“Senorita not come,” he said as he sat at the head of the table.
He sounded like an Indian chief in an old black-and-white movie. Kirstin had loaded a translation app on his cell phone once. Sam had soon gotten rid of it. The first and only time he’d tried to tell Mrs. Alvarez something, he’d asked her in Spanish to do something disgusting. He couldn’t remember for sure what, but he thought he’d told her to go outside and hump the horse. She’d run from the house in tears. To this day, Sam didn’t understand how what he’d typed had turned into something awful. Fortunately, Miguel spoke fluent English, saw the text, and got his wife calmed down enough for her to laugh about it. Miguel had later explained to Sam that slang words didn’t translate well. When he wanted to send Mrs. Alvarez translated messages, he had to write them in formal English. Hell, Sam wasn’t sure he even spoke formal English.
The woman tidied up the kitchen, bade Sam good night in Spanish—at least he’d learned what buenas noches meant—and left the house. As Sam tucked into his meal—pot roast with gravy over mashed potatoes, and a salad on the side—his mind drifted back to yesterday when that woman next door had kicked him off her property. All he’d done was try to apologize and then mentioned that it was a small valley. What the hell was her problem? What really bugged him, though, was her threat to sling dirt back at him, the implication being that she carried more weight in this area than he did.
He had to find time to get on his computer tonight and learn her name. Simple enough, he assured himself. Land sales were undoubtedly a matter of public record. Only when Sam got on his system later, he was soon so frustrated that he wanted to throw the desktop out a window. Fuck this, he decided. He’d stop trying to dig up the information and just call a neighbor. Somebody along Fox Hollow Road surely knew who had purchased that damned land.
Sam looked at his phone contacts and rejected one rancher after another. He’s a prick. Next one. Hell, no. Screw him and the horse he rode in on. The next name made him clench his teeth. Oh, yeah, my onetime best friend, Frank. Where the hell were you after Annie died? Europe, that’s where, celebrating your forty-fifth anniversary with your wife. Well, Annie didn’t live long enough for us to celebrate that occasion, you jackass.
Sam decided to call the only person he figured would speak to him, a little old lady whose house sat on the south side of Fox Hollow Road. Sam went over every summer to cut and bale her alfalfa. When he had time, he dropped by to fix things for her. She never failed to make him mint cookies as a thank-you and then call him to come pick them up. He fed them to his dogs because they tasted like toothpaste. Even the dogs had turned up their noses at the last batch. He needed to ask her to make chocolate chip, he guessed, but she was such a sweet old thing, as frail as a bird and thinking her husband was still alive sometimes. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
Sam rang her number. When she picked up, he said, “Hi, Mrs. Pedigrew? This is Sam Conacher across the road.”
In a shrill, shaky voice, she said, “Oh, Mr. Conacher, how lovely to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m good.” Sam wanted to get to the point, but for her, he’d be cordial. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’m very worried. Herman is awfully late getting home. I called the Cowboy Tree. He wasn’t there. Knowing that silly man, he probably went to another bar.”
Sam tried to think what to say. He didn’t want the old lady to walk the floors half the night, waiting for her husband to get home, but at the same time, he didn’t want to remind her that Herm was dead, either. She might fly into full-blown hysteria. Normally after spells like this, she woke up right as rain the next morning. He’d been through this with her before, and he’d gone over the following day to check on her. “Um, do you think he may be at a cattle sale somewhere? Bozeman, I believe, is having one this week. If that’s where Herm went, he won’t get home until tomorrow.”
“Oh, my stars, you’re right! I’m such a silly old lady. He probably told me, and I forgot.”
Sam wished that he could sometimes believe Annie was still alive. Then again, maybe not. He didn’t think he could survive losing her over and over. “Um—Mrs. Pedigrew, have you met our new neighbor who bought the acreage across the road from you?”
“Oh, shame that it is, I don’t visit neighbors that much anymore, but I heard she joined our book club two weeks ago and gave an interesting talk.” She went on to explain that she’d missed that meeting due to a doctor’s appointment.
“A talk? About what?”
“Novel structure. She’s a writer. I’ve read many of her books. Wonderful murder mysteries. Her name is right on the tip of my tongue. Madeline something.”
The back of Sam’s neck prickled. “Madeline? Is her last name, by any chance, McLendon?”
“Oh, yes, that’s it! Her stories are amazing. Have you read any of them?”
Sam had read all of them except her latest, which he hadn’t finished yet. He gripped the phone harder, but he let Mrs. Pedigrew rattle on. She hopped from topic to topic, and his ear was starting to ache before he could politely end the conversation.
• • •
Sam paced the living room, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the woman who’d written the books he went through like candy was living next door in that damned trash heap. No wonder she acted as if she was somebody, he thought. She’s a famous author. It riled Sam to no end that she actually might have the wherewithal to ruin his reputation in the valley. Then amusement replaced his anger. What Ms. McLendon didn’t know was that he’d already ruined his reputation with no help from her. She couldn’t do any more damage unless she murdered him. That was a sobering thought.
As he circled the room again, Sam came to the conclusion that he didn’t care what people thought of him. Dying didn’t scare him, either. He was a Montanan, born and bred. He’d come from poor folk and scrabbled his way up from nothing to own one of the largest operations in the area. People might not like him, but they respected him, and that woman had no idea whom she was pitting herself against.
Sam grabbed Madeline’s latest release, Death by Potato Sprouts, from the arm of his recliner and tried to rip it apart with his bare hands. The damned thing felt as thick as a phone book. He strained so hard trying to break the spine that his stomach muscles panged. Damn. With a slump of his shoulders, Sam accepted that he wasn’t as strong as he’d once been. Arthritis had taken up residence in his hands, and trying to tear a book to shreds made his thumbs hurt. Giving up, he tossed the paperback on the floor and stomped it with the heel of his boot. “If I can’t get rid of you one way, I’ll do it another. My name is Sam Conacher!”
Sam whirled away. Then he got a great idea. He could burn all his McLendon books.
• • •
Cam had gone with Caleb to a high school football game, and Maddie had been left for the evening to fend for herself. At first she had wondered what she would do. Normally her guys kept her company. Out of habit, she gravitated to the cook shack. Not wishing to dirty a bunch of dishes, she plugged in the George Foreman grill to make a melted cheese sandwich and heated a paper bowl of tomato soup in the microwave. For weeks they’d had no electricity except for that produced by her trailer generator. Now that temporary power had been installed, she felt like she was living in the lap of luxury.
She ate near the radiant heat of the woodstove, sitting in one of the upholstered swivel rockers with her feet propped on a log that would later fuel the fire. This is the life, she thought. When she finished her meal, she opened her e-reader and took a sip of chardonnay. All three dogs slept near her, their snores blending into a rhythmic sound that suited her mood. LED lightbulbs hung from the ceiling cross braces and illuminated the butter-colored canvas, creating a cozy golden glow. It made her think of being in a tipi. Maddie liked it so much that she was seriously thinking about replicating the effect when she painted the interior of her house. N
atural. Earthy. Warm.
The eerie sound of a bugling bull elk came from the pasture. Maddie sighed and set her reading device aside. She heard the call again and smiled. Their camp was smack-dab in the middle of nature. Who wanted to read when they could listen to the creatures that lurked in the darkness? Next an owl screeched. Maddie suspected it was the great horned owl that liked to perch at the top of a dead snag standing just behind the tent. She’d seen him several times and marveled at his beauty. He was large enough to grab one of her cats and fly away with it. No worries about that right now. The felines were all safe in their house or the trailer.
Maddie finished her wine and decided, since her oncologist had said it was okay for her to imbibe in moderation, to treat herself to another glass while she enjoyed the solitude. Not that she felt alone. How could she with three sleeping dogs, an owl, and a herd of elk nearby? Working her way through the swivel chairs, she went to the side-by-side refrigerator and refilled her cup. Gone were the days of sipping from fine crystal—at least until their homes were completed. Here all drinking vessels were plastic. After resuming her seat, she listened to the fire in the woodstove snap and pop.
Minutes later, she realized that the wine, along with her daily quota of bottled water, had gone straight through her. Because it had grown pitch-dark, she collected her flashlight—a recent gift from Cam—which was encased in a thick rubbery substance that enabled it to float if she accidentally dropped it in the river or slough. Not that she would. Cam had searched high and low to find her a device with a fabulous cushioned grip.
Only Bingo got up to go outside with her. Bear and Boomer kept snoozing.
“I’ll be fine, Bingo. If I trip on the rough ground and can’t get up, I can call for help with my cell,” she assured the dog, but Bingo followed her anyway.
Maddie could have gone to her trailer to use the restroom, but at night while she spent time in their community area, she found it faster to use Old Blue, a portable toilet a few feet away from Cam’s cabin. It was regularly pumped and cleaned by the service provider, and periodically replaced with a freshly sterilized unit. Keeping the light trained on the ground, where large rocks, sticks, and other trip hazards hid in the shadows, she made her way to the enclosure. Bingo waited outside.
It grew chilly along the river after the sun went down. Maddie shivered as she laid her oversize flashlight next to the black toilet seat. After she finished her business and stood, the portable facility shifted slightly as she drew her jeans back up and fastened them. What the heck? She guessed that a new unit must have been delivered sometime that day, and the man hadn’t made sure the replacement was sitting on level ground. She deliberately rocked sideways to see. With her back to the seat, the lid of which she hadn’t yet closed, she heard a soft rumbling sound followed by a splash.
“Oh, no. Not my light!” Maddie whirled around, and sure enough, a glare beamed up through the hole. She tried never to look down into the collection tank. The company used a dark blue chemical in there to eliminate odor. As harmless as it might smell, looking inside was nauseating. “Oh, my poor light.”
It bobbed and turned in the chemical waves caused by the splash. Maddie stared down at it, trying to think of some way she could fish it out of there. She groaned and leaned closer to measure the distance. In the trailer she had a reaching device that she used to pick things up off the floor. That might work, and she could clean it afterward. Cam had probably paid a handsome price for that light, and she hated to tell him that the gift he’d gotten her had fallen into what he called the shitter.
Just as she started to straighten, her cell phone fell from her shirt pocket. Maddie tried to catch it, but it followed the flashlight into the hole. “Shit! No, no, no!”
That phone had cost her a small fortune. She’d replaced her old one right before she moved here, and she’d chosen a device that supposedly could withstand submersion in water. She’d known she would be next to a river, after all, and she was a methodical person who thought ahead when she purchased things. Well, now she would put that phone to the test. Adding chemicals into the equation, she doubted it would last one minute, let alone the purported time, which, if she recalled correctly, had been an hour and a half.
“Damn it. Damn it. Now if I take a spill going back to the tent, how will I call for help?”
Bingo barked. Maddie heard a diesel truck approaching. The next instant, headlights washed over the wall of the outdoor toilet. Maybe, she thought, Cam and Caleb are home early.
• • •
Sam had run into town for a six-pack before he started his book-burning party. As he exacted his revenge on Madeline McLendon, he wanted to enjoy himself and have a couple of beers. Once he’d come through the automatic gate to get back to the ranch, he’d wondered if his vision had gone wonky. Out near the McLendon camp, a huge blue rectangle glowed in the dark. What the hell was it? Crazy things like spaceships flitted through his mind.
Curiosity got the better of Sam, and he drove onto the McLendon land, not caring if Madeline called the cops on him. Hell, if she got a rise out of the local police, he would just pay the fine. He angled his truck so the beams pointed straight at the object, which turned out to be a blue portable toilet similar to those used on construction sites. Without turning off the truck engine, Sam swung out of his vehicle. Just as he did, Madeline emerged from the enclosure. An aging black-tri Australian shepherd charged toward Sam with its hackles up. He liked dogs better than he did most people, so he stepped clear of the open driver door and hunkered down. The dog slowed its approach.
“Hello, old man.” The dog advanced with caution, but it finally got close enough for Sam to give it a friendly scratch behind the ears. Smiling up at Madeline the Horrible, he said, “I saw that you’re running a blue-light special. I just had to check it out. Thought maybe the cathouse was open for business, and you wanted to give first-time customers a special deal.”
She rested her fists on her hips. “Sorry. I’m the only woman on this land, and I’m a dead unit from the neck down.”
Awash in his headlights, she looked as if she wanted to go a few rounds with him in a boxing ring. Sam wanted no part of that. He’d had it ingrained in him by his father that no man worth his salt ever struck a woman. “Too bad. A whorehouse next door would be more entertaining than the Beverly Hillbillies.”
“Do you go out of your way to be obnoxious? Or were you just born that way?”
“Well, now, Madeline, there’s a good question.”
“Maddie, please, if we’re moving to a first-name basis. I’ll point out, however, that it may be a bad idea. My son is Cam. You’re Sam. It could get confusing.”
“I doubt there’ll be any confusion. No intention on my side to ever be that chummy with folks of your ilk.”
“‘Ilk’?” Her smile was more a sneer. “I’m surprised you know that word.” She squinted her eyes against his headlights. “And how did you find out who I am?”
Sam felt off-balance, and he couldn’t think why. As he watched her bend to pat her dog’s head when the animal returned to her, he thought she looked more vulnerable than she had before, smaller, less sure of herself. Maybe that was because darkness had fallen and she was apparently out here alone. Anyway, he no longer wanted to zing her with nasty comments. “A little lady across the road, surname of Pedigrew, told me who you are. Her husband, Herm, died a while back. I try to look after her and take care of her place. She can’t do the heavy work.”
“Samuel Conacher taking care of an elderly neighbor? That’s a new twist. Maybe there’s something about you that I can find to like, after all.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Just then Sam heard a ringtone. His phone made that sound, and in stores he’d heard other devices that mimicked it. He tilted his head. “What the hell is that? It’s one thing to have a glowing shitter, but one that also calls you? You’re getting pretty
high-tech out here.”
“Are you enjoying yourself, Sam?”
“I’m having a blast. How about you?”
“I’m wishing I had a shotgun.”
“That’d be sweet. Maybe it would end up in the john with your flashlight and cell.”
“I really don’t have time for this. And we both know you’re only guessing. I have electricity here. Maybe I ran a cord to the outhouse and installed a light. I also heard you pulling in, and I may have come out to see who was here and just left my phone behind me.”
“Not bad, but I’ve heard more believable stories. For an author, it sucks.” He inclined his head at the restroom unit glowing behind her. “What else but a high-powered flashlight could make that toilet look like a psychedelic phallic symbol?”
“Okay. So what if I dropped my flashlight down the hole? Things happen. It’s an expensive device, waterproof, and it floats. I was trying to think of some way to fish it out before my son gets home. It’s a gift from him.”
“That the same son who can’t keep his pecker in his britches?”
In silhouette, he saw her shoulders straighten. Good, he thought. She’s a worthier opponent when she’s pissed off.
“You’re just nasty to the core, aren’t you?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m like that John Wayne toilet paper in your glowing toilet: rough, tough, and don’t take shit off anybody.” He turned to get back in his truck and then hesitated. “I’ll do you one favor, Maddie McLendon. Never expect another one. I’ll stay parked here so you can use my headlights to make it safely back to camp.”
“No, thanks. I have a flashlight app on my cell phone.”
“Your phone is obviously swimming in the toilet tank with your flashlight. Pride comes before the fall. Don’t be stupid. Walk back while you can see.”
The Christmas Room Page 13
