Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  She checks the time on her phone. It’s after seven. So much for breakfast. She throws on sweatpants and one of Hank’s extra-large Wyoming Cowboys sweatshirts with some Uggs. As she’s dressing, she sees Hank’s suitcase by the door. For a moment, she panics. Why is he leaving? Then she remembers they’re leaving today for Oklahoma and the rodeo. She puts her hand on the suitcase, then walks to his chest of drawers. She’s not sure why, but she opens his top drawer. Snooping isn’t her thing, usually, but this up and down with Hank has her outside herself. She doesn’t even know what she’s looking for, but she looks anyway. Feeling around, she shoves her hands under his stack of folded underwear. Folded? She doesn’t even fold hers, and she’s a woman. She finds a flat box and pulls it out. Opens it. Holds her breath.

  Inside is a piece of folded paper, like the kind torn from a hotel memo pad. Unfolding it, she sees the logo for the Buffalo Lodge and the address in Chugwater, Wyoming. Her heart hitches in her chest. She reads her own words in her scribbled writing:

  Best night of my life, cowboy. I hate missing breakfast, but Nashville called and I have to go. The truck will be at the airport. Come get your belt buckle.

  It’s signed with a big heart, an xxox, her name, and her old phone number back in Nashville, so many years ago.

  Hank had kept her note. The one she’d left him fifteen years ago. Tears well in her eyes. She wipes them, chagrined at her emotionality. What does it matter if he keeps romantic notes if they can’t get along for more than a few days at a time?

  She stomps to the front door and lets Louise out. Louise scampers toward the barn for breakfast with the ranch dogs, nose to the ground and tail up the whole way. Maggie shuffles into the kitchen in search of scraps. She’ll pack after she eats. Trudy is there, the eye of a tornado. Around her in the kitchen are baked goods and casseroles of every description. The whole place smells like powdered sugar and angel kisses. The obligatory apple pie—God, let that be the last of the apples for the season, Maggie prays—and a basket of icebox rolls. A glazed pound cake. Potato salad. A steaming pot of baked beans.

  “You’re killing it in here. What’s the occasion?”

  Trudy squints at her. “Paco’s memorial.”

  “Oh shit. I forgot. Can I help?”

  “Don’t you need to eat breakfast and get ready? We have to leave here in half an hour.” Under her voluminous white chef’s apron, Trudy is in ironed jeans, a purple snap-front shirt, and black boots. Her hair—normally scraped into something that’s half falling apart from hard work—is in a neat French twist with strawberry-blonde tendrils framing her perfectly oval face. Gold earrings in the shape of feathers dangle nearly to her shoulders.

  “Good idea. Have you seen Hank?”

  “He grabbed coffee while I was making breakfast. He was doing his grizzly bear impression.” Trudy glances at Maggie, like she’s checking for a reaction, but Maggie doesn’t give away her emotional state. Closing the oven with her hip, Trudy holds another apple pie aloft. “There are apple cinnamon muffins in the bread box. Coffee on the stove.” She keeps a percolator hot and full all day.

  Maggie rolls up the lid and snatches a muffin, even though she would have sold her soul for blueberry. Banana nut. Carrot. Anything but more apple. “Thanks. I’ll be back down to help as fast as I can.”

  “No bother. I have Andy and Michael loading the truck for me. We’re in good shape.”

  Maggie stuffs half the muffin into her mouth on the way up the stairs and regrets not pouring herself coffee. Or a glass of water. She struggles to swallow, but follows up with the other half before she turns on the shower in the bathroom. Dry shampoo will have to work for her hair, since she’s out of time before she’s even getting started today. She’s in and out in five minutes. Taking her cue from Trudy, she opts for country Sunday attire. She’s sliding a black sweater over her head to go with her jeans when Hank comes in.

  Without a word, he turns the shower back on.

  “Hank.”

  He shuts the bathroom door.

  She opens it and then closes it again, leaning against the inside for support. “Don’t do this.”

  He shucks his clothes. Dammit, she can’t help admiring the view, even when things are like this between them. She loves every scar and indentation on his beautiful body.

  “My head hurts. I can’t talk right now.”

  She flows across the floor and takes his hand. “Let me help you.”

  He looks at her. His eyes are glazed with pain or medication or both. “Let me be okay, like I am.”

  “I can do that.” She turns on cold water and holds her hands under it, then places one on his forehead. “Feel good?”

  He moans. “Do that again.”

  She puts the other hand in its place, then kisses his temple. “You take your meds?”

  “No.”

  “What am I going to do with you?” She tears open a packet and hands it to him.

  He closes his eyes and dry-swallows. “Love me forever.”

  “Oh, Hank.” The image of the note he keeps in his top drawer flashes in her mind. She wraps herself gently around his naked body and puts her head on his chest. “I have. I will. I just wish it was easier. Were we always this up and down?”

  His voice is a rumbly vibration against her cheek. “We were together less than twenty-four hours.”

  One snort-laugh escapes her. “It was a lifetime ago. We were so young. I remember it as so much longer. So much more.”

  He rocks her. “It was. It was everything.”

  A loud knocking on the bathroom door makes them both jump. Laura hollers at them. “Are you guys riding with Mom and me? Because we’re leaving.”

  Hank winces. “Meet you there?”

  “So I don’t get your help because you have to sneak a shower quickie when we have things to do? It’s not enough that I’m taking care of Mom while you play with your horses and girlfriend the rest of the time?”

  “Whoa there, sis. Who do you think gets up with her nights and covers Tom’s days off when you’re in New Mexico?”

  Maggie’s rage is instantaneous. She throws open the door, revealing Hank’s nude body.

  “If you don’t mind, your brother is having a horrible headache. You’re not helping. I’m trying to. I don’t think he’ll be able to drive. You can either wait for us, or I can bring him to the church. Your choice. We’ll be downstairs in ten.”

  She enjoys a glimpse of Laura’s round eyes and mouth before she slams the door in her face. Then she points at the shower and raises her eyebrows at Hank.

  “There’s the girl I love. You’re so damn cute when you’re fierce.”

  She winks. “I’ll pick you out some clothes while I pack a bag for our trip. Want the lights out?” It sometimes helps him.

  “Sure.”

  She flicks the switch.

  Hank’s head peeks out from the curtained shower. “And Maggie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  Twenty-One

  The one-room white clapboard church is packed tight, humid with humanity as the pastor finishes a short service for Paco and announces the hymn. Frost on the windows partially obscures the white landscape surrounding the building. The tables in the back are groaning under the offerings of food. The front of the nave looks like an ad for a florist. Maggie wishes Paco’s blood family could have been here to see his church family show up en masse to wish him farewell. Fifty voices offer up “Amazing Grace” slightly off-key while the Danish musician Maggie met at the Ox plays the fiddle and Wally the keyboard.

  Deputy Travis is in the row behind her, not singing. Maggie is sandwiched between Hank, who is holding her hand, and Andy, who’s shifting uneasily. Beside Andy, Trudy warbles in a pure soprano. Next to her, Laura has her arm around Mrs. Sibley and is whispering in her ear. The older woman is growing increasingly agitated, turning her whole body in her chair to look back at the door.

&nbs
p; The song ends. The pastor opens the mic to the congregation, and people offer brief eulogies. Hank goes last. He gets choked up at the podium, but manages to bid Paco Godspeed and give Gene’s regrets for not being able to be there. Maggie knows Paco would have understood and agreed with Gene’s decision to get on the road to meet the bucking stock in Duncan. Livestock comes first on a ranch, that much she has already learned.

  The pastor releases everyone to eat and visit. Folding chairs scrape the floor as people move from them and form a line for the food.

  “I’ve got to get Mom home,” Laura announces, wheeling Mrs. Sibley in front of Hank.

  Mrs. Sibley lets loose a string of curse words that impress Maggie with their crudeness and creativity. Where had Mrs. Sibley picked up “dick smack” and “asswipe?”

  Hank pulls at his bolo tie. It’s black with a bronze bull rider on a silver oval. “I’ll help you load up, but I can’t go yet.” Since Laura had waited for Maggie and Hank to ride over together from Piney Bottoms, they only have one vehicle now. “Want to drive around and come back for us, or should we cram in with Trudy and Andy and the dishes?”

  Laura pushes her short hair back. She looks haggard. Maggie almost feels sorry for her, but after earlier, not quite. “I’ll drive into town and get her a hamburger, then come back for you. Maybe she’ll fall asleep on the way.”

  Hank turns to Maggie. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Of course.”

  People part to make way as Hank and Laura walk out together with their mother.

  Andy appears beside Maggie and whispers to her. “Is the deputy here to keep an eye on me?”

  “I think it’s pretty standard for law enforcement to come to the funerals of murder victims.”

  “Why?”

  “What I’ve heard is that often the murderer will be there.”

  “Like me. Great.”

  “Come on. He’s not here for you.”

  “Then why do I feel like he’s spying on me?”

  “I’m feeling a little spied on myself.” Maggie glances pointedly at Sheila and her girlfriend on the other side of the room. They’re staring at her and whispering.

  “Why don’t we get some food? It might make us both feel better.”

  “Lead the way.”

  At the buffet line, she and Andy converse across the tables with Wally and the fiddler, who she is relieved to hear Wally call by name. Donna. Maggie steers the conversation to their instrumental backgrounds and away from herself. Suddenly, Penny is in line with them, too, her long black hair shining and hanging in a curtain down her back.

  “Hey, everyone.” Her eyes are red like she’s been crying.

  “Penny. Good to see you.” Maggie grabs a paper plate and rolled napkin full of plastic cutlery.

  Andy turns red to the roots of his sandy hair. “P-p-penny.”

  “Hi, Andy.”

  “I didn’t know you knew Paco.” Maggie skips the apple pie and takes a big slice of pound cake instead.

  “We hung out a few times.”

  Andy looks away.

  Penny was another of Paco’s admirers? “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Penny inclines her head. “Well, I just wanted to say hi. My ride is here. I’ll call you about the lesson Monday, Maggie.” She glances at Andy. “Bye, Andy.”

  “Goodbye.” He watches her go.

  Maggie adds a slice of ham and a link of Basque sausage to her already heaping plate. “Did you know she was friends with Paco?”

  Andy concentrates on ladling potato salad. “Uh-huh.”

  Nothing is making much sense to Maggie. “So you knew her before last night?”

  A tap on her shoulder saves Andy. Maggie nearly dumps her plate against the stomach of Deputy Travis’s bomber jacket. Andy backs away and disappears into the crowd.

  Twenty-Two

  Travis jumps back, one eye on Maggie’s load of food. “Can I have a word, Ms. Killian?”

  Maggie tilts her head at her plate. “Kinda occupied here.”

  “There are two empty chairs over there.” He nods. “You eat. I talk.”

  Maggie’s sigh is long and dramatic. “Really. At a funeral.”

  Travis takes her free elbow. She jerks it away but walks to the two chairs near the window. It isn’t until she takes a seat that she notices Sheila and her friends standing next to the chairs. Today Sheila’s puffy vest is black and matches boots with fur lining peeking out, which Maggie guesses is in deference to Paco. Her hair is down in a blonde cloud. She snorts and pokes Mary, the brunette from the Ox. Mary doesn’t react. Her eyes look as red as Penny’s. More. She’s staring out the window.

  Maggie scooches her chair until its back is to them. She ignores Travis, too, by digging into the sausage, even though her mouth is dry and the meat tastes like dirt.

  “I have some follow-up questions for you.”

  With her mouth full, Maggie tries to say, “I thought you said I’d eat and you’d talk.” It comes out as, “I taught you said I eat and you tock.”

  Travis seems to understand her anyway. “You can drag this out if you want. I’ve got all day.”

  Suddenly, Sheila is in front of them. She bends over nearly into Travis’s lap. “Trav, how are you? I missed you at homecoming.”

  A flash of irritation crosses his face. He pulls back from Sheila as far as he can in his chair. “Work. You know.”

  “Oh, hi, Maggie.” She shows all her teeth in a fake smile.

  Maggie hadn’t realized Sheila looked so much like a beaver. It makes her happy.

  Sheila uses a conspiratorial tone with Travis. “I ran into Maggie and Andy last night at the Ox. And the day before when, um, they were at your office.”

  Travis lifts an arm and uses it to guide Sheila away from his personal space. “All right, Sheila, we were in the middle of something. I’ll be seeing you.”

  She pouts prettily. “Travvers. All right. Don’t be a stranger.” She drops the pretense and gives Maggie a death mask, but keeps her voice sugary sweet. “Maggie.”

  Maggie tests the baked beans without responding, and Sheila rejoins her friends. Funny how talking to Sheila makes Travis slightly more palatable.

  Travis lowers his voice. “I’ve heard a few new details about Paco that disturb me.”

  Maggie dips a carrot in ranch dip and nibbles.

  “One of Paco’s buddies, a guy named Emile, said Paco was concerned before his disappearance.”

  “About what?”

  “About Hank.”

  Maggie puts her carrot down. “Hank? Why?”

  “Hank warned him off you, apparently.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Is it?” Travis looks at Hank, who’s standing in the doorway, red-cheeked and staring at the two of them. “He’s a volatile guy with a reputation for solving his problems physically.”

  Maggie swallows a big lump. This isn’t the first time the Sheridan County Sheriff’s Department has targeted Hank because of fighting. She’d had a front-row seat to the fight with Patrick Rhodes that made Hank a suspect in the man’s murder, until Maggie handed Travis the real killer. Plus Hank’s told her stories. Confessed to using his fists, when he maybe should have walked away. And then there’s his head injury and headaches. Volatile? With her, at least lately. She won’t win a debate on this issue with Travis, so she won’t go there.

  “And you think I’m his problem?”

  “Or Paco was. What was your relationship with him?”

  Maggie’s eyes lock on Hank’s. He starts walking toward her. “Nothing special. He worked for Hank and Gene. We ate meals as a group. He’d saddle my horse sometimes. He worked on my truck. He was a nice guy, but he was younger, and he was always going on about some woman or other. I was nothing to him but his boss’s woman.” She stands and puts her plate in the chair. What she doesn’t say is that Hank had warned her that Paco thought she was “hot.” But that was before she got back together with Hank. When he was dating Sheila. T
here was nothing wrong with Paco noticing her, or even Hank telling her. Hank just didn’t want her to make a mistake and get hurt. Right?

  “So Emile is lying?”

  “Or he misunderstood. Or Paco distorted the truth.”

  “Can you account for Hank’s whereabouts in the two days before you found Paco—every single hour?”

  Of course she can’t. Hank works on a very big ranch, and she doesn’t follow him around like a dopey kid with a crush. Before she can think of a way to answer Travis, Hank puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes. She reaches up and catches his hand, squeezes back, and holds on.

  “Harassing my girl, deputy?”

  Travis reaches for Hank’s other hand and shakes it at the same time that he rises from his chair. “Just finished. You two have a good day.”

  Hank holds Travis’s hand a second longer than necessary. “You, too.”

  Travis grimaces, and Maggie knows Hank just crushed the bones in his hand. Bad timing, Hank.

  Travis shakes his fingers. “Nice grip, Sibley.”

  Hank guides Maggie away. She looks up at his profile. He’s smiling, but there’s not a dimple in sight.

  Twenty-Three

  Maggie and Hank drop Laura and Mrs. Sibley back at Piney Bottoms, hitch a trailer to Hank’s truck, load Louise, and hit the road for Duncan, Oklahoma. The roads are clear and the sun is out. The temperature is a balmy fifty. The seasons here are so short. The window is open again on summer, but it will slam shut for the rest of the winter soon enough.

  The winds, however, are hurricane strength—a year-round phenomenon—and they buffet them all over the interstate. Louise whines from the back seat of the extended cab.

  Hank winks at Maggie. “Relax. I’m used to this. I’ve never flipped a trailer.”

  She’s gripping the armrest so hard she leaves nail imprints. “There’s always a first time. Why are we bringing the big windsail anyway? We aren’t towing any animals.”

  “You never know what we’ll want to bring back. Plus, we need a place to sleep.”