A backhanded compliment at best. Maggie’s hackles rise and she tries to formulate a retort about the obscurity of quarter-horse jockeys compared to alt-country rockers.
Luckily, Mrs. Sibley interrupts before the two women put their backs into it. “Isn’t it about time for grace, Henry?”
The table goes silent. It’s a clear sign that Mrs. Sibley is having a bad day when she thinks Hank is her deceased husband, Henry.
“I’m Hank, Mom. Will everyone bow their heads, please?” Hank clears his throat. “Dear Lord, thank you for your many blessings, the nourishment of the food on this table, and the hands that prepared it. We ask for your grace and peace as we mourn the loss of your son Paco. Please welcome him into your kingdom and help us find justice on earth for whoever did this horrible thing to him. In Jesus’s name we pray, amen.”
A chorus of amens echoes his.
Everyone remains quiet as they pass around platters of cornbread, then bowls for the chili that Hank ladles. Trudy pops her head in to check that everyone has what they need. She wipes her hands on a ruffled pink-and-green gingham apron that’s far more old-fashioned than she is, then brings another pitcher of iced tea. Sweat beads on the pale skin at her hairline.
“Thank you, Trudy,” Gene says.
She curtsies, holding out one side of her apron over her Wranglers and the snap-front Western shirt with a feminine cut that shows off her curves.
After she disappears back into the kitchen, Gene and Hank share a glance. Hank nods.
Gene says, “Thank you all for cooperating with law enforcement today.” Crime scene techs, an additional detective, and the county coroner had joined Travis soon after he examined the dead pile, and the group had only packed up and left half an hour before dinner. “We’re real broken-up about Paco. I know you are, too.”
“Who’s Paco?” Mrs. Sibley says, her voice reverberating.
Laura distracts her with a discussion about honey for her cornbread.
“We’ve been in touch with his family. They’ve agreed we can have a memorial service for him here. We were thinking Prairie Dog Community Church. Unfortunately, though, I’m going to be in Oklahoma with some buckers, but Hank will have that covered.”
The service conflicts with the Duncan rodeo? Maggie’s disappointment is deep. Does this mean she and Hank won’t be going? But it’s not the time to ask.
“Will they be coming to collect him?” Andy asks.
Gene nods. “Soon. But we’ll have time for the memorial first. Unfortunately, this is a busy time for us. We’re defending our NFR Stock Contractor of the Year title, with NFR only a few weeks away.” Gene doesn’t mention that they’d only reclaimed their NFR contract a few weeks before, after the murder of their neighbor and competitor, Patrick Rhodes. Everyone has been in a mad scramble to get ready since then. “We’re going to have to bring on another full-time hand, immediately.”
Andy studies the wooden slats in the tabletop.
“We have a good candidate. I’ve called him to come in tomorrow morning, to have him try us on for size and vice versa.”
Pink creeps over Andy’s ears.
“Andy, we’d be much obliged if you’d accept a promotion to top hand for us.”
Andy’s head lifts. His beard covers most of the blush on his face. “Th-th-thank you. I’m honored.”
“Congratulations, Andy,” Hank says, lifting his iced tea glass to salute him. “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances, but you’ve earned it.”
The day hands, Maggie, Laura, and Trudy join in the congratulations.
Gene smiles at him. “I’m leaving on a scouting trip tomorrow. Hank and I will be counting on you to bring the new hand on right.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.”
Maggie’s phone vibrates in her pocket. She sneaks it out and glances at the screen just as it notifies her that the caller—Charlotte, her mother—left a voicemail. She suppresses a groan. There’s only one reason Charlotte is calling, and that is to pressure her to come back to Texas. She already feels enough of that pressure from inside herself. She doesn’t need it from her mother, too.
When Maggie left the music industry, she was in a death spiral. She’d lost her contract, been through rehab twice, and alienated everyone she’d ever worked with. Then her record company went belly-up, and she’d accepted her little antique shop and house in lieu of payment for her albums and songs. It had been a slow climb back from dead busted to self-sufficient. A few years ago, she discovered she was adopted and had a secretly rich birth mother—Gidget—and a politician birth father—Boyd. She inherited everything when Gidget died. But she’s only rich on paper. She can’t bear the thought of selling off treasures like the Andy Warhol or the vintage Jaguar, much less Gidget’s farm, especially after she lost everything else in the fires. So she’s rudderless, between careers, and cashless. The only place it seems she can solve these problems is back in Texas, but the thought of leaving Hank in Wyoming is like a death sentence.
As if she’s reading her mind, Mrs. Sibley says, “What does that woman do to support herself? Lord knows she isn’t doing a lick of work here, and she’s eating up our food and sleeping under our roof.”
Maggie chokes on the cornbread that is suddenly dry in her throat. She can’t argue with the accuracy of Mrs. Sibley’s complaint. She only hopes Hank’s mother doesn’t realize exactly where under their roof she’s sleeping.
Hank slaps Maggie’s back until she recovers. “Mom, that’s uncalled for. Maggie is my guest.”
Laura smirks. “It would be nice to hear Maggie’s plans.”
Maggie feels like there’s a knife sticking out of her back, and she gets an uncomfortable rush of imagery. Paco in the dead pile, stiff, the knife in his neck. It makes her think of the knife Hank lent her. She’d left it on the nightstand earlier when she changed into dry clothes.
Hank glowers. “Laura, please.”
“What? You told me she doesn’t have a home or business back in Texas. I’m interested.”
His voice grows even louder. “Laura. Stop it. Now.”
Maggie clears her throat. “It’s okay, Hank. Laura, I’m trying to figure that out right now. I’ll have to go back to Texas soon one way or the other, once I get some figures back from my insurance company and some quotes from contractors. The adjuster was headed out to my place today.”
Mrs. Sibley sniffs. “Take the goats with you when you go. This isn’t a goat ranch.”
“Ignore her. And don’t be in a rush.” Hank squeezes her knee. “You just got here.”
She looks at him, and she’s shocked to see his eyes are damp and emotional.
“Yeah,” Andy says, his voice cracking. “We’ve just started my guitar lessons.”
Maggie scoops chili into her mouth so she doesn’t have to answer anyone, especially not Hank, not in front of the group. She hasn’t told him that what she really wants is for him to move Double S to Texas and come south with her. Piney Bottoms belongs to his mother. Gene is from Texas, where there are more rodeos anyway. Running Double S from Giddings makes good sense to her. There’s a long-term tenant at Gidget’s old place now, but when the lease is up, there’d be plenty of room for the bucking stock. Especially if they leased the neighbor’s place, too, and that old coot Lumpy would love the income. It wouldn’t hurt to contact a realtor and see what’s available in the area, either. That way when she brings it up with Hank, she’ll have complete information on the possibilities to wow him with. She’s just worried it won’t strike the same chord with Hank.
Into the strained silence, Gene says, “Have you told your family you’re learning the guitar, Andy?”
“No. Some of them feel that playing instruments is a show of vanity. Not all of them.”
“But you’re on Rumspringa, aren’t you?” Gene asks. He’s referring to the time before baptism into the church when Amish youth are allowed to go out into the English—non-Amish—world, before they decide whether to make a commitment to
formally join their church and community.
“Yes.”
Maggie says, “Do you still live by Amish rules while you’re on Rumspringa?”
“To the extent you want to. I do, mostly. It’s important to my father.”
Gene smiles. “And Andy’s father, Reggie, has been known to show up here without warning to check on him.”
Maggie remembers seeing Andy talking to Reggie earlier. “I thought your family was in Montana?” Maggie says.
“They are. He rides into Sheridan with a former Amish several times a week to work.”
Gene helps himself to a second bowl of chili. “What will Reggie and the rest of your family think about your promotion?” He grins at Maggie. “Andy has nine younger siblings.”
“They’ll be proud of me.”
Maggie pushes her bowl back. The spicy chili was good, but she’s not very hungry. “Are you going back when Rumspringa is over?”
Andy mumbles something.
“What?”
“I’m not sure.”
Mrs. Sibley interjects again. “At least that young man works, like what she should be doing instead of freeloading off my husband while she tries to take him from me.”
Hank puts a hand on her arm. “I’m Hank, Mom. Your son. And Maggie isn’t trying to take anyone.”
She glares at him, her eyes deep, dark, and round, like she’s been possessed by a demon.
Laura stands. “That’s our cue.” She wheels her mother away from the table. “Good night, everyone.”
Mrs. Sibley drags her heels on the plank floor. “She’s trying to steal everything from me.”
“Come on, Mom.”
“No, you can’t make me. No, goddammit, no.”
Laura prevails, and the two disappear, although Mrs. Sibley’s strident voice echoes into the dining room. Maggie has never heard the old woman use the Lord’s name in vain before.
“I’m sorry,” Hank whispers to Maggie.
She stares into his sad eyes. Her own father had Alzheimer’s. Her memories of him in his last years aren’t pretty. She covers Hank’s hand with hers. “No. I am.”
Five
The dinner group breaks up slowly after apple cobbler and ice cream and gathers in the great room at the front of the house. Mrs. Sibley’s wing downstairs and Hank’s suite upstairs are family-only, but the common areas are set up for everyone at the ranch to enjoy, with computers, a television, games, a beer refrigerator, and books. Maggie pulls Hank away to his rooms, stopping first to take a bouncy, happy Louise from the mudroom to a sabbatical outside.
“Are you ready for bed?” Hank asks when they reach the top of the stairs.
“Maybe.” Maggie picks up a vintage wooden mortar and pestle from the sofa table behind a leather couch in Hank’s private living area. “I love this.”
“You and old things. That’s a family heirloom. Come to bed with me, and I’ll show you another.”
“Oh?” She sets them back down. “More old junk?”
“Bite your tongue. The family jewels.”
She rolls her eyes. “Like I said.”
“Just meet me in there.”
“You going somewhere else first?”
“Trust me.”
Maggie slips into his bedroom suite and strips down to her bra and panties. The emotions of the day rush over her—Hank’s revelation about his brain health issues, Paco’s death, the exhausting reality of Mrs. Sibley’s condition, Laura’s disapproval of Maggie—and mix with her lingering sadness over her lost home and business. She retrieves her Martin acoustic guitar from its battered case. As she stands in a stream of moonlight from the window, something melancholy forms in her mind, and her fingers translate it into a melody on the strings. Words emerge from deep inside her. Maggie sings softly as she picks to an appreciative audience of one black-and-white dog curled up on a pillow under the window.
“Lost. What once was here now is gone. Lost. Will it ever be found? It’s lost. Lost.”
“What’s that?”
Her fingers still. She turns toward Hank, setting the Martin back in its case. “Nothing. Randomness.”
“Don’t stop, music girl.”
Her eyes take him in, head to toe, lingering on the triangle of his strong neck and shoulders. Muscles honed through hard work, not on machines in a gym. She strolls to him, her music-warmed fingers outstretched. She traces his collarbone and manages a shirt button before the rest of her reaches him. Rocking and humming to the slow melody that plays on in her brain, she finishes the buttons and stops with her fingers on his belt. “You want me to play for you some more now?”
His eyes glint in the same moonlight she’d bathed in while playing her guitar. “Don’t stop.”
She laughs. “Fickle man.”
“I’m not, actually.”
She drops her forehead to his chest and kisses the contours there. “I know.”
“I can’t believe we had to wait fifteen years for this.”
“Did you? Wait?” She leaves her lips on his chest, breathing him in, waiting for his answer.
“I’ve been with other women since. As have you. Men, I mean.”
Maggie laughs. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
Hank whistles and his hand slides down her back to her ass. “Liar.”
Maggie draws in a deep breath. She’s been holding something back that Gene told her, waiting for the right time to talk about it. Now. Now is that time. “When were you going to tell me you came after me?”
The room is quiet except for the sounds of their breathing.
Finally, Hank says, “So you knew?”
“Not back then. Gene told me a few weeks ago. That you came to one of my shows in Denver and got turned away. And that you showed up for me at rehab.”
Hank’s hand slides around her waist. “I also tried calling. Your publicist and manager were real assholes.”
“I’m sorry. They never told me.”
“That’s a relief. At the time, I thought they were following your orders.”
Maggie tilts her head back so she can see his eyes in the dimly lit room. “Not on your life. There’s a million reasons I couldn’t take that life. Everyone thinking they could control me for their own reasons was a big one. I wish they’d told me.”
“Water under the bridge.”
“I don’t think I completely trusted you until Gene said you’d tried to reach me.” She kisses his chest again, this time in the center, high.
“At least one of us reached out.”
“Believe me, I followed you as best I could. I wrote a whole album trying to draw you out.” She moves down an inch, drops another kiss.
He laughs.
“Then you kind of fell off the face of the earth, while I got sucked further and further into that crazy world.” Another inch, another kiss.
“I heard you on the radio once. A big national show. Aaron Cryor.” He pulls her up, kisses her lips hard, then nips them. “You really kicked his ass.”
Maggie remembers and groans. “What a jerk. Pretending he was all sanctimonious, then the things he did to me in that studio. The things he expected me to do to him. Total asswipe.”
“You got him fired, didn’t you?”
“And that got me national attention, which was the beginning of the insanity that shot me like a rocket to the bad ending.” She rubs her cheek against his.
“I think it all turned out okay. But maybe that’s just because you’re in my arms now.”
“I kind of like being here. And I believe there’s rising evidence that you like it, too.” She unbuckles his belt, then pulls it off and drops it to the floor.
“We could test the theory.”
Backing away toward the bed, she pulls him by the belt loops to follow her.
“Wait. I have a question for you.” He resists. “Why are you in such a hurry to go? When you just got here.”
“You mean to the bed?” She unfastens his jeans, then tugs them and his briefs down
at the same time. “We can do this wherever you want.”
He kicks them off. “No.” His jaw bunches. His Adam’s apple bulges. “From Wyoming. From me. Back to Texas. When we’ve just found each other after all this time.”
Maggie puts her hands around his waist and pulls, bumping him into her, and together they tumble onto the four-poster bed. Another heirloom. She gathers her courage for the words she’s been scared to say to him. “Why don’t you come with me?”
His body stiffens on top of her, and not in the good way that leads to fun and games. “I’ve got the ranch here. Your home, your business in Texas, they’re gone.”
“But I have family, friends, and a brand. Horses and bulls can live anywhere.”
“I’m here, Maggie. I’m tied to here.”
She cuts him off with a kiss. Now isn’t the time to debate this. She’ll make another run at the topic later, when she can be rational and persuasive. When emotions aren’t so charged. “So am I. We’re together. Nothing is going to change that.”
“Together. Or together?”
“Together. Through the good and the bad and the worse. Together. Let me show you how very much together, cowboy.”
A surge of wanting him consumes her, and she flips him onto his back. She grabs him, taking charge, rough and urgent. He responds in kind. They’re wild, reckless, and lost. In the midst of their passion, there’s a loud crack under the bed. It falls to the floor, mattress, box spring, and all. Louise yelps and scrambles to the door.
“Shit.” She’s so close, so close to something bigger and better than she’s ever felt before. She thrusts against him.
He pulls back.
She presses her forehead into his. “Don’t be a quitter, Hank.”
Hank yells. “Argh.”
“Yes, baby.” Maggie sinks her teeth into his chest. “Yes.”
“No.” He pushes her off of him. “No.”
She lands on her back beside him. He rolls into a fetal position, clutching himself.
“Hank? Are you okay?”
He groans. “I think we broke it.”
Dead Pile (Maggie #3) Page 4
