Why hadn’t she ever questioned the sacrosanct status of the land? Both her mom and dad had coached her over and over about her responsibility to the land—to nurture it, value it, and at all costs protect it as her children’s legacy. When had it become an icon, to be worshipped?
Maggie closed her eyes as if in prayer. No more, she vowed. No more would she let an obsession with the land run her life. “Dancer,” she murmured, “I like the idea of land furthering my dream, for a change. I can still nurture it, or I can sell it and move on. The family will survive. Maybe a new legacy will emerge. Maybe you’re part of that new legacy, Dancer. What do you think about that?” Maggie stood back to stare at the mare. “You’re not going to give me a clue, are you? Well, maybe I’m done struggling to live out other people’s dream. It’s about time, huh?”
Dancer nickered softly.
Maggie plopped down on a bale of hay. Dancer retreated to the far corner of her stall.
There was still the matter of Ed. She clasped her knees tightly to her chest. Why had it taken her daughter and her brother to see what was happening?
Maggie rose and walked with renewed purpose toward the house. Her bones hummed an unfamiliar but upbeat tune.
When she entered the kitchen, the first person she saw was Brad, standing by the sink.
“Give me a hug, will you Brad? I think I need that, a lot.”
“Gladly.”
“What about Ed?” Maggie’s voice shook. “I feel so terrible. I was so quick to judge him. Will he ever forgive me? God, how can we find him? Is he alive? I can’t give up. Not now.”
Brad chuckled in her ear. “That won’t happen, Sis. You have the tenacity of a badger; you always have. Before this is over, though, you may need the patience of a cat. I expect we’ll hear from Ed soon. He’s not going to leave you stranded here facing danger by yourself.”
- o -
Thirty-six hours later, Ed Harrington struggled to open his eyes. Had someone glued them shut? His head pounded as if some damn idiot was trying to open a coconut with a dull knife. His too-heavy tongue wouldn’t move. His heart sputtered. Something was terribly wrong.
Like an amateur cameraman trying to bring a blurred image into focus on a projector screen, Ed focused and refocused his brain. His eyes slit open. A TV silently stared back at him. Flowered wallpaper covered the walls, just barely. The background might have been white at some time. Where did people grow brown tulips? The shag rug might have been orange once—now, it matched the walls. The only furniture he could see was a dresser and the bed on which he lay.
His eyelids fell shut. The place smelled musty. Where the hell was he? Memory traces glacially emerged. His fingers traced the shape of the lump on his head.
He ran his tongue across dry lips. Images started to surface. He remembered walking down the sidewalk from the jewelry store to his truck when something slammed him from behind. Faintly, he recalled being dragged away. He’d felt the prick of a needle in his right arm. That was all he remembered.
No, not quite all. He pressed his finger against his front pocket. The ring was still there in its box. Ed sighed. Now what?
He swung his legs off the bed, one at a time. On his third try, he was able to stand. Walking unsteadily, he moved toward the window of the cheap hotel. He must be about four floors up. He could make out a half empty parking lot below; he assumed he was looking out of the backside of the building. The next block contained two apartment buildings, a gasoline station, and a couple nondescript businesses. He looked toward the horizon, shading his eyes from the glare of the rising sun. He cussed softly as he recognized in the distance a very familiar skyline.
He was back in Chicago.
His nose twitched. Was he dreaming, or what? His clothes smelled like they’d taken a bath in a brewery vat. But he knew he hadn’t been drinking.
That he wouldn’t forget. And while he thought someone must have hammered on his body long and hard trying to reshape it, he did not have a hangover. Ed rubbed a hand roughly across his whiskers. He most assuredly knew what hangovers were like; this was not one of them.
Ed collapsed back onto the slumping bed. Reality materialized—only in droplets at first, and then in torrents threatening to overwhelm. He’d been beaten and drugged and then his ass was hauled to Chicago and deposited in this hellhole. Somebody was trying to send a strong message: Chicago was where he belonged.
Ed rose to a sitting position. Bent over, he held his head in his hands trying to put the pieces together.
What was Maggie doing? Where was his truck? What the hell day was it, anyway? He checked his watch, which still kept time as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He’d been out about two days. “Holy shit,” he muttered.
No doubt he’d been set up to take a fall, but what kind of fall? What did Maggie and the kids think happened to him? What did they think he’d done? Did she believe he’d left on his own? That he was running from her? Shit. He’d have to call her and make sure she understood.
Why didn’t they just kill him and get it over with? Like the last time, his wallet was still intact. He rummaged quickly through it: driver’s license, credit cards, social security. Even his cash hadn’t been touched.
He reached for his jacket, which had been thrown across a nearby chair. A large envelop fell to the floor. Awkwardly, he bent to pick it up. His eyes widened at its contents. There was a fist full of bills inside. Slowly, he counted the money. He hadn’t seen a hundred dollar bill since his high rolling days, and there were a hundred of them. Ten thousand dollars. Ed whistled a low curse. This was serious money.
Attached to the last bill was a sticky note with a few words scrawled on it: “Take the money and stay away from Maggie Anderson. If you come back, you’ll be buried in Iowa. This is your last warning.”
Ed rubbed his temple and puzzled over the message. They were all in much more danger than he’d realized. He hesitated. Maybe that wasn’t true. Maggie and her kids were not at risk as long as it looked like she would belly-up the farm. She was at risk if she looked successful, or if he went running back to help her.
He decided against giving her a knee-jerk phone call. He had to think. He had to consider their options. Some bastard was threatening their lives. No more scare tactics. This nutcase wasn’t going to settle for anything less than Maggie’s farm and destroying her future.
Ed sat across from Clint and Cassie Travers in their McHenry County farmhouse office thirty miles outside of Chicago. His brow furrowed as he studied the receipts and papers spread out on the table. A man working for Clint’s detective agency had come up with incriminating evidence regarding Maggie’s situation.
“So it’s been Prater all along. The bastard,” Ed snarled, drumming his fingers lightly on the oak table.
Nodding in agreement, Clint responded cautiously, “It looks to be the case, but that receipt for accelerant would only be circumstantial evidence in a courtroom.”
“But according to this police report, it’s the same type of fuel use for the barn fire.”
“It’s still circumstantial. It is an unusual accelerant that catches and spreads rapidly. But not everyone who buys it plans on burning down a barn.”
“Right. So now what?” Ed threw the papers on the table. “Do we simply wait until Prater strikes again? Do I just disappear? I don’t think anyone’s going to be really safe until we have the nut behind bars.”
“No need for despair,” Clint observed. “My man is still following a couple leads trying to link the fellows who beat you up to Prater. We’re fairly certain who the attackers are, at least the first time. The link tying them to Prater is still missing. We’re very close.”
The grandfather clock standing next to a floor to ceiling bookcase chimed ten evenly placed strokes. Early winter sun rays spilled through the tall windows, warming the spacious den.
Cassie snapped a lead pencil in half and then stood. Both men looked at her and remained quiet. Cassie wet her lips before direct
ing her attention to Ed. “So things are bad. I’m still trying to understand why you think you can’t call Maggie to let her know you’re at least alive. That woman must be worried sick.”
Slumping further in his chair, Ed shook his head. “She’s in more danger if Prater finds out I’m still in the picture. She probably thinks I walked out, or that I got drunk and ran away. Maggie won’t want anything to do with a drunk.”
“Nonsense,” Cassie protested, “she’s got more faith in you than that. You’re supposed to get married, for god’s sake.”
Ed shrugged.
Running fingers through his thick black hair, Clint said, “I expect it’s time we took the initiative. You’re right, Ed, we can’t just sit back and wait for Prater to strike again. Each time he acts, the danger gets higher.
“I believe it’s about time we set a trap for the outstanding banker of Beaverhill. That will require you going back to Iowa, Ed.”
Clint laid out a plan to which Ed reluctantly agreed. His stomach knotted. He wanted to get the goods on Prater, but he wasn’t so sure he was ready to deal with Maggie. Would she even believe his story? Would she take him back? Would she want him back? What the hell would he do if she’d given up on him?
As if reading his thoughts, Cassie sat down beside him and placed her hand on his trembling arm. “Harrington,” she confided, “I’ve known you for quite a while now. I used to think you were a sexist lout. Then I began to see a gentle spirit that you tried to hide behind bravado. You’ve come a long ways, but you still have a few things to learn about women. We may like to be taken care of at times, but we don’t want to be protected from things that matter. We may at times appear vulnerable, but never underestimate the strength of a woman.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence, I think.” Grinning sheepishly, Ed continued, “I can just about hear Maggie saying the same thing.”
Closing his eyes, he winced. Opening them, he looked over at Cassie. “Okay, I’m ready. Where’s the phone?”
“It’s over there on the desk,” Cassie said softly. Both she and Clint rose. “We’ll be in the kitchen.” She paused. “Trust the love you two have. It’s strong and has been tempered by a lot already.”
- o -
Maggie answered the kitchen phone on the third ring and immediately recognized the deep gravelly voice. Her throat constricted while her heartbeat seemed suspended in weightless time. After mumbling that she was fine, tears streaming down both cheeks, she concentrated on listening. Desperately, Maggie tried to hear him out with her whole body.
With the phone cord wrapped several times around her, Maggie’s senses reeled first one way and then the other. Relieved that he was safe with their Chicago friends. Horrified that someone had drugged him and thought they could buy him off. Guilty that she had initially believed he had run away from her love, and that he had climbed back into the bottle, that he had placed the lives of others at risk by getting behind the wheel of his pickup when drunk. Angry that he’d just now called—she expected Cassie had more than a little to do with that. She felt like she’d been given an overdose of Novocain. Would she ever be coherent again?
- o -
“Are you still there, Maggie?” Ed stammered. He regretted that his story had rolled off his tongue so rapidly without giving her time to react or think and without really finding out how things were with Maggie and the kids. But he’d been unable to stop the flow of words. He just hoped to God she would understand.
Choking, Maggie blurted out, “I’m here, cowboy. When are you going to stop letting people beat you over the head? Not that you don’t have a hard enough head to withstand a ton of concrete.”
Relief swept through his body. For a moment he felt weightless. “When they let me see them coming,” he countered. “What did they tell you happened?”
“That you were driving drunk and ran off into the ditch. That you probably were too scared to come back here and simply fled. No one really looked for you because foul play wasn’t suspected.”
He groaned listening to the disembodied voice. “And what did you think, Maggie?”
Maggie hesitated. “I didn’t want to believe them.”
“But you did,” he said softly.
“Briefly,” she admitted between sobs. “But Carolyn and my brother actually saw through the sham. They got me back to thinking with my heart. I’m so sorry I didn’t trust you.”
“Don’t be,” Ed said. “I don’t get high grades on trust, either, or I would have called before now. You have Cassie to thank for helping me see and believe in what you and I have.”
Maggie chuckled softly. “Give her a great big hug for me. So when are you coming home?”
Ed thought his heart was going to split in two at the word home. He went on to explain the plan for setting a trap for Prater and why it was crucial she not yet tell Johnny and Carolyn where he was. No word could leak out that he remained in contact with the Andersons. They could not even risk meeting in Des Moines or in Chicago because Prater might have someone trying to keep tabs on both of them.
And the entire family could be in dire danger if their planned trap failed. There was no telling what the deranged banker would conjure up next.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Absently, Maggie pulled at her sweater collar while sitting with one leg tucked under her. Although it was nearly mid-December, the heat in Ben Templeton’s office was stifling. She glanced over at Cassie Travers sitting alertly next to her in an identical light-green cushioned chair. As planned, the Chicago woman had come along to support her friend in this moment of confrontation. Templeton sat behind his desk idly drumming his fingers, glancing frequently at the clock on the office wall.
The three of them waited for Josh Prater, who had been told that Maggie wanted to discuss the possibility of selling the farm and that she wanted Templeton to be her financial advisor in any such proceedings.
Fidgeting with the folder of papers in her lap, Maggie wondered if the banker would come. Had he been tipped off? She didn’t see how that could have happened. He’ll come. He’d wanted her land for as long as she could remember. He’d come.
At last, the intercom buzzed. A tinny voice announced, “Mr. Prater is here to see you, Mr. Templeton.”
“Show him in,” was the response.
Maggie had never seen Prater appear so cheerful. The man beamed a confident smile. Nodding, he quickly removed his coat and scarf and sat on the edge of the third chair in front of Ben’s desk. The semi-circle of chairs was now filled, with Maggie sitting in the middle.
Maggie looked at Ben Templeton. The level of anticipation in the room was palpable.
“So,” Prater said, looking directly at Maggie, “you have finally come to your senses, young lady. It’s never too late, I guess.”
Stunned by his arrogance, Maggie merely stared at him. Maggie’s muscles clinched with the effort of restraining her turbulent emotions.
Ben cleared his throat. “Before we begin, Josh, I’d like to introduce Cassie Travers to you. You may recall that Ms. Travers has been working with some of Maggie’s horses in Chicago. She’s a friend of Maggie’s and Ed Harrington’s.”
“Ah, yes, the knight errant,” Prater mocked, hardly acknowledging Cassie’s presence. “There’s a rumor about that he’s disappeared. That maybe there wasn’t enough here in little Beaverhill to hold him after all. My, my, Ms. Anderson, you must be disappointed on a number of counts.”
Maggie couldn’t keep herself from blushing, but she kept her tongue still. If she lost her composure under Prater’s gloating the entire trap could spring prematurely and Prater would slither away like the rat he was.
In the ensuing silence, the only noises she could hear were the ticking of the wall clock and the pounding of her heart.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Prater demanded. “I don’t have all day. I’m a very busy man.”
“So it seems. So it seems,” Ben drawled, shifting his weight in his swivel chair. “Before
we get down to business of considering offers, there are some other matters to clear up.
Ben peered over his glasses at Prater. “Oh, by the way,” he said, “I think I neglected to say that Ms. Travers’ husband operates, among other things, a detective agency out of Chicago. Seems he’s had a man looking into some of the problems that have been plaguing Maggie and Mr. Harrington of late.”
Prater started to speak but stopped. Beads of perspiration dotted his furrowed brow.
“Maggie, why don’t you tell us about the documents you have in your lap,” Ben suggested.
“I don’t see what her problems have to do with selling the land,” Prater interjected.
Maggie looked at Prater, who was scowling deeply.
“Patience, my friend,” Ben said. “I expect it’s all tied together. Do you suppose that Maggie Magee Anderson would sell her family’s legacy if she weren’t dealing with insurmountable problems?”
“I don’t need to hear all the details to carry out a simple land transaction,” the banker protested, crossing and uncrossing his legs.
“I insist, Josh. The details are quite titillating. You used to like to puzzle things out. Maybe you can be helpful this morning. Begin, Maggie.”
“The first item the detective discovered is a purchase receipt for gallons of a rapid fire starter. The same kind of accelerant used to burn down my barn.” Maggie glanced up from the documents. Prater’s eyes were wide with surprise, if not fright. Ben gave her a satisfied smile. Maggie continued, not believing the calm in her voice. “The receipt is from a store in Ames.”
“And who signed the sales slip?” Ben prompted.
“The signature is that of Joshua Prater.”
“I can explain that,” Prater sputtered.
“I’d like to hear that,” Ben responded.
“I had some brush to burn on my property?”
“Seems like a lot of special fuel to accomplish that. What else do you have there, Maggie?”
Heat Wave (Riders Up) Page 28
