Helena desperately played the helpless-feminine card once more.

                “I don’t want Daddy to find out, he thinks shooting a rifle is unladylike,” she simpered. “I need somebody to take the thing away. Somebody big and strong…”

                The effect of her fluttering Maybelline Black Dog In A Dark Room Mascara’d eyelashes was totally lost, as both men had closed their eyes.

                She glared at Perra, who returned her gaze serenely through natural lashes that looked to Hel, well, unfinished.

                “Buck or doe?” inquired Perra conversationally.

                Hel was caught off guard as her internal conversation was at that moment consumed by a debate over whether she wanted to strangle or stab Perra or both.

                “Um, buck,” she lied, “and it’s an eight-pointer!” She threw out her last bit of bait.

                Ernest opened his eyes. “Eight points, y’say?” He had in his Contacts List cell phone numbers of several luckless hunters who did not mind buying their trophies, this late in the season. 

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                “It’s big, it’ll take both of you!” Hel insisted as Ernest rose to his feet. Buddy didn’t move.

                “Naw, I got a Tommy Gate lift on my tailgate.” Ernest shuffled toward his Silverado. “I kin do’er.”

                Hel really did feel helpless now. Buddy was zoned out, meditating and/or wasted and unresponsive to her wiles. Ernest waited in the driver’s seat of his Silverado with dollar signs in his eyes.

                She hated leaving Buddy with Perra there, but both of them now had their eyes closed as they chanted the holy word…

                “OMMmmm…”

                “Oh Hell!” Hel yelled, jumping in the Camaro and peeling out of the gravel lot.

                Ernest’s Silverado was hard pressed to keep up with her. 

TO BE CONTINUED…