Live Wire (Maggie #1)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  He slathers a biscuit with butter and jam. He nods, still chewing.

  “I’ve never been to an Amish community, but I imagine they’re similar to the Wends in some ways.”

  Andy swallows. His biscuit hovers near his mouth. “Are you Anabaptists?” His teeth sink into the biscuit and jam oozes out.

  “Ana what?”

  He talks through his food. “Anabaptists.” He chews, swallows, then restarts. “We believe baptism is an adult choice, and, if you’re baptized as a child, you must be rebaptized as an adult.”

  “Oh. Then no, we’re not Anabaptists. I was baptized twice. Once as a baby and again when I was five. It didn’t do much good. Maybe they should have kept trying.” Maggie samples the eggs. Cream cheese and chives. Perfect texture and seasoning. And not what she would have expected on a ranch table in Wyoming. The hands don’t seem to mind the hoity-toity eggs, judging by the empty platter.

  “Do you drive cars and use electricity?”

  At the end of the table, Tom says, “You need to eat those delicious eggs before they get cold, Mrs. S.”

  Maggie glances at the old woman. Yep, still glaring at Maggie. What had Andy asked? Did the Wends drive cars and use electricity? “Yes.”

  “We don’t.”

  “Everything here must be very different to you, then.”

  “I’m used to it. My father and brothers and I have worked for the English since I was a boy. But now I can choose to do whatever I want. Because of Rumspringa.”

  Mrs. Sibley bangs her spoon on her glass. “Quiet! Quiet, children. I can’t digest my food with this racket.” Then she turns to Tom. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

  Her food is still untouched.

  He jumps to his feet. “Yes, Mrs. Sibley.”

  As the others had the night before, they call their goodbyes to her. She ignores them all. Trudy brings a dish cover for Mrs. Sibley’s plate. Maggie wonders how Hank deals with his mother’s illness. It must be incredibly hard.

  Paco says, “Did you hear Chet Moore was murdered yesterday?”

  Chet? Maggie drops a biscuit and chokes on the bite she’d just taken. She reaches for her orange juice and gulps quickly. Her eyes water. She tries to remember Chet’s last name, the Chet she hooked up with, but she can’t. Moore doesn’t sound familiar. Maybe it’s a different Chet. She hopes it is. Coughing some more, she feels conspicuous, but no one glances her way. They’re all focused on Paco.

  “What happened?” Gene asks.

  “Dunno much, except they found him in the parking lot of the Bison Inn with his head bashed in.”

  His words are thunder in Maggie’s ears. “Oh God!”

  All heads swivel in her direction. She balls a fist and presses it to her mouth.

  The coincidence was too much. Chet. Murdered. Only hours after he left her, only hours after they’d been intimate. Just outside the hotel where she slept. Oh God. Oh God. He was so vital, so strong.

  “Maggie?” Gene is in front of her, hands on her forearms. He gives her a shake. “Maggie May?”

  Her mouth hangs open. She feels shocked and sad for a moment, but then a horrible thought occurs to her. She was probably the last person to see him alive. Other than the murderer, of course. The police would be reconstructing Chet’s last hours. They’d know he stayed at the Bison Inn. But no one knew they’d spent the night together. The room was in his name. When Chet checked them in, she’d stayed in his truck. The next morning, he’d left alone, and she’d made the walk of shame back to Bess hours later. And she hadn’t given the desk clerk her room number, thank God. Relief courses through her, along with a sickening guilt. No one would know she was with him there. She doesn’t want everyone and his dog knowing her business. She especially doesn’t want Hank to know about her hooking up with Chet after finding out about him and Sheila.

  She looks away from Gene, down at the biscuit she’d dropped. Everyone is looking at her. They’re wondering why she’s lost her shit. She has to calm down. Figure out how to act. Concerned first, because she met a guy who may be dead now. But not devastated or terrified. Those would be inappropriate. But upset would hit the right note. So, upset. That will be easy enough, because she’s very, very upset.

  She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I, um, met a guy at the Occidental. His name was Chet. I hope it’s not him? He bought me a drink. Too young for me, so I sent him packing, but so nice and really cute.” She’s babbling and her voice sounds like a strangled cat, but she holds her face steady in a concerned expression.

  Gene nods, looking at her with a confused expression. “Um, yeah, Chet was at the Occidental.”

  Maggie shifts gears to sadly upset, which comes out more authentically, amongst the other bigger, scarier feelings she’s hiding. “Oh my God. This is . . . horrible. Do they know who did it?”

  Paco says, “He was a hound dog. And that chica he used to date, she’s stone-cold crazy, and her brothers are dangerous. They’re all into meth now. If it wasn’t the crazy chica, my bet is a pissed-off husband or boyfriend.”

  Gene releases Maggie and turns back to Paco. She keeps one ear on the conversation and the other turned inward. The woman who slapped Chet. The men who held him still for her. Was that not enough for them? Did they come back and kill him?

  Beside her, Andy’s voice is sonorous. “God take his soul, and may he rest in peace.”

  Maggie’s mind races. It doesn’t matter that no one saw her with Chet at the Bison. Because half the town can place them together at the Occidental. Chet had bought her drinks. They’d walked out together. Gene had probably even seen them.

  Paco pours himself more coffee. “I heard he checked into the Bison the night before. Only reason for that is a hookup.”

  Maggie’s throat closes. People are already talking about Chet spending the night with a woman. It won’t take them long to come looking for her.

  Gene whistles. “Must have been someone he wanted to impress to shell out for a room.”

  Paco grins. “What’s it to him? He makes good money. Or made, anyway. Worked for a drilling company.”

  Andy chimes in. “Isn’t that wasteful, when he has a perfectly good ranch with a house?”

  “Sounds smart to me. A woman’s got a lot of time to change her mind on a forty-five-minute drive.”

  Maggie remembers the urgency on her part, the need to have sex with Chet immediately. To feel like she’d shown Hank. But shown him what? She feels sick. She hadn’t shown him anything. And now Chet was dead.

  Gene puts both hands on the table. “Well, I’m sure the police will figure it out. We sure won’t sitting around here gossiping. Time to get to work.”

  Chairs push back, and the men leave quickly, not dawdling in the community room like the night before. Louise dashes in the door as the hands exit.

  Maggie stays frozen in her chair. Maybe she should call the cops. But what did she have to tell them? She doesn’t know anything about Chet. Certainly nothing about how he died. The police would delay her departure. Her personal business would become public information. She needs to get on her way as fast as she can get Bess fixed. Forget this whole horrible trip ever happened.

  But if she’s still here and they haven’t caught the killer by then, she can always call the police Monday.

  “For now, I’ve just got to chill.” She speaks her thought aloud.

  Louise whines and nudges her hand.

  Maggie pats the dog’s head. “I know. Easier said than done, girl.”

  Eleven

  Maggie paces in the direction of the paddocks, not eager to return to the cabin. It’s not even seven a.m. The Ford dealership won’t be open yet. She forgot to get lightbulbs and the Wi-Fi password. She’s stranded with nothing to do, so she might as well make the best of it. Take a walk with Louise. Get some exercise. Burn off some of her stress. Clear her mind.

  She marches on toward the gate, Louise her shadow. Andy canters out of the stable yard in front of her on a big buckskin gel
ding. He points his horse toward higher elevation, roughly in the direction of the big house on the mountain. Paco drives off on a four-wheeler. A blacksmith is shoeing a horse beside a farrier truck, his hammer clanging like a bell as it strikes nail and shoe.

  Her phone vibrates with a text. She checks it—shocked she has service here—still walking.

  Michele: Did you get ahold of your renter? Are you on your way home? Goats are at Gidget’s.

  Maggie stops. Twenty-four hours later, the world is a much different place than when she’d talked to Michele.

  No, I’ll try again. Bess broke down. Delayed. Thanks on the goats.

  She almost updates Michele that she has definitely talked to Gene since she’s staying at Hank’s and oh yeah, by the way, her hookup was murdered, but she doesn’t have the oomph right now. She hits send.

  Then texts her guest again. Leslie, hey, I didn’t hear back from you. Just want to make sure you’re OK.

  Michele: OMG so sorry. Keep me posted!

  Michele would be double sorry if she knew the whole story. Maggie pockets her phone and resumes her walk. As she nears a pen in the warren of livestock enclosures, she notices a glossy black horse. The massive animal whirls and stares at her. Maggie climbs on the bottom metal rail and holds her hand out, palm down, over the top. The horse looks away.

  “Come here, sassy. I don’t bite.”

  “You’re a stranger and a meat eater. She’s a mare conditioned to be on the lookout for threats to the herd. Of course you bite, and she knows it.” Gene runs up the rails with hands and feet, and swings over to sit atop the fence.

  “I’m not a horse lover, but I could make an exception.”

  “She knows that, too.” Gene opens his hand. In his palm is a horse cookie. “Lily, Lily girl. Cookie. Come get a cookie, Lily.”

  The horse walks over in slow motion, her ears pricked forward. She reaches her neck out to its full length, then stretches her lips to take the cookie from Gene while remaining as far from him as possible.

  He laughs. “Same old Lily girl.” He digs in his pockets and hands Maggie some cookies. “You can give her a try, but don’t touch her face. It’s a blind spot for a horse. She considers it pushy. Rude on a first date.”

  “Got it.”

  Louise stands on her hind legs, pawing the air with her front paws.

  “And don’t feed the circus animal. That dog is a beggar. She eats at the barn with all the other clawed critters every morning.”

  Maggie slips Louise a cookie after Gene turns away.

  “I hear her chewing.”

  She climbs the fence and sits next to him. “Here, Lily. Here, my pretty. Come get a cookie.” She holds out her hand, palm up.

  Lily swings her head to look Maggie over, then swings it back to eyeball Gene.

  “She’s okay, Lily girl.”

  Lily repeats her slow-motion walk, but she comes all the way up to Maggie, presenting the side of her neck. She whisks the cookie daintily from Maggie’s palm with velvet lips.

  “She likes me.”

  Gene shakes his head. “She’s Hank’s, so I guess it figures.”

  “I can’t help it if she has good taste.”

  “Give her a rub under her mane, like you’re giving a person a neck massage. Kind of up on the crest. You’ll feel the muscles there.”

  Maggie slips her fingers under the long, coarse hair and strokes the horse’s neck. “Wow. Thick.”

  “She’s mostly Percheron. Their necks are very strong.”

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, girl, but you’ve got a giant ass, too.” Probing the arch of the muscle, Maggie kneads it gently. Lily bobs her head in time with Maggie’s massage. “Aren’t Percherons draft horses?”

  “They are.”

  “I thought you raised buckers?”

  “We do. A bucking horse has to be sturdy. Lily adds size and strength to the bloodline.”

  Maggie whispers in Lily’s ear. “All that and a pretty face.”

  “The most successful and famous bucker in Wyoming history was half Percheron. Steamboat. The horse on the license plate.”

  “No pressure, girl.” Maggie gives Lily an extra good rub where her muscles converge behind her ear. “Is she always this big? Her gut is huge.”

  “No, she’s pregnant. This will be her third foal. The first one is just starting out. He’s a peach.”

  “Does she buck?”

  “With great enthusiasm and a lot of strength, when we ask her to. But it was never her career. She’s a nice ride, actually. Just antisocial. Well, not as much with you. Are you usually this good with horses?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t have horses when I was growing up. I’ve ridden some, but really, I don’t have much experience.”

  “You’re a natural. Maybe you’re part Indian.”

  Maggie smiles. “I am. One eighth Crow.”

  “That may explain it. They were incredible horse people. Many still are. And you almost qualify for enrollment.”

  “What?”

  “You can enroll as a tribe member if you’re one-quarter Crow.”

  Does my father know? “Closeness only counts in horseshoes, I guess.”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that you have Crow ancestry. It may have something to do with what Lily senses in you.”

  “That sounds like superstitious stereotypical BS.” She smiles at him as she says it.

  Gene laughs. “Superstitions and stereotypes have a source, sometimes. I’m just saying it could matter. Don’t be all closed-minded about it.”

  Lily tosses her mane and Maggie catches a glimpse of the arched muscular neck she’s been petting. It makes her look regal. Maggie reaches for Lily’s nose, wanting just one more feel of its cushy softness, but Lily backs away.

  “I told you she doesn’t like to have her face touched.”

  “You can’t blame me for trying.”

  “Oh, but I can, Maggie.” He turns his torso to face her. “Or should I call you Lily?”

  “Why would you call me Lily?”

  “Because you back away whenever anyone tries to get close.”

  Ouch. His words catch her off guard, but she doesn’t let him see he’s wounded her. “Can’t a girl be hard to get without a guy being mean about it? Don’t listen to him, Lily.”

  He hops down. “If you say so, Maggie.”

  Twelve

  Back in the cabin half an hour later, Maggie can’t call the mechanic because she has no cell signal. And no Wi-Fi. She hoofs it with her canine new-best-friend up to the barn area, hoping to find someone who can help. The place is a ghost town, except for livestock, and none of them offer up the Wi-Fi password. Maggie is about to go in search of Trudy or Tom—although she doesn’t relish an encounter with Mrs. Sibley—when a familiar truck pulls up.

  Hank.

  She flags him down, struggling not to think about him being fresh off a sleepover at Sheila’s.

  He parks a few yards away and gets out. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” She brandishes her phone. “T-Mobile doesn’t exist in Wyoming. I need to call the dealership.”

  He tosses her his phone. “Their number should be in my Recents from yesterday.”

  She nods, keeping her eyes averted. “Want me to bring it to you at the house when I’m done?”

  “I can wait.” He crosses his arms, exposing his triceps and causing his shoulders to bunch up nicely.

  Maggie has a moment of temptation. She could pretend to fumble finger around and read his most recent texts with Sheila first. But she doesn’t want to subject herself to their mushy talk. Or worse, sexts.

  She pulls up his call log and finds the dealership number based on the time the call went out. Five minutes after five the afternoon before. She presses it. When she reaches the service department, she introduces herself and refers to her message and her truck.

  “Yessirree, we got your message and that colorful little pickup of yours. That’s an oldie. Nice t
ruck.” The voice is young and Southern. Alabama. Mississippi. Louisiana at the farthest west.

  “Thank you. Do you have the part to fix it?”

  “Can’t say. Can I call you back when we’ve had a chance to look? Busy morning here.”

  She gives them Hank’s number.

  “That’s not the one you left on voicemail, is it?”

  “No, but it’s the only one that will work.”

  “Alrighty then.”

  “Thank you.”

  She ends the call and hands Hank his phone.

  “Any luck?”

  “Zero progress. They’ll call back on your phone.”

  He pulls on his lips, the ones that have been kissing the wrong woman. “Well, you’ve got some time to kill.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Can’t do that unless I take you on a tour of the place. How ’bout it?”

  “If you’re sure it’s okay with your girlfriend.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Maggie is slightly offended. She scoffs. “Please. Women hate me.”

  His dimples light a fire in her core. “Oh, that. Well, don’t worry. I haven’t told her about us.”

  “Ashamed of me?” She tosses her hair behind her shoulder.

  “Do you tell your dates about me?”

  “Point taken.”

  “Come on. Let’s grab a four-wheeler. There’s things to see that my truck can’t take us to.”

  “Can we tour on horseback?”

  “You ride?”

  Barely. “I grew up in Texas, didn’t I?” She points. “Can I take Lily?”

  “How’d you meet my ornery old girl?”

  “We buddied up this morning. Gene introduced us.”

  He starts walking into the stable. She follows. “She’s nobody’s buddy.” He grabs some rope halters.

  “She’s mine.”

  “Prove it. Bring her back here to me.”

  Maggie throws some swagger into her walk. “You don’t think I can.”

  “I don’t.”

  “And if I do?”

  “I won’t charge you rent on the guest cabin.”