She draws in a sharp breath. “Paco.”
Michael raises his hand for her to stop. “Hello there.” His voice echoes in the stillness.
The man doesn’t react.
“You see him, too?” Maggie asks, her voice thready.
“Our visitor? Yes. He could be walking the in-between world, looking for peace.”
“So I’m not crazy.”
“I can’t say that. But this doesn’t make you crazy. Just perceptive. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were Indian.”
“I am. Partly. Crow.” She remembers the red-booted man she’d seen the night she found Paco’s body. The one running to the bunkhouse. Could that have been Paco, too?
“See that?” Michael points down a ravine at two black furry bodies. One of them moos. “That’s where Paco was headed. He’s still doing his job.”
Maggie looks back for Paco, but he’s disappeared. She shivers and pulls the collar of her coat closed tighter. “The little bastards. They can’t hide from us.”
“Help me push them back to the herd?”
“Do we need to do anything about Paco?”
Michael looks at her like she’s crazy now. “He’s not in this world anymore. There’s nothing we can do for him. But we can take care of these cows.”
“What do I do?”
“We’ll fan out behind them, maybe five yards back.”
Michael and his horse drive the cows out of the gully and past Maggie. She urges Lily after them and positions the horse to the left of their retreating backs, nose-even with Michael and his horse’s rump. She barely has to guide Lily, who seems to know exactly what to do.
“You’re a natural.”
Maggie smiles. She’s not sure about that, but she’s taken to ranch life far more than she’d ever thought she would.
Sixteen
Maggie showers and dresses, checking her phone every five minutes. She still hasn’t heard back from Hank, and she’s getting worried. The weather is clear, but that doesn’t mean bad things can’t happen on the road between the ranch and Billings. Semitrucks with overly aggressive drivers. Ice. Deer. Sleepiness. Trouble with his head.
She texts: Let me know you’re okay. I can’t wait for you to get home.
This time she gets a reply. Hey, sorry. Signal spotty. Driving. All good. Home by 10.
Maggie’s relief makes her giddy. She responds with a heart emoticon, feeling like a silly adolescent. She stops just short of begging him not to be mad at her. When things aren’t right between them, things aren’t right with her. Hell, she may not be able to say the L-word, but she knows she’s a goner for this cowboy.
Dinner is quiet. Laura has taken Mrs. Sibley into Story to the Wagon Box for chicken fried steak, a tradition the older woman keeps with her caregiver. Gene is probably in Oklahoma already, and Hank won’t be home for hours. It’s just Trudy, Maggie, and the four hands.
Michael breaks the silence, teasing Maggie about her new cowgirl skills.
“I told you I was the right person for the job.” Maggie twirls spaghetti noodles on her fork. The thick meat sauce slides off, so she scoops it back onto the fork.
Andy has a funny look on his face. “Hank is pretty protective of her. I’d be careful if I were you.”
Trudy plops down at the table. She serves herself spaghetti. “He’s fine, Andy.”
Maggie wipes her mouth and swallows. “Hank doesn’t get jealous. Besides, I’m a grown woman. If I want to push cows, I’m going to push cows.”
“Michael works here. You don’t. And I think you’ve got Hank running around a stump.”
“What?”
“The man doesn’t know up from down with you around. Why do you think he took off today?”
“Gene needed a ride.”
Andy harrumphs. “Maybe so. But Hank is trying to worry something out. And you’re the only thing he worries about. Remember, we’re with him here when you’re not.”
Trudy stabs the air with garlic bread. “Andy, I think you need to shut it down.”
“I don’t want in the middle of that,” Michael says, shaking his head.
Maggie squeezes the cloth napkin in her lap. “You’re not in the middle of anything. It’s okay. Hank doesn’t mind me teaching Andy guitar.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out quickly, twirls up more spaghetti and lets it hover in the air. “Speaking of which, are we on tonight, Andy? It would be a good distraction for you, I think.”
“I’ve been thinking on that. The roads are clear. Would you be willing to take me to the Occidental tonight for the bluegrass jam instead?” Andy puts his elbows on the table and takes another bite.
Maggie wonders if his worries are more about Michael than Hank. “You go on. A saloon? On a work night?”
He blushes and ducks his head.
“I think it would be fun. And good for your own playing to watch musicians jam.”
“You don’t think it’s disrespectful, this soon after Paco’s, um, after he’s gone?”
“What would Paco say?”
A grin lifts one side of Andy’s beard. “He’d be the one asking me to go with him.”
“Music is always appropriate in my book.”
“If you don’t think it will look bad to the sheriff. Like I don’t care about Paco.”
Or like he’s guilty. But he’s not. “The deputies will figure out the real killer. Listening to music isn’t evidence. I’d be more worried about what your father will think.”
“I’m on Rumspringa. It doesn’t matter.” He pushes his bowl away and scoops whipped cream onto an enormous apple dumpling, then pulls that bowl toward himself.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about him.”
“What?”
“I saw an Amish man that looked like him, driving a truck. Outside the ranch.”
“My father doesn’t drive.”
“Okay. I did think it was odd.”
“Are you sure he was Amish?”
“Not a hundred percent.”
“All right, then.”
Michael glances between the two of them. “My sister loves the jam. She’s a musician.”
Maggie can tell he’s waiting for an invite. He and Andy need to work things out and move on to something normal. But she’s not going to force it on Andy when he’s already got so much to deal with. And Andy doesn’t respond.
Well, so be it. Maggie considers an apple dumpling. She never thought she could get sick of apples, but she is. She stands. She’ll skip dessert. “Let me change. I’ll meet you out front in twenty minutes?”
Andy nods, his mouth overfull of apple dumpling and a look of bliss on his face. Michael scowls and attacks his dessert.
Upstairs, Maggie puts on heavier boots and swaps out her sweatshirt for a cable-knit sweater over a button-down. After she swipes on lipstick, she texts Hank again.
I’m taking Andy to the Ox in lieu of music lesson. Home by 9.
Andy’s words replay in her head. “Hank is trying to worry something out. You’re the only thing he worries about.” She knows she jumped to conclusions about Sheila. She shouldn’t have blamed him. Hopefully that’s all he’s worrying about, but she knows he’s concerned about her plans. Her place in Texas. Their future. She is, too, but only because she hasn’t figured out how to get him to Texas yet. Tomorrow she’ll call that realtor about the ranch for sale. She needs to know about cross-fencing and facilities and set up a time to see it. A time when she can get Hank down there with her.
Forty-five minutes later, she and Andy find two seats next to each other in the Ox at a table for four with a smiling couple in matching plaid shirts who are noshing on burgers and french fries. Maggie loves the greasy-spoon smell, the jovial atmosphere, and the authentic décor. Especially the décor, from the bullet holes in the ceiling to the heavily lacquered hand-hewn tables to the wildlife mounts of every animal known to Wyoming, plus a few. A waitress with a blonde braid weaves over and takes their order. If Maggie had a dime for every bl
onde braid she’s seen in Wyoming, she’d be a rich woman. Maggie opts for one TKO and one coffee. She’s not eager to learn how good her winter driving skills are after a few drinks. She’ll pace herself, very slowly.
Andy orders a ginger beer. “Will you play tonight?”
“Oh no. Not on your life.”
“I really wish I could see you.” He gestures at the players, who are warming up by running through snippets of songs. There are six of them. An old guy in dusty, baggy jeans with a red bandana around his neck, a pimply teenage boy, a soprano-voiced banjo player with long dark hair, a foreign-accented woman on the fiddle, and two more old guys who look like twins. “They’re good, but I’ve listened to you play. Live, at the ranch, and on your albums.”
“My albums? How?”
“Cassette tapes. Hank lent me his stash. There’s a boom box in the bunkhouse.”
Hank has a stash of her albums, on cassette. That means he got them back in the years they were apart. And kept them. Every piece of evidence that he really loves her is a sunburst in her chest. “Wow. I didn’t know.”
His brown eyes plead. “Please play.”
Andy’s had such a terrible week. War wages inside Maggie. How can she deny him this? It’s only her ego standing in the way. She flinches. Yes, her ego. She doesn’t want people to see her perform less than perfectly. Even retired, she’s a professional musician. But an out-of-practice one, out of her element and playing with strangers. There’s no way she’s going to be perfect if she gets up there. Maybe no one but Andy will figure out who she is, though.
She sighs. “Fine. What do I do?”
Seventeen
Andy beams and claps his hands once, loud and sharp, one hand going up, the other away. “Just go tell them who you are.”
“Oh no. I’ll play the jam, but only if it’s anonymously,” Maggie says.
“Well, say hello, anyway. They’ll invite you in. It’s how they’ve done it here at the Ox the times I’ve seen them before. When Paco brought me here.”
She shakes a fist at him. “If this goes bad, I’m coming after you, Andy.”
“You’ll be the best they’ve ever heard.”
“I doubt that.” She turns sideways and sidles between chairs. “Excuse me. Pardon me.”
People move out of her way with no grumbling. At the front of the room, the jamming musicians are between songs.
She approaches the old guy with the bandana at the vocal mic. “Hey. I hear you let musicians work in?”
“Sure do. What do you play?”
Maggie surveys the instruments. Piano. Standing bass. Banjo. Fiddles. Acoustic guitars. Tambourine. Washboard. “Everything you’ve got.”
“Did you bring an instrument?”
“Nah. I had no idea this was an option.” She takes a step back. “It’s okay if I can’t.”
“Nope. Just checking. How about you start on the piano? We rotate up to the vocals through the instruments we each know. When you get the vocal mic, you announce your song and key and set the tempo.”
“Sounds good.”
“Name?”
“Maggie.”
He turns to the group. “This here’s Maggie. She’s working in, starting on the piano.”
Friendly, curious faces greet her and offer names. Penny. Brad. Donna. Hal and Cal. The old guy says his last. “And I’m Wally.”
“Nice to meet you, Wally.”
“Song is ‘Rocky Top.’ Key is G.”
He’s picked something she knows, which is a good start. She seats herself on the piano bench. Wally announces the song to the bar and introduces her. She waves. A few hands in the crowded bar lift. Andy’s is high and vigorous. Wally counts off, and the musicians launch into a joyful noise. Maggie’s chords are complementary and rhythmic. The players are all quite good and have obviously played together many times. The banjo-playing girl with the long black hair is a standout. Penny. That’s what her name is, Maggie thinks.
It’s an easy way to work in, being in the background. She can’t help smiling and bobbing her head. By the end of the song, she’s exhilarated and embellishing. Okay, she misses this. Not solo performance, but this. Being inside a song, even an amateurly delivered jam song. It lifts her soul and fills her with a light she hadn’t realized was burned out. When they finish the song, the crowd applauds with vigor. Andy stands up and whistles with two fingers.
Wally scoots onto the piano bench. “You play this thing like you’ve been pounding keys all your life.”
“Something like that.” She moves on to the standing bass.
Piano is the least of her skills. Give her anything her fingers can pick and strum, and she’s in her element. As she cycles through the bass, the banjo, the fiddle, and the tambourine, they play old standards. “Cherokee Shuffle.” “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” “Old Joe Clark.” “Whiskey Before Breakfast.” Then it’s her turn at the vocal mic, with the guitar. She ponders song choices. She needs something bluegrass that she knows all the words to, when what she really wants to play is “Kickapoo Redemption,” something she heard recently from Shea Abshier and the Nighthowlers. Her choices are limited by her experience and her memory. She’d do better with a list to choose from. The other musicians huddle behind her. Just when she’s about to ask them to offer up a tune, Wally nudges her.
“We voted. We want you to play ‘I Hate Cowboys.’ We’ll bluegrass it up a little for you.”
Maggie bites her lip. “Um, I . . .”
“You didn’t think we wouldn’t figure out who you are, did you? That face of yours is way too famous, and word’s out about you and that Sibley boy. But we had a hint, too.”
Maggie scans their faces. What hint? She glances at Andy, but he looks innocent and oblivious.
Wally laughs. “Ole Hal here knows all your songs by heart. He’s even had us play ’em a time or two.”
Hal tips his hat. Cal tips his, too.
She bows to them, then blows a kiss. “I usually hate playing my own stuff. It blows my cover.”
Wally claps her on the shoulder. “You’re amongst new friends. And I’m not sure you have much cover to blow. Now, give us a treat.”
She makes eye contact with Andy and nods at him. Into the mic, she says, “‘I Hate Cowboys,’ key of E. This one is for my friend Andy.”
Just as she launches into the music as familiar to her as her own breath, she sees Andy isn’t looking at her. He’s looking past her. She glances back and catches Penny’s gaze locked on Andy. A chuckle escapes her, but she ends it in time to sing the lyrics Hank inspired so many years ago. She strums and sings along to the accompaniment of the bluegrass musicians. The music feels different on a strange guitar, and she misses her Martin back at the ranch. She becomes aware a buzz is growing in the room. How long has it been since she sang this song in front of humans? Ten years? Twelve? When she reaches the ending, she sings the chorus one last time.
I hate cowboys—especially bull riders—
I hate cowboys.
Their buckles look funny,
And they call their girls bunnies.
I hate cowboys. I hate bull-riding cowboys.
She shakes the guitar gently, drawing out the sound of the last note. The saloon patrons are on their feet, cheering. Calling her name. Her secret is definitely out. Andy basks in the glow and nods at her. Wally claps her on the back so hard she falls forward from the stool.
He catches her. “Sorry! Just a little excited. That was real special for us.”
The rest of the musicians surround her. She accepts hugs and handshakes. Penny holds out a Sharpie and asks her to sign the back of her banjo.
“Oh no. Anything but your beautiful instrument. How about the case instead?”
The girl agrees and returns with a beat-up case covered in bumper stickers. Maggie signs and tries to hand the marker back.
“You’re going to need it.” Penny points.
A line has formed.
Wally takes the mic. “We’re g
oing to take a break to let you folks thank Ms. Killian for gracing us with her talent. Back in a few.”
Maggie signs autographs and chats while keeping one eye on Andy. He beelines toward Penny. She barely meets his eyes, but she nods. The girl is shy, that’s for sure. After they exchange a few words, she joins him at the bar. A few minutes later, Maggie sees fresh ginger beers in their hands. Maggie finally begs off from the patrons wanting to talk about her music to join them.
“Hey, you two. Penny, you have a great sound. What did you think, Andy?”
“I think she is wonderful.”
The two stare at each other like there’s no one else in the room.
Maggie laughs. “I meant about the music, Andy. You’re here as my student.”
Penny breaks eye contact and swivels to Maggie. “You teach? I’d love to take lessons from you.”
“Well, Andy’s my first student. Ever.”
“I can be your second.”
“She could take lessons with me,” Andy suggests. His voice quivers a little, like he’s not used to being this forward with girls. A non-Amish girl, at that.
Maggie shrugs. “We could do that.” She recites her number, and Penny types it into her phone.
Andy says, “There’s the woman Paco was sparking.”
He doesn’t point, but he nods at a curvy brunette in her late twenties or early thirties standing near the pool table in the back room. She’s sipping her drink through a straw, then stirring the ice cubes. There’s a cluster of women around her. One looks familiar to Maggie. Had she seen her out on a date with Gene a few months before?
“Maggie. Didn’t you just bring down the house?” A female voice drips sarcasm to Maggie’s left, even as it slurs.
Dead Pile (Maggie #3) Page 10
