"Double shot of Wild Turkey and a Bud Light chaser."

John-John grinned. "Bad day?"

"Might say that."

He slid the first shot in front of me. The bitter taste hit the back of my throat and ate a path through my stomach lining. I could afford expensive whiskey, but old habits die hard.

It made me laugh, those pretentious people who looked down at the Scots and the Irish and their homemade hooch. Now those same sn.o.bs consider themselves whiskey aficionados and search high and low for the "real thing." Spare me. Only two types of whiskey in my book: free and not free.

I chased the shot with an icy cold glug of beer. "Ah. I'm feeling better already."

"That's why we're here." He murmured something to Muskrat and Muskrat lumbered to the other end of the bar.

John-John's soulful black eyes connected with mine, mirth gone. "We need to talk. I had a vision about you."

I sucked down another mouthful of beer, fortifying myself.

John-John and I had been best pals since we were kids. He is what the Lakota Sioux people call winkte, or two-spirited, a person born with both a male and female spirit.

In the days before Indians were relegated to reservations, it was a sign of good luck from the Great Spirit if a winkte was born into a family. The winkte was allowed to hunt with the men. Cook and sew with the women. It didn't matter which s.e.xual organs the winkte was born with, he/she had always been an honored and welcomed member of the tribe.

Part of being two-spirited also meant a closer tie with Wakan Tanka-the Great Spirit-and what I considered the woo-woo factor in Lakota religion, so it'd always freaked me out that John-John experienced visions. Mostly because they were dead-on.

I shivered.

He saw it. "If you hadn't come in here tonight, I would've stopped by the house tomorrow."

"That bad, huh?"

"Subject to interpretation, as always, but yeah, it is disturbing."

"Well? Let's have it."

John-John squeezed my hand. "Somebody wants to hurt you, Mercy. Real bad."

"Physical or emotional kind of hurt?"

"Physical."

"I don't suppose in this vision you've seen who?"

"No."

"You have any idea when this will happen so I can try and stop it?"

"No." He winced. His eyes filled with pain and guilt as he remembered. We both remembered.

When we were kids, John-John had had a vision about my mother's death. Nothing that could've prevented it, just an impression of blood and horses.

It wasn't until a year after we'd buried my mother that he'd mustered the guts to tell me of how, on the day of her funeral, he'd confessed to his unci Sophie what he'd seen.

Sophie realized the onset of p.u.b.erty had started John-John on the sacred path. She'd taken him to the tribal elders for advice and guidance. John-John was lucky his grandmother hadn't abandoned the traditional Lakota ways, or he could have floundered for years to understand who and what he was. Unlike kids who struggled with a conflicting s.e.xual ident.i.ty, he'd always been comfortable in his own skin.

"Mercy? Hon?" John-John prompted.

"Sorry. Lost focus for a sec. What did you see?" I asked, even when I really didn't want to know.

"Red ground, red sky, red water. Though the impressions were blurry." He frowned. "Don't you believe me?"

"Of course I believe you. I just wondered if I should avoid blow-drying my hair in the bathtub or shoving a knife in the toaster."

"Don't be flip."

"I'm not. I hope nothing happens tonight because I left my guns at home."

"Don't you think you've killed enough, kola?"

What else had his vision revealed about me? G.o.d forbid anyone found out what I'd seen. Or what I'd done. I pushed the empty shot gla.s.ses at him. "Another round, barkeep."

He pressed his lips together and turned away.

I used the lull between us to drain my beer. The jukebox was silent. I twirled around on my stool to rectify the situation when I noticed someone was already making selections.

Whoo-yeah. A tall male someone with an a.s.s to die for, a perfect b.u.t.t gift-wrapped in a pair of tight-fitting, faded Wranglers. A black-and-gray-plaid shirt stretched over wide shoulders and a broad back. I couldn't see the color of his hair beneath his black Stetson, but I knew I was looking at a gen-u-wine cowboy.

G.o.d save me. I've had it bad for cowboys my whole life. Since the first time I'd seen Clint Eastwood. Since my first rodeo, watching bareback and saddle bronc riders getting tossed on their a.s.ses in the dirt and then climbing right back up into the saddle and doing it again. Around age thirteen I fell in love with bull riders. I mourned the death of Lane Frost like some mourned the loss of John Lennon.

Something about cowboys speaks to me on a visceral level. Rugged-looking men making a living from the land. Wearing dirty, mangled cowboy hats. Hearing the jingle of spurs. Seeing work-stained ropes draped over tired shoulders. Tight jeans. The faded circle on the back pocket of those jeans from the ever-present can of chew. Scuffed boots covered in manure. The tougher-than-s.h.i.t att.i.tude. The gentlemanly way a cowboy held a woman as they two-stepped. The brawling in the name of honor, dishonor, or just because a good fight seemed like a good idea.

Oh, and don't get me started on their big... belt buckles and pickup trucks.

Being born on a ranch, I'd never stood a chance at wanting any other kind of man besides a cowboy. I'd tried to expand my horizons after I'd left South Dakota. Law enforcement guys and a few sweet-talkin' soldiers from Dixie had come close, but ultimately they'd fallen shy of the mark. My dad-a throwback to the old cowboy ways and an honest and decent man-had set the bar high.

I silently willed my object of l.u.s.t to turn around.

From the speakers, Toby Keith demanded, "Who's Your Daddy?" and my cowboy sidled into the back room without letting me see if his front matched his back.

d.a.m.n. Win some. Lose some. Maybe if I planted the seed with John-John, he could conjure up a vision of the next time I'd get laid. It'd been a while.

John-John slid the Wild Turkey in front of me. He lit a Salem and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. "Unci said you're helping Estelle Yellow Boy."

"Sophie told you that?"

He nodded. "Did she railroad you into it, Mercy?"

"Doesn't she always?"

"Yep. That doesn't mean you have to do it." John-John set his elbows on the bar. "In fact, I wish you'd blow her off."

My gaze zeroed in on him. "Why? Is there something in your vision you're not telling me?"

"No. I never know what events can be changed by a single decision. I think poking around on the rez and asking the bad kids Albert hung around with questions is a bad idea."

"How do you know they're bad kids?"

"Didja forget I grew up there? I know firsthand what cruelty teens can inflict on one another, especially angry Indian kids. It'd be best if you stayed out of it."

"I don't know how deep I'll look, but I can't blow off Estelle completely. She's hurting. We both know there'd be no living with Sophie if I don't do something." I scowled. Shot number four joined shot number three gurgling in my stomach.

I saw John-John debate on mentioning the amount of booze I'd sucked down, but he thought better of it and shoved a bowl of pretzels toward me.

The music streaming from the jukebox became sappy and sentimental. I love a good he-done-me-wrong-so-why-don't-I-just-get-drunk-and-screw-someone country song as much as the next woman, but I wanted a more upbeat tune.

You want to see if Mr. Tight a.s.s is still hanging around in the back room.

Yeah, maybe that, too. I hopped off the bar stool and headed for the jukebox.

The rainbow strobe lights flashed as I punched in the number for the Trick Pony song "Pour Me." I snickered at Big & Rich's "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy." An image I didn't need in my present hormonal state, but I played it anyway. Followed by "Unwound" by George Strait. When I spun away from the jukebox, there was my cowboy. Before I mentally begged him to turn my direction, he did.

Holy s.h.i.t. My s.e.xy Tight a.s.s Cowboy was Mr. Tight a.s.s himself, Sheriff Dawson, looking decidedly unsherifflike without the uniform, the shades, and the perpetual stick rammed up his b.u.t.t.

I groaned. It figured.

He did a double take when he saw me.

Too late to pretend I hadn't seen him. Wasn't life just a big bowl of rotten chokecherries?

He ambled over. "Mercy Gunderson. I didn't expect to see you in a place like this."

"Yeah? I could say the same, Sheriff."

"I'm off duty."

"If I remember correctly, my dad was never really 'off duty.'"

"Maybe, but as I'm in here enjoying myself, I'd rather you called me by name, not my job t.i.tle."

I drew a mental blank. "What's your first name again?"

"Mason."

My eyes widened. "Like the jar?"

Dawson scowled. "Nothing gets by you, does it?"

Typical marine. What a jarhead. I'd had enough whiskey to want to slug him. Fuzzy logic, but if he wasn't here in official capacity... maybe I could get away with it. As I contemplated the repercussions, a baritone voice yelled, "Hey, Mad Dog," from the back room.

The sheriff's head whipped around. "What?"

"You're up."

"Okay. Be right there," he yelled back.

"Mad Dog?" I repeated.

He shrugged. "An old nickname."

"From your football glory days?" I snickered.

"Nah. From my bulld.o.g.g.i.n' and bull-riding days."

Ah h.e.l.l. Maybe John-John's violent vision was nothing more than my beating my head into the bar top from my questionable taste in men. "Well, Mad Dog, see you around."

Back at the bar, I drained my beer. Chatted with Muskrat until two guys caused a ruckus in front of the TV. I'd signaled to John-John to tally up my bill, when the hair on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kled and someone crowded in behind me. I didn't grab the guy and toss him on his a.s.s, which was a huge step toward civilian normalcy for me.

Or it could've been a sign I'd had too much to drink.

I rotated my bar stool.

Dawson grinned at me-pure cowboy charm.

s.h.i.t.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"I was just leaving."

"Come on, Mercy. One drink."

"I thought you were playing pocket pool, Sheriff?"

He didn't bat an eye at my dig. "Game is over."

I sighed like I was doing him a favor. "One drink. But I refuse to call you Mason. Or Mad Dog."

"Fine. Call me whatever you like." I opened my mouth, and he amended, "Within reason."

The jam-packed area around the bar pressed us together like saltine crackers. "You here alone?" I nodded. "Doesn't seem like your kind of place. A little rough."

"Not as rough as the club I mistakenly stumbled into in Bosnia. Makes this joint look like a church." My finger unconsciously sought the souvenir, a three-inch scar above my ear, now hidden by my hair.

Dawson didn't push. He didn't look away either. "You ever want to talk, I did my stint in the marines during Desert Storm. I imagine we've seen some of the same things."

Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was his condescending offer. But for once I let the horrors I'd witnessed and perpetrated flit through my eyes. "You can't begin to imagine what I've seen."

Most people would've missed his tiny flare of alarm. Then again, I'm not most people. I'd scared him. Good. But I knew he wouldn't let it slide.

"Who are you? Maybe a better question is: What are you?"