“The bed? I know. I’m sorry.”
“No. It. My, um . . .”
She finally gets it. Sees what he’s holding on to. Understands why he stopped. “OH. The family jewels?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see.”
He covers himself with both hands. “Give me a minute.”
A sharp knock at the door jerks them both upright. Hank still holds his hand like an athletic cup over his personal parts.
Maggie scrambles for a sheet and whispers, “Did you lock it?”
Laura’s voice is so distinct it feels like she’s in bed between them. “Hank? Are you in there? I need help with Mom.”
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Be right down.”
“Your . . . jewels.” Maggie reaches for him. “What can I do?”
He finally manages a grin. “Don’t give up on me. I’ve had worse injuries in my rodeo days, and I recover fast.” He crawls to the edge of the bed, wincing, then walks gingerly to his pile of clothing. He looks down. “Damn, I think it’s changing colors.”
“Seriously, do I need to take you to the emergency room?”
“Nah. I’ll get ibuprofen and an ice pack on my way back up.” He zips and buttons his jeans and pulls on a T-shirt from a chest of drawers. He stops at the door. “I love you, Maggie.”
He’s out before she can tell him that she loves him, too, in a crazy way that scares her. But who’s she kidding? He’s told her he loves her over and over now, and she always finds a way not to utter the three little words.
Six
Maggie slides down the broken bed like it’s a ski slope and hops over the frame to the floor. On her hands and knees, she peers under. Even in the dark, she can see that one of the support slats is broken. The mattress and box spring are tipped inside the frame. Naked from her romp with Hank, she uses her legs and back to take the weight off the remaining slats while she redistributes them inside the frame, then jerks the mattress and box spring back into position. It’s a temporary fix, at best.
She’s broken a lot of things in her life, but never a bed. Or a penis. Poor Hank.
She crawls out as her phone chimes with a new voicemail notification. The room feels colder. Where is her phone? She finds it in the pocket of her jeans. She scurries back to bed and burrows under the covers. She reads the screen. The notification is new, but the two messages from her mother are from earlier. Her T-Mobile coverage here and throughout Wyoming is hit-or-miss at best.
The first message: “You didn’t return my call yesterday. Some reporter contacted me about you. A new one. Amos something-or-other. I told him no comment. Call me.”
The second: “Are you mad at me for getting married without telling you? Because I can’t think of any other reason you’d move to Wyoming and cut me out of your life. Call me.”
Oh, Mother, Mother. She’s not ducking her. Life has just been hectic. And this thing, this beautiful thing she has with Hank, has been all-consuming. Surely her newlywed mom can understand that, a woman so in love she eloped without telling her only child. Listening to the squeaky chirp of a night bird, she decides to call Charlotte back in the morning. An owl screeches, raising hackles on her skin. It will be going after the little bird, she thinks.
She wraps herself in the comforter and pads over to the window. Louise whines, and Maggie reaches down to pet her head. She doesn’t find an owl, but in the beam of the outdoor lights, she sees a man running toward the bunkhouse. Odd. She leans all the way to the cold glass. He’s short, with dark hair and dark skin. And bright red knee-high boots.
Like Paco.
But that can’t be—Paco’s dead. She shuts her eyes to clear her vision and tries again. It has to be someone else. It could be Gene. Gene is short and dark. He shouldn’t be running to the hired hands’ cabin, though. He lives in the opposite direction. And he doesn’t have red boots. At least she doesn’t think he does. Maybe she’s just wrong about the boots. Can she even see red in the low light?
But there’s no way to know for sure, because when she opens her eyes again, the man is gone. The landscape is night-bare and lonely. A gust of wind rattles the window and pushes snow through the ranch grounds like a schoolyard bully.
The door to the bedroom opens, and she turns away from the window. It’s Hank, and the hall behind him is pitch dark. He moves into the relative light of the room. His shoulders are slumped—more of an inverted U than a V now—and he walks like a man thirty years older than he is.
“Is your mom okay?”
He collapses onto the bed and lets out a short bark.
“What?” Maggie stands in front of him.
“Ice pack. Frozen peas and carrots to the junk.”
“It’s like you’re making a stew. Sausage and veggies.”
“God, I hope not.” He laughs, then shakes his head. “And about my mom—she’s not really okay tonight.”
“What’s the matter?”
“She’s sundowning.”
Maggie sits beside him and runs her fingers through his hair. Even though Maggie’s father had Alzheimer’s, her parents had kept his diagnosis from her as a teenager. She’d never heard the term sundowning. “What’s that?”
“She has trouble functioning at bedtime, then can’t fall asleep and gets up over and over during the night, each time more irrational than the last.”
“Does it happen often?”
“More than it used to. Laura hasn’t dealt with it before. She’s going to have a tough night, I think, but she says she can handle it.”
“God, Hank. I’m sorry.”
He throws the bag of vegetables toward the bathroom. They hit the tile floor and skid out of sight. “To hell with icing. What I need is your arms around me.”
Maggie puts her head on his shoulder, careful to keep her weight off his injured spots. “How’s this?”
He doesn’t answer, but his breathing speeds up and his chest heaves.
She touches his cheek, and her fingers come away wet. Tears. “Hank?”
“Damn, Paco. I never knew he had a fiancée. I thought of him like a little brother. Or the son I’d never have.” A sob breaks free, but he reels it back in quickly. “How could someone do that to him? And why put him in our dead pile like an animal?”
Maggie strokes the tears dry on his cheek.
“And my mother, suffering. So young. Both my parents. They’re good people. They didn’t deserve this.”
“Of course not.”
“Thank you for being here, Maggie. I never get a chance . . .” He stops, holding his breath.
“To have feelings?” she says, and kisses the place where she’d dried his tears.
Again his chest shakes, and when he doesn’t answer, she stays quiet, listening as his breathing settles into a rhythm and soft snores escape his lips. Then she drops her own lids and lets herself fall asleep in his arms, with her cheek pressed against his big, aching heart.
Seven
Mrs. Sibley is absent from breakfast, but Laura shows up to fill two plates.
“Did you get any sleep?” Hank stands, holding out the skillet of his mother’s favorite cowboy biscuits.
Laura takes two, scoops strawberry jam, and slices a large pat of butter. “I’m okay.”
“It usually takes her a day or two to recover from a bad episode. Hopefully she’ll start a resting cycle today.” Hank puts two slices of bacon on each plate.
“Want me to pour you coffee?” Maggie is already up, grabbing cups off the sideboard.
“Thanks.” Laura adds a generous helping of scrambled eggs to one plate, none to the other.
“Black?”
“That’s fine.”
Maggie pours, then walks the cups to Laura. “I can carry them for you.”
Laura and Hank exchange a look. Laura exhales extra breath, a sort of sigh. “Probably not the best time for an encounter. But thank you. Let’s just make room for them on the plates.”
Hank crouches at t
he sideboard and comes up with a tray. “Here.”
He arranges the plates and cups on the tray. When she’s set, Laura leaves without another word. What was already a quiet breakfast with the absence of Paco turns maudlin. Andy mumbles something about prepping the horses for transport and leaves with a bacon biscuit in each big paw and the day hands trailing him. Maggie picks at her food, head down.
Gene breaks the silence. “I’ve got to get on the road. Sorry to leave you with all this and dealing with transport.”
The haulers are coming for the rodeo livestock today. The animals have a long drive and need plenty of rest before performance time, which starts for them on Thursday.
Hank puts his napkin on his plate. “It’s fine.”
“Michael should be here any time. I haven’t had time to finish his background check, but we’ll make this probationary, and I’ll have it done by the end of the week. You’re okay putting the service for Paco together for Thursday?”
“Trudy is helping me. Doing most of it, actually.”
“Well, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that we can count on Trudy.” Gene stands. “See you later, new sis.”
Hank’s chair clatters back. “All right.”
Maggie jumps up, too. “Have a safe trip.”
As Gene leaves, Hank heads for the door as well.
Maggie touches his elbow. “You okay?”
Hank’s eyes are flat, his cheeks without his smile dimples. “I’ll be fine.” He steps away from her. “Sorry about last night.”
“Why?”
“Dumping all that on you.”
“Dump all you need to. Do you, um, need any ice or ibuprofen, for your injury?”
The trace of a smile flickers, teasing, then fades. “I think it will survive.”
“Phew. And your head?”
“Maggie, I’m fine. Don’t fuss.”
Andy pokes his head back in the dining room. “The new hand is here.”
Hank turns to Maggie. “See you later.” He follows Andy out.
Maggie lifts her fingers and waves at his retreating back. “Mm-hmm.”
Alone, Maggie contemplates her options. Today she’ll call her mother, maybe run some online searches for potential property for Hank near Giddings, and she’ll connect with Franklin, her insurance adjuster. It’s past time for some answers. She’s mired down in indecision without information. Not that she’s complaining. Wyoming is a lovely place, and being with Hank is a dream come true.
But first she heads outside, where she’s met with a surprise: except for patches in the shade, the snow has melted. It’s colder in the house than it is outdoors. She shucks her jacket immediately and hangs it on a peg inside the door. As soon as the door swings closed behind her, Louise is at her side.
“Hey, girl.” Maggie leans down to fondle the dog’s ears and sees something sticking to her muzzle. She puts her hand under Louise’s chin, tilting it up to get a better look. It’s something white, and—when she touches one—soft. She rubs it between fingers, then groans. It’s down. As in feathers-from-a-baby-bird down.
Louise wags her tail, which rocks her head and sets her long, patchy black-and-white-freckled ears swaying. Maggie straightens, looking for the source of the down. Louise, reading her mood change, ducks and turns. Maggie’s eyes follow the dog. Ten feet from the entry steps, she sees it.
“Oh, Fucker, no.” Maggie uses the nickname the dog earned almost immediately after she’d adopted Maggie as her person.
Maggie walks briskly to the little mound of feathers, looking around to be sure no one is watching. Louise slinks a few steps away. Blood-spotted white-and-brown feathers are camouflaged into the dead grass and snow in the shade thrown by the house. Using the toe of her boot, Maggie tilts the creature up and over. Its head flops, neck broken. Staring at her from round, sightless eyes is a dead baby owl. On either side of its head, tufts of feathers stick up in horns. Like a tiny devil, only cuter.
She uses her firmest voice, but quietly, knowing that killing animals can get Louise in a lot of trouble on a ranch. “Bad, bad dog.”
Louise lowers her head.
Maggie’s phone rings. She looks around. No one is watching her. The owl is her secret. She glances at her screen. It’s her insurance adjuster—she has to take this call. “Bad,” she says again to Louise for good measure. She answers. “Hello?”
“Maggie Killian, please.”
“Speaking.” Maggie moves back into the sun and sits on the stoop. The sun is delicious.
“Hi, Maggie. This is Franklin Best.”
“Do you have good news for me, Franklin?”
Louise noses Maggie’s hand. Maggie glares at her and moves her hand away. It’s too soon. She can’t pet the head that just murdered a baby owl.
“I wish I did.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I was at your place yesterday, but I couldn’t get into the barn. It was padlocked. Looked like one of those kinds of locks law enforcement uses when they’re done with a scene.”
“Shit.”
“I can’t finish without getting in there to inventory the condition of what you have left.”
“Can’t you just cut the lock?”
“No, ma’am. It’s against policy.”
Maggie shoves her thick hair back. She needs a hat or a headband. “Fine. I’ll have someone go out and do it.”
“I’d recommend you call the sheriff’s department first.”
“Oh, you can count on that.”
“Well, let me know when I can get in. Sorry.”
They hang up.
Maggie fetches a hat, pondering. On the way back downstairs, she speed-dials a number she wishes wasn’t in her Recents.
“Lee County Sheriff’s Department,” a female voice says.
“Junior, please.”
“The deputy isn’t available right now. Can someone else help you?”
“Tell him Maggie Killian called. I’m having the padlock on my barn cut. And I’m pretty pissed he didn’t tell me it was there.”
“Is there a number where he can reach you?”
“Oh, he has it.”
When she ends that call, she’s standing in the common room. Maggie doesn’t hesitate. She hits a number in her Favorites.
“Michele Lopez Hanson.”
“I hope you’re having a better day than me.”
“Maggie! How are you? How’s Wyoming?”
“It’s fine.” Michele is a worrier. There’s no reason to burden her with the whole truth. “I need a favor, though.”
“Anything. Well, almost.”
She says that, but she’s already done too much lately. The scale between them is way out of balance. “Junior padlocked my barn shut, and the adjuster couldn’t get in to finish my claim. Can you or Rashidi cut it for me?”
Michele’s voice changes as she speaks away from the phone. “Rashidi—do we have anything that will cut a padlock?”
“A big one,” Maggie adds, walking into the kitchen for a cup of tea.
She hears Michele’s boyfriend’s lilting island accent. “Yah mon.”
Trudy is coming in the back door, an empty garbage can in hand. Maggie smiles at her and lifts a hand in greeting. She returns both. Suddenly, Maggie forgets about the tea. She knows how to dispose of her owl problem. She grabs two trash bags from the pantry and waves to Trudy again as she exits.
Michele continues talking to Rashidi. “Can you drop by Maggie’s and cut one off her barn?”
“Soon,” Maggie says. She winces, hating to push when she’s imposing already. She opens the front door and squints in the bright sun.
Rashidi says, “I leaving now for College Station. I do it on the way.”
Michele puts her mouth back to the phone. “Consider it done.”
“Thank you both. Very much. I promise I’ll be back soon and won’t be asking any favors again for a very long time. Anything up with you?”
Michele hesitates. Maggie hears rat
tling keys and something that sounds like a kiss, then seconds later, a door closing.
“Oh, just a few little things. Rashidi’s got a new contract with an organic grocer. Belle is in love again, although I haven’t met him. Sam and Charlie are good, and his girlfriend Rachel is around a lot more again. I’ve finished Baby’s Breath and my agent is on me to start a new book.”
“Isn’t it enough that you’ve got a New York Times bestseller and blockbuster movie out at the same time?”
“Alas, no. But I wasn’t done with my update. There’s a new shrine up to Gary in Round Top. Garish. It’s like a mecca for the trailer-park crowd. You’ll hate it. He’d love it.”
“Great.”
“Your mom and my dad are grossing out everyone in town with their PDA. She wants you to call.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“And . . .”
“And what?”
“Ava wants your number. Can I give it to her?”
Maggie walks over to the owl and crouches, giving herself time to think about how to answer the question. Ava. Her onetime nemesis. Michele’s friend. Currently the indie darling of the pop charts. She puts her hand in one of the trash bags, then pulls it inside out to cover her hand. She uses the bag like a glove to pick up the owl, gently, then turns the bag right side out again and releases the bird inside. She ties the bag shut.
“What does she want? I don’t need any bullshit.”
Michele laughs. “No bullshit. I think she has a proposition for you.”
“What kind?”
“Work stuff.”
“I’m a junker. Does she want to stake me in my new store?”
“Don’t play dumb. Music work stuff.”
“I’m a retired Texana singer. She’s a pop superstar. And she’s wasting her breath.”
“A Grammy winner, which is more than she can say. And it’s her breath to waste.”
Louise approaches Maggie and sniffs the bag.
“Bad.”
“What did I do?”
“Not you. The dog. Long story.”
“So I’m giving her your number.”
“You already did, didn’t you?”
Maggie hears a smile in Michele’s voice. “Nice talking to you. Tell Hank and Gene I said hey.”
Dead Pile (Maggie #3) Page 5
