy girl. Lots of people care, but you’re keeping them out. Let me take you to the VA. They can help you.”
“No. Way. So I can be labeled another PTSD freak and become medicated until I die of boredom? No thanks.”
“Then let me help you.”
“What can you do? Give me back my eyesight? My purpose? The life I had?”
No response.
“See? You can’t help me. And this little ‘come to Jesus’ talk is just pissing me off, old man, so leave.”
“Sorry. I ain’t giving up on you because