Again Gene whispers, this time softer. “Alzheimer’s. She thinks her husband’s alive. He’s been dead fourteen years now.”
Which reminds Maggie about all the loss Hank endured, while she was writing “fuck Hank” music and angry that he didn’t come chasing after her. Well, if he’d called, she could have helped him. She could have been his rock through all of it. If you’d been willing to give up the music that took you away from him in the first place. She shushes her conscience. It’s bad enough when Hank says the kinds of things he did earlier without her own brain getting in on the abuse.
“Pass the potatoes?” Andy says.
“Hi, Andy.” She hands him the bowl, which has finally made its way to her, after adding a dollop to her plate. They’re nearly yellow with butter, just how she likes them.
“Hello, Ms. Killian.” He adds two scoops to his plate. Seconds.
“Maggie.”
“Um, Maggie.”
“Thanks for your help today.”
“Of course.” He takes a bite, chews, swallows. “Is that a real Frontier Days buckle?”
Maggie had forgotten she had it on and again wishes she wasn’t still in last night’s clothes. “2002 bull riding champ. Yes.”
Paco makes a clucking sound. “But that was . . .”
“Hank. Your boss. Yes.”
Gene jumps into the conversation. “He wouldn’t have won it, if not for Maggie.”
Paco grins. “You and the boss man were, um . . .”
Maggie smiles. “A thing.” She scrapes the last of the meatloaf onto her plate then adds a huge portion of salad, since it’s barely been touched.
Gene laughs. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Emboldened, Andy blurts out, “Is it true you’re a musician?” His cheeks suffuse with color, and he ducks his face.
“I was.”
He lifts his eyes. “You don’t play anymore?”
She smiles. “I play. It’s just not how I earn my daily bread.”
“But isn’t a musician someone who plays and sings?”
His words poke Maggie in her soft underbelly. She puts a hand to her middle. “I’m no longer a professional musician.”
“What instruments do you play?”
“Anything with strings, including the piano. I can eke out a tune on a saxophone, and my percussion skills are passable.”
His eyes widen. “You play everything with strings?”
“Well, not a harp. And I prefer guitar, fiddle, mandolin, and ukulele. But I also play bass—upright and electric—cello, and lap steel.”
He shakes his head. “I would love to hear you play. Where I come from, we don’t have instruments, but we sing. Music is my favorite thing, besides horses.”
“I brought a guitar. I guess I could play a little if you’d like.”
“Do you know ‘Amazing Grace’?”
Maggie smiles, despite her day and her own damn self. Most nineteen-year-old boys don’t ask formerly famous musicians to play “Amazing Grace.” They ask for her big hits. “Buckle Bunny.” “I Hate Cowboys.” “Never Mind, Don’t Call.”
Or Miranda frickin’ Lambert.
But “Amazing Grace”? That’s what’s different about him, she realizes. Religion. Only it’s not a religion she recognizes, and it must account for his odd getup.
“I’m finished,” Mrs. Sibley announces.
Her caregiver is up quickly and backing her wheelchair away from the table. His plate is half-full. Mrs. Sibley’s plate and cobbler bowl are empty.
Everyone stands.
“Good night, Mrs. Sibley,” they chorus. “Good night, Tom.”
So that’s the caregiver’s name. Tom. Maggie is slow getting up, but she joins in.
As Tom wheels Mrs. Sibley out, everyone retakes their seat. It’s quiet enough to hear the flap of a hummingbird’s wings, much less the voice of a querulous woman.
“What’s that woman doing in there with my sons? She’s rude. And where are Laura and Mr. Sibley?”
A doorway opens, then closes, cutting off the sound of Mrs. Sibley’s voice. Then there’s a giant exhale, and the men all start talking at once. Spoons clank serving bowls. A woman with red hair in a low bun brings out a giant cobbler, minus a square in one corner, and gallon of ice cream.
She sets them in the middle of the table and smiles at Maggie. “I’m Trudy. Did you get enough to eat?”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Maggie, and it was delicious. Thank you. With that cobbler, I’ll be fat and happy.”
Trudy wipes her hands on a white chef’s apron, leaving the flour on her nose and forehead. “I don’t see you ever fat, but baking is my specialty. If you’re here long enough, I could pad your bones a little.”
Maggie raises her hand. “Sign me up.”
Trudy passes out warmed bowls, then disappears back into the kitchen.
Gene takes a double helping of cobbler. “Trudy is trying to get into the Culinary Institute of America. I can’t decide if I wish her well or would do anything to keep her. You just don’t find cooks like her out here.” He scoops ice cream onto the cobbler, and it starts to melt and pool beside the cobbler. “You do know where you are, right?”
“Between Buffalo and Sheridan.”
“No, I mean the significance. We’re right along the old Bozeman Trail. You can still see the ruts of the Trail near here. Over by the site of the Fetterman Massacre.”
Maggie serves her own dessert, less than half the amount of Gene’s. “I saw signs to that earlier. Which side did the massacring?”
“The Indians. They lured a hundred soldiers from Fort Phil Kearney”—he points with his spoon, roughly in the direction Maggie had come from earlier that day—“into an ambush and killed every one of them.”
“This is a dumb question.”
“Only dumb if you don’t ask.”
“Why did we even need the trail?”
“It led to the Montana gold rush up near Bozeman. And it was in violation of a treaty that promised all this land to the Indians. Then the US decided it needed to build forts—a further treaty violation—to protect the people using the trail.”
“So all those men died in the massacre because of gold?” Maggie feels overly full suddenly and puts down her spoon.
“That’s one way of looking at it. Anyway, the fort didn’t last long. A year after the massacre, the gold rushers abandoned the Trail for the Union Pacific Railroad. Then the soldiers left, and the Cheyenne burned Fort Phil Kearney down.”
“Poetic justice.”
“Maybe so. But the Indians still lost in the end.”
Maggie isn’t sure how to feel about that.
Andy and Paco push their bowls back and leave together, calling their good-nights. Maggie takes her last bite, savoring it. Trudy wasn’t lying. Her baking is to die for.
Gene stays with Maggie. “Days here start early. Most everyone’s headed for bed. You need anything?”
He leads her into the community room. Paco is at a desktop tucked into a built-in cabinet and shelving unit. Andy flips through channels, stopping on The Real Housewives of Orange County. He turns it off when he sees her.
Maggie ticks a mental checklist. Sheila to meet someone her own age. Hank to surprise Maggie in bed tonight. The Ford dealership to return her truck tomorrow. Nothing Gene can help with. “Nope. I’m good.”
“All right. You have Wi-Fi in your cabin, but nothing else. You’re welcome to hang out here in the community room if you’d like. There are books, games, puzzles, a desktop and printer, and a TV. If you use the TV after eight, keep the volume low so Mrs. Sibley can sleep. Breakfast is at six a.m. after the first round of chores is over.”
Six a.m. is after the first round of chores? Not musicians’ hours, or junkers’. Maggie is glad she doesn’t work on a ranch. “I think I’ll turn in early, too. It’s been a tough day.”
They part ways outside, where Louise is waiting for her. The dog jumps and wiggles, tripping Maggie at the step
off the porch.
“You’re not making yourself very welcome.”
Louise falls into step beside her. It’s just dusky enough that Maggie is glad for her company. In a day of wild weather fluctuations, the temperature now is mild and the breeze from the northwest is light, pushing the scent of the livestock in the corrals away from the house and cabins. The setting sun throws a silver sheen across the wild country to the north and west, while the mountains cast a shadow on the ranch. Horses nicker to each other. A bull snorts to her immediate right and she jumps, surprised at his presence, and glad to see he’s on the other side of a barbed-wire fence.
By the time she reaches the covered deck of her cabin, it’s a dim twilight out. Like a human thermometer, she gauges the falling temperature. Sixtyish. She pauses for one more look around. The moon is rising, enormous and yellow. Gray clouds slide across it, blocking most of it from view. From this vantage point, she sees the huge pine trees that dot the complex like the shadows of giants. They appear on the verge of walking about, a la Lord of the Rings. A big, dark bird wings past, screeching.
Everything about Wyoming is mercurial. Don’t blink. Something canine howls. Louise joins in, and Maggie shivers. A dog friend is sounding better all the time, even an annoying stray.
“Want to come inside with me, Fucker?” She ruffles the dog’s ears.
Louise licks Maggie’s wrist with fast tongue darts.
“You can come in, but no licking. Gross.”
The two go inside together. Maggie turns the lamps on. For the first time, she really studies the place. Dark corners consume big triangles of the interior. The furniture is heavy, hand-hewn pine with wine-colored cushions that look blood red in the low light. The artwork runs toward violence and death. A Native American on a sprinting pony, shooting an arrow into a buffalo already riddled with them. US soldiers and Native Americans squaring off in battle. Two hounds battling a mountain lion on a snowy mountain precipice. It’s creepy.
Just then, tiny feet scurry across the floor somewhere near her.
Maggie squeaks and hops toward the bed. She puts her hand to her chest. “Just a mouse. Get a grip.”
Louise wags her tail against Maggie’s guitar case.
“Don’t tell.”
Maggie digs the bottle of Balcones she brought up from Texas out of her suitcase. She tosses the belt and buckle in the case and stuffs it deep under her clothes. Then she dons her pj’s and knee socks, washes her face, and walks to the little kitchen for a glass, on tiptoe to minimize what her socks touch. She empties a few ice cubes into the glass. The tap snorts then spits out winter-cold water. She dilutes the whiskey, just barely, and settles back in bed with her phone. She draws some Balcones into her mouth and holds it there, hoping to dilute the intensity of her feelings. She’s in limbo, not wanting to feel them, but not wanting to numb them. When she took the numbing route before, it led to treatment, and rehab isn’t her favorite place. But she’s an older, wiser, steadier person now, without the temptations and pressures of life as a music star. At least she hopes she is. She swallows. Liquid fire. But the Balcones doesn’t taste right after her drink last night. What was it called? Koltiska? When she gets her truck in Sheridan, she’ll have to pick up a case of it to take home with her.
The cabin feels isolated, like she’s the last person in the world stuck in the last place on earth. Mindless entertainment is in order, the company of imaginary friends. She opens the app on her phone, but T-Mobile has no signal here, surprise, surprise. She selects the Double S Wi-Fi, but it asks for a password.
“Really?” She shakes the phone at the sky and whoever is up there delighting in her misery.
She needs a distraction from the loneliness and the places her mind wants to take her, like Hank-and-Sheila-ville. Her regrets about her one-night stand. The weirdness of the dead body at the motel that morning. Her broken-down truck and imprisonment here. She surveys the options. Her guitar? One of the dusty paperbacks on the old bookshelf by the front door? Neither appeal to her. She pads to the kitchen. She’ll let the Balcones bottle keep her company in bed. Her iPhone doesn’t need Wi-Fi to play music. She sets it to her favorite playlist: All Things Lucinda. Sipping whiskey to “Can’t Let Go,” she pulls her covers up to her chin and gives in to the thoughts she doesn’t want to think.
Ten
“Grrrrrrrr.”
Maggie hears growling. She hears the snarls of a mountain lion and the yelping of a mangled dog. Maggie’s panting and her heart is racing. She feels the ground under her feet. She’s running, slipping, sliding down a snowy mountainside. It’s so damn real, as is the woman leading her to safety. Come, daughter, she says, even though with her long black braids and buckskin clothes she doesn’t look like Charlotte or Gidget.
But she sees a flashing number on the bedside table. It reads 12:01. That can’t be right. She saw the clock before she fell asleep, and it said 12:53. Power outage, maybe? That could make it flash. Of course. That’s it. And the mountain lion and the woman—that was just a dream. She’s under a quilt in a cabin, not out in the snow. As she calms, the dream slips away and her surroundings take shape. It’s not much lighter in the cabin than the night before, but it’s definitely almost dawn.
Then she hears the growling again. She has a fleeting memory of a dream about a hurt dog, but the rest of the details are gone. Poof. Like her relationship with Hank.
“Louise? What is it, girl?”
The growling intensifies. Maggie props herself on her elbow and rolls to face the door. Louise has her nose to the jamb. On the other side of the door, Maggie hears scuffling. Footsteps? Probably. Animal or human?
“Who’s there?” Her voice cracks. She tries again, shouting. Did she throw the lock before she got in bed with the Balcones? God, she hopes so. “I said who is out there?”
The scuffling quiets. Louise whines. Maggie slides out of bed. It’s colder than she expected. Her toe stubs something hard. It rolls away from her. The Balcones bottle. She ignores it, rifles through her bag for her pepper spray. Louise joins her at the window, where Maggie slides the curtain aside a few centimeters. Maggie flips the switch for the outside fixture, but the light doesn’t come on. It figures. First thing today, she’s asking for a package of lightbulbs. And the Wi-Fi password.
The dog’s tail thumps Maggie’s leg. Louise seems relaxed now. Maggie lets out the air she’d been saving up in her lungs. There’s nothing on the porch. But on the horizon is something spectacular.
The sun is rising. Red. Orange. Yellow. Pink. Sedimentary layers of flame glow above the dirt and rock, like a Technicolor stage set. Against the backdrop, Maggie watches a small herd of white-tailed deer make an entrance. They leap a fence at center stage, one after another. She’s entranced. And a little irritated. She wants to hate it here. She almost does, and then something like this moment happens, over and over, and it turns her upside down again. Hank and Wyoming. Wyoming and Hank. Why is it that she can’t quit either of them?
Since she’s up and not under attack, Maggie finds a kettle and fills it with water, then showers and dons clean clothes—her warmest—while it heats. No red scarves. No tank tops. No fringe. It’s not just the cooler temperatures either. She feels as dead-out as the lights in the cabin. Not a live wire. Not even the burned-down nub of a match.
She wraps herself in the quilt and takes a mug of the instant coffee to the porch. It isn’t as vile as she’d feared. The air is crisp and smells loamy. A musical chirping pulls her attention toward a fence post where a bird with a brilliant yellow breast preens. Hoofbeats, snorts, and stomps add percussion to the melody. Steam rises from the corrals. Something inside Maggie stretches and cracks.
If this is her last day in Wyoming, she wouldn’t have wanted to miss this.
The sound of human voices startles her. She thought she was the only one up. But it’s Paco and Andy, entering the house.
Gene holds the door for them. “Breakfast is almost on, boys.”
She c
an’t believe how sound carries here. Or that early chores are over, and she’s about to miss breakfast. She throws the quilt back onto the bed and ditches her mug. Louise jogs beside her to the house. This time, Maggie tells the dog to sit at the door. Louise stares at her without comprehension.
“Fine. Have it your way. Stand. Sit. Whatever. Just don’t come in.”
Louise still tries to squeeze past Maggie through the open door. Maggie pushes her back outside with her boot. When she enters the dining room, she’s met by the strong smell of manure and man sweat on Gene, Paco, and Andy. She’s not in a position to complain, seeing as it’s their hard work that’s putting food on the table for her, free of charge. The clock reads five minutes until six.
“Good morning.” She rounds the table toward the chair she used the night before.
Mrs. Sibley stares at her from her wheelchair across an assortment of beverages. A coffee carafe. A tall bottle of milk. Clear plastic pitchers of juice, in colors suggesting apple, orange, and grape. “Who’s that woman?”
Tom takes her speckled hand. “Maggie Killian. She’s a guest.”
“She’s not my guest.”
Maggie tries a smile on her. “I’m a friend of Hank’s. And Tom, nice to meet you. I guess we were never officially introduced last night.”
He smiles. She sees exhaustion in the lines around his eyes. “Nice to meet you, too.”
The old woman’s voice is cross. “Hank isn’t allowed to have friends spend the night. He didn’t do his chores.”
Gene enters on the tail of the exchange. “I’m sure he’ll finish them today, Mrs. Sibley. And Maggie won’t be any trouble.”
“She looks like trouble.”
Maggie can’t argue that. She sits by Andy.
“Morning, ma’am.”
“I’m not your mother. How about you call me Maggie?”
“Where I come from, ma’am is respectful.”
“Where I come from, it means you’re old.”
He smiles like he’s afraid someone will catch him at it.
Trudy sets a plate of biscuits next to a matching platter of scrambled eggs. The woman’s hands are red and dry, much older than her face. Trudy wipes her hands on her apron. She mops her strawberry-blonde brow with the cuff of a long-sleeved Western shirt. The outfit screams rodeo, from Maggie’s perspective, including the glittery embroidery she sees on the back pockets of Trudy’s jeans as she goes back into the kitchen.
Maggie Box Set Page 7
