Broken Heartland by J.M. Hayes

Pastor Goodfellow’s son and he’d learned to put on a respectful front.
    She looked in Chucky’s panic-stricken eyes and side-stepped, blocking their way. “What’s the hurry, guys? I used to babysit for you, remember? Haven’t seen you in ages.”
    Like she’d care. Mark and Butch had been bullies as long as she’d known them. But no way was she leaving Chucky to their tender mercies. She reached out, found where the guys held Chucky and began gently prying their fingers loose, taking their hands in her own. The boys looked surprised. She gave them a dazzling smile and tried to look fondly into their eyes. Neither of them returned her gaze. They were focused, laser-like, on her boobs. Maybe she should have buttoned at least one more button on her blouse.
    She clasped their hands tight and bounced up and down a little, giving their twin stares a bit of payoff. She bounced a couple of steps backwards, too, pulling them behind her and leaving Chucky free and unnoticed. Chucky might not be in competition to join her and Heather in the picture gallery, but he recognized opportunity when it slammed him upside the head. He ducked back around the corner and she heard the echo of his footsteps as he ran for it.
    â€œHey,” Butch said, dragging his gaze away to look for their designated prey.
    â€œYou did that on purpose,” Mark said, turning and heading for the corner.
    â€œSo,” Heather asked, “you guys still bed wetters?”
    Butch turned back and pushed her. Hard. It took her by surprise and left her off balance, so she only kicked him in the shin instead of where she’d intended. It must have hurt like hell, though.
    â€œLeave her be,” Mark said. “Help me find Chucky.”
    Butch had quite a limp when he turned to obey. He took the time to glance over his shoulder and favor her with a glare. “I’ll see you again,” he said.
    No doubt about it. Heather had to admit that coming back home to live some day was turning into an increasingly risky proposition.
    ***
    Mad Dog parked the Mini in front of the Church of Christ Risen. Beneath the name, the sign bore another message, “All Are Welcome Here.” That was an exaggeration. It didn’t apply if you were a homosexual, pro-choice, believed Darwin’s theory wasn’t a hoax, or were attempting to practice Cheyenne shamanism. He decided to test the message anyway and held the door open for Hailey. She bared impressive teeth, growled low in her chest, and trotted back across the street toward Veteran’s Memorial Park. He didn’t blame her. He’d left the windows down in the Mini. She could jump back in and curl up on a seat if she got bored.
    Mad Dog hadn’t been in the building in years. But he’d spent a lot of time searching for a spiritual element to fill his life. He finally found it in his mother’s genealogy. She’d been an intelligent, well-read woman who marched to the beat of a different drum. She would have fit right into Bohemian or Beatnik society. Neither existed in Benteen County, so she hadn’t fit in at all. She explained herself by telling folks she was a half-breed Cheyenne. It hadn’t been completely true, but it gave the locals something to blame her eccentricities on. In reality, her Cheyenne half turned out to be equal parts Cheyenne, Sans Arc, Mexican cowboy, and Buffalo Soldier, but Mad Dog was convinced she’d latched onto the right ancestor to claim. She’d been Cheyenne at heart, and when he started studying Cheyenne culture and religion, he’d discovered he was Cheyenne, too. Christians weren’t the only ones who could be born again.
    The church bore a distinct resemblance to a warehouse. The foyer was utilitarian, a place to stomp the snow off, trap heat or cold, and block the wind. Inside, there was just a big open space. Today it was filled with rows of empty tables and scattered chairs. This was