Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  She takes off toward the Tahoe, which is just around the corner on Main. Suddenly she hears footsteps behind her, again, heavy ones. Shooting a glance over her shoulder, she breaks into a run. A large, dark figure is approaching fast.

  “Wait up, Maggie.” She recognizes the voice. Patrick Rhodes.

  She slows to a trot, then a walk, then stops. “You scared me.”

  “A woman on her own needs to be cautious.”

  “Was that you back there?” Maggie points to the trail by the creek.

  “Back where? I just saw you as I was leaving out the back of the Sports Lure.”

  “All right.” She has no reason not to believe him, but her uneasiness has returned full force. She resumes fast-walking back to where she parked the Tahoe.

  He matches her pace easily with his long strides eating up twice as much ground as each of her steps. “I’m grubbing at Winchesters on the way home. Join me? You have to eat at Winchesters if you’re spending a week hereabouts. It’s an institution.”

  Not a “place known for its fabulous food,” but an “institution.” And getting into a habit of hanging out with the big man isn’t overly appealing. Having people associate them together is even less. “I should get back.”

  “You think they’re going to wait dinner on you at Piney Bottoms?”

  And, on the other hand, he’s right. They wouldn’t. And her cupboard is freshly bare. “Okay. But I’m paying my own way.”

  “Of course you are. And I have that driveshaft for you.”

  She stops at her borrowed vehicle. “You could have mentioned that earlier.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She rolls her eyes, her head turned so he doesn’t catch her at it. “See you there.”

  In the Tahoe, Maggie asks Siri for directions to Winchesters, then sets off with a strange and unwelcome sense of security. She hadn’t realized until her data challenges how much she relies on technology. She’s not the same woman who drove herself to gigs from coast to coast, never having enough money for a pay phone and relying only on the atlas she’d stolen at her first gas stop out of Giddings, that’s for sure.

  Halfway to the restaurant, her phone rings. The display identifies the call as coming from the Sheridan County Sheriff’s Department. She picks up.

  A male voice barks at her before she can say hello. “You Maggie Killian?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not one for returning phone calls, I take it.”

  “What?” She pulls up at a red light.

  “I left you three voicemails between yesterday and today.”

  She flips her phone to voicemails. Nothing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get them. My phone hates Wyoming.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I’m Deputy Travis. I took the complaint when Hank Sibley called about the burglaries. I’m calling to set a time to come out to Piney Bottoms to take your statement.”

  “I called, too.” Green light. Maggie accelerates toward the steakhouse.

  “I didn’t get that message.”

  “Guess we’re even, then.”

  “How about I come now?”

  Siri tells Maggie they’ve arrived at the destination. Maggie whips into a small parking lot in front of a tan building with a green metal roof and trusses. The sign confirms Siri’s announcement that they’ve reached their destination, crossed Winchester rifles and all.

  “I’m not actually there. How about tomorrow morning, say about ten or eleven?”

  “Good.” He hangs up.

  She stares at the phone for a moment. Deputy Travis has all the finesse of a charging rhino.

  She sees Patrick’s truck. Somehow, he’d beaten her to Winchesters. Inside, she finds him conversing with the hostess, full flirt on, which from a man of his size is a whole lot of flirt. Maggie hangs back, just in case the hostess is buying what he’s selling.

  “Right this way.” She grabs two menus and leads the way. She’s almost as tall as Patrick, and she moves ponderously, like she’s wearing full-body armor instead of too-tight jeans and a light flannel shirt. She drops the menus on their table, pivots, and retreats. Not buying.

  Patrick sits, and Maggie pulls out her own chair.

  A waiter appears, his skin pink and corn-fed. “Drinks?”

  “Dewar’s, neat,” Patrick says.

  “Iced tea.”

  Patrick raises his eyebrows at Maggie.

  “Coming right up,” the waiter says.

  She pops her menu open and starts reading. Almost immediately, Patrick begins entertaining walk-by guests at their table. She keeps her head down to avoid introductions. Patrick doesn’t offer them anyway.

  The waiter plunks down a basket of bread without breaking stride.

  Patrick catches him by the arm. “We’re ready to order.”

  Out comes a pocket-size flip pad and miniature pencil.

  “Chicken potpie,” Maggie says.

  Again, she gets an uptick to Patrick’s eyebrow. “Ribeye. Rare.” He waggles an inch of liquid in his glass. “And another of these.”

  The waiter finishes a scribble. “Got it.”

  When he’s gone, Maggie puts her bag on her shoulder. “I’m hitting the ladies room.”

  The hostess is back, and she stops at their table. “I’m on break.”

  Maybe Ms. Personality is buying after all.

  Patrick smiles at the hostess and says out of the side of his mouth to Maggie, “Take your time.”

  Her iced tea isn’t going to carry her through this dinner. Maggie detours to the bar. “Koltiska Original on ice. Double, tall.”

  Booze may make her hot to trot, but she’s immune to Patrick. She puts a ten on the counter and takes her drink to the bathroom with her. There, she splashes water on her face. She looks like she feels—wrung out. Using paper towels, she blots her face then uses lipstick on her cheeks and lips. She fluffs her hair and pushes it away from her face, studying herself in the mirror.

  “Hang in there, Margaret Elizabeth. You have suspects for the cops. You have a driveshaft for Bess. You’ll clear the air with Hank, and then get the hell out of Dodge.”

  She leaves her empty glass beside the sink and returns to their table. “Fastest chow in the west” should be Winchesters motto—their food is already on the table.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  Patrick waves his empty fork in the air. He’s chewing an enormous hunk of beef, if the bulge in his cheek is any indication.

  Maggie breaks the crust on her potpie with a big spoon. Steam rises out of the hole. She scoops up a bite and blows on it.

  Patrick swallows without choking to death. “I guess you know Hank’s pretty pissed at me right now.”

  Maggie remembers how upset Hank was when he told her about Patrick nosing Double S out of NFR. “You think?” She tastes the potpie, adds salt.

  He grunts, a cross between a chuckle and a cough. “All’s fair in love and war. Especially war.”

  “Business is war?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “By ‘all’s fair,’ do you mean you did something unfair to Hank and Gene?”

  Patrick grins, his mustache rising like it’s on puppet strings. “You might have noticed I’m popular around here.”

  Maggie stifles a groan. “You’re certainly social.”

  “Everybody loves me. Hank, well, as nice as Gene is, he can’t make up for what a sour jackass his partner is.”

  Maggie just stares at him, unable to form words.

  “It pays to make friends, Ms. Killian.”

  “No doubt,” she chokes out.

  “So I did someone a solid for a little bit of information about the Double S bid.”

  Maggie’s hackles rise. “That’s not fair.”

  He salutes her with his nearly empty second double Scotch. Or at least she thinks it’s his second. “As we were discussing.”

  “I’m done discussing with you. Hank and Gene are my fri
ends.” She pulls a wad of cash from her wallet. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  A woman’s voice interrupts her. “Maggie.”

  Maggie drops the cash in the middle of the table and looks up into the pixie face of Hank’s sister, Laura, then down to the haughty profile of Mrs. Sibley. “Laura. Mrs. Sibley. Good evening.”

  “Patrick.” Laura’s voice drips acid.

  “Look at you, pip-squeak. You sure did grow up right. Pretty and successful. I know your father would be so proud.”

  “You have no idea what he would think.”

  Patrick puts his hands up. “Whoa, what did I say?”

  To try to prevent a nuclear reaction, Maggie says, “Laura, Mrs. Sibley, I guess I’ll see you back at the ranch.”

  Laura sneers and pushes her mother’s wheelchair past them. “I’ll be sure to watch for the Trojan horse at the gate, Maggie.”

  Her comment is surprisingly painful, like pulling on underwear that picked up a grass burr from being washed with work jeans. But now that Maggie knows what Patrick did to get the NFR business, she can’t fault Laura much.

  Thirty-Four

  Half an hour later, headlights on high beam glare into her eyes from her rearview mirror. She puts a hand up to block the assault, then steers the Tahoe through the entrance to Piney Bottoms. The cattle guard shakes her brain against the inside of her skull, and the potholes jar her so hard her neck cracks. Or maybe she’s a little on edge after the disastrous end to dinner.

  “Dimmer switch, asshole.”

  It’s late. When she left for Reride hours before, she had no idea she’d be out the rest of the day. Change of season here is more dramatic than she’s used to, fifteen hundred miles north of her normal. The shorter days seem shorter sooner. The duration of the dusk-time Frogger game the Wyoming deer play with the driving public, longer. Dark is truly dark, especially on cloudy nights like this one. She knows she’s lucky she isn’t on the side of the road with a deer-shaped imprint in Mrs. Sibley’s Tahoe.

  The driver with the brights on turns into the ranch, too. With all that’s happened—truck sabotage, break-ins, thefts—is this some creeper following her home down the lonely back roads?

  Maybe not. The vehicle might carry a guest for the main house. She’d even be glad for Sheila right now.

  But no such luck. The potholes jerk the headlights around like they’re having a seizure, but they keep moving inexorably toward her cabin. Damn, how she wishes she’d met with the Sheridan deputy today. She grips the wheel, tensed and considering doubling back to the main house for safety in numbers. But no. She doesn’t want a scene with the Sibleys. She’ll be fine. Louise will be on the porch, ready to rumble. Maggie will run inside, flip on the lights, and grab the rifle.

  As she parks, the other driver flicks the brights on and off.

  She puts her bag over her shoulder, keys in hand, and shoots out like an arrow from a bow. With Louise barking and jumping around her, she fumbles at the tape gate.

  “Back, girl. Back.”

  Louise ignores her. Frustrated, Maggie rips the pole out of the ground and drops it, like her thief had. She runs over it to the porch. The other vehicle pulls up. She tries to jam the keys in the lock, fumbling blind in the pitch dark.

  “Dammit!”

  A man’s voice five feet away asks, “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  She screams and drops the keys, then scuttles backwards. “Who’s there?”

  The porch creaks under a rocker. Ice settles in a glass.

  “Not who you’re expecting, apparently.” The clouds part, and a sliver of moonbeam illuminates Hank’s sullen face.

  Her hand flies to her throat. “Hank. What are you doing here?”

  “I came to talk to you. But I see you’ve brought company.”

  “Thank God you’re here. That truck’s following me. I was terrified.”

  They stare at each other. Hank’s face relaxes. He sits forward.

  Then a second man’s voice calls out to Maggie. “I got something you’re going to like, Maggie.”

  She groans. Patrick. The asshole.

  Hank stands, knocking the chair back into the cabin wall. “Whatever, Maggie.”

  She closes the distance between them, reaching out for his arm. “It’s not what you think.”

  Patrick’s voice grows closer. “Ready or not, here I come.”

  “Oh really?”

  “I didn’t know it was him.”

  “Well, now you do.” Hank lurches, and his drink sloshes.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “You’re a traitor.”

  “That’s better than being a liar,” she shoots back.

  Suddenly the moon is completely uncovered. Hank doesn’t react to her accusation. Maggie sees the set of his jaw and the fists of his hands as he barrels past her to get to Patrick.

  Patrick is visible now, too. He’s carrying something bulky. “Sibley. Does your little blonde know you’re here?”

  Hank doesn’t break stride until his fist meets Patrick’s jaw. The older, larger man staggers back. There’s a dull thud as he drops whatever it is he’s carrying. Louise darts back and forth between Maggie and the men, barking and lunging.

  Patrick clutches his face. “What the hell?”

  Hank rears back for another strike, but this time Patrick ducks under it. He’s faster than Maggie would have given him credit for, fast like a bull, and Hank is drunk like a skunk. Not that Patrick is sober, but in the battle of relativity, Hank loses the round. Shoulder first, Patrick hits Hank like he’s ramming a tackling sled, wrapping up Hank’s torso, driving him all the way to the ground. Hank lands with an “oomph.”

  “Stop it! Stop!” But the night swallows Maggie’s words.

  Hank twists and wrenches himself free, then jumps back to his feet, still agile in the face of a charging bull after all these years, even drunk. The men stand and circle each other like overdressed sumos in a ring. Then the moon slips back behind the clouds. Maggie hears grunts, groans, curses, and the sounds of body parts slamming into each other and the ground. Louise’s barks resound in a circle around the dark hump of wrestling men. To Maggie, the fight seems to go on forever. She’s just about to fetch the rifle—shoot in the air to break them up—when their noises stop.

  Maggie approaches cautiously. “Are you idiots done?”

  Neither of them answers.

  She moves closer and stubs her toe. “Shit.” She leans down and gropes until she connects with something big. Hard. Metal. She slides her hands over the shape. A driveshaft. She’d rushed out of Winchesters so fast, she forgot all about the part. “He brought me a driveshaft, Hank.”

  The men still ignore her. Both are panting. One of them spits.

  “Hank Sibley, did you hear me? I just about broke my toe on a driveshaft Patrick brought for my truck.”

  When Hank speaks, it isn’t to answer Maggie. “You stole our contract, Rhodes.”

  “This isn’t about the contract and you know it.”

  “Cocksucker.”

  One of the men stands. There’s a swish, swish, swish of hands brushing dirt and grass off jeans.

  Patrick says, “Maggie, let me know if I can help you getting back to Texas. I’d want to get the hell away from this clown, too.”

  A day-bright light pierces the clouds as the moon comes into view again. Hank dives, going for Patrick’s legs. Patrick kicks out, and Hank makes a gurgling sound. Louise stands guard over Hank, who’s kneeling and slinging blood from his fingers.

  She grimaces. “I meant what I said earlier, Patrick. But thank you for the part. Are you okay?”

  Patrick’s voice sounds whistly as he walks to his truck. “Other than the tooth somewhere in the yard and my broken nose?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.” His truck door opens. “Good luck, Maggie.” The door slams shut.

  The truck roars off. Maggie lifts the driveshaft, putting her back and legs into it. It’s too heavy fo
r her to carry. She’ll come back for it later. With a wheelbarrow. She drops it. Louise sniffs at the hunk of metal, then returns to Hank.

  Maggie joins the dog. One of Hank’s ears is dripping blood from a clear imprint of Patrick’s teeth. His bottom lip is the size of a kielbasa. An eye is puffed shut.

  Maggie crosses her arms. “You realize he was helping me?”

  “Unethical. Stole from me. Cheats. Lies.”

  “Maybe so. But you treated me like it was my fault.”

  Hank rolls onto his side. He rests, wincing, then pushes up on an elbow. “You brought him here.”

  “I did not, and you know it. Why were you on my porch?”

  “If you’re with him, you need to stay with him.”

  “You’re a bad listener.”

  “Fine.” Hank crawls on all fours. A bloody string of saliva hangs from his mouth to the grass.

  Louise noses at his face, then licks his eye. He growls at the dog, who backs away. Maggie sighs and kneels beside him, putting a hand on his back. He swipes it off.

  “Still feisty? Suit yourself.” She gets up and walks to the cabin, using the flashlight on her phone to find the keys. She unlocks the knob and stands with her hand on it. “I told Patrick to get lost tonight. After he bragged about what he did to get the NFR contract.”

  Hank sways to his feet. “What did he do?”

  “He paid for information and a chance to bid last and lowest.”

  Hank bellows like a bull on his way to becoming a steer. “The fuck you say.”

  “You already suspected as much.”

  “But I didn’t know it.”

  “Well, now you do.” She throws open the door to the cabin.

  Hank wheels. He points in the air. “Stay away from him. You hear me? Anyone else. Just not him, Maggie. Not him.”

  Not Patrick, but also not Chet. She thinks about his reaction to both men. His jealousy and anger. He has no right. Not when he’s with somebody else.

  “So, what if I were to go with, oh, I don’t know. The bartender at the Occidental.”

  “He’s bad news.”

  “Of course he is.” She turns, letting the screen door shut, and points at him. “You don’t tell me who I can be with, and I won’t tell you. Speaking of the witch, do you need me to call Sheila to come kiss your boo-boos?”