Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “White and cold. And yes, I have. You need to come see it sometime. Maybe next summer for the Crow Fair. It’s a big powwow.”

  “That would be great. Are you serious about white and cold?”

  “Big blizzard yesterday.”

  “Wow. It’s eighty-five degrees in Round Top right now. I believe I’ll make my visit in the summer.”

  “I’m not sure which weather is worse.”

  “Listen, I have some exciting news.”

  “What’s up?”

  “My campaign is a go.”

  Boyd had withdrawn from a run at the presidency during the last election cycle when news broke that his sister Julie murdered Maggie’s birth mother, and a few other people along the way. That was bad, but what made it worse was that she was Boyd’s campaign manager, and that she’d committed the crimes to cover up Maggie’s parentage. The truth had come out anyway, and when Maggie learned his identity, she was horrified to remember that he’d hit on her the year before. Her new father was a notorious horndog. What could be worse than learning you’d slept with your own daddy? Ugh. Thank God she’d turned him down. But to Boyd’s great credit, he celebrated the news that he had a daughter from the moment he learned who Maggie really was to him.

  “That’s great. I wish you success.” She wonders for a moment what office he’s campaigning for, but she assumes he’ll just be trying to regain his senate seat.

  “Michele’s book and movie have really neutralized any attempt to paint me in a bad light about you and Julie.” The Love Child and Murder That Toppled the Herrington Dynasty was a bestseller and blockbuster hit. “And they’ve been great for name recognition. Better than a reality show.”

  Knowing Boyd as Maggie now does, she realizes he’s probably trying to get one. Maggie shudders. Please, God, no. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “But my publicist wants us to push the ball a little further down the field. That’s where you come in.”

  “Oh?” Maggie slips off her boots and flops onto the bed with her hand over her eyes. She braces. The other shoe is about to drop.

  “Joint interviews. What do you think?”

  “You and who?”

  “Me and you, of course.”

  Maggie would rather crawl through snow naked carrying dead baby owls in her bare teeth than submit to interviews. She’s had bloggers on her tail for the last few months, ever since her latest rise in notoriety in a “How the Mighty Maggie Killian Has Fallen” piece. It had the horrible timing of raising interest in her just as she was accused of murder. That led to her former bandmate Celinda finding her and exacting revenge for their disastrous past through arson, murder, and identity theft, which only added fuel to the flame of Maggie’s notoriety. Her music plays on the radio regularly now. Reporters stalk her friends and family. So why would she offer herself up for more public humiliation?

  Boyd fills the silence. “We could set any ground rules you want.”

  She knows that never works. “It’s a bad idea, Boyd.”

  “Just one? It would really help me.”

  It’s not that she owes him anything. He’d never been there for her, but then again, he’d never been given the chance. Maybe blood is thicker than water, because she hears herself saying, “One and done.”

  “Thank you. I’ll owe you.”

  “Big-time.”

  “When are you coming home? We can do it in person, together.”

  “I don’t know. I’m working on it.”

  “I miss you. We just found each other, and now you’re gone. Maybe I should just come visit you in Wyoming after all, and we can do the interview there.”

  “Don’t bring reporters here.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I’m serious, Boyd.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll call you when the plans start to firm up. Email me if you want to set some topics off-limits. Or if you have any broadcast journalists you prefer to work with. Or not.”

  She agrees and they end the call.

  Lying on the bed, she listens to her voicemail.

  Hank: “I just got home. Call me as soon as you know anything about Andy. And give me a break about Sheila. Laura and I had lunch there with Mom after her appointment. They sat us at a table in the bar. Sheila came in and invited herself to sit down. She had a drink, then we left. I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”

  Maggie feels sick to her stomach. She wishes she’d listened to her messages the day before. Sunlight streams through the window and across her face. She’s not used to being in a grown-up relationship with a good man. Or being the good woman in a grown-up relationship herself.

  She texts Hank: Finally had time to listen to your voicemail. I’m sorry. Sheila manipulated me. I shouldn’t have let her. I trust you. I miss you. Let me make it up to you later? xxox

  Michele had texted back general advice that agreed with Maggie’s inclinations. Andy had defied most of it, but Maggie felt relieved she’d been right in giving it. To Michele she sent a Thanks, love you text.

  And finally she listened to the voicemail from Franklin, the adjuster. “I went by your place this afternoon and have what I need. I think you’ll be pleased with the amount. I’ll call you when it’s final—probably tomorrow.”

  Maggie’s heart flutters. She has to figure out a course of action that will protect her finances without having to sell off Gidget’s two remaining treasures or the little farm. It’s bad enough that all Gidget’s paintings burned up. Maggie loved the paintings, her house, and her store. She has goodwill and a brand remaining from the Coop, not just a piece of land.

  Surely if she rebuilds the shop, the land will be more valuable. She’ll have time to acquire new stock while the contractors are at work. Then, whether she returns to run it or sells it, she’ll be in good shape to make a decision. Maybe Hank will develop a hankering to raise bucking stock in Texas. It could happen.

  Or maybe the house would be the more important thing to rebuild. More people are in the market for a house then an antique shop. But would they prefer to build their own, if they were buying new construction? Ugh. Why are the decisions so complicated?

  What she needs is some estimates so she can compare her options. And a number from Franklin, so she’ll know her parameters. She decides to reach out to some of the contractors she’s been in touch with already, back when the project was nothing more than repairs from vandalism. When she opens her email, she has one from the realtor she emailed yesterday about the ranch. She reads it after she sends messages to the contractors about getting quotes.

  Ms. Killian:

  I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I know who you are and about your nice property outside Giddings. I am very sorry to hear you lost your house and shop in fires. If you’re interested in selling—or even just talking about the possibility—I’d be happy to get together. I drove by the place, and it looks like your barn is still standing. County property records show you own twelve acres. I could list it for you. Maybe $95,000 or $100,000? As for the ranch, let me give you a tour. It’s a turnkey cattle ranch, with a three-bedroom farmhouse.”

  Only ninety-five thousand for her place? Maggie’s heart drops. She has a small savings account and an even smaller checking account. Franklin’s claim estimate better come back big bucks, or Maggie’s in a bigger pickle financially than she’d thought.

  Fourteen

  Maggie wakes with a start. Someone is calling her name. A woman. The voice is coming closer.

  She stretches and wipes drool from her face. “I’m in here.”

  Laura appears in her doorway. “We missed you at lunch. I just wanted to be sure you’re all right.”

  Maggie sits up and shuts her laptop. “I was working. I must have dozed off.”

  Laura turns to go. “Trudy said she was putting a plate aside for you.”

  “Thank you. For checking on me.” Maggie smiles. “I would have thought you’d be relieved if I went missing.”

  Laura puts her hand on the door
frame and looks back at her. “I don’t dislike you, you know.”

  Maggie laughs. “You do a great imitation of it.”

  “You broke my brother’s heart. He’s never lived a normal life, because of you. Just when he has it together, you show up again and break up his first mature relationship. I hate where this is going for him.”

  “Wait, what? He broke my heart.”

  “Whatever. I lived through it with him. Dad’s illness. Hank’s injury and depression. His loneliness. Between Mom and my own problems, I don’t have the bandwidth right now to go through that again with him.”

  “Laura, I care about Hank. I want the best for him.”

  “That may be true. But you’re not exactly the poster child for stability. Or sobriety. Hell, I used to be a fan.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t into my kind of music.”

  “I said I used to be a fan. I actually saw you perform in Waco, at a dinner theater. You were wasted. When did you quit smoking, by the way?”

  “What?”

  “I saw you talking to the cops, smoking like a chimney.”

  “Rehab. I quit at rehab.”

  Laura nods. “Anyway, you were a real letdown. I don’t think I ever listened to you again after that. And this was before Hank had even told us about you. He didn’t confess until years later. I guess he was afraid of disappointing me.”

  Maggie bristles. “That wasn’t a good time in my life.” She’s remained calm, but Laura’s getting personal, whether she’s right or not. “But I’ve been a business owner and pillar of my community for ten years. You’re out of line and unfair.”

  “Once an addict, always an addict.”

  Maggie advances on her. “For the sake of your relationship with your brother, I think this conversation should be over.”

  Laura stares at Maggie, deep into her eyes. “I’ll be in his life long after you’re gone.” Then, before Maggie can answer, she leaves.

  Fuming, Maggie jerks on her boots, then goes to the bathroom and wipes the sleep from her eyes. She stomps down the stairs to the kitchen. Trudy is gone, but on the counter are two plates of food covered with plastic wrap.

  “I hear Trudy left me a plate.”

  She turns to see Michael. “You missed lunch, too, huh?” She points at the covered meals.

  “Yeah. I got an ATV stuck in a drift.” He smiles, showing perfect white teeth, except for one that’s missing. An eyetooth. “I’m taking a horse out this afternoon. They’re a little more reliable in these conditions.”

  “How’s the weather?”

  “Cold, but clear and sunny. The sky looks like the Caribbean Sea. Not that I’ve ever seen it, except on TV.”

  Maggie eats her beef stroganoff and rice with a spoon, standing at the counter. Michael follows her lead.

  “It would have been nice to ride out in twos, but we’re kind of slammed with Hank and Gene gone, and Andy, um, missing part of yesterday. And then tomorrow people will be gone for Paco’s service.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Although I’m not sure Andy would ride with me anyway, even if he could.”

  Maggie rinses her plate and avoids eye contact. “Oh?”

  “I think he has a thing against the Cheyenne.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The Amish are our neighbors, but we’re not neighborly.”

  It sounds like an admission, so Maggie follows up on it. “So do you have a thing against the Amish?”

  “No more than anyone else I know back home. I don’t like how they treat their animals, but maybe Andy will be different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Amish I know ride their horses into the ground and starve them. I was pushing cows with some Amish this summer, and I had to take my saddle off my horse and walk him back—he was that beat. The Amish just whipped theirs up and ran them home. Their feet were awful, cracked, turned up. Most of them were half-lame.” He snorts. “Not their teams, though. They treat their teams real good. But then again, if they’re your transportation and your tractor, you better keep ’em running.”

  “Andy’s been nothing but good to the animals here.”

  “He moved away. That says something. And the best farrier I ever saw was Amish. Or ex-Amish. I do some blacksmithing myself, and he won every competition I ever saw.”

  “Are you from the reservation?”

  “Yeah. But I left a few years ago. I’m trying to stay out of the res scene. There’s nothing for me there. But it’s hard. I’m pretty broke.”

  Maggie remembers leaving home younger than him, a lifetime ago. Broke, too. Everything had been so much simpler, until it wasn’t. If what Andy says is true, things aren’t simple at all for Michael back on the res. “Well, I hope the two of you will get along. Since he’ll be your supervisor.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She looks out the kitchen window. Not a cloud in the sky. She has decisions to make, and there’s nothing like wide-open Wyoming to clear her head. “I make a pretty good second. Or at least I can dial 911 in an emergency. If there’s signal.”

  He laughs. “You beat out all the competition, but it won’t get me in trouble with Hank, will it?”

  She scoffs and checks for a text back from Hank. There’s none. “Of course not.”

  Fifteen

  Lily is sassy after twenty-four hours in a stall, where the hands had put her when the weather went to crap the day before. She dips her head and shakes it as she canters along behind Michael and his horse.

  “Who are you and what have you done with my lazy pregnant mare?” But Maggie understands. She likes her freedom, too.

  Ahead of them, Michael is doing a post-storm welfare check. He counts heads of cows and calves. It’s easier said than done, because they don’t stand still for it. When he’s done, he turns back and frowns. “I’m short two head. Can you see what count you get?”

  “Whoa, Lily.” Maggie counts, keeping track by fives on one hand. Lily fidgets in a circle. Maggie uses leg pressure to push her back. “I got thirty-two.”

  “Shit. That’s what I got. And after I’ve been lucky all day.”

  “Do you know which tags are missing?” All Double S bovines wear numbered, colored ear tags.

  “Nope. If we have to, I can ride back and get them. But I need to check the fence and break up some ice, too, so let’s start by riding it.”

  “Break ice?”

  They take off, riding single-file along the fence. The cold makes her breathing stuffy. She rubs some Mentholatum under her nose and coughs, then returns the little tube to her pocket.

  “In the tubs.”

  “Aren’t they automatic?” Maggie thinks about all the ranchers she knows in south central Texas. Their tanks have floats for refilling. Even in the coldest weather, the water usually replenishes.

  “No. We don’t use floats this far north. Ice breaks floats, and broken floats kill. Animals die fast here without water. Plus a broken float can waste the water itself, spill it all out on the ground, where it doesn’t do them any good.”

  “What about the creeks and ponds?”

  “They don’t freeze as fast, so we can break the ice by hand. But when it gets too cold, we’ll have to bring the livestock where we can keep them fed and hydrated, I imagine. That’s what most everyone up here does.”

  Maggie imagines the overcrowded barn conditions. “There’s not room for them all in the ranch buildings.”

  “Oh, they’re fine outside. Especially the horses. They adapt pretty well to cold forage. Better than cattle. The cows are known to hunker in ravines that fill up with ice and snow, then starve their damn selves to death. Horses move to higher ground where the wind blows the snow off the grass leftover from the growth months. Horses can even get their hydration from eating snow. Cattle don’t.”

  “But it gets so cold here. And so windy. Won’t they freeze to death?” Maggie’s plenty cold now, even with the sun out. She leans back as Lily picks h
er way down a steep incline. The horse slides a few feet. Maggie clutches the saddle horn, but Lily seems nonplussed.

  “You’d be surprised. I’ve heard an unclipped horse’s ideal weather is twenty degrees. I don’t know about that, because I haven’t ever been able to get one to tell me, but I’ve seen our horses on the res refuse to take shelter even when we offer it, in double digits below zero.”

  “How do they survive?”

  “They just huddle together with their butts against the wind.”

  “But two cows aren’t enough for a huddle. I hope they didn’t get loose.”

  “Most likely they’re just over a ridge, enjoying the sun. But we’ll make sure.”

  Lily snorts and jerks her head up. A red fox darts in front of them in a crazy zigzag pattern, then across the snow to the fence line. Maggie remembers the brown jackrabbit hopping over the grass only a day or two ago. This landscape is nothing if not constantly changing. The sky is crazy clear and the snow sparkles like diamonds. On the face of the mountain, the rustic family cabin looks like a Swiss chalet. A bald eagle swoops up and down the ridge, letting out a series of high-pitched whistles.

  Maggie tents her hand to peer after the raptor. “It sure doesn’t make a very powerful sound.”

  “Doesn’t have to. The eagle knows he is mighty. We are blessed by his presence. He comes to us from heaven.”

  Maggie smiles. “A visitor from heaven. Really?”

  “That’s what my grandfather says. Maybe this one is sent by your friend Paco.”

  “Maybe.” Maggie doesn’t bother to sound convinced.

  Michael’s head moves slowly left to right and back as he scans the landscape, looking for signs of the missing cattle. “I only met him once. Did you know him well?”

  “A little. He was full of life. A charmer. And good with mechanics. Like, things with engines. He helped me when my truck broke down.”

  Michael stops and stares at something for a moment, then he urges his mount forward again. “My Cheyenne name is Talks to Eagles. When I was a boy, an eagle flew through my bedroom window. He was not happy. He went crazy, flapping his wings, breaking things. I talked to him until he calmed down. I told him I was his little brother and I would help him. He finally let me pick him up. I carried him outside and released him to kiss the sky.”