Thirty-Nine

I’m almost eighteen the first time I shoot a man.

It’s summer, the second year that Will’s been sent to work on the grow for the Sons of Jefferson. Daddy’s in town that day, and Busy’s at the vet because she’d tangled with a rattler, so it’s just Uncle Jake and me in the big house.

I’m up in my room, and when I hear the front door opening, I don’t even give it a second thought. I turn the page of my hunting magazine, thinking the footsteps I hear on the porch are Uncle Jake’s heading out to the barn.

The gunshots that come a minute later make me think otherwise.

I roll off my bed and onto the floor, the years of Daddy bursting into my room at all hours to scare the instinct into me paying off. I stay flat on my belly, my back squeezed tight against the box springs. I yank out my Winchester .22 barrel first, searching blindly through the dust bunnies to locate the box of ammo.

I breathe in and out, loading the bullets, my lips moving silently as I count. I pull the bolt, the first bullet slides into place with a click, and I thumb the safety off.

I strain my ears, but there’s nothing to hear. No more footsteps. No more gunshots.

No way in hell would Uncle Jake be shooting off a gun without good reason. And he’d have shouted for me by now if he wasn’t…

I swallow and scramble across the floor, the rag rug in front of my window tickling my skin as I slowly raise myself up to peer out. I can see part of the porch from here if I angle my head right.

I spot the edge of a plaid shirtsleeve, and then Uncle Jake’s arm comes into sight, hand scrabbling across the porch, trying to pull himself forward.

I watch in horror as he crawls into view, belly down and leaving a long, dark drag of blood behind him on the porch.

He’s hit.

This is on me now.

My head whips around at the sound of the front door closing, followed by a steady thump of footsteps up the stairs.

I need to get to Uncle Jake. He’ll bleed out if I don’t.

My eyes track across the room as I put the pieces together. My door’s half cracked open, and my bed’s not gonna provide enough cover. I could maybe get off a few rounds if I needed to, but a .22 isn’t exactly made for close quarters.

Window’s my best option.

The shooter’s footsteps are getting louder.

I flip the safety on, sling the .22’s strap over my shoulder, open the window, and heft myself out feet first, my belly pressing against the pane. My feet dangle in the open air as I ease the rest of my body out until I’m hanging by my fingertips twenty feet in the air. The barrel of my .22 hits the back of my knees, and I grunt, swinging my legs hard, pushing off with as much might as I can, stretching.

I hit the porch roof hip-first with a thump, losing control of my roll halfway through and almost falling off the edge because of it. I grab for something—anything—to stop my momentum, latching onto the gutter pipe at the last moment. My muscles scream and pull, but I hang on. It takes me a few seconds to swing down onto the porch railing, trying to land as lightly as I can.

“Uncle Jake,” I hiss, running in a low crouch to him. He’s lying facedown on the porch, his shoulders rising and falling in horrible, jerky movements.

I kneel next to him and push at his shoulder, rolling him over. He moans, and if I didn’t have to press my hands down on the gaping pulpy mess of flesh that used to be his stomach, I’d be clapping them over my mouth.

“Harley,” he slurs, his eyes barely open. “Run, baby. Run.”

“No.” Shit, his stomach. I pull at the tattered ends of his button-down shirt, trying to make some sort of bandage or compression or…

Oh God.

I strip off my T-shirt, spreading it across his middle and pressing down hard. The blood stains the white material a horrible rusty color, darkening by the second, until it’s soaked through.

I can feel something slick and fleshy beneath my hands, like I’m just a thin layer of cotton away from touching his intestines. He smells like copper and shit, like burnt meat and bile, and I keep pressing down, trying to keep his guts from spilling out of him as his blood soaks my skin.

He groans, too loud.

“Shh, shh,” I whisper. “He’ll hear.”

Something whizzes by my head, and I flinch, feeling something sharp striking my cheek. Not taking the time to press my hand to where warmth’s spreading down my face, I throw myself down and back until I’m hugging the corner of the house, partly hidden.

Another shot lands in the porch railing. I peek my head around the corner just a sliver.

The shooter’s sitting in my bedroom window. I can see his dark silhouette moving slightly through the curtains. He lowers his gun, the shot rings out, and a bullet sings inches above my head. I jerk back to safety.

Uncle Jake’s still in range.

The next bullet goes into his leg. He doesn’t have the energy to scream, he just jerks, and his breath stutters and wheezes in his chest at the impact.

I throw myself forward, grabbing his foot, the only thing I can reach and pull. He screams then, screams and screams, kicking out at me with his good leg as I yank at the bad one. His foot catches me in the stomach; it steals my breath, but I keep going until I’ve got him out of range, behind the porch swing.

“Harley,” he pants again, but I can barely make it out, and then his head lolls against the swing, and for an awful second I think he’s dead. Then he sucks in a sharp breath and coughs out blood.

“It’s okay,” I say, one hand on my gun, the other on his heart.

His hand reaches out to cover mine. I can’t breathe. My throat hurts.

All of me hurts.

He looks up at me, his eyes dim. “Look so much like your momma,” he gasps out, and his fingers tremble, like he’s trying to squeeze my hand but can’t summon the strength. “But you’ve got his eyes. Never wanted this for you. Wanted more…better. Harley…”

“I’m here,” I say. “I’m with you.”

His gaze snaps to mine like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

“Run.”

I’ve never been so close when it’s happened before—but with that last word, his hand tightens on mine for a moment and then drops away. He’s gone.

It’s his dying wish. A command I can’t ignore.

I run.

  

The paths of the forest are known to me like each wrinkle on Miss Lissa’s face. They spiderweb out in all directions, through the hundreds of acres of trees and cliffs and valleys. They spread for miles, tangled and wild, twisting and turning until you don’t know which way’s back unless you walk them as much as I do.

This is my home. Jake was my family.

I will not yield.

But I run. The rifle slung across my back, I race across the meadow, toward the trees. My heels pound across the field so hard I can feel them sinking into the underbrush with each step. And then I hear the screen door bang open—he’s coming for me.

Is it Springfield? I can’t risk looking back. I’m almost to the trees.

I plunge inside the forest, dodging between scrub oak and digger pine, my bare feet slipping on the slick needles as I race up the old mining trail. My lungs feel like they’re going to burst, but I keep running, faster than I ever have in my life, deeper and deeper into the woods.

My hand swipes a bush as I race past, smearing blood on the leaves. The trail rises, and my legs ache as I climb the slope. I strain to hear footsteps, branches cracking, anything to indicate that he’s coming.

I stop at the top of the slope, looking around frantically.

Find a perch, Harley-girl. Somewhere high.

There.

The rifle bangs hard against the back of my knees as I scramble up the oak tree, my feet digging into the trunk and then scraping against the rough branches. Fifteen feet up, I hook my leg around the thickest one, gripping hard with my thigh as I pull myself up to settle on it. Tucking my legs out of sight, I push my back against the trunk for stability as I raise my rifle into position.

From here, I have a perfect view of the trail.

I’ll see him coming—whoever he is.

And then I’ll make him pay.

I can’t catch my breath. I try to control it, calm it. But…

Uncle Jake. I feel sick. My stomach and my head swoop in a circle at the thought of him. I left him alone…

My fingers clench around my rifle stock.

Focus, Harley-girl.

I lick my lips, staring down at the trail. Unless he’s stupid and doesn’t see the puddle of blood I left behind, he’ll be here any minute now.

Fifteen bullets. That’s all I have.

But I need only one to kill him.

Crack. Someone’s thrashing through the brush.

I peer through the scope, my heartbeat filling my ears.

He’s short and stocky, with a shock of red hair that shines like a perfect target at me. I’ve never seen him before in my life, but that doesn’t matter.

I’ll remember his face until the day I die. He took the one good man in my family away.

He’s walking slow, looking for clues—more blood, broken branches, anything to track me. I just need him to move a few more feet closer.

Something rustles to my right. Shit. My head snaps toward the sound, and so does he.

He starts to move, away from me…in a few seconds, he’ll be out of range.

It’s now or never.

My rifle’s up and settled into the crook of my shoulder, nestling there like it’s a piece of me that’s been missing. I don’t feel one lick of fear as my finger comes to rest on the trigger. This is where I fit, with a gun in my hand, pointed at the right person.

I breathe. One, two, squeeze.

I get him in the right arm. He yells, clapping his hand against it as blood spills down. He staggers in a circle, his gun swinging wildly, trying to find me.

My rifle moves with him: one, two, squeeze.

The bullet buries itself in his left thigh. He falls to the ground, swearing up a storm. He shoots in the air, blindly, enraged.

One, two, squeeze. Right thigh this time.

One, two, squeeze. Left arm.

Now he’s screaming. It echoes through the forest, and I hear the rustle of birds flying out of the trees, up and away to safety. And it feels better than it should to hear him scream, to know that he’s hurting, that he’s in agony.

My eyes narrow as I peer through the scope again.

He’s on the ground, flat on his back, but he’s still got his hand on his shotgun. I think about those shells, the buckshot that shredded Jake’s gut. How close he must’ve been to tear through him like that.

I flex my fingers around my .22, breathing in and out slow, just like Daddy taught me. I focus on his hand through the scope. It’s a tiny target to hit. Tricky.

It’d be easier to kill him. I want to kill him.

But something stops me. Jake stops me. His words echo in my head: Never wanted this for you.

And just as clear, I can hear Daddy: Killing a man changes you, Harley-girl.

I’m already changed. So does that even matter?

If it’s not this man, it’ll be someone else. I already have blood on my hands. That is my life.

My finger settles on the trigger.

This is my gift.

One.

Two.

Squeeze.

  

I climb down the tree, my rifle trained back on him the second my feet touch ground. I kick his shotgun out of the way as he cradles what’s left of his bleeding hand to his chest. His eyes are still open, and I stare down at him, holding the end of the barrel just inches from his face.

“Who are you?”

He just moans. I blew two of his fingers off. I can see the bloody stumps.

I jab the .22’s barrel at him. “Who sent you?”

He shakes his head, his eyes widening as my finger goes to the trigger.

I want to pull it. I want him to pay for what he’s done.

Jake is gone. The grief, it wants to swallow me. But I need to be smart.

I was raised to be smart.

My hands shift, bringing the rifle butt down hard on his head. He lets out a huff of surprise, and then he’s out cold on the forest floor.

I wipe my hand across my forehead, smearing the sweat out of my eyes. Then I unhook the leather strap on my rifle and tie his wrists, looping the extra length of leather in my hands.

I take a deep breath and dig my feet into the dirt as I start to drag him through the forest, toward home.

If I can’t get an answer out of him, I’ll just wait until Daddy comes back.

Daddy always gets answers out of them.

  

By the time my feet hit the gravel of the driveway, I’m panting and covered in sweat. I leave Jake’s killer lying there, and I run up the stairs of the porch to where I left my uncle.

His blood, a dark stain, has spread across the porch. It’s dripping off the steps and Jake’s staring up at the sky, his blue eyes cloudy and blank.

I say his name, I sob it, and I put my .22 down long enough to reach out and press his eyes closed.

It’s not much. It’s not anything. But it’s all I can do.

No. It’s not. Resolve hardens around the part of me that wants to scream and cry. I grab my rifle and march back across the porch toward Jake’s killer.

He’s still out cold. I push his bound hands out of the way and dig in his jeans’ side pockets. Nothing.

I grunt as I push him onto his stomach, exposing the back pockets. I can see the outline of his phone.

I grab it and step away from him. He’s beginning to moan softly. I bring the rifle up, circling around him so I can see his face, but his eyes don’t open.

The phone’s cheap, prepaid. I page through his calls received. There’s only one number.

I press Call and raise it to my ear.

It rings three times, and then halfway through the fourth, a rough voice clicks on the line: “Are you coming with the girl?”

I’m acutely aware of the blood in my mouth. I know that voice.

“Andy?” Springfield asks. Then I hear his breath, taken in quick at the silence.

“Jake?” he questions.

I don’t answer.

“Duke?” There’s a tremor of fear in him now; I can hear it.

I don’t answer.

I’m waiting.

I want him to know it’s me. I want him to know he failed.

I want him to know that he hasn’t taken everything. He’s taken Momma. He’s taken the man Daddy was.

And now he’s taken Jake.

But he won’t get me.

“Harley.” It’s never a question. It’s half a breath, half a groan curled around his tongue, filled with a longing that makes me want to shove my knife in his gut.

I’m so glad he can’t see me right now because I’m terrified, and keeping my trigger finger from shaking means letting everything else go.

“I’m coming for you, girl. Sooner or later. You’re mine.”

My trigger finger twitches. I want to put a bullet through Andy’s brain, right between the eyes. I want to send his body back to Springfield, trussed up like a ten-point buck, to show him what’s waiting for him.

“You best be ready.”

He hangs up with a click.

I fall to the ground, my legs useless. My knees hit gravel and I don’t even feel it.

Fifteen minutes later, that’s how Daddy finds me. Crumpled on the ground, covered in Jake’s blood, my .22 still in my grip, aimed at the unconscious wounded man in front of me.

He screeches up in his Ford, shouting my name and Jake’s. He grabs me, yanking me to my feet as he spins in a circle. When he spots Jake’s body on the porch, he lets me go. His gun’s out, and the man—Andy—is dead before I can even blink.

Daddy doesn’t notice the phone in the dirt. He runs up to the porch, and as he does, I bend down and pocket it.

I don’t tell anyone about it. Not the sheriff’s men, when Daddy calls them in and they ask me a few questions, before he tells them that’s enough and they shut up real fast. Not Will, when he gets home and finds me on the couch and hugs me like he thinks it’s the last time. Not when finally, finally, everyone is gone and the lights have stopped flashing and Jake…Jake…

Jake is gone, too. They took him away. The coroner did. I have to call the funeral home. Daddy’s no good with that stuff, and Miss Lissa’s memory isn’t what it used to be…and he was mine. Jake was mine. So the responsibility is mine, too.

I curl my legs tighter underneath me on the couch. Will’s palm settles on the back of my neck, squeezing gently, and I want so badly to let him take the weight of me away. I don’t want to feel anymore.

Daddy’s boots click on the wood floor, coming toward us. When I was little, before Momma died, it was a sound that made me think of him tucking me into bed and shooing the monsters from my closet.

“Will, why don’t you go upstairs,” Daddy says. It’s not really a suggestion.

Will’s hand falls from my neck, tracing down my back, between my shoulder blades, before pulling away. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says. “You should eat,” he tells me.

He gets up, walking past Daddy without a word.

Every year that passes, the more Will grows into a man Daddy loves but can’t control. It worries me.

“We need to talk about what happened,” Daddy says. He sits down in his chair across from the couch. He hasn’t touched me since he pulled me away from Andy earlier. It’s like he’s afraid. Like my grief’s poisonous.

That would hurt me, but everything else hurts more. So it doesn’t even leave a mark.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have to,” Daddy says. “We have to figure out who sent him. He didn’t say anything to you?”

I look at him. With Miss Lissa’s memory nearly gone and Jake dead, he’s the only adult I have left.

I know what will happen if I tell him it was Springfield. That he’s broken the truce. That he sent a man to kidnap me and bring me to him for…God, I can’t think about it. I won’t.

I close my eyes, trying to block it out.

If I tell, it’ll be war. Daddy won’t be able to stop himself. He’s been waiting for this my entire life.

Everything will burn.

Everyone will die.

Daddy will die.

It’s that last thing, the primal fear inside me that’s been there since the day Momma was killed, that stops me.

I should tell him because he loves me. He’d kill for me—he has before and he probably will again. I’m almost glad for it, grateful he’s that man, even though that’s the reason this all keeps happening.

How many men are rotting away in the wilderness, their blood on Daddy’s hands?

I’ve lost so much. Springfield’s taken Momma and now Jake from me. He’s wiped out half of my family. I’m the last Hawes left.

It’s never gonna end. Daddy will never give up. And neither will Springfield.

For the longest time, I thought it would end in one of them dying. I thought that was the whole point.

But now I see clearly. This didn’t start with Momma’s death. This started a long time before that. Before I was born, Momma was the prize. Daddy won her, but then Carl took her away.

Now I’ve become the prize. A chew toy gripped between two vicious sets of teeth, neither letting go.

Someone has to put a stop to this.

To them.

So I open my mouth and I lie.

  

We bury Uncle Jake that Sunday, next to his parents, the grandparents I never knew. I wear a black dress that buttons in the front, and it’s a good day for Miss Lissa, so she helps me braid my hair, pinning it around my head like a crown. I don’t let go of her hand the entire church service, and Will never leaves my side as we follow the hearse to the graveyard.

Long after the coffin’s lowered into the ground, I stand next to my uncle’s grave. Daddy has to take Miss Lissa home because she wears out fast nowadays. Will stays with me and we watch as they pull up the backhoe and start to cover Jake with the earth.

“Do you want to go?” Will asks when they’re done.

I shake my head.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, because he always knows the right questions.

I shake my head again.

He sighs and pulls me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead. I close my eyes, my hand resting against his chest, over his heart for a moment, before I push away. “I’ll come back at five?” he asks.

I nod.

He takes Busy with him and leaves me at the foot of Jake’s grave. I’m grateful for the quiet.

I don’t sit. I don’t press my hand against his headstone and make promises to his body.

I stand there and I stare at the gravestone that I forced the funeral home to put a rush order on, and I wait.

I don’t know how long it is—it could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours—but eventually, the hairs on my neck prickle. Without even looking, I know he’s standing behind me.

I knew he’d come. He wouldn’t be able to resist.

He’s finally shown his hand. This isn’t about him and Duke anymore.

This has become about him and me.

He wants to hurt me. By any means necessary. Which means…well, it means it makes the woman in me shriek, the terror real and true, to even think on it.

I don’t look at him, but my hands curl into fists as he comes to stand next to me.

“Such a shame,” Carl Springfield says. “He was a good man.”

He says it like it’s a death sentence. And in our world, it is.

I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from lashing out. My teeth grind down on my flesh, and I taste copper. It’s the only way I can stop myself from going for him. From soaking Jake’s grave with Springfield’s blood and some of my own.

“I’ve been looking over my shoulder, expecting to find Duke there. So far, he ain’t coming.” There’s a reedy note of joy in his voice. “You didn’t tell him it was me, did you?” He laughs, the vicious delight rising to tangle with the branches of the old graveyard oaks. “That’s a mighty big favor you’re doing me.”

“It’s not a favor,” I say. I keep my eyes fixed on Jake’s headstone. BELOVED SON, BROTHER, AND UNCLE. OUR LOVE WILL CARRY YOU HOME. “If I told Duke, he’d kill you.”

“And you don’t want that? You getting fond of me, sweetheart?”

“No,” I say. “This isn’t about him.”

Something in his face flickered for a second. It almost looks like pride. “So are you gonna do it? Gonna try to kill me?”

Finally, I turn and look at him, with my dead eyes and all my grief. I let him see it, I let myself feel it. I let it mark me and this moment. A promise that goes beyond blood or pain, into the pure, righteous kind of vengeance. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

I walk away, my heart hammering in my chest.

Each step away from him is a relief.

Only way, Harley-girl.

Each step away from him is a burden.

A life for a life, Harley-girl.

Each step away from him is a step closer to the woman I’ll become.

Shoot to kill, Harley-girl.