She didn’t see the one person she really wanted to see. Maggie scanned the crowd again, looking for Rance Montoya.
He was propped against a tree, intently watching the goings-on from his vantage point, well out of the way. Maggie’s heart leaped. He looked so handsome, with his woven cowboy hat, and jeans that hugged his narrow hips and powerful thighs almost indecently. He looked more like a cowboy than a farmer, but instead of cowboy boots he wore laced tan leather work boots, and a red T-shirt stretched tightly across his broad, muscular chest.
A brief vision of white skin against tan flashed into Maggie’s mind. Blushing, she shook it away.
The object of her attention plucked a piece of straw from his mouth and tossed it lazily to the ground. He must have felt Maggie’s hungry eyes on him, for he looked directly at her and smiled. His smoldering eyes seemed to bore right into Maggie’s soul. She looked away, embarrassed by the color that rose, unbidden, to her cheeks. When she looked for him again, he was gone. Disappointed that she’d scared him away, Maggie turned her attention back to the salvage operation.
“I guess this is more excitement than you’ve seen in a long time,” said a familiar masculine voice from a spot just behind her.
Maggie spun around, startled. How had he gotten to her so fast? And so quietly? She took a deep breath and tried to still her racing heart.
Finally Maggie felt calm enough to trust her voice. She drew in a deep breath. “Do they know anything yet?”
Rance slid his arm around Maggie’s waist, making her heart turn flips as he propelled her toward a secluded spot in the shade. “Not much. The diver didn’t come up with anything. Not even car tags.” A pained expression crossed his face fleetingly.
Odd, Maggie thought. He seemed really bothered by the car. Especially the missing tags. “Is there...?”
“A body? No.” Rance had a disconcerting habit of finishing her sentences.
Maggie looked up into Rance’s dark eyes. He was smiling, but his eyes were clouded. Was it her imagination, or had the lights that had shone from within dimmed? Why was he always so confusing? Maggie renewed her vow to find out more about Rance Montoya.
Or am I just confused? Maggie asked herself. It had been a very long time since she had any practice dealing with men who were not family. Could she be that rusty, that the unfamiliar about someone new became something to distrust? Maggie wasn’t certain what to think. She wanted to trust him, but he seemed to be keeping something inside. Would he ever open up?
“Maggie?” The sound of Rance Montoya’s rich voice speaking her name penetrated her muddled thoughts.
“I’m sorry. I was...” She couldn’t tell him that she’d been wool-gathering about him. “I was wondering about the car,” she said lamely.
“Me, too” was all Rance said.
The growling whine of the electric winch of the truck with Ted’s Toe Truck painted on the side interrupted the silence. Maggie and Rance both turned in response to the sound.
The slime-covered, rusty hulk rose slowly from its watery grave until it strained against the surface. The tow truck quivered and shook with the waterlogged weight and tugged on. The car seemed to hang suspended, half in and half out of the water. Then, with a jerk, it lurched over the bank and onto dry land.
The terrain was rough, covered with rock, scrub and debris from the hasty clearing job that had been done to provide access to the fishing hole. Ted pulled the car away toward the main road to Pittsville and the sheriff’s impound lot. As the truck and the car reached a position parallel to where Maggie and Rance stood, the car hit a concealed log. The force of the impact popped the passenger door open, sending a cascade of water and debris to the ground.
Rance made a cursory search of the ground for a small, misshapen object that had fallen from the car, but he couldn’t find it. Why it was important for him to see it, to touch it, he didn’t know. Yes, he did. Rance knew he had seen it before. Though he had only seen the object for an instant amid the debris, it had reminded him of something—something that, by all that was right, should not be here.
He had just started to make a more thorough search when he remembered the redhead at his side. How could he forget her? Her snug jeans and the tight tank top that stretched across her curves should have distracted him from anything. But for a moment he had forgotten. Damn. He wished this mystery would come to a conclusion. Would he ever learn the truth about his past, so he could get on with his future?
Turning back to Maggie, Rance forced the questions from his mind. “Look, I’d like to walk you home, but I promised Joe I’d stay to help clear the logjam when the sheriff gets done.”
Maggie looked up at him expectantly, and Rance felt as if he would drown in her deep turquoise eyes. Why did she always make him feel so tongue-tied?
“I don’t know when I’ll be done tonight, but how about dinner at my place tomorrow? I haven’t forgotten my promise to fix you an authentic Mexican meal. The kids, too,” Rance added.
That had been easy enough. Had he just asked Maggie for a date? Yes, he had. And he’d invited two chaperons. Damn.
“Sounds good. What time?”
Maggie’s practical question brought him back down to earth. He thought a minute. “How about six? I have to mow the orchard and the area around the house. But I should be done early.”
“Perfect. I’ll make dessert.” Maggie turned, but she stopped short and uttered a cry of pain.
“What is it?” His first thought was a snake, and he scanned the ground for signs of one.
“My hair,” she muttered, reaching up behind her;
Rance saw that Maggie’s riotous red hair was caught in the thick tangle of blackberry vines behind her. “Don’t struggle. It’ll just make it worse. I’ll do it,” he said as he reached behind her.
Maggie drew in a sharp breath, and Rance wondered if he’d hurt her as he tried to pull her free. But the rapid rise and fall of her chest seemed far out of proportion to the inconvenience of being caught in a bramble bush. He glanced at her face just in time to see her drop her gaze and the color rise in her face. It wasn’t the stickers.
He willed himself to concentrate on the task at hand while a less controllable part of his body had other ideas. He tried to ignore the tingling in his groin, and almost succeeded. Almost. Then he loosened the captive strand with a gentle tug. “There, you’re loose,” he announced.
Free, Maggie stepped forward and stumbled on a tree root, falling right into his arms. Her soft body against his undid all his good intentions, and he stared down into her blue-green eyes.
“Rance, I...” Maggie pushed herself gently away, but, to her credit, she didn’t avert her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Don’t talk,” he whispered. “And I can think of a much better way for you to thank me.” He looked down into her blue-green eyes with an unasked question in his own. Her forthright gaze seemed to answer yes. He drew in a long breath. “Let’s just go with the moment.” He lowered his head toward her, and she closed her eyes in quiet acceptance of his intent.
“Mo-om, Grandma wants to know if you want to eat supper at her house,” a young voice called from behind them.
Rance groaned and stepped back, creating too much distance between them while Maggie ran her hand self-consciously through her hair. Jennifer’s intrusion had dampened his heated feelings, so at least he could face the child and give Maggie a moment to compose herself. He turned and presented the girl with a crooked smile.
“Whatcha doin’?” Jennifer’s innocent question had anything but an innocent answer.
“Mr. Montoya was helping me untangle my hair from these sticker bushes,” Maggie replied as she stepped out from behind him. She pointed to a tuft of red fluff still caught in the briars.
Jennifer made a face. “Ooh... That must’ve hurt.”
Not as much as being interrupted by you, Rance thought, but didn’t voice.
“It wasn’t too bad, but it was scary being caught so tight,” Maggie
explained, her voice still too breathy. She cast an apologetic look over her shoulder as she looped her arm over her daughter’s shoulder and headed toward the trail.
With a wave of her hand, she left. He tried to follow her progress, but she quickly disappeared into the crowd of dispersing bystanders. Maybe it was just as well. It was much too soon for him to be thinking about her as a lover. He knew he could handle it, but he wasn’t so sure about Maggie.
Rance turned to look for Joe. “She didn’t need to bring dessert,” he mumbled as he strode across the clearing. She was dessert!
If only he could figure a way to get her to his home without the kids.
The invitation, and the strange expression she’d seen in Rance’s eyes, worried Maggie throughout the evening. Not to mention the kiss that wasn’t. It hadn’t been enough to ruin her sleep, but she’d had an unsettled feeling that wouldn’t go away. Though she looked forward to dinner with Rance Montoya, she still worried that he wasn’t who he appeared to be.
When her doubts were still with her the next morning, Maggie decided to investigate. Anybody else would have just asked the neighbors about the story. Yet Rance had all but acted as if he had something to hide. If Rance wouldn’t open up to her, then she would just have to find out on her own. After all, she had all the resources of the Pittsville Library at her disposal. And she already knew where to look.
The only problem was, she didn’t know what she was looking for.
Maggie arrived at the library early on Saturday morning. She had allowed time to take the long way around in case the bridge was still flooded. But Beaver Creek had rambled lazily under the bridge, staying politely between its banks. The bridge seemed none the worse for wear, and Maggie arrived at work a full twenty minutes early.
She pulled out her key to let herself in, but the door was already open. Drat. Now she would have to explain why she was researching her new next-door neighbor. Mrs. Eula Larson would never let that get by without comment.
Composing a logical reason for wanting to know about Rance’s connection to the Hightowers, Maggie approached Mrs. Larson, who was working busily at her desk. “Good morning, Mrs. L. Do you have anything pressing that needs to be done?” Maggie crossed her fingers as she waited for the librarian’s response.
Mrs. Larson looked up, a baffled look on her face. “No, hon. Why?”
Maggie glanced at the clock. “Since I’m here early, I thought I’d use the time for some personal research. If you don’t need me.”
“We’re not officially open yet. Go ahead.”
Maggie thought she had managed to avoid Mrs. Larson’s inquisition. But she congratulated herself too soon.
“What are you looking up?”
Sighing with resignation, Maggie stopped and turned back to Mrs. Larson. “Rance got me curious about my ghostly neighbor. I thought I’d look him up.”
“Didn’t he tell you what he found?” Mrs. Larson asked absently as she sorted through a stack of cards.
“No. Frankly, it didn’t occur to me to ask at the time. We were busy with the submerged car.” Maggie resumed her course for the newspaper storage room, then stopped.
“Mrs. Larson, were you living in Pittsville when Luther Hightower died?” Why not use her nosy boss to advantage? There wasn’t much that happened in Pitts County that Eula Larson didn’t know about.
“Why, yes. I’d just married my Ray. Let’s see, we married in 1965. Luther Hightower killed himself the next year.” Mrs. Larson proceeded to describe her first years of married bliss, but Maggie tuned it out. She’d heard it all before.
“Do you remember what time of year it was?” Maggie asked when Mrs. Larson paused for breath.
“Certainly. It was right before Christmas. It was so sad. Him leaving that pretty young wife and his little boy like that. And at Christmastime, too.” Mrs. Larson tut-tutted and shook her head.
“Do you know why?”
“Oh, yes. It was quite a scandal. He had lost the family farm after a business failure. He shot himself after the bank foreclosed on the property.
“His widow got the insurance money, but it wasn’t enough to buy the place back. In fact, I think most of it went to the bank, but still didn’t clear the debt. She took the little boy and went to live with her folks. No one’s heard from them since.”
“Well, thanks.” Maggie turned toward the storage room.
“Oh, did I tell you?” Mrs. Larson looked as if she had the latest juicy gossip, and Maggie sighed. “Somebody’s been putting flowers on Luther Hightower’s grave.”
“So?”
“The last time that happened was right after the bank sold the house.”
“Hmm...” It didn’t seem significant, but maybe Maggie would have to think on it some more. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. Maybe it was some distant relative, just passing through.”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Larson agreed reluctantly. Maggie had a feeling the older woman had wanted to make a mystery out of it.
“Well, let me get to my research before we get inundated by customers.”
“All right. You go on.”
Relieved, Maggie hurried away. She wasn’t sure how much of what Mrs. Larson had told her was of any help. But she’d at least narrowed down the time of death to about two months in 1966. She didn’t know why, but Luther Hightower’s obituary seemed to be the key to everything.
It didn’t take Maggie long to find the issues of the Pittsville Partner she wanted; Rance Montoya had already cleared the way. She leafed through the November issues. Nothing. Then, in the December 6, 1966 issue, she hit paydirt.
“Hightower Found Shot. Suicide Suspected,” screamed the headline.
Maggie skimmed the story. The details were sketchy, pending a police investigation.
She moved on to the next issue. The story had been relegated to a corner of the front page, already displaced by a fire at the local grocery store. The article confirmed that Hightower’s death was suicide and referred the reader to the obituary section.
Maggie flipped to the obituaries at the back of the paper. It was amazing how little the paper’s format had changed in thirty years. She knew right where to look.
There were three death notices that week. Luther Hightower’s was the shortest. He hadn’t lived as long as the two other occupants of the section. Maggie was saddened by that, reminded of her own loss of Chet, who had also died before his time.
She skimmed the obituary, then read it again. The paper listed Hightower’s survivors. There were only two. He was survived by his wife, Rose Montoya Hightower, and a son. She shrugged, ready to turn the page when she saw it. Rance. The boy’s name was Rance! Rance Hightower. Rance Montoya Hightower?
Rance and Montoya were not common names, at least not around Pittsville, Alabama. A chill shuddered through her. It couldn’t be a coincidence that thirty years after Luther Hightower’s death, a man named Rance Montoya had bought his place. His age was even about right.
That probably explained the recent flowers on Luther Hightower’s grave, but why hadn’t he admitted it when Mrs. Larson brought it up the other day? And what about those other flowers that had been found, thirty years ago?
It had taken Rance longer to mow the tall grass and brush in the peach orchard than he had expected. So he was getting a late start on the overgrown front yard. He’d hoped to have time to search for the object he was sure had fallen from the car they’d found yesterday.
He parked the used light-duty tractor in the shade of one of the towering pecan trees by the house. He’d purchased the tractor with the remainder of his life savings, and he couldn’t afford to make any undue repairs right now. The engine needed to cool, and so did he.
Rance went into the house for something to drink while the tractor cooled. A slight breeze blew through an open window as he sat at the kitchen table, nursing a tall glass of iced tea. He smiled.
In just a few hours, Maggie would be sitting at this table. Already he felt that she b
elonged here as much as he did.
He checked to see whether the meat was thawing properly in the aged refrigerator. Satisfied that it was, Rance downed the rest of his tea and went to finish the job.
The gas in the tractor was low, so Rance filled the tank before starting the machine. He guessed he should have gone over the yard to check for obstacles, but it was late; Maggie would soon be here. He’d walked the yard a couple of times before and not seen anything that looked dangerous. It would be okay.
Rance switched on the engine and smiled as the old tractor grumbled to a start. Some people got off on the sound of a shiny new car purring to life; he loved the throaty growl of this lumbering machine.
It didn’t take long to lop off the tall grass and brambles that had overtaken the once-spacious yard, and he entertained himself during the mindless task with thoughts of Maggie and that kiss that hadn’t quite happened, but that he hoped to get another shot at soon. The crude mowing job had made the yard look even bigger, but he decided to make one more pass around the edge by the pines before he quit.
Rance wheeled the big machine into position and lowered the cutting blades. In just a couple of minutes, he would be done.
At the end of his final sweep, he turned the wheel abruptly, eager to get the tractor into the shed.
He wasn’t sure what happened next, but Rance felt a sudden jolt as he rounded the corner of the house and turned down the gentle slope that led to the equipment shed. One minute he was riding, the next the tractor was toppling over. Even though he seemed to fall in slow motion, Rance had no time to save himself.
He uttered a series of curses as he realized what had happened. A half ton of metal and growling engine lay on its side on top of him, trapping him underneath. By some miracle he had landed in a gap created by the huge tractor tire. It kept the full weight of the machine from crushing him, but didn’t leave enough room for him to escape. He didn’t think he was hurt, but he couldn’t pull himself out from under the machine.
Damn. He couldn’t move. He was pinned beneath a still-running engine with a full tank. The gravity of the situation hit him with a wallop as the odor of leaking gas reached his nose.
Montoya's Heart Page 7
