“Shit!” Maggie presses the gas. The engine revs, but the truck doesn’t move.
After several more tries, she turns off the ignition. She’ll just give Bess time to change her mind. When Maggie starts the engine, she gets the same horrible noise. She shifts to first and gooses the gas pedal. Bess stays put. Maggie tries reverse. Nothing doing.
“This isn’t happening.” She walks around Bess, patting her. “Come on, girl. It’s rally time.”
She crouches on the ground. Something big is hanging off the undercarriage, all the way to the ground. All the stress and disappointment bubbles up in her, and leaks out her mouth in a surge of curse words. “Fucking fucker.”
She kicks a tire. Once. Twice. Three times. All she gets is a sore foot. But she knows it’s not Bess’s fault. Maggie was the one gazing off into the trees, distracted and goofy over wild animals and thoughts of her heritage. She’ll have to call for help. But of course when she checks her phone, she gets a No Service message.
Why does Wyoming hate her?
In the distance, she hears the rumble of a truck. Heavy-duty, from the sound of it. Well, she’ll hitch a ride, then. She hitchhiked plenty back in the day. But that was when she was younger and didn’t feel the knife’s edge of mortality at her throat. Wyoming people had been nothing but kind so far, but the men . . . they act awfully, awfully lonely. A life of sexual captivity in a dilapidated cabin doesn’t appeal to her. She retrieves her bag from the truck, hangs it over her shoulder, and clutches the pepper spray inside it with one hand.
A flatbed Dodge dualie rounds the corner uphill from Maggie. The driver is male. Alone. She hitches her thumb as she squeezes the pepper canister so hard it digs into the palm of her other hand.
The truck rumbles to a stop, nose to nose with Bess. The engine’s bwah-bwah-bwah-bwah-bwah quiets. Maggie stays by the door to her truck. A linebacker-size man slams the truck door. He’s carrying an oilcloth jacket over one arm. Behind him, dark storm clouds are rolling in over the mountains. The sun fades away. A wind whips up, and the temperature drops, suddenly and noticeably. The man dons the jacket. Maggie wishes she wasn’t in a tank top.
The man touches the brim of his cowboy hat. “Looks like you’re having a bad day.”
Maggie grinds her teeth. Mister, you don’t know the half of it. “Appears so.”
The big man halts five feet short of her. “Out of gas?”
“I wish.” Maggie points at the ground under Bess. “I seem to have dropped some essential parts.”
He walks all the way around the truck. When he comes back, he bends over for a look. He whistles. “Damn straight. Need a ride? A tow?”
Maggie’s anger is giving way to a feeling of inevitability. She is doomed to a hellish and humiliating visit to Wyoming. “I may need both, if you could call me a tow truck.”
He looks amused, his eyes crinkling in a weather-beaten face. “You won’t find better than what I got here, as long as you’re not needing a tow all the way to Texas.” He jerks a thumb toward the back end of the truck, where her Texas license plate gives her away. At her blank expression, he adds, “I carry tow gear in my toolbox. I don’t know about Texas, but out here, we’re ready for anything, anytime.”
Maggie stews on his words. He doesn’t sound like he means that in a creepy way. She checks his finger. He’s wearing a wedding ring. That decides it for her. She releases her pepper spray and sticks out her hand. This has to be fate, breaking down by Hank’s ranch. Why not give in to it? Let it play out the way it is going to, without fighting it. The universe might still have a plan. “Maggie Killian. Thank you. If you could just drop me up the road at my friend’s ranch, he can help me from there.”
They shake.
“Patrick Rhodes. You’ve killed your truck in front of my place. Who’s your friend?”
“Hank Sibley.”
Something dark crosses Patrick’s face, then he grunts. “No problem. At least you’re pointed in the right direction.”
Maggie ducks behind Bess to get away from an especially strong gust of wind. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here. She wraps her arms around herself. The jacket she’d brought from Texas is in her suitcase at the Mill Inn, where it does her no good. Even though it’s too light for the weather blowing in, it would be better than nothing. I wasn’t prepared for this place. Not for anything about it. “Thank you.”
“I can’t tow you with your driveshaft dragging.” He walks back to his truck bed, leans over it, digs around, then comes out with two wrenches and a hammer. “Give me a second.”
He lies on his back, wriggling his shoulders and pushing with his feet, spurs catching on the dirt road, until he disappears under Bess.
Behind her, she hears another vehicle. It slows to a stop. She glances over. It’s a monstrosity of a van, painted entirely in green-and-tan camouflage.
“Need help?”
She recognizes the driver immediately. The annoying fan at the Occidental. What, are there only ten people in Wyoming? “No, I’m good. Thanks.”
He smiles and tugs down on his baseball cap. “If you say so, Maggie.” He sprays gravel as he drives away.
She hears clanging and banging under Bess. It seems to her that it takes forever, but eventually a big metal part slides out, followed by Patrick.
After he puts his tools away and throws her driveshaft in his truck bed, he dusts off his jacket and jeans. “Sorry I left you out in the cold. Come get warm in the cab of my truck while I hook yours up.”
She follows him, then diverts to the passenger side, which has a magnet on the door that reads RHODES ROUGH STOCK. He’d left the vehicle running with the heater on. Praise the Lord and pass the biscuits warm. She rubs her arms briskly to help it along.
Patrick turns his truck around, maneuvers it into place, and then gets out to connect a chain towline. While he’s gone, Maggie cranks the heater up to full blast. Even better. She closes her eyes and lets the heat wave roll over her. Patrick’s returning tools to the truck bed two minutes later. Maggie flips the heater back to low as he approaches. She’s still cold, but hell if she’ll admit what a flatlander she is.
He shuts the door behind him. “Double S is just a few miles up the road. Five minutes or so.”
Five minutes until she springs herself on Hank, again. “Thanks.”
“You live round here? We get lots of Texas transplants.”
“No. Just visiting. Doing a work thing.”
He nods. “How do you know Hank?”
An image of Hank’s young, strong body, gleaming with sweat, in the Buffalo Lodge in Chugwater washes over her. She swallows. “Old friends. From way back.”
He frowns and is silent for a moment. “Well, my truck will do the heavy lifting, but I need you to put her in neutral and steer and brake.”
“Gotcha.” Maggie returns to Bess, freezing. She should have left the truck on with the heater running. But that’s not all that she’s thinking about. Patrick’s giving off bad vibes about Hank. What’s up with that? She turns on the truck and puts it in neutral as instructed. She gives a thumbs-up.
Patrick returns one, then eases forward, taking the slack out of the chain. Bess rolls after him. He keeps his speed low. Maggie steers and brakes around the curves. Soon they reach the entrance to the Piney Bottoms Ranch, a cattle guard under a wooden structure with a weathered sign, the letters carved out and painted black. Underneath, another sign hangs on rings and blows in the wind: DOUBLE S BUCKING STOCK.
Maggie gets a sick feeling, like a bullied kid on the first day of school. Scared. Hoping things will be different. Excited despite herself.
With a tug from Patrick, Bess coasts over the cattle guard. It rattles Maggie’s teeth, but that doesn’t distract her hungry eyes from taking in this place she’s imagined for so long. Hank’s home. The skies are just clear enough for a good view of the spread. Corrals, red barns, and two arenas—one covered, one outdoor. Horses everywhere. The square bodies and short necks of cattle in
the distance. On a slight rise above the livestock structures are the human-type abodes. A two-story house, a smattering of cabins. Farther in the distance and a few hundred vertical feet up the side of a mountain, a tall cabin perches under a green metal roof. It’s set back into ponderosa pines, a regal overlord to the working class below.
Shoot me dead and call me Edna. It’s even more beautiful than she’d imagined.
Patrick pulls to a stop in front of the central house. He walks back to her truck, extricating himself from his coat. Maggie rolls down the window.
“You need this more than me.”
She takes it. “Don’t mind if I do. I’ll get it back to you.”
“It came to me on the way over here. I’ve seen you before. Last night at the Occidental.”
“Oh?” She doesn’t remember meeting him. She wasn’t that drunk, was she?
“We didn’t meet. I saw you talking to Hank. Anyway, welcome to Wyoming.”
“Thanks. I was leaving today. Looks like I’ve been delayed.”
“Rotten luck for you. Maybe not so bad for me, if you’d let me take you to dinner.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you. But . . .” Her voice peters out.
“You got someone?” He frowns. “I thought Sibley was with that Morris girl?”
Young Sheila must be a Morris. “No, I mean, yes, he has a girlfriend.”
“Just a sec.” He makes a trip back to his truck. When he returns, he hands her a card. “Here’s my number. Just in case. Now let’s get you unhooked.”
Maggie gets out to watch. As Patrick unlatches the hook and chain, the low-hanging clouds close in again, shrinking her world down to a radius of a few hundred foggy yards. The temperature drops. Even with the jacket on, she’s still chilly and hugs herself. A man walking toward them from the barn complex materializes out of the fog. Her heart recognizes the shape and gait. Hank. Stiff-legged and consternated.
“Rhodes,” Hank shouts. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Patrick ignores him as he puts up his towing gear.
Hank keeps advancing on Patrick with a menacing look on his face. “I said what the hell . . .” Hank sees Maggie, and his angry words peter out. “Maggie?”
If she had any doubts before from Patrick, now she’s sure there’s no love lost between these two. But she’s perplexed about Hank’s reaction. Had the old Hank had a temper like this? She lifts a hand in greeting. “Surprise.”
Hank’s gaze roves back and forth between her and Patrick. “I don’t understand.”
“I was out sightseeing. Bess broke down in front of Patrick’s place. He brought us here.” Her words leave out a lot, and she hopes Hank will let it slide.
His eyes narrow, asking. She looks away, answering.
Patrick interrupts their silent conversation. “You need anything else, Maggie?”
“Nope. I’ve busted up enough of your day. Thanks.”
He moves a few inches closer. Loud enough for Hank to hear, he says, “Use that number and I’ll come back for my coat, and whatever else you have to offer.”
What about his wedding ring? She takes a step back, unwilling to be a prop in their stage routine. “You take care.”
Patrick drives away. Raindrops begin to fall to the ground, but they’re quickly replaced by ice pellets.
“You probably have questions.” Maggie uses her hand to shield her face from the sleet.
“In there,” Hank says, pointing to the barn. He puts his coat and arm out. She ducks under the shelter he offers, and together they run down the slope to the outbuildings.
Seven
Hay is stacked floor to ceiling on one wall of the barn, up to the loft groaning with more of the same. A fine dust of hay powder floats in the air and covers the floor. Maggie sneezes and fights the urge to scrub grit from her eyes.
Maggie weaves her almost-true story about sightseeing, truck trouble, and giving Patrick the name of the only person she knows in Wyoming, who luckily happens to live on the next ranch over. She omits everything to do with shacking up for the night with Chet in Buffalo. No sense volunteering irrelevant information. Or so she tells herself. This close proximity to Hank already feels high-risk. Like standing on a wet floor using a blow-dryer. No sense in jumping into the bathtub with it.
“That’s screwed up,” Hank says. If he thinks there’s more to her story, he keeps it to himself.
“Story of my life.” She wriggles her nose to prevent another sneeze. “I’ve got to get Bess to Sheridan to a mechanic.”
A black-and-white dog slinks into the barn. Maggie has an impression of long hair and short legs before it disappears behind a bale of hay.
Hank shakes his head. “Everything in town will have closed at noon. Not that Mother Nature cooperated, but most folks knock off early to head up to the mountains. It’s usually the last snow-free weekend of the year up there. Let us take a look at the truck and see if we can fix it.”
“Us?”
“Me. Gene. Our hand, Paco. He used to work at an auto repair shop. One of us will figure it out.”
“That sounds promising.” She sighs and pushes damp hair off her forehead. “I have a trailer full of antiques and a room full of my stuff in Sheridan, too.”
“We’ll get you on the road before you can say spit.”
But now that she’s here, she’s wondering why exactly she’s in such a hurry to leave. She hitches the belt buckle and smiles.
Eight
Maggie is about as useful as teats on a boar hog for the next hour. Hank and a hand he introduces as Andy tow Bess to a cavernous shop at the edge of the livestock complex. Maggie tries not to stare at Andy. His work shirt looks home sewn and blousy, his trousers a soft denim with a dress-pants overlapping waistband. The coat he hangs neatly on a peg doesn’t appear store-bought either.
“What do you think of our shop?” Hank asks. He’s beaming like a proud papa.
From the outside, the “shop” is just like any other metal warehouse. Inside, it’s like a high-end garage and smells of petroleum products and rubber. Walls of shelving, pegs, and racks hold tools and vehicle parts. Stacks of tires in a wide range of sizes tower along the walls. There’s even welding torches, industrial jacks, and a grease pit with guides for wheels on either side.
She puts her hands on her hips, trying not to look like she’s posing when she is, wishing she had showered and changed clothes. “Impressive.”
“Lots of heavy equipment here. Tractors. Off-road vehicles. Trucks. Gotta keep ’em running.”
Patrick had said people have to be ready for anything, anytime in Wyoming. At Double S, they are, she thinks. The two men position her truck over the pit, with a lot of pushing and, on Hank’s part, cursing.
“Are you trying to break my heart today?”
His words are a jolt. Hers was the heart broken on this trip. “What?”
Hank points at her jacket.
She looks down. RHODES ROUGH STOCK is emblazoned over her left breast, along with the silhouette of a bucking bull.
“You’re representing for the enemy.”
His words trigger a memory of harsh words and an altercation at the Occidental. Hank and a big guy. That had been Patrick, she realizes. Patrick and Hank are enemies. Or competitors, at least. She glances at the emblem again. “Sorry.”
“Andy, throw her one of our jackets. And burn that one.”
Andy straightens a round-brimmed hat over his boyish face. He’s young. Too young even for Sheila. Maybe in his late teens? He rummages in a cabinet and unfolds a khaki all-weather jacket with the Double S logo on it. He brings it to Maggie then holds his hand out for her Rhodes jacket.
“I need to return it.”
Hank guffaws.
Andy nods, backing away, eyes on the toes of high-heeled cowboy boots.
Maggie takes off the Rhodes jacket and stashes it on the bench seat in the truck. Several strands of fringe come off with it. She dons the Double S jacket and twirls. “How
do I look, boys?”
Hank breaks out his dimples. “Like we need to feature you in our advertising.”
Maggie unleashes the sultry in her voice. “My picture in this jacket and ‘Ride ’em, cowboy’ below it?”
He shakes his hand like it’s hot. “Let ’er buck.”
Andy flushes crimson.
Hank and Andy climb down into the pit with a toolbox and Bess’s driveshaft. For ten minutes, there’s a steady series of clanks, thuds, and man sounds. Every so often, one of them says something to the other.
When it grows quiet, Maggie drops to a cross-legged seat near the truck. Cold metal under the tush. It’s uncomfortable, but she has a view of Hank’s profile, so she toughs it out.
In a casual voice, she asks, “So, Hank, how long have you been dating Sheila?”
Hank speaks, but it’s to Andy. “Why don’t you run get Paco? I think this one’s beyond us.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Andy appears and nods to Maggie as he trots out of the shop, putting on his jacket midstride.
Hank climbs out, wiping grease from his hands with a dingy rag.
“Everything okay?”
“With your truck? Not really.”
“Did you hear my question a minute ago?”
“About me and Sheila.” He still doesn’t answer her, tosses the rag onto a workbench.
“Yes.”
He leans his still-fine Wrangler-clad butt against the workbench. “Three months, I guess.”
Maggie stands and starts walking around near Hank, examining tools with her hands. She picks up a socket wrench. “She seems like a nice girl.”
“She is. Very nice.”
She works the grips on a pair of needle-nose pliers. “What does she do?”
“She’s a teacher. Third grade during the week. Elementary-age Sunday schoolers at the Methodist church on the weekends.”
“Oh. That’s great.” Maggie squirts compressed air from the nozzle of a long hose. The explosive noise and kick make her jump. “Oops.” She puts it back in its holster.
Maggie Box Set Page 5
