“So how’s the book coming?”
“Awful. I’ve written myself into a corner and can’t think of a way out. Maybe if I sleep on it, I’ll wake up with a bright idea.”
Sam loved difficult mysteries. “Tell me about it. I’m good at plot twists.”
She smiled slightly. “Um, it’s difficult to explain.”
Sam got up and went to the kitchen for a cold beer. Maddie said she would join him, so he popped the caps from two bottles, handed one to her, and sat at the opposite end of the couch. “Just talk. I’ll try to make sense of it.”
“I honestly can’t.” She sighed. “The truth is, Sam, I’m in a mess. My murder victim is a real person, and I realized today that despite the fact that I’ve given him a fictitious name, he’s still recognizable. If I publish the book, I could be sued for libel.”
Intrigued, Sam asked, “Who’s the victim?”
She took a pull from her beer. After swallowing, she said, “You.”
Sam thought he’d misunderstood her. “Come again?”
“You, Sam. You’re my murder victim.”
Sam nearly choked on his microbrew. “Me?” he squeaked.
She lifted her shoulders and then went back into a slump. “I disliked you before I ever met you, because I knew Cam was seeing Kirstin and I feared you’d start saying horrible things about him to destroy his reputation.”
Sam almost said, Guilty as charged, but he decided this wasn’t a good time to confess those transgressions.
“Then, after I met you, my dislike turned to hatred. You called us white trash, if you’ll recall. I was so mad I wanted to throw rocks at you. Instead I got even by murdering you in my book.”
Sam couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny!” she cried. “I went back to the beginning to do some editing today, and I was horrified. I can’t turn that mess in to my editor. I nailed you almost perfectly. Anyone who knows you, meaning anyone in the Bitterroot Valley, and reads the book will realize almost immediately that you’re the victim.”
Sam wiped under his eyes, amazed that he’d laughed so hard that his sides hurt. Maddie was good for him. “What if I sign a waiver promising not to sue?”
“It’s sweet of you to offer, but that won’t work. Writers aren’t supposed to pattern main characters after real people. You can entertain readers by using their names for unimportant, secondary characters, but only with their written permission, and then you have to change things about those characters to make them mostly fictitious. But my victim in this book is unmistakably you! If this piece of work goes to publication, it will destroy my reputation and credibility as a writer.”
“Maybe you can just change the guy’s appearance.”
She shook her head. “You’re featured throughout the plot. The things you’ve done or said to ruin other people, mostly young men who dared to look twice at your daughter. The killer’s reason for offing you. Suspects out the yang who also had motivation to kill you. In order to erase you from the book, I’ll have to revamp the entire story.”
“I have to read this. I’ve never been featured in a book before. What a kick.”
She pressed the cold beer bottle to the frown lines above her nose, a sure sign that she had a bitch of a headache. “You have no idea how much trouble I’m in. My publisher is counting on me to deliver this work. I’m contractually obligated to send it in on a certain date. There’s no way I can revise the whole thing now and get it to them in time.”
Sam saw how upset she was and no longer felt like laughing.
“I’m sorry, Maddie. If I hadn’t been such a jerk, you wouldn’t have vented your anger at me in a story.”
“It’s my own fault. I should have been more disciplined.” She lowered the bottle to her lap and smiled slightly. “You were awful at first, though, and it was so much fun to torture and dismember you. When I first got the idea, I imagined you to look like Gus in Lonesome Dove. Then I met you and had to change you entirely. Stupid, stupid. I can’t believe I just kept writing this whole time.”
Sam tried to think what he might say to make her feel better. He stood and sat down again right next to her, something he rarely did because he was afraid of spooking her. To hell with that. She needed a friend right now who could think outside the box.
Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he drew her against his side, pleased when she didn’t resist. “Maddie, all during the creation of this book, you’ve either been angry or worried. And on both counts, you had good reasons. I kept stopping by your place to pour fuel on the fire. Remember the night you dropped your flashlight in the portable toilet?”
She started to laugh. “Oh, God, what a night. You were at your obnoxious best.”
Sam contributed a chuckle. “I was angry, too. The way I saw it then, Cam was busy demolishing what was left of my world. When I stopped by your place, hoping to light into him, I only ever found you, so you took the brunt. I was at my obnoxious best right up until the morning he got rammed by the bull.
“But even though I backed off from my war on Cam that day, you didn’t get a break from the stress. Your son nearly died, and you were worried that he might never walk again. When have you had a moment to really analyze the book you’re writing?”
She took a shaky breath. “I should have gone back prior to today to give it a read from start to finish, but I didn’t. I was racing against time and writing in a dead heat.”
“So you weren’t stupid, only stressed out and under the gun. You are in a pickle, though.”
“I should just call my editor and face the music. He’ll be upset, and it will hurt me financially if I bunch the story, but it’s the only way I can see out of this mess.”
“This may be the best murder mystery you’ve ever written. You worked on it with passion. Several emotions drove you. Giving up on the book may be the worst mistake you’ve ever made.”
She went limp and rested her head against his shoulder. Then she sighed. “I’m so screwed. I did a great job of portraying you, and I incorporated flashbacks of you in the minds of suspects who had as much reason as the killer did to do you harm. So you’re everywhere in that story!”
Sam pressed his cheek against the top of her head. She smelled like carnations. Sam was no expert on flowers and normally couldn’t tell one kind from another. But as a young boy, he’d loved to stick his face in clusters of carnations to take in their scent. Luckily for him, his mother had liked them, too, and had peppered her garden with them every year. “I know I’m not a writer, but as a rancher I am a good strategist. I have an idea.”
“What kind of idea?”
Sam enjoyed having her nestled against him, so he was loath to move. But he gently set her away from him, stood, and turned to help her up. “Can you bring your laptop to the kitchen? I’ll find a tablet so we can take notes.”
“I really, really don’t want you to read the book.”
“I don’t need to read it, Maddie. Your problem can be resolved by tackling only one thing, setting. We’re going to relocate me to somewhere in another state with similar terrain and topographical features.”
“But the victim will still be recognizably you.”
Sam grabbed her hand and drew her to her feet. “I’m not the only ornery and cantankerous rancher on earth. I’m sure every state has more than a few. Change my hair and eye color, stick me in Wyoming, Idaho, or Utah, and your problem may be solved.”
“Oh, Sam, that’s brilliant!”
• • •
Going to the kitchen with Sam to save her book was reminiscent to Maddie of times past when Graham had helped her develop a plot. She’d missed that. Sam got her settled at the table with her laptop, brought a tablet and a pen, and then unearthed a bottle of Crown Royal Apple Whiskey. It was Cam’s favorite alcohol, and Maddie loved the taste.
Sam poured a measure in tumblers for each of them. “This’ll chase your tension away and get your creative juices flowing.”
Maddie sipped as she surfed the Internet. Sam sat beside her so he could see the screen. “There’s terrain in Wyoming that’s similar enough to ours that we could make it work,” Sam told her. His deep voice soothed her raw nerve endings. “Can you just make up fictitious places, like valleys and rivers and towns?”
“Yes,” Maddie replied. “I have to remain true to the topography of an area, but I can create a town, businesses, and people who have nothing to do with reality in that locale.”
Maddie was soon laughing. Sam came up with the crazy idea of calling her fictitious area the Ole Codger Valley.
“Why not? The victim’s an old codger,” he said.
Maddie shortened the name to Codger Valley. That sounded more realistic to her. When she checked a valley registry for the United States, she found no place with that name.
“It’s a go,” she told Sam.
He sloshed more booze in their glasses, they clicked the tumblers together, and Sam made a toast, saying, “Here’s to saving Maddie’s ass.”
When their session ended, Maddie had three pages of notes. She would need to slightly change the flora in Codger Valley, but the scenery could pretty much remain the same because her valley was fictitious. Gratitude welled within her.
“Oh, Sam.” She went up on her tiptoes to hug him and still couldn’t reach his neck. He drew her in close and told her to stand on his boots. When Maddie did so, the embrace was perfect—and physically stirring. “Oh, shit,” she said. “We shouldn’t do this.”
Sam tightened his arms around her. “We’re old, remember. And I’m fresh out of my little blue pills.”
She buried her face against his shirt and giggled. “My book is saved.”
“It is, and I’m glad I could help.”
Dimly Maddie realized that she might have been a little bit tipsy. Otherwise she would never remain pressed full length against Sam Conacher for this long. But it felt so good that she stayed where she was. His body radiated warmth and strength. The taut muscles in his chest and arms made her feel safe—and feminine. She hadn’t felt like a woman in far too long. He made her wish that she wasn’t a totally dead unit from her neck down. Then it occurred to her that not every hard place she felt on Sam was a muscular bulge.
She leaned her head back and fixed him with an accusing look. “You don’t need little blue pills.”
He gave her one of those Sam Conacher grins that she’d come to love without realizing it. “Guilty,” he said. “But in my own defense, I haven’t tried out my equipment in more than eight years. I’ve got snow on my roof. How was I to know I still had a fire in my stove?”
He loosened his hold on her, and Maddie drew away from him. Low in her abdomen, her insides felt all funny. She wouldn’t kid herself. Being in his arms had turned her on. How could that be? Even before Graham’s death, she’d had to see her gyn about vaginal dryness.
Sam touched the tip of her nose. “Don’t take it personally, Maddie. Jack just reacts. I learned a long time ago that he’s got no brains.”
“Jack?”
Sam bent over her laptop to shut it down. “Oh, yeah. At seventeen I named it the Jackhammer, but I shortened it later to Jack.”
“Well, that’s really more than I wanted to know.” Maddie began gathering up her things. “But thanks for sharing.”
He winked at her. “With friends, I practice full disclosure. We can still be friends. Right?”
“Of course. Just keep Jack well away from me.”
Sam chuckled. “If it’s any comfort, I didn’t know until just now that he had any life left in him.”
On the way to her room Maddie was laughing quietly.
Once she was in her suite, her euphoric sense of floating on air underwent a crash landing. Sam had helped her save the book so it could be published, but what if he bought a copy after it hit the shelves? She had described him as handsome and used romantic terms to bring him to life on the page. If he read the story, he would know she thought he was handsome and, even worse, attractive. He might start thinking of ways to recharge her batteries. She’d gotten certain proof tonight that his hadn’t gone dead.
She liked their friendship just the way it was, merely friends. Okay, they were starting to become really good friends, but she wanted nothing more. Well, she thought as she sank onto the edge of the bed, sometimes I feel a little charge when I’m near him. And I occasionally yearn to feel his arms around me, or to have mine around him. But he’s still in fabulous physical shape. I sag here and hang there. My thighs have turned to crepe and look like they need ironing. The chemo has aged my face even more. Never will I be with a man like Sam in an intimate way. It would be the most humiliating experience of my life.
• • •
By mid-October, Cam was getting physical therapy three days a week, and he quickly mastered driving himself. His vehicle had an automatic shift, and he could tuck his right leg back against the seat to operate the accelerator and brake with his left foot. By balancing on his one good leg, he was able to fold and lift his wheelchair into his truck with a battery-powered hoist, then reverse the process when he got where he was going.
The therapist lifted Cam’s spirits considerably. He was starting to wonder if he’d ever be able to walk again. Had the neurosurgeon missed something in his MRI? Was there nerve damage in his spine after all? The therapist had a lot of letters behind her name, and when she talked, Cam knew there wasn’t as much as a tiny bone in the human body that she hadn’t studied. By cautiously palpating his ribs, she could tell that the detached piece of bone had remained in alignment and was healing. She cautioned Cam not to use the crutches too much. That put stress on the muscles in the chest wall and might hinder healing. Cam, accustomed to seeing people with fractures mend in six weeks, couldn’t understand why his rib was taking so long. The therapist said that it wasn’t only bone involved. Muscles and tendons had been damaged, and they took much longer to not only mend but also become strong again.
She was somewhat mystified by his back injury, but she assured him that eventually the bruised tissue would heal, the swelling would go down, and he’d be able to use his leg again. During sessions, she made Cam stand on the leg and execute certain movements to wake up the nerves in his spine to start sending out signals again.
“When I was a kid,” she told him, “I fell from a tree house, and on the way down, I hit a huge, gnarly oak limb. I landed so hard on my thigh that I limped for weeks, and it took six months for the bruising to go away. Your back is still black-and-blue. Get a gander of it with a hand mirror when you get home and give your body the time it needs to recover.”
Cam felt like a horse gnawing at the bit. His career was at a standstill. He’d been in Montana since last spring and still hadn’t made a dime. He’d give his body all the time it needed to heal, but in the meantime he had to work. If he could get himself to therapy sessions three times a week, he could work on those days as well.
After therapy he began driving through ranchland, watching for large parcels that were for sale by owner. At home he spent hours on his laptop, combing through properties with expired listings. After a week, he’d snagged two clients. That excited him, but it didn’t last long. Having his own listings was great, but he’d make no money off them until they sold.
• • •
Once Cam returned home and shared his news, Kirstin insisted on a celebration. “In order to make great money, you need listings, Cam. You’re building a path toward that first big check. I believe in you, and you have to start believing in yourself.”
She went directly to the kitchen to ask Gabriella to cook something special for dinner. Then she ran to the store to buy two bottles of Cam’s favorite red wine.
Maddie silently applauded Kirstin for ma
king a big deal out of Cam’s successes. She began to feel confident that Kirstin would be a fabulous wife for her son. If the young woman could stand by him during a time like this, she would support him during the good times as well.
Chapter Twelve
While Cam struggled to get well and reenter his professional field, Sam struggled with his conscience. Early on he had bad-mouthed Cam whenever an opportunity arose—at the hardware store when he bought feed, and even when the farrier came out to shoe the horses. Word of mouth traveled fast in the valley. Sam needed to undo any possible damage he’d done to Cam’s reputation, but he wasn’t sure how. He’d said some pretty shitty things. It would be awkward to start singing the young man’s praises. Only Sam had a bad feeling that was exactly what he needed to do.
He was busy, though. He still had cattle on grazing land, and if he didn’t get them rounded up, they’d perish once the higher elevations got snowed in.
One morning Sam got up at three in the morning to start his day, which gave him time to drive to town. He sought out every person to whom he’d spoken about Cam McLendon. He had a memorized speech so he wouldn’t screw it up. His story now was completely honest. He’d hated Cam, considered him to be a loser, and wanted to ruin him. Then the young man had shown Sam what he was truly made of by putting his life in danger to save Kirstin. Sam left nothing out, even telling people that Cam had been so badly injured by Satan that he still couldn’t walk, that he needed prayers, and if anyone needed a cow covered after Cam got well, they should call him, because he was certified in bovine artificial insemination.
Sam didn’t know if his efforts would do any good. That made him feel horrible, so horrible that he couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. One night when Maddie emerged from her writing nest after the kids had gone to bed, Sam asked her to sit with him on the sofa. Because of what he had to tell her, he didn’t slip an arm around her, which had become his habit of late when they ended an evening talking.
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