by Meg Tilly
Eve laid her hand on Maggie’s arm. “We could do it next week, honey. When all this craziness has been resolved and things have calmed down.”
“I have to, Eve,” Maggie said, her eyes darkening, her voice catching slightly. “I want to keep busy. Do something normal to”—she swallowed hard—“to . . . take my mind off . . .” Maggie looked down, a shudder running through her. Luke could see she was struggling for control. “There will be a lot of people around who would be witnesses, so I doubt anyone would try something. Not to mention, Luke would be there, and Colt and Gunner.”
Luke felt torn. Those were all good points, and yet he wanted to keep her locked up tight until he had eliminated the source of danger.
“Please,” Maggie said, looking up at him.
Luke wanted to say no, but he nodded instead. Maggie was a grown woman. The decision was hers and hers alone to make. “All right,” he said, extending a hand to her. “Let’s draw up our grocery list, then.”
Maggie smiled at him wanly. “Thanks,” she said, her voice soft. She placed her hand in his and stood, her slender fingers cold as ice.
Thirty-seven
MAGGIE STRETCHED AND watched with satisfaction as Luke carried the final boxes of baked goods out to the truck. It had been a lot of hard work, but she was glad she had pushed for it. There was something about settling into the process of baking that calmed her. Putting ingredients together and creating something tasty had beaten back the darkness that threatened to close in on her like fast-moving fog. The warm, comforting smells surrounded her: apple, cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and ginger, sugar and melting butter, roasting pecans, chocolate, and a tinge of brown sugar—these were the smells that filled a house and made it a home.
She’d called her parents while the final pies were baking. There was a three-hour time difference, so they were up. Maggie had wanted—needed—the comfort of their familiar voices. She didn’t tell them about Brett, or the attempts on her life. She would, eventually, when the danger had passed. No need for them to worry. There was nothing they could do, so far away. Although, knowing her parents, they’d probably hop on the first plane heading for the Pacific Northwest, which would put them in danger, too.
She dusted the lingering traces of flour off her hands. For the last couple of nights, her sleep had been fractured, but every time she woke in a cold sweat and unable to breathe, Luke had been there, safe and steady, chasing the darkness away.
She took off her apron and hung it on a hook. She hitched her shoulders and circled them back, pulling her shoulder blades down and together. It felt good and helped ease the stiffness that had built up from rolling out copious amounts of pie dough and cookies on Luke’s glorious marble counters.
It had been a pleasure to cook in his beautiful kitchen. She yawned and arched her back, her fingers digging into the lower lumbar vertebrae to help release the slight ache there.
“Maggie,” she heard Eve call from outside.
“Coming,” Maggie called back, downing a glass of cool, refreshing water, corralling the flyaway strands of hair back into her tortoiseshell clasp, and heading out the door into the bright, crisp morning sunshine.
* * *
• • •
THE SATURDAY MARKET was hopping. It seemed the number of market-goers had doubled from the week before. A bluegrass band was playing on the green; a few beribboned free spirits were twirling around, leaping and dancing. It was a joyous thing to watch and, oddly, made the attacks and finding Brett seem far in the past, almost as if Maggie were viewing the incidents through the reverse end of a telescope.
Maggie counted out change, then handed the boxed cherry-plum pie to the older woman, Dorothy Whidbee, who had helped her outside the ice cream store. “Enjoy,” Maggie said.
“Hey,” Dorothy said, an impish look on her weathered face. She tipped her head in Luke’s direction. “Did you take my advice and try out the goods?” she asked in a stage whisper.
Maggie flushed, then leaned across the table. “I did,” she whispered, feeling incredibly risqué. “And am pleased to announce that the results were”—she paused, searching for the right word—“spectacular.”
The woman cackled and nodded. “Good for you. Good for you, my girl.” And then she shuffled away, doing a little free-form boogie-woogie to the music that filled the air.
Maggie watched her gyrating body disappear into the crowd. “I love this place,” she murmured, filled with sudden contentment. “That was the last of the pies,” she told her sister.
Eve turned and looked at her, concern in her eyes.
“It will be okay,” Maggie said, putting an arm around Eve.
“I’m just so worried. I barely slept last night, trying to make sense of everything. Twice someone tried to kill you. Brett’s dead. Was he the one who hired those guys, then felt so ashamed that he did himself in? Or is there a whole other threat out there that we need to worry about?”
“I know,” Maggie said, nodding. “Those are real concerns, but I’m so sick and tired of being worried. Yes, something bad might happen. If it does, I’ll deal with it then. Right now I’m going to try to focus on the positive. On the now. I’m alive. I’m in love. There are blue skies overhead.”
“Oh, Maggie, seriously?” Eve said softly, looking at her with a mix of longing, hope, and worry. “You’ve only just met Luke.”
“I know.” Maggie glanced over her shoulder at him. He was tied up with an elderly female customer on the far side of the stall. The woman was counting out a mountain of pennies, nickels, and dimes from her coin jar and kept losing track of how much she had counted out. And Luke, bless his heart, was being so damned patient. “He—”
Gunner emerged from the crowd, moving fast, Colt on his heels. “Caught a partial view of a black SUV, tinted windows, southbound.”
Maggie’s heart accelerated.
Luke stilled. “Escalade?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Gunner replied. “Going to check it out.”
“Okay,” Luke said with a quick nod. “Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
The two men jogged off.
Maggie let out her breath, slow and easy. They were on it. Luke was here. She was safe.
Luke must have felt her watching him, because he shot her a reassuring look over his shoulder before turning back to his customer. “Here,” she heard him say to the woman, “would you like me to . . . ?” He gestured at the coins, and the woman shoved the pile over to him with a grateful look.
“He?” Eve prompted.
Maggie pulled her gaze back to her sister. “He’s just such a sweetheart. I know he seems all gruff and macho, but in private, he’s so tender. Makes my heart sing when I look at him, think about him, hear his voice. And he gets me, Eve. Do you know how rare that is?”
Eve nodded. “Unicorn rare.”
“Tell me about it. I feel so lucky. He makes me laugh. I feel safe in his arms. I adore the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, and I . . . Oh, Eve, I just love him so much.” Maggie could feel her eyes get misty, much like her sister’s appeared to be doing.
“I’m so happy for you, Maggie,” Eve whispered fiercely, catching Maggie up in a deep, heartfelt hug. “So happy!”
“Um . . . excuse me? Excuse me, ma’am?” Maggie felt a tug on her shirt. She looked down, and there was a freckle-faced, towheaded little boy with slightly grubby cheeks looking up at her.
“Yes?” Maggie said.
He seemed a little scared. There were dried tear tracks on his face, so she knelt down to his level.
“Hey, kid,” Eve said, “you aren’t supposed to be back here. This area is only for the vendors.”
“What’s going on?” Maggie asked softly. “Are you okay? Where’s your mom?”
The little boy swallowed, clearly trying not to cry.
“Are you lost?
”
The boy nodded.
“Okay.” Maggie put out her hand. “Come on. I’ll help you find her.”
The boy hastily put his hand behind his back and took a step backward, his brown eyes large in his face.
“It’s all right,” Maggie said. “You’re safe with me. Come on.” She reached out and took his hand in hers. “Are you hungry?”
The way his eyes flew to the apple tarts, she could tell that he was. She grabbed two and gave them to him, snagging a couple of napkins as she rounded the table.
“Be right back,” she said to Eve, and then Maggie and the boy plunged into the crowd.
* * *
• • •
THE BOY WAS too skinny. He wolfed down the two apple tarts in record time, barely taking time to breathe.
“Wow, you were hungry,” Maggie said, reaching toward him to brush the traces of crust and dab of filling off his cheek, but he jumped back like a startled, wild thing, head ducking into his neck, flinching slightly as if expecting to be hit.
Maggie stilled, her heart aching. “You have some . . .” She dabbed her finger at the side of her mouth.
The crowd adjusted its path, separating and streaming around the two of them like water flowing around a rock.
“Oh,” the boy said. He scrubbed the back of his grubby hand across his mouth, his cheeks turning red.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Maggie said in a nonchalant tone, even though a part of her wanted to scoop him in her arms, comfort him, take him home, feed him, and then pop him in a long, piping-hot bath. “It was my fault, really.” She leaned closer, and this time he didn’t leap away. “It’s because of the special way”—she lowered her voice, as if imparting a sacred secret—“my great-aunt Clare taught me to make her delectable crust. Super flaky. A good pie or tart crust should always leave crumbs when devoured.”
The boy nodded solemnly. “It was good,” he said reverently. “Best thing I ever ate in my whole life.”
“Well, thank you,” Maggie said, smiling down at him and taking his warm little hand in hers. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Now, how about we go find your mom?”
A countenance too weary, too sad, too mature for his age descended over his features. He shook his head, stared down at his hand in hers, like the weight of the world was on him. “Pretty lady,” he said, his voice a barely there whisper, but also shaky, urgent, “you shouldn’t be with me. You need to leave this place. Go far away and . . . make pies and be happy and never, never, never come back.”
What on earth? Maggie thought, trying to make sense of what he was saying. And why is he crying like his heart is going to burst?
“Come on,” Maggie said, taking his hand, leading him away from the crowds, ducking through a gap that led to the back of the stalls.
It was quieter back there, private.
Maggie knelt down and wrapped her arms around his small, thin shoulders. “What’s your name, sweetheart? Hmm?” she said, wiping away his tears, even though it was useless because more just followed. “Don’t cry. We can sort this out. There’s nothing that’s unsolvable.”
The boy’s gaze shifted from her.
“What is it?” she asked, because he was staring over her shoulder as if the zombie apocalypse had just arrived.
“Run!” he choked out in a half bellow, half cry, lurching backward and trying his hardest to drag her back the way they had come, but it was too late. His head snapped back from the force of a woman’s hand striking him hard across the face.
The boy didn’t even cry out, just crouched low, with his little arms trying to shelter his head from blows.
“Hey!” Maggie yelled, lunging forward to try to protect him, but an arm lashed around her, and she was jerked up short.
“Stupid brat!” the woman shrieked, backhanding the boy and sending him flying through the air. His small, flailing frame crashed into a straggly pink rhododendron bush, flower petals raining to the ground. “You are a fucking waste of space!” the woman screamed.
All Maggie could see was the back of the woman hunched over the boy, her arms slashing downward again and again.
“Stop it,” Maggie cried, trying desperately to reach the boy, but she couldn’t free herself from the enormous muscular hand that wrenched her arm behind her back in an incredibly painful manner.
“Let me go, you Neanderthal!” she yelled, flailing out with a kick behind her, but she didn’t connect with anything. Maggie lashed out again with her foot, hit something with a satisfying force, and was rewarded by his grunt of pain. But then he wrenched her arm higher. She felt as if her rotator cuff was on the verge of popping out of her shoulder socket. Unwanted tears flooded her eyes. She opened her mouth to call for help, but all that came out was a gasp of pain as he yanked her arm even higher so her toes were barely skimming the ground.
“Shut the fuck up,” the man growled in her ear, giving another jerk upward for emphasis. His voice was raspy, as if he gargled daily with battery acid. She twisted her head around and managed to catch a glimpse of him, and immediately wished she hadn’t. She knew in her gut that if she lived through this, she would have nightmares about those ice-cold shark eyes for the rest of her life.
“You come with us quietly,” he said, “or I kill the brat, too.”
And that was when Maggie became aware of the cold metal gun barrel jammed against her ribs and heard the snick of the safety catch being released. It was as if everything slowed to a dead stop.
“Nice and easy, like we’re taking a Sunday walk in the park. Got it?”
“Okay,” Maggie managed to say, amazed at how calm she made her voice sound. “I’ll leave without a fuss, but the boy stays here.”
Thirty-eight
FINALLY, THE TRANSACTION was completed. Luke had finished counting out the damned coins and the woman had departed with her eight croissants and sourdough round. He slid the coins off the table and into a plastic container. He’d sort it later.
Mr. Henderson was at the front of a line of customers waiting to be served. The line snaked around in front of the French patisseries booth as well as the Cedar Hill Farm’s booth.
The other vendors were not pleased.
“Mr. Henderson,” Luke said, giving him a nod, “sorry for the wait.” Luke started to bag Mr. Henderson’s weekly order of two loaves—one multigrain, one rye—when a sense of foreboding swept through him.
Luke whirled around.
Eve stood on the other side of the stall, boxing up chocolate cupcakes.
“Where’s Maggie?” he demanded.
“What?” Eve said, looking up.
“Where’s Maggie?” The sense of urgency was rising. She was in danger. He could feel it. “She was right here two minutes ago. Where did she go?”
Eve glanced around.
“Oh dear. She’s not back yet,” Eve said, her face paling.
“Was she with anyone?” Luke said, keeping his voice measured and calm, even though everything inside him was bellowing like a gored bull.
“A little boy,” Eve said, talking fast now, words tumbling over one another on their way out. “This high,” she said, gesturing with her hand a little above her waist. “Said he was lost, couldn’t find his mother.”
That was the setup. He could feel it. “What did he look like?”
“Uh . . . uh . . .” Eve’s hands were flapping in front of her as if she were flicking water off them.
“What color was his hair? What was he wearing?”
“Light blond hair. Saggy black T-shirt. It was dusty, with a couple of little rips on the back of the shoulder—left, right? I don’t know. Pants—dark color, not clean. Maybe five or six years old.”
“Thanks, Eve. Very good. Now, which direction did they go?”
She pointed, and he was off, vaulting over the top of their table.
When he landed, he realized his mistake. “Idiot,” he muttered. He’d forgotten about his injury, and now his leg was convulsing in agonizing spasms. “Text Gunner and Colt,” he spat out through clenched teeth. “Inform them of the situation and what we’re looking for.”
“Right,” Eve said. “Want me to come?”
“No. Stay here and let me know if Maggie shows up.” And then he ran, his fist grinding into his old wound to try to ease the muscle spasm. He ran in the direction Maggie had disappeared as hard and as fast as possible. He would deal with the pain later.
Thirty-nine
MAGGIE HAD HOPED that by appearing to acquiesce and go quietly, she would be able to get them far enough away from the little boy that he wouldn’t be in danger. Then she would kick up a noisy ruckus. If he was prepared to shoot her, then she would be dead, but at least it would be fast and there would be witnesses to testify and get him thrown in prison. And if he wasn’t planning to kill her, was just bluffing, then she might manage to get away.
It was a good plan.
Unfortunately, the boy followed them. He was limping slightly, poor thing. Trailing them at a distance. The man hadn’t noticed. But as long as Maggie could see the boy, her assailant might, too, and she had to behave.
The woman had disappeared before Maggie could see her face, but Maggie was holding on to what details she could remember. Red manicured nails, the forefinger and middle finger on the right hand either broken or bitten down. Five foot four or five. Seemed a little dumpy from behind, but wasn’t wearing formfitting clothes, so difficult to tell. The descriptions would be important if—no, when—she got to safety. That woman is going to pay for hitting that defenseless boy. Maggie took a calming breath and exhaled.
It helped, to make plans.
Her other plan, she was discovering in hindsight, perhaps hadn’t been the smartest.
