Five hundred acres might mean a lot of land in fertile prairie-farming communities, but as far as ranching in western South Dakota? Forget it. Not enough room to run a decent herd of cattle. Not enough cattle meant not enough money to live on. Which meant the people buying the land wouldn't be ranching.

In essence, he was proposing to turn the "historic" seventy-thousand-acre Gunderson Ranch into a bunch of hobby ranches. Where white-collar professionals could play cowboy. Dress up in new Wranglers, fancy cowboy boots, and custom-made hats. Talk about low cattle prices, the lack of moisture, the high price of feed. Build a half-million-dollar house next to the quarter-million-dollar barn where they could stable their expensive hobbyhorses and fleet of top-of-the-line ATVs.

They'd throw branding parties in the spring. Sit in air conditioned- three-season porches in the summer and watch satellite TV while chatting on their cell phones about "real" country livin' with their stockbrokers. Then in the fall, they'd invite their buddies with purebred Labrador retrievers for a week of roughing it out West to do some real hunting.

G.o.d. Maybe I was channeling my friend John-John's abilities to see visions. A shudder ran through me. I actually felt my dad spinning in his grave.

What bothered me more than Kit's offer was Hope discussing our private family business with this big mouth. No wonder everyone in the county gossiped about my intentions. No wonder Dad left the final decision about the fate of the ranch to me and not my flaky sister.

"Whatcha think? Would you be willing to sit down and talk to the investors?"

"Sure."

Kit looked so happy I was afraid he'd lay a big honking kiss on me. Eww. I'd pop him one first, and not necessarily with my fist.

"When?"

"That's the thing, Kit. A group from Florida has asked to come and check the place out."

His white eyebrows rose clear to his hairline. "Florida? How'd they hear about it? Why would you even be talking to them kinda folk?"

I shrugged. "Don't know how they heard, but they offered to buy the whole property, sight unseen, as an investment." I grinned nastily and lied, "In cash."

Now old Kit looked like I had plugged him in the heart with my trusty gun. "B-but. You ain't seriously thinking about it, are ya?"

"Yes. Seems these other folks really do have the Gunderson family's best interests at heart."

Kit's sagging shoulders snapped straight with indignation. "You saying I don't?"

"I'm saying none of the people who have contacted me are pretending they want this chunk of land for any altruistic reasons."

"But-"

"You think I'm stupid, Kit? You think I don't know what this land is worth? You think because you paid me a personal visit I'll be inclined to sell it to you? Or will you bring up my daddy and your great friendship with him and lie about what he would've wanted?"

His brown eyes turned as cold and hard as frozen cow chips. "For years your daddy hoped you'd come back here and take over. Except we all know he was delusional when it comes to you and your crazy sister."

It was on the tip of my tongue to defend Hope. No one had the right to call her crazy but me.

But Kit wasn't finished. "You always thought you was too good to stick around these parts. You couldn't even be bothered to show up before your daddy pa.s.sed on. No big surprise you're finally back here, now that you don't have to look him in the eye as he was wasting away to nothing. I'm glad he ain't around to see the heartless creature you've become, G.o.d rest his soul."

Wind rustled through the elm leaves. A drawn-out, high-pitched hawk's screech made me twitchy.

Hiram moved in. "He don't mean it, Mercy."

I stared at Kit. Revulsion stared back at me. "Yes, he does. So now that I know how you really feel, Kit, don't hold back."

"Fine. Here it is: you don't know all the problems you'd be causing if you sell out to someone who ain't local. Who's it gonna hurt? Your neighbors. Remember them? The ones who helped out your family when your mama died? When your daddy's diabetes got so bad they chopped off his leg and he couldn't take care of this place? When your granddad nearly lost everything in the dirty '30s? Oh, and let's not forget way back when your great-grandma Grace nearly lost her mind."

Seemed old Kit knew my family history better than I did.

When he spit a wad of tobacco out the side of his mouth, I expected to see a forked tongue.

"Think those fellers from Florida give a rip that your daddy's been letting the Marshall family hunt here off-season so they don't starve in the winter? Them rich sn.o.bs will close the land off to all hunting except for their bigwig buddies.

"Sure, they're willing to pay you top dollar. They don't have to worry about some d.a.m.n conglomerate moving in next to them, sending ag-land values through the roof and forcing them out of their heritage. By then they'll probably already have bought up half the d.a.m.n county and sent the people who've lived in this area for generations into town so's they can work for Wal-Mart."

His venomous declaration wasn't a revelation to me. So far he'd been the first person to voice his concerns to my face. For that alone I ought to have given him props. I might have, if it weren't for the sneaky-a.s.s way he'd gone about it.

Oh, and his s.h.i.tty opinion of me and my family.

"You done?" I asked coolly.

"No. Some powerful people are backing me on this. Life on the ranch is mighty rough, especially for a city girl like you."

Whoa. That was a name I hadn't been called. Ever. "City girl?" I repeated.

"Yeah, you ain't cut out for this life. Never were. Wyatt kept you in the dark about what it really takes to run a ranch this size. Neither you nor your sister has the guts to do it. 'Sides, you never know what can happen around these parts. Accidents and the like." Kit lifted his hand and casually studied his fingernails.

Oh. My. G.o.d. I could hardly keep a straight face. Talk about him acting like a caped villain in a bad melodrama. He should've been cackling evilly while he twirled his mustache. Was he secretly imagining tying me to a railroad track as I cried for help?

Screw that. Screw him.

"Don't got nothing to say?"

"You threatening me?"

"Consider it a fair warning. You may act tough, but when it comes down to it, the years away made you soft. With the right kinda pressure, I suspect you'll give way like a marshmallow in the sun."

Soft. With that suggestion my humor vanished. My gun arm lifted of its own accord. I fired at the right headlight on his truck. Metal c.h.i.n.ked. Gla.s.s exploded. Gun smoke hung in the air. I didn't flinch, although Hiram hit the ground pretty d.a.m.n fast.

Kit screeched, "What in the h.e.l.l are you doing?"

"My way of warning you that I don't deal well with any kind of threats, Kit."

"You're just as crazy as your sister and the rest of the women in your family."

"Maybe."

"You just made a big mistake." He shook his finger at me. "You're gonna pay for that."

"Yeah? Then go ahead and put this one on my bill, too." I shot out the other headlight just for fun.

Hiram crawled away.

Chicken.

Kit's face matched the color of his rig. "You just bought yourself a whole pa.s.sel of trouble, Missy."

I swung the barrel away from his front tire and aimed at his sweat-covered brow. "Wrong. You breathe one word of my little misfire to anyone and I'll come for you." I inched closer, and he backed up. "When you're all alone, Kit. I'll have you p.i.s.sing yourself in the dark before I shoot off your worthless d.i.c.k. Then we'll see who's tough and who's soft." I pointed at the driver's-side door. "Now get the h.e.l.l off my land."

Hiram scrambled to his feet. "Come on, Kit. Let's go."

"Next time I see you trespa.s.sing I'll shoot you-or anyone else-on sight. Feel free to pa.s.s that around."

I fully expected Kit to crank down the window to shout out something lame and ominous like, "This ain't over." But he hauled a.s.s away as fast as his ten-cylinder allowed.

After they'd gone, I slumped against a hay bale. This was the first confrontation, but I knew it wouldn't be the last. And I couldn't get rid of all my problems by shooting them.

Pity.

FOUR.

Sophie gave up trying to get me to wear a dress to the community dance. If boots and jeans were good enough for the guys, they were good enough for me.

Instead of showing up in my beloved Viper, I drove my dad's truck down County Road 11, country music on KICK 104 my companion.

Despite the dust and bugs, I rolled the windows down. I slowed for a baler taking up half the gravel road. I waved at Tim Lohstroh as I pa.s.sed, inhaling the deliciously sweet scent of yellow clover.

The breath-stealing heat had abated, leaving a perfect summer evening, where the air is velvety soft. I glanced across the horizon at the myriad of colors: a swirl of sapphire, salmon, and scarlet, indicating the sky's magical transformation from day to night. I'd seen sunsets all over the world. Nothing beats a summer sunset on the high prairie. Nothing.

I parked in the dusty field at the Viewfield Community Center. The knee-high bromegra.s.ses were dead in places from lack of moisture and flattened from Buicks, pickups, and ATVs leaving skid marks on the concretelike ground.

I slid the beer cooler across the truck bed. Alcohol wasn't allowed inside these family events, so we all snuck out for a nip between songs. Or we tucked a flask in our boots. The Wild Turkey in my ropers sloshed with every step.

It was hard to believe that barn dances were still the summer highlight in Eagle River County. Was it because country and ranch people clung to traditions, rejecting anything new or different on principle?

Nah. These gatherings were actually fun. As a kid I'd loved dances, even when Dad-as sheriff-kept an eye on every cowboy who asked me to two-step.

Tonight's festivities weren't taking place in a barn, but in a steel building a few enterprising souls had remodeled from an abandoned wool-shearing shack into a much-needed community center. As it was the biggest building in the county, we'd held the finger sandwiches and sympathy a.s.sembly here after my father's funeral. At the time I hadn't paid much attention to the surroundings.

The interior owed more to function than decor. A big, open kitchen, lined with a.s.sorted old stoves and refrigerators and a huge concrete dance floor with a wooden platform serving as a stage. Flags hung from the metal rafters: Old Glory, the pale blue South Dakota state flag, local chapters of FFA, 4-H, Stockgrowers a.s.sociation, SD Beef Council, SD Pork Producers, VFW-banners that meant something and were hung with pride.

In the far back corner chipped white Formica folding tables were piled high with sweets. Crisp, sugary cookies covered in sprinkles, drenched with powdered sugar, and bursting with nuts and chunks of chocolate. Pans of bars coated with frosting in every color of the rainbow. Thick, gooey brownies and rows of fruit pies with perfectly browned crusts-all homemade goodies, not a Keebler bag in sight.

Four watercoolers ab.u.t.ted the wall between the men and women's bathrooms. Six industrial-sized coffee urns were set up beside the dessert station. Each pot would be emptied and refilled at least three times before the evening's festivities concluded. My mother used to say, "Those Lutherans sure love their coffee." Not all the attendees were Lutheran. Methodists, Catholics, Presbyterians, and Episcopalians were welcome, too. We do have some religious diversity in South Dakota.

Coffee was one thing we all agreed on: black. The rage for lattes, espresso, cappuccino, and confections topped with whipped cream and flavored syrups hadn't caught on. A few people preferred cream and sugar, but mention a half-caf, sugar-free, caramel macchaito with light foam, and you'd get a blank-eyed stare like you were speaking Farsi.

I'd barely stepped foot inside when people descended on me like a pack of locusts. Most everyone in the county felt ent.i.tled to grill me on my plans for the ranch. When I hedged, they gave me a suspicious look usually reserved for outsiders. Then they left me standing alone like I'd developed mad cow disease. In that moment I missed my father with an ache so painful I almost turned and ran out.

A Gunderson never runs.

As I debated ignoring Dad's phantom words of wisdom, Hope materialized by my side.

She looked worse than dog c.r.a.p. Makeup didn't mask her waxy complexion, and the thick black mascara accentuated the hollowness in her eyes. Why couldn't Doc Canaday figure out what was wrong with her? "You sure you should be here, sis?"

"I'm sick of being at home. I want to have some fun and dance."

A hairy head the size of a moose popped between us. "Did someone say dance?" Tubby Tidwell wrapped a flabby arm around each of our shoulders. "You're in luck tonight, ladies, because 'Tubby the Texas Two-Step Master' is here. Who's first?"

Hope giggled and leaned into him.

I resisted pulling out my flask right then.

Without warning the lights dimmed and the band launched into "Whiskey River."

"Mind if I steal this gorgeous young thing for a while, Mercy?" Tubby yelled over the music.

I glanced at Hope. Her eyes pleaded with me. I smiled tightly. "She's all yours, Tubby."

He whooped and dragged her to the crowded dance floor.

Hope's defection spurred mine. No such luck I'd get away easy.

Our neighbor Iris Newsome cornered me. "Mercy. I'm surprised to see you here, although I am glad I ran into you. I've been meaning to come by. How are you holding up?"

I'm drinking more than usual and my career is toast, but besides that, I'm peachy keen.

Nah. Not a good response. "I'm taking it day by day."

"I know how that goes." She smiled sadly and turned to focus on Hope and Tubby twirling around on the dance floor.

Dealing with Iris always set my teeth on edge, mostly because I didn't know how to deal with her.

When Hope was five, she was playing cowboys and Indians in the shelterbelt behind our oldest barn with her best friend, Jenny, Iris's daughter. Somehow Jenny had managed to sneak her father's eight-inch Bowie knife into her Barbie backpack.

Hope's jealousy that Jenny had the real thing, while she had to make do with a plastic toy gun, spurred Hope to sneak inside and grab Dad's snub-nosed Ruger revolver from his nightstand drawer.

After Hope captured Jenny, she'd tied her up and interrogated her. Just like on TV. When Jenny's answers weren't to her liking, Hope placed the gun barrel to Jenny's forehead. Just like on TV. But unlike on TV, when Hope pulled the trigger and fired, she blew Jenny's brains all over the barn and all over herself.

When Jenny didn't hop up and laugh, just like on TV, Hope started to scream. She screamed until her voice gave out and she went into a catatonic state.

Dad literally picked up the pieces.

Even through their grief, Jenny's parents hadn't blamed Hope. They knew everyone in our part of the world kept their guns loaded; the circ.u.mstances could've easily gone the other way and we'd have been buying a pine box and planning a funeral.

The incident became another turning point in our lives. Dad burned the barn to the ground and purchased a gun safe. Within two months he quit wallowing in the grief and whiskey that'd followed my mother's death and signed on with the sheriff's department as a deputy. Hope still suffers from random periods of depression. Rather than medicating her, we all tread lightly during these episodes and use our family strength to shield her from others and herself.

The catastrophe hadn't dimmed my love of firearms; it merely increased my respect for the deadly consequences of misuse. Killing, even accidentally, will make some people delicate, like my sister. But killing is the one thing I'm good at, even if the payoff is some sleepless nights.

Iris faced me. "I'm calling a meeting next week with Bob Peterson about some of the changes those LifeLite people who bought the old Jackson place have made." Her eyes narrowed. "Have you been by there yet?"