Have Mercy

TOM BRACKEN SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by wooden blocks that had somehow multiplied when he wasn’t looking. Mercy grinned at him, all gums and slobber, waving a red cube like she’d discovered fire.

 

“You like hanging out with Daddy?” He stacked three blocks into a tower. “Course you do. We’re practically best friends. Partners, even.”

 

Mercy knocked the tower over with a shriek of delight.

 

“See? Natural instinct for demolition. You’ll make a fine deputy.”

 

The baby babbled something that might’ve been agreement or might’ve been gas. Hard to tell at nine months.

 

Tom rebuilt the tower. “Your mother thinks I can’t manage a whole day without her. Thinks I’ll panic the second you cry or need a diaper change.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “But between you and me, kid, you’re easy as anything. Plus, I love you. Don’t tell her that though—undermines my reputation.”

 

Mercy grabbed a yellow block and shoved it in her mouth.

 

“That’s not food, sweetheart.” Tom gently extracted it. “Though I’ll grant you, Ellie’s cooking isn’t much better some nights.”

 

The baby studied him with those bright green eyes—his eyes, people always said, but he couldn’t help but see Ellie’s stubbornness peeking out of them—then reached for his face. Her tiny fingers grabbed his nose and squeezed.

 

“Ow. Okay, that’s assault on an officer.” He freed his nose. “Definitely your mother’s daughter.”

 

His stomach growled loud enough that Mercy startled and looked around for the source.

 

“That’s just Daddy needing lunch.” Tom checked his pocket watch. “Your snack’s downstairs too. I’ll grab both, be back before you even notice.”

 

He stood, brushed sawdust off his trousers. Mercy was contentedly gnawing on the yellow block again, perfectly safe in the middle of the quilt Ellie had spread on the floor.

 

Everything was fine.

 

“Two minutes, tops.”

 

Tom descended the stairs, mentally cataloging what passed for decent baby food in the kitchen. Applesauce, maybe. Some of those zwieback crackers Simon had recommended with entirely too much enthusiasm.

 

He found both, plus grabbed an apple for himself because apparently fatherhood meant forgetting to eat until your body staged a revolt.

 

The stairs creaked under his boots on the way back up. He was already planning his smug face for when Ellie came home and discovered he’d managed just fine without—

 

The nursery door stood open.

 

Mercy sat at the top of the stairs, one pudgy hand reaching forward.

 

Time compressed into a single heartbeat. Her weight shifted. Gravity pulled.

 

Tom dropped everything and lunged, taking the stairs three at a time. His hand closed around her middle just as she tipped forward. He yanked her back against his chest, spinning away from the drop.

 

His boot caught the edge of a step.

 

The world tilted. Tom twisted, keeping Mercy cradled tight against him as his shoulder slammed into the wall. He bounced off, stumbled backward down three steps, tried to catch himself—

 

His ankle rolled under him with a wet, grinding pop that echoed up through his bones.

 

Pain detonated white-hot through his leg. He crashed down the remaining stairs in a graceless tumble, somehow keeping Mercy elevated and safe while his own body absorbed every impact of wood against spine, elbow, hip.

​

He landed in a heap at the bottom, gasping, vision swimming.

 

Mercy giggled and patted his face.

 

“Yeah.” Tom’s voice came out strangled. “Glad one of us thinks this is funny.”

 

His ankle throbbed with each pulse of his heart, already swelling inside his boot. Broken. Had to be broken. Nothing else hurt like that unless it was—

 

Mercy grabbed his nose again.

 

“Can’t move, sweetheart. Daddy’s ankle is... we’re gonna tell your mother this was... oh, shit, that hurts…”

 

Tom lay sprawled at the base of the stairs, each breath shallow and rapid. Cold sweat soaked through his shirt, plastered it to his ribs. The pain in his ankle pulsed in waves, white-hot and nauseating, radiating up his calf until his whole leg felt like it belonged to someone else.

 

Mercy wiggled free of his slack grip and plopped onto her bottom beside him.

 

“No—sweetheart, stay—”

 

But his arm wouldn’t obey. Wouldn’t reach. The muscles trembled uselessly, adrenaline crash turning his limbs to lead.

 

The baby spotted a zwieback cracker lying near the baseboard where it had fallen in the tumble. She scooted forward on her bottom, legs kicking, one determined lurch at a time. Grabbed the cracker with both hands and shoved it in her mouth with a triumphant squeal.

 

Tom’s vision swam. He forced himself to focus on her—on the way she gummed the cracker, drool running down her chin, completely oblivious to the fact that her idiot father had nearly killed her thirty seconds ago.

 

Nearly killed her.

 

The thought circled like a vulture. She’d been at the top of the stairs. One second from pitching forward. One second from—

 

His stomach lurched. He closed his eyes, but that made it worse—made the scene replay behind his eyelids in vivid, horrible detail. Her weight tipping. Gravity pulling. The distance from the top step to the floor, miles and miles of empty air for a baby to fall through.

 

“Two minutes,” he whispered. The words stuck in his throat. “Told you two minutes.”

 

Mercy babbled around the soggy cracker, pleased with herself.

 

Tom opened his eyes again. The nursery door gaped open at the top of the stairs, mocking him. He’d closed it. He knew he’d closed it. But latches didn’t mean anything when you didn’t check them twice, didn’t test the catch, didn’t—

 

Stupid. So goddamn stupid.

 

His ankle throbbed in counterpoint to his pulse. Broken. Definitely broken. He couldn’t put weight on it, couldn’t stand, couldn’t even crawl without his vision graying at the edges.

 

Mercy finished demolishing the cracker and looked around for more entertainment. Found a block that had tumbled down with them. Picked it up. Dropped it. Giggled at the sound it made.

 

Tom’s hand shook when he reached for her again. This time his fingers cooperated enough to brush her dress, keep her close. Not enough to lift her. Not enough to do a damn thing useful.

 

“Stay here,” he managed. “Right here, okay? Don’t... don’t go anywhere.”

 

She patted his cheek with a sticky hand and burbled something incomprehensible.

 

The afternoon sun slanted through the front window, dust motes drifting lazy in the light. Normal. Everything looked completely normal, like the world hadn’t just tilted sideways and showed him exactly how fast everything could go wrong.

 

Ellie and Nate would be home in an hour. Maybe less.

 

An hour of lying here, helpless, while Mercy crawled wherever she wanted. Into the kitchen. Toward the stove. Near the knives Diego kept sharp enough to shave with.

 

Tom’s breathing hitched. The cold sweat turned colder.

 

“An hour,” he said to no one. To the ceiling. To whatever frontier god watched over disasters like him. “Just don’t let her die before Ellie gets home to kill me herself.”

 

Mercy dropped the block on his chest and laughed.

 

Tom braced his good hand against the wall and dragged himself upright, inch by agonizing inch. His vision blurred at the edges. The ankle screamed protest with every shift of weight, but he got his back against the baseboard, breathing hard through clenched teeth.

 

Mercy crawled over, drawn by the movement, and planted herself in his lap like she owned the place.

 

“Easy, sweetheart.” His voice came out thin. “Daddy’s a little fragile right now.”

 

She studied him with those too-bright eyes, then twisted around and spotted another cracker lying on the floor. Must’ve rolled under the side table during the fall. She lunged for it with a grunt of determination, retrieved it, and turned back to him with the prize clutched in both fists.

 

Then she shoved it at his mouth.

 

“I’m not—”

​

She pushed harder, smearing crumbs across his lips.

 

“Okay, okay.” Tom opened his mouth. Let her cram the soggy mess inside. Chewed mechanically, tasting nothing but salt from his own sweat. “Happy now?”

 

Mercy beamed at him.

 

“Thank you,” he managed around the mush. “Very thoughtful. Really saved me from starving to death in the next”—he checked his pocket watch with a shaking hand—“fifty-eight minutes.”

 

She found another cracker fragment and held it up like an offering to some vengeful god.

 

“No. That’s yours.” Tom gently pushed her hand away. “I’m good. One’s plenty.”

 

She frowned at him, tiny brow furrowing in confusion or maybe disappointment.

 

“I mean it, sweety. You eat it.”

 

The cracker went in her own mouth this time. She gummed it thoughtfully, never breaking eye contact, like she was testing whether he’d change his mind.

 

Tom let his head thunk back against the wall. His ankle throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The afternoon sun crept another inch across the floorboards. Normal. Everything looked so goddamn normal.

 

Mercy dropped crumbs on his shirt and laughed.

 

“Yeah,” Tom whispered. “Hilarious.”

 

Tom looked down at Mercy, who’d moved on from crumbs to stacking crackers she’d dragged over from the snack plate debris field. She placed one on top with both hands, tongue poking out in concentration.

 

“What do you think, sweetheart?” His voice came out rougher than he meant. “Think we can make it to Uncle Diego’s clinic?”

 

She looked at him with a delighted smile and clapped.

 

“I’ll take that as a maybe.”

 

Tom ran the math. Three blocks to the clinic. Four if he couldn’t cut through the alley behind the mercantile. His ankle throbbed just thinking about it—already swollen tight against his boot, hot and angry.

 

He couldn’t stand. Couldn’t walk. Could barely keep his vision steady when the pain spiked white-hot up his calf.

 

But he couldn’t stay here either.

 

Mercy crawled toward the front door, drawn by dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. Tom’s stomach dropped. The porch steps. The street beyond. A hundred ways for a nine-month-old to get hurt while her idiot father lay sprawled and useless against the baseboard.

 

Can’t risk it.

 

The thought crystallized cold and certain through the pain-fog. Didn’t matter if crawling three blocks tore his ankle to pieces. Didn’t matter if he passed out halfway there and woke up to Diego’s I-told-you-so face and Ellie’s fury.

 

Mercy was safer at the clinic than here. Safer with Diego’s steady hands and the examining room door that latched properly and walls that didn’t have stairs waiting to kill her.

 

Tom grabbed the side table and hauled himself up enough to reach the cane Diego kept by the door for patients with bad knees. His vision grayed. The ankle screamed protest.

 

“Change of plans, sweetheart.” He dragged Mercy back into his lap before she could escape. “We’re going on an adventure.”

 

She looked up at him with those green eyes—his eyes, everyone said, but all he saw was the trust there. The absolute certainty that Daddy would keep her safe.

 

The trust he’d nearly shattered thirty seconds ago at the top of the stairs.

 

Tom shifted his weight, testing. The cane held. His good leg took most of it. The broken ankle dangled useless, but if he kept it elevated, didn’t put pressure—

 

Three blocks. You can crawl three blocks.

 

“Uncle Diego’s going to love this,” Tom muttered, tucking Mercy against his chest with one arm. “Really love it.”

 

Tom braced the cane against the floorboards and hauled himself upright. His vision swam. The ankle screamed—white-hot pain that crawled up his calf and lodged somewhere behind his teeth. He locked his jaw, breathing through his nose, and pressed Mercy tighter against his chest with his free arm.

 

She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and babbled something that might’ve been encouragement.

 

“That’s the spirit, sweetheart.”

 

He took one step. The cane held. His good leg trembled under the weight but didn’t buckle. The broken ankle dangled useless, throbbing in time with his pulse.

 

Three blocks. Just three blocks.

 

Tom pushed off the wall and hobbled toward the door. Each step sent fresh waves of nausea rolling through him. Sweat soaked his collar, dripped down his spine. Mercy squirmed, and he had to stop—had to lean hard on the cane and wait for the gray spots to clear from his vision before he could move again.

 

The front door loomed closer. Impossible distance. Might as well be miles.

 

He made it to the threshold and sagged against the doorframe, gasping. The afternoon sun hit him full in the face—bright and merciless, Florida heat already building despite the late hour. The street stretched empty beyond the porch steps. Three blocks to the clinic. Four if he couldn’t cut through the alley.

 

Tom looked down at Mercy. She’d gone quiet, watching him with those too-bright eyes. Reading him the way babies did—instinct sharper than any lawman’s.

 

“We’re good,” he told her. “Just catching my breath.”

 

She didn’t look convinced.

 

Tom shifted his weight, testing. The ankle protested but didn’t give. The cane bit into his palm, already raising blisters he couldn’t afford to think about.

 

Move. Before you can’t.

 

He pushed off the doorframe and hobbled onto the porch. One step. Two. The stairs waited below, mocking him with their steep drop and unforgiving edges.

 

“Diego’s going to kill me,” Tom muttered. “Right after Ellie does.”

 

Mercy patted his chest and giggled.

 

“Glad somebody thinks this is funny.”

 

Every time he stopped, Mercy patted his cheek, babbling a string of vowels and consonants that somehow transformed into “Dada,” the more times she said it.

 

The pain would get too much. Tom would lean, world greying out at the edges, his daughter would urge him on with a pointed, “Dadada,” and he would find the strength to move three more feet.

 

The clinic door hung open—Diego never locked it during the day, too many emergencies rolled in off the street. Tom lurched through the threshold and his good leg finally gave out. He dropped to one knee with a grunt that scared Mercy into silence.

 

“Diego.”

 

His voice came out thin, reedy. Not enough air behind it.

 

“Doc!”

 

Footsteps, quick and precise. Diego appeared in the doorway to the examination room, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, dark eyes widening as they took in the scene. Tom on the floor. Mercy clutched tight against his chest. The cane clattered aside. His left boot swollen grotesque, leather straining at the seams.

 

“Madre de Dios.“ Diego crossed the distance in three strides and knelt beside them. “What did you do?”

 

“Gravity.”

 

“Obviously.” Diego checked Mercy first—fingers gentle as he tilted her chin, examined her eyes, ran his palms over her limbs. “She hurt?”

 

“No. She’s—she’s fine.”

 

Mercy proved it by grabbing Diego’s nose and giggling.

 

“Ay, niña.” Diego extracted his face and looked at Tom. Really looked, the way doctors did when they were calculating how much to scold versus how fast to work. His mouth thinned. “How long ago?”

 

“Haven’t looked at my watch, Doc. Time moves different when it flashes in front of your eyes.”

 

“You crawled here.”

 

“Hobbled, mostly.”

 

“With a baby.”

 

“Wasn’t leaving her alone in the house.” Tom’s vision swam. He blinked hard, trying to clear it. “Couldn’t risk it.”

 

Diego’s jaw worked. He passed Mercy to Tom’s good arm—the one that wasn’t shaking—and stood. Crossed to the examination room and returned with the wheeled chair he used for patients who couldn’t walk.

 

“Can you stand if I help?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“That means no.” Diego positioned the chair, then hooked his arm under Tom’s shoulder and hauled him upright in one smooth motion. Tom’s busted ankle brushed the floor and the world went white-hot, every nerve screaming protest.

 

“Easy,” Diego murmured. “I have you.”

 

Tom collapsed into the chair, breathing hard. Mercy squirmed in his grip and he had to focus—had to keep holding her even though his arms felt like water and his vision kept greying at the edges.

 

Diego wheeled them into the examination room without another word.

Diego straightened and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

 

“Wasn’t planning a waltz.”

 

Diego disappeared through the door connecting to the apothecary. Tom heard the murmur of voices—Diego’s measured tone, then Simon’s higher pitched excitement bleeding through the wall. Mercy squirmed in his arms, reaching for the examination table like she wanted to explore the shiny metal instruments Diego kept lined up there.

 

“No, senorita. Those aren’t toys.”

 

The door swung open. Simon bounded in first, all nervous energy and too-wide eyes, Diego following close behind with his sleeves still rolled.

 

“Sheriff Bracken! Doc said you hurt your—oh.” Simon’s gaze dropped to Mercy, then shot back up. “Is that the baby?”

 

“Last time I checked.”

 

Diego crossed to Tom and held out his arms. “Give her to Simon.”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“Tom.”

 

“Doc, he makes things explode. I’m not handing him my daughter.”

 

“If Simon wants to be a medical professional,” Diego said, steady as always, “he needs exposure to infants. Holding one won’t kill him. Or her.” He glanced at Simon. “Probably.”

 

Simon’s face cycled through panic, pride, then settled somewhere near terrified determination. “I can do it. I’ve held my cousin’s baby. Once.”

 

“Once,” Tom repeated.

 

“She didn’t cry or anything.”

 

“Inspiring confidence, kid.”

 

Diego plucked Mercy from Tom’s grip before he could protest further. She went easily—traitor—babbling something cheerful as Diego turned and placed her in Simon’s waiting arms.

 

“Support her head,” Diego instructed. “Keep your elbow bent. There. Don’t panic if she grabs your face.”

 

Mercy immediately grabbed Simon’s face.

 

“Ow—I mean, hello there, Miss Mercy.” Simon held her like she was made of porcelain and dynamite. “We’re friends now. That’s my nose you’re—okay, still my nose.”

 

Tom started to push himself up. “Doc—”

 

“Sit.” Diego’s hand landed firm on his shoulder, pressing him back into the chair. “You’re going to be too busy to hold onto her.”

 

The words made Tom’s stomach drop.

​

Diego knelt and unlaced Tom’s boot with quick, practiced movements. “This is going to hurt.”

 

“Story of my day.”

 

The boot came off. Tom’s vision whited out at the edges, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. Diego’s fingers probed the swollen flesh—gentle, methodical, reading the injury through touch alone.

 

“Not broken,” Diego said finally. “Dislocated.”

 

“That supposed to be good news?”

 

“Better than the alternative.” Diego sat back on his heels, dark eyes steady. “I can set it. But you won’t like how.”

 

Across the room, Mercy laughed and Simon made a sound like a man drowning in responsibility.

 

Diego retrieved a leather strap from the cabinet and folded it twice. “Bite down on this.”

 

Tom eyed the strap. “That’s for horses.”

 

“Yes, and you’re about to understand why they need it.” Diego pressed it into Tom’s hand. “Simon, keep her distracted. Face her away from us.”

 

“Right. Away. Got it.” Simon rotated carefully, Mercy still clutching his collar. He started humming something off-key that might’ve been a lullaby or might’ve been a hymn. Hard to tell with Simon.

 

Diego gripped Tom’s calf with one hand, the swollen ankle with the other. His fingers found the joint, testing. “On three.”

 

“Wait—”

 

“One.”

 

The world tilted. Diego’s hands moved fast—one sharp pull, a twist, then pressure that sent lightning up Tom’s leg and exploded white-hot behind his eyes. He bit down hard on the leather, tasted copper where his teeth cut his own cheek.

 

The joint popped back into place with a sound like a knuckle cracking.

Tom’s vision grayed. Sweat poured down his temples. Somewhere far away, Mercy laughed at whatever nonsense Simon was babbling.

 

“Done.” Diego released his grip and sat back. “Worst part’s over.”

 

Tom spat out the strap. “You’re a liar.”

 

“I said worst, not last.” Diego stood and crossed to the cabinet again, retrieving bandages and a small brown bottle. “Still needs to be wrapped. You’ll be off it for two weeks minimum.”

 

“Two weeks?”

 

“Did I stutter?” Diego returned, uncorked the bottle, and poured something astringent onto a cloth. The smell hit sharp and medicinal. “This will reduce swelling. Hold still.”

 

The cloth touched his ankle. Tom’s jaw locked.

 

Diego worked in silence, wrapping the joint with efficient precision. Behind them, Simon had graduated to making faces at Mercy, who rewarded him with delighted shrieks.

 

“She almost fell,” Tom said quietly.

 

Diego’s hands paused. Just for a second. Then continued wrapping. “But she didn’t.”

 

“Because I got lucky.”

 

“Because you caught her.” Diego tied off the bandage and met Tom’s eyes. “You hobbled three blocks on a dislocated ankle rather than leave her alone. That’s not luck. That’s—”

 

“Stupidity.”

 

“—fatherhood.” Diego’s mouth thinned. “Though next time, try not breaking yourself in the process.”

 

Across the room, Mercy grabbed Simon’s nose and giggled.

 

Tom looked down at his wrapped ankle. Two weeks. Two weeks of Ellie’s I-told-you-so face and Nate’s questions and his daughter learning to crawl while he sat useless in a chair.

 

“She’s going to kill me,” he muttered.

 

Diego almost smiled. “Probably.”

 

Tom watched Simon sway slightly, the kid’s arms locked stiff around Mercy like he was carrying nitroglycerin. “You’re sure he’s not going to drop her?”

 

“I’m sure you need both hands free for the next ten minutes.” Diego retrieved a small brown bottle from the cabinet and uncorked it. “Though if you’d like to supervise while I wrap your ribs, be my guest.”

 

“My ribs?”

 

“You fell down a flight of stairs protecting an infant.”

 

“Who said I fell down the stairs?”

 

Diego’s eyebrow arched. “You’re really going to try lying to your doctor, now?”

 

Tom swallowed. “No?”

 

“Your ribs took the brunt of whatever may or may not have happened.” Diego’s arms folded across his chest. “Or did you think that pain was purely imagination?”

 

Tom’s chest throbbed on cue, sharp and insistent beneath the duller agony of his ankle. “Thought that was just the fear.”

 

“It’s bruising. Possibly a hairline fracture.” Diego poured amber liquid into a small glass. “Drink this. It’ll take the edge off.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Laudanum and whiskey. Don’t ask the ratio.”

 

Tom took the glass. The first sip burned clean down to his stomach, then bloomed warm and mercifully numb. He drained the rest in one go.

 

Across the room, Simon was humming again—some tuneless ramble that had Mercy giggling and grabbing at his collar.

 

“See?” Diego said quietly. “She’s fine.”

 

“For now.”

 

“Do me a favor, Doc?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Tell Ellie, I wasn’t drinking before this mess started.”

 

“So you want her to know ever decision you made was with the advantage of stone cold sobriety?”

 

“Sounds bad when you say it that way, Doc, but I’ll take plain old silly thinking over drunken incompetence any day.”

 

* * *

 

Ellie pushed through the front door with Nate close behind, both of them loaded down with parcels from the dry goods store. She’d ordered three new shirts for Nate—the boy grew faster than kudzu—and picked up thread for mending.

 

“Put those on the table, sweetheart.”

 

Nate dropped his bundle and immediately started for the stairs. “Can I go see if—”

 

Ellie stopped mid-step. The plate lay shattered at the base of the stairs, biscuits scattered across the floorboards like someone had flung them. Crumbs everywhere. A smear of what might’ve been applesauce on the bottom step.

 

Her stomach dropped.

 

“Tom?”

 

Silence. Then, from the parlor: “It’s not what it looks like.”

 

That never meant anything good.

 

Ellie crossed the room in four strides and shoved through the parlor door. Tom lay stretched across the sofa, propped on cushions like some kind of invalid king. Mercy dozed on his chest, one tiny fist curled in his shirt. His left foot, wrapped in fresh plaster and elevated on a pillow, made Ellie’s nursing instincts flare hot and sharp.

 

Two crutches leaned against the armrest.

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Gravity happened.” Tom’s voice came out careful, measured. The tone he used when he knew he was already losing the argument. “Doc says two weeks.”

 

Ellie stared at him. At the cast. At their daughter sleeping peaceful and oblivious on his chest. At the crutches that meant he couldn’t walk, couldn’t chase after a baby, couldn’t do a damn thing useful for two whole weeks.

 

“I left you alone for three hours.”

 

“Technically it was more like—”

 

“Tom.”

 

He had the good sense to shut up.

 

Nate appeared in the doorway, eyes wide. “Pa, what happened to your foot?”

 

“Physics, kid. Don’t recommend it.”

 

Ellie crossed her arms. Her jaw ached from clenching. “Where’s Diego?”

 

“Clinic. You just missed him. He wrapped it, gave me something for the pain, then brought me home with strict instructions not to die before you got back.” Tom shifted slightly, winced. “His words, not mine.”

 

Mercy stirred, made a small sound, then settled again.

 

Ellie looked at her daughter—safe, whole, sleeping—then back at Tom’s guilty face.

 

“Start talking,” she said quietly. “And it better be the truth.”

 

“Well… what happened is…”

​

The End