“Need any help, miss?” Male. Of course.
She nearly screams in her frustration. She peers over her shoulder at him, unwilling to turn fully away from the screen she’s worked so hard to reach. The man is younger than her. Ten years, maybe, although exposure to the outdoors makes it hard to read. His eyes are gray, his sandy hair curly, but it’s his lipstick-red lips that draw her eyes.
“Um, no, I’m fine.”
“I saw you pull over. Texas plates. I figured with you so far from home, you could use a friend. I’m Chet.”
He may be cute, but she doesn’t give him her name. Or eye contact. “Yes. Well, I’m good. Thank you.”
He doesn’t leave.
She ignores him and pulls up Facebook and Hank’s profile. Thursday Night Jam tonight. Looking forward to some real bluegrass. She smiles. Now she knows what she’s doing tonight, as soon as she figures out where the heck this jam will be.
Chet is still hanging around by her window.
She beams at him. “Say, Chet, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about a Thursday night jam around here, would you? Bluegrass?”
“At the Occidental?”
“Right. That’s exactly where it is.”
“Need a ride to Buffalo?”
She snorts. “Got my own wheels, son.”
“Son? Hardly. But you can’t turn a guy down because of his age.”
Actually, she can and does. Often. She toodle-oo waves to him. “Nice to have met you.”
She accelerates too hard, lurches, and drives off the curb with her trailer bouncing in her enthusiasm about this Occidental place. She needs to find it, map to it, hightail it there. First, though, she’s stopping at her room in the Mill Inn—a Western kitsch, bargain option to the chain motels, built in an old flour mill, with a genuine 1940s model Ford pickup that is a close cousin to Bess. She has to drop off her trailer and get gussied up for this bluegrass-jam shindig. She laughs aloud as she thinks the words. But they fit her mood and her plan.
Tonight she’s going to shock the pants off Hank Sibley, and he’s going to like it.
Two
An hour later, Maggie closes her Maps app, tired of letting that robotic wench Siri boss her around. She parallel parks Bess in one try on the quaint main street in Buffalo, in front of a creek-side establishment called the Busy Bee. The smell of smoke is stronger here, and the sky is hazy with it. It’s odd, because the town is south of Sheridan, farther from the source. It must be making its way through Montana and down the east side of the Bighorn Mountains. She plants one boot on the ground. Gravel crunches underneath the ball of her foot. Shivers run up her arms. She’s one step closer to reclaiming her destiny with Hank.
She slings her hobo bag over her shoulder and slams the door. Her tiered and ruffled prairie skirt circles her knees as she walks around the truck’s front grill, and she adjusts the belt and enormous buckle at her waist. She stops to peek over the railing at Clear Creek. There’s a pay dispenser of fish food. Tossing pellets in the stream—maybe the Wyoming equivalent of tossing a coin in a fountain for luck with Hank? She tosses a handful into the water. Foot-long trout shoot out of the shadows like food-guided torpedoes and disappear again in a blink.
She smiles and turns in a slow circle to look around. The town is smaller than Sheridan, with its well-preserved Western charm compacted into two blocks. Catty-corner across the street is a pocket-size park with a gazebo in one corner and a historical mural painted along the side of a brick building. There are a few liquor stores, of course, which she has learned always have bar seating inside as well. She has a strong urge to walk the sidewalks and peer into darkened windows and notes a Tex-Mex cantina, an Italian eatery, and a gift shop close by for future reference.
But she’s not here to sightsee tonight.
She walks toward the Occidental, passing back by the little Busy Bee Café’s weathered wooden front. In the cafe window is a flyer: LONGMIRE DAYS, JULY 7, 8, 9, DURANT, WYOMING. Longmire. She’s heard of it. A Netflix TV show, she thinks. But what does that have to do with an event two months out of date in Wyoming, and where is Durant? They need to update their signage.
Her phone buzzes. She digs it out of her bag and glances at it. Gary Fuller. The biggest country music star in Texas, one of the top performers in the country, and her ex.
I’ll be home next month. I miss you. I miss your body. I miss us. I love you, Maggie.
Maggie exhales heavily. She and Gary have been on-again, off-again for years after meeting in rehab, theirs the best-kept hook-up secret in the industry. Last year he’d tried to convince her he was done with all the groupies and starlets and random sex. Was ready to settle down. With her. To have kids before it was too late for both of them. The only problem? That wasn’t what she wanted. He was unwilling to let things continue as they were, so she ended it.
It wasn’t until Hank reentered her life that she fully grasped why she hadn’t wanted forever with Gary. She’d thought it was because she still wanted her own freedom. It wasn’t, isn’t. What she wants is Hank Sibley.
But Gary hasn’t given up. She decides to put off answering him.
She resumes her short walk to the Occidental Hotel, which abuts the café. It’s housed in a two-story red-brick edifice with striped awnings that extend over the sidewalk. The building stretches down the rest of the block. Potted mums in long narrow planters under the windows are as vibrant as her mood. Empty wooden rocking chairs flank the entrance.
Maggie pulls open the door and walks into the lobby. She gasps. The room is shockingly, opulently restored Old West. Gilded molding crowns the ceilings. Every piece of furniture is a period antique. Rich drapes hang over wood-framed windows. A fireplace dominates the corner of the room. Faded black-and-white photographs from the turn of the century or earlier depict cowboys, Indians, and the town of Buffalo in its early years. An enormous mounted elk keeps a wary eye over the space. The lobby even smells authentic. Musty with a hint of leather. Every touch is perfection, and she knows how hard it is to get a restoration just right. She puts a hand on her breastbone.
“May I help you, miss?” The voice belongs to a woman with large square shoulders. She’s sitting behind the reception desk, a marvel of beautifully preserved wood with a beehive of cubbies and roll-up closures.
Maggie tiptoes over to her. She whispers like she’s in church. “The Thursday Night Jam?”
The woman smiles. Her lips and face are colored only by sun and wind. “It’s next door in the saloon.”
“Oh, sorry.” Maggie turns to leave.
“You can cut through this hall.” The receptionist points, turning her head and revealing a profile of the cinnamon roll–size bun on the back of it.
“Thanks.”
“Have fun.”
As soon as Maggie exits the lobby into the connecting space, she can feel the vibration of saloon noise. She passes a sparsely filled boutique and some bathrooms on one side of the hall. On the other is a bragging wall, with framed newspaper and magazine articles about the establishments and town of Buffalo. On the door to the saloon is a sign: WELCOME TO WYOMING. CONSIDER EVERYONE ARMED. Except for me, unless pepper spray counts. She pats her bag. When she puts her hand on the door to the saloon, it sends shocks from her fingertips to her scalp. Even her skin buzzes with anticipation. This is it. She’s been waiting six months for this reunion.
She steps into the saloon with its blaring jukebox playing Chris LeDoux’s “Copenhagen,” and she laughs aloud. The place is just as perfect as the hotel. At six o’clock, it’s packed wall to wall with people holding drinks, mingling, chatting. She’d been told all the tourists disappear after Labor Day, and she can see that it’s true. This place is filled with locals. Fresh-scrubbed faces. Low-maintenance hairstyles. Faded blue jeans. Shirts ranging from ranch-work to Western dressy. Boots. Hats. Belts and buckles. And everyone has a jacket even though it’s seventy degrees outside, prepared for anything and everything when it comes to the weather.
She crosses a green-and-ivory checkerboard linoleum floor and bellies up to the bar. It’s wooden, stained so dark it’s almost black. She sees her reflection in an enormous framed mirror behind crowded shelves of booze. Her fringed vest is too fancy. Her tank top too formfitting. Her teased hair too big. Her makeup too much. The only thing just right is her belt buckle. She looks down at it and nods at herself. So she stands out. It’s always been her blessing and her curse. She has a sudden itch to jump back on Facebook and see if she can home in on Hank’s whereabouts.
“What can I get you?” A bartender with the patchy facial hair of a teenager slaps a napkin down in front of her. He resumes pouring whiskey into a row of glasses, not looking at her.
“Wi-Fi password?”
He recites it, and she types it in. She pulls up the Facebook app. No new posts or comments from Hank.
Before she can order her drink, a man says, “Nice belt buckle.”
Electricity jolts her, through and through. She licks her lips and pats the buckle. “This old thing?”
Hank Sibley laughs, deep, vibrato, rattling her chest. “I hear they’re a dime a dozen. What’d you do, steal it off a dead cowboy?”
But they’re not. She’s wearing his authentic sterling silver 106th Annual Cheyenne Frontier Days belt buckle, the one he was awarded as bull riding champion that year.
“Something like that.”
Although, technically, she didn’t steal it from him. She took it off his bedside table in the Buffalo Lodge, the finest lodging establishment in Chugwater, Wyoming, which wasn’t saying much. He’d been out getting them breakfast. She left him a note with her phone number on it and told him to come get his buckle from her in Nashville.
She turns to him, her foot propped on a toe, her back leaning against the bar. The current between them crackles—she’s sure it’s both of them, not just her—and she drinks in the sight of him. Still trim and muscular even though, since she’s thirty-seven, he’s got to be pushing forty. His hair is thick, although salt-and-pepper now, like hers. And best of all, he’s still got those dimples. She feels a strain in her cheeks and realizes she’s over-grinning at him. She dials it back, but it’s too late. She knows her feelings are written all over her face.
His dimples deepen. His blue eyes sparkle. “Well, I’m sure it looks better on you than him.”
She wants to rip his snap-front shirt off with her teeth. Down girl. She swallows down a big lump in her throat. “What are you doing at the Occidental?” Her voice comes out throaty.
“I live here, remember?”
“I knew you lived somewhere north of Denver and south of Canada.”
“The better question is what are you doing here?”
“Hauling half the old junk out of northern Wyoming. You’re welcome.”
He dimples again. The air snaps and hums. “If you’d called me, I’d have taken you to dinner or something.”
It’s the “or something” she’s here for. “Oh, you have a phone now? Because I seem to remember you didn’t carry one before. Or use the old fashioned kind, for that matter.”
“Still on that old saw, are you? That was fifteen years ago.”
“Yeah, but since you never called me again since last spring in Texas, I just assumed it was a thing with you.” She keeps her voice light.
He looks perplexed. “You told me not to call.”
“Couldn’t you tell I didn’t mean it?”
He rolls his eyes heavenward. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Maggie’s holding bad cards, and she folds. “Anyway, I’ve had a change of heart.”
“About?”
“Sending you away. Holding a grudge.”
Hank’s brow furrows.
Maggie’s scared, but she’s not stopping now. She smiles at him to cover her nerves. “Not letting go of the past. Missing a second chance for us.”
“You told me you don’t believe in second chances.”
“I say the stupidest things sometimes. Don’t listen to me.”
“Hank, aren’t you going to introduce me?” The woman that interrupts them is fresh-faced and unlined. She has a shiny pink Lip Smacker–type gloss to her lips. Her blonde—of course—hair springs in wisps around her face from a single fat French braid. In her boots, she is eye level with Hank, and her blue jean–clad legs seem to go on forever.
Maggie sees the blinds close over Hank’s eyes. His dimples disappear. The electric current between them cuts out, leaving Maggie cold and in the dark.
He clears his throat. “Uh, Sheila, this is an old friend of mine, from back in my bull-riding days. Maggie Killian. Maggie, this is Sheila.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Sheila Eskimo-kisses him. Eskimo-kisses him. What the hell?
“My, uh, girlfriend.”
Maggie’s stomach flips and churns. Girlfriend? He can’t have a girlfriend.
Sheila raises her brow over wide eyes. “Maggie Killian? The Maggie Killian?”
“Ever since my parents named me.” Maggie’s voice is sour.
“Oh Em Gee. My mom loves your music. She plays it, like, all the time. You are totally her favorite singer ever. Well, you and Kaylee Storm.”
Country-pop princess Kaylee Storm. Just her name brings up bile in Maggie’s mouth. “That’s . . . great.”
“I literally just saw you online tonight, on my phone.” Sheila puts her hand on Hank’s arm, her fingers curling around his bicep. His eyes are wild, like a caged bear looking for an exit. “When we were at dinner, remember, sweetie?”
Maggie frowns at Sheila’s hand. “I don’t understand. Online?”
“Yeah. A big ‘Where are they now?’ type of thing. I texted it to my mom. She was totally excited, because she thought you were dead. The article talked about some big van crash that killed half your band.”
“I wasn’t with them by then.” She hates it when reporters recycle old information about the accident and her past. Her nightmares about it will come back. It could have been her. Probably should have been. Not Brent, Davo, Celinda, Chris, and the groupie that had tagged along from Cheyenne. One of Hank’s exes. Bambi. No, Fawn. But Maggie was spared, because she’d run off with Hank and quit the tour.
“And it said you’re in some big movie coming out.”
“Not in it. It’s about me. Partly.”
She socks Hank’s arm. “Jeez, Hank, you never told me you were friends with someone who used to be a star.”
Ouch.
At the far end of the bar, Maggie sees musicians tuning instruments. Over the sound system, a contemporary song starts up. One she heard over and over on the drive from Texas. It’s catchy, even if a little too Caribbean pop for her normal taste. “Pretty is as pretty does. Throwing punches, just because.”
Sheila squeals. “Ava Butler is the bomb. Don’t you just love her? I mean, as a musician. And this song. Totes awesome.”
Ava Butler. The name brings back a memory to Maggie. She’d known an Ava Butler during a period of her life she’d rather forget, although that didn’t narrow it down much. Pre-rehab, but not by long. After her agent, Larry, quit her and she lost her recording contract. In Waco. A low-rent musical theater. The murder of a young actress. Ava stepping in to fill the lead part in the musical that should have been Maggie’s. She’d been talented, Maggie recalls, but a slutty bitch who’d slept with Maggie’s man-of-the-moment. And now, all these years later, she has a hit single, while Maggie is schlepping junk and being humiliated by
a woman who is with the one man she has ever loved.
Maggie can’t find words, so she just makes a noncommittal “Mm-hmm” sound.
“Hank bought me her new CD, dincha, baby? It’s even better than her first one.”
Maggie stares at the hollow of Sheila’s neck, wanting to punch her, right there, just hard enough to stop her talking. She can’t believe Hank has a child-girlfriend who loves Ava’s second album and whose mother thought Maggie was dead.
If it counts for anything, dead sounds better to her right now than another minute in Wyoming.
Three
Maggie turns back to the bar. Her cheeks burn as she keeps her eyes trained on the mirror. She hopes it looks like she’s deep in thought, deciding on a drink, when what she’s really doing is watching Hank and Sheila walk away. That was just a little awkward. Hank has his fingertips on the small of his date’s back, guiding her with pressure just above the teeny waist of her sparkly-assed Miss Me jeans. Awkward and devastating. They take a seat at a table with another couple. From the back, it appears the man might be Gene—compact, muscular, dark-haired. Great. Someone she knows to witness her utter humiliation. He’ll probably tell Michele, which means Maggie will get a call and have to talk about it. Something awesome to look forward to. She knows she should go say hello to him. It’s the mature, adult thing to do.
But she just can’t adult right now. Just. Can’t. Adult.
A waitress twirls to a stop beside Hank. He holds up two fingers and says something to her. Is his girlfriend even old enough to drink? The woman with Gene has her light head tight with Sheila’s even lighter one. Sheila points Maggie’s way.
The bartender is pouring whiskey again.
Maggie is glad for a distraction from the two women talking about her. “Got any Balcones?” In the last few years, the Waco-distilled whiskey is her drink of choice. Alcohol’s not great for her, but she’s never lost herself in it like she did in the juice.
Live Wire (Maggie #1) Page 2
