Read Online Where Mercy Flows by Karen Harter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Harter
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sat down, ceremoniously
poured cold beer into the schooner and pushed it toward me. “You’re lookin’ good.”
“Hello, Donnie.”
“It’s Don now. Just plain Don, if you don’t mind.”
I smiled mischievously. “You’ll always be little Donnie Duncan to me.” My eyes fell on the crop of hair protruding from his
open shirt and the bronze forearms resting on the table like two legs of mutton, and I was well aware that Donnie Duncan had
grown up.
“And I’ll always remember you as the weird little kid who hung by her knees from cottonwood branches with her shirt falling
over her head.”
I laughed. “Those were the days, weren’t they? Remember the rope swing by the river?”
He took a swig and pounded his bottle on the table. “How about the night we swung out double and you fell off? Your sister
and I heard the splash, but it was so stinkin’ dark we couldn’t see a thing. We called and called, but you didn’t answer.
Then Lindsey went blatso on me. Why did you always do things like that?”
“I lived to freak out Lindsey. It was my major life purpose.”
He shook his head. “You were a strange child.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Anyone who would traipse through the pouring rain to bury a brand-new doll in the mud . . .”
“She was dead.”
He threw his hands up and tipped back his head. “Oh! Well, that explains it. But just out of curiosity, what killed her?”
I twisted my face thoughtfully. “Natural causes, as I recall. I never played with dolls after that.”
He nodded in mock sincerity. “Too much heartache?”
“Yup.” The doll was a Spanish dancer with real eyelashes, sleek black hair and a red dress. Lindsey got one for Christmas
too. Hers was a blond Southern belle in a frock of blue lace, who lived a long and healthy life.
For a moment we just surveyed each other. Donnie’s coarse blond hair was cropped short like mowed hay, his brows a little
wild and his eyes bluer than I remembered. “Last time I saw you,” I said, “you had hair down to here and you were singing
‘Stairway to Heaven’ at the school prom.” I emptied my mug and Donnie signaled the waitress to bring us a pitcher.
“And
you
danced with Tim Weatherbee all night. At least when you two weren’t off in some corner arguing about something. Next thing
anybody knew you dropped out of school and ran off with him.”
“But I’m back.”
He raised his brows. “No Tim?”
I shook my head. “No Tim.”
Don seemed to be waiting for an explanation. I paused before changing the subject. “Looks like you’re still bucking hay.”
I nodded toward his burly shoulders.
He shrugged. “That’s right. You didn’t believe me when I said I was going to be an attorney, did you?”
I studied his face. He was acting too casual. “Yes, I believed it. And so did you. What happened? You know you’re smart enough.
I heard you one time when you were on the debate team.”
“You did?”
I nodded. “I was just walking by the door of the classroom and I heard your voice. I stopped and listened for a long time.
You were good.”
“Tell me more.”
“You were arguing the case for capital punishment—which I am totally against, just for the record—but you were convincing.
All those facts. I tried to make you laugh. Don’t you remember that? You just looked right through me like I wasn’t there.
You kind of reminded me of the Judge.”
“Thank you.”
I cocked my head. “What makes you think that was a compliment?”
He sighed. “You still have that burr in your boot? I like your dad. I buy worms from him. We hang out in the barn for an hour
or more sometimes, talking about the way things are, the way they should be. Then I go home and toss out the worms.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Tell me, has he measured you up yet? Has he taken out his invisible tape and run it from your toes
to the top of your head and left you feeling like a midget? Has he
poured cold beer into the schooner and pushed it toward me. “You’re lookin’ good.”
“Hello, Donnie.”
“It’s Don now. Just plain Don, if you don’t mind.”
I smiled mischievously. “You’ll always be little Donnie Duncan to me.” My eyes fell on the crop of hair protruding from his
open shirt and the bronze forearms resting on the table like two legs of mutton, and I was well aware that Donnie Duncan had
grown up.
“And I’ll always remember you as the weird little kid who hung by her knees from cottonwood branches with her shirt falling
over her head.”
I laughed. “Those were the days, weren’t they? Remember the rope swing by the river?”
He took a swig and pounded his bottle on the table. “How about the night we swung out double and you fell off? Your sister
and I heard the splash, but it was so stinkin’ dark we couldn’t see a thing. We called and called, but you didn’t answer.
Then Lindsey went blatso on me. Why did you always do things like that?”
“I lived to freak out Lindsey. It was my major life purpose.”
He shook his head. “You were a strange child.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Anyone who would traipse through the pouring rain to bury a brand-new doll in the mud . . .”
“She was dead.”
He threw his hands up and tipped back his head. “Oh! Well, that explains it. But just out of curiosity, what killed her?”
I twisted my face thoughtfully. “Natural causes, as I recall. I never played with dolls after that.”
He nodded in mock sincerity. “Too much heartache?”
“Yup.” The doll was a Spanish dancer with real eyelashes, sleek black hair and a red dress. Lindsey got one for Christmas
too. Hers was a blond Southern belle in a frock of blue lace, who lived a long and healthy life.
For a moment we just surveyed each other. Donnie’s coarse blond hair was cropped short like mowed hay, his brows a little
wild and his eyes bluer than I remembered. “Last time I saw you,” I said, “you had hair down to here and you were singing
‘Stairway to Heaven’ at the school prom.” I emptied my mug and Donnie signaled the waitress to bring us a pitcher.
“And
you
danced with Tim Weatherbee all night. At least when you two weren’t off in some corner arguing about something. Next thing
anybody knew you dropped out of school and ran off with him.”
“But I’m back.”
He raised his brows. “No Tim?”
I shook my head. “No Tim.”
Don seemed to be waiting for an explanation. I paused before changing the subject. “Looks like you’re still bucking hay.”
I nodded toward his burly shoulders.
He shrugged. “That’s right. You didn’t believe me when I said I was going to be an attorney, did you?”
I studied his face. He was acting too casual. “Yes, I believed it. And so did you. What happened? You know you’re smart enough.
I heard you one time when you were on the debate team.”
“You did?”
I nodded. “I was just walking by the door of the classroom and I heard your voice. I stopped and listened for a long time.
You were good.”
“Tell me more.”
“You were arguing the case for capital punishment—which I am totally against, just for the record—but you were convincing.
All those facts. I tried to make you laugh. Don’t you remember that? You just looked right through me like I wasn’t there.
You kind of reminded me of the Judge.”
“Thank you.”
I cocked my head. “What makes you think that was a compliment?”
He sighed. “You still have that burr in your boot? I like your dad. I buy worms from him. We hang out in the barn for an hour
or more sometimes, talking about the way things are, the way they should be. Then I go home and toss out the worms.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Tell me, has he measured you up yet? Has he taken out his invisible tape and run it from your toes
to the top of your head and left you feeling like a midget? Has he
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