Big Sky Romance Collection

by Denise Hunter

He hoped she wouldn’t overdo it. He’d known one too many cowboys to take a fall, keep working, then keel over later.

  “Lie down and take it easy,” Wade called.

  “Yes, Dad,” Abigail said saucily.

  Wade clamped his lips together. Last thing he wanted was Abigail thinking fatherly thoughts of him. Heaven knew, his own weren’t going that direction.

  Sergeant Greta wouldn’t let Abigail off the couch all day. The woman wanted her to see a doctor, but when Abigail refused, Greta relented. She pressed her lips together. “Suit yourself,” she said before returning to her cleaning.

  Two Tylenol tablets later, Abigail’s head settled to a dull pounding. Maddy brought ice packs on the hour and retrieved the laptop to keep Abigail occupied.

  When Maddy went outside to play and Greta went upstairs to vacuum, Abigail looked up articles on Wade. A pang of guilt hit her even as she typed in the search words.

  She couldn’t reconcile the man who was accused by some of murdering his wife with the man who’d tended her in the meadow.

  Not to mention the man who’d swept her into his arms and deposited her so gently in the saddle. She sure hadn’t been thinking about his past when she’d been cradled against his chest . . . when his arm had curled around her . . . when his breath had stirred the nerve endings in her ear and tingled all the way down her spine. She’d been thinking about lots of things, but not his past.

  Maybe her instincts were off. Maybe he really was a lonely widower who’d been left to care for his young daughter and pursued relentlessly by the nosy paparazzi.

  Well, she wouldn’t know for sure until she researched thoroughly. It was fact that mattered, not emotion. She couldn’t let her decisions be clouded by feelings.

  Not that there were feelings. She barely knew the man, for heaven’s sake. And she sure didn’t trust him. Even if he did seem gentle and caring.

  She clicked on a link, then another and another. Twenty minutes later she was browsing photos of Wade at a National Finals Rodeo when she realized she’d gotten off track. Way off track. Sure the photos were interesting, and he was attractive from every angle, but it was getting her nowhere with her research. Shaking her head, she started another search, determined to stick to business.

  She turned up an article written after Wade and Maddy disappeared that included details Abigail hadn’t come across before. Supposedly there was a large lapse of time between Elizabeth’s time of death and Wade’s 9-1-1 call. Between eight and nine hours, the article said.

  The original article had appeared in a small magazine, but when she searched the website, there was nothing more recent. The magazine was now defunct, she supposed.

  Abigail was surprised the article was still online. There wasn’t even a writer attributed. If she could find the person who’d written it, she could find out if there was any credence to the detail.

  But if it was true, why had the police let him off the hook so quickly? She’d seen Wade’s enormous earnings from his rodeo wins. Had he paid off someone?

  Abigail didn’t want to believe it. She wanted to think Maddy’s father incapable of the heinous crime. What kind of man killed his daughter’s mother? And yet, people committed atrocious crimes all the time. It was up to her to find the truth.

  She was unaccustomed to this tug-of-war. She was a journalist, the Truthseeker, not the Bleeding Heart. She had to stick to the facts and not let her relationship with Maddy or Wade cloud her judgment. Which, she realized as she exited the website and shut down her computer, was easier said than done.

  12

  Something pulled Abigail from the oblivion of sleep. Her head pounded. Surely someone was hitting it with a sledgehammer. She lay motionless, trying to gather the will to hunt down the Tylenol.

  Before she could move, she sensed a change in the room. Her eyes snapped open. It was dark, save for a sliver of light beneath the door. Even as her eyes skimmed past, a shadow fell at its base. She heard the quiet click of her doorknob turning.

  Abigail’s heart raced, the pounding in her head all but forgotten.

  It’s just Maddy.

  She watched the gap between the door and frame widen. The article from the night before surged to her mind, adding fuel to her thudding heart.

  A hulking silhouette formed against the background. Broad shoulders, trim waist. Why was Wade coming in here? Did he know about her research? Had she left the laptop in the living room? Had he looked at her history? She couldn’t turn her head to check her nightstand, couldn’t let him know she was awake.

  Think, Abigail!

  Wade took a step toward the bed and then another. What should she do? Better he think her asleep and helpless, she decided, tensing at his approach. The floor creaked quietly under his feet as his form swallowed the light from the hall.

  He held something. The light flashed off it. Her breaths became shallow puffs.

  Then he was there. Beside her bed. Leaning over.

  Oh, God, what do I do? She pressed her lips together, forbidding the scream that gathered in her throat.

  “Abigail,” he whispered.

  She clutched the sheet between them, a pathetic barrier. Killers didn’t wake their victims, did they? Except the cruel ones. If he’d wanted her dead—

  “Abigail?” His voice was louder, more insistent.

  He wasn’t going away. “What?” The croak squeezed from her restricted throat.

  “You okay?”

  He woke her to ask if she was okay? “What?”

  “Making sure you’re all right—no concussion.”

  Her fingers relaxed on the sheet, and her pounding head reclaimed her attention. He hadn’t come to murder her. He’d come to check on her. If there were a Ninny of the Year Award, she’d just earned it.

  Abigail’s heart rate slipped into a lower gear. “I’m fine.” Fine as could be for someone who thought she was about to be slaughtered in her own bed.

  “Brought you Tylenol.”

  Of course he did. She sighed.

  “Head still banging?”

  Was it ever. “Yeah.” She sat up, took the glass, and downed the pills he offered. She set the glass on the nightstand and lay back. “Thanks.”

  Wade slipped quietly from the room, pulled the door until there was nothing but the sliver of light beneath it. The clock’s hands read two. His gentle whisper still filled her ears, haunting her. She forced it from her mind, making herself remember the article, remember the new piece of evidence.

  She hated inconsistency. Things were usually black-and-white for her. Sure, people had both good and bad in them, but in her experience one dominated. Wade’s past looked black, but his present seemed white. It was confusing, and she couldn’t think with the jackhammer going off in her head. She needed sleep. In the morning she’d be able to separate fact from feeling. That was the only way to get to the truth.

  Abigail rolled over and closed her eyes against the banging. The adrenaline surge had left her weak and shaky. Instead of focusing on sleep, her thoughts rewound to earlier in the day when Wade had swept her into his arms. She was not a petite girl, had never been swept up into any man’s arms. Had never desired a man to lift her from her two perfectly capable feet.

  And yet there it was. She’d liked it. A lot.

  Why was she thinking such things? About a man who may have killed his own wife? What was wrong with her? Maybe she did have a concussion after all. Brain damage, in fact, if she was harboring romantic thoughts about someone who might be a murderer.

  But he didn’t seem like the kind of man . . .

  Are you going there again, Abigail Jones? Really?

  No, she wasn’t. It was easy for people to pretend to be something they weren’t. She knew better than most. The memory fogged her mind, spreading, growing, until it was the only thing.

  . . . She was ten years old, wearing her favorite periwinkle T-shirt and the matching braided friendship bracelet Julia had made her. She’d made Julia one too—a yellow one
to match her pretty blond hair. After all, they had been best friends since Julia moved in four years earlier.

  They were going to make more bracelets tonight and sell them during recess at school tomorrow for a quarter each. Abigail clutched her bag, traipsing through her yard and toward the sidewalk. Mrs. Burk’s yard separated hers and Julia’s, and Mrs. Burk didn’t like her grass trampled one bit. Besides, Julia’s yard had a thick privacy hedge that scratched your arms when you squeezed through.

  Abigail stepped on crunchy leaves on the sidewalk as she went, calculating how much money they could make if they made bracelets every night for the next week. Maybe enough for an ant farm. Abigail had wanted one for a long time, but her mom said it was a waste of money, and her dad had only shrugged the way he always did when Mom put her foot down.

  Abigail passed the hedge and turned up the drive that wound up an incline and turned sharply into the garage. Julia had the nicest house on the street and the best backyard, too, which was why they usually played at Julia’s.

  The garage door was up, and she heard voices coming from inside.

  “Why do you always do that?” Mr. Kelley said in a tone Abigail had never heard.

  She stopped near the garage opening. Maybe she should go home.

  “I’m sorry.” Julia’s voice sounded small, afraid. “I’ll clean it up.”

  “Those are my tools. How many times have I told you to stay out?”

  “But Mom said—”

  A sickening thud sounded. “Don’t argue with me!”

  Abigail winced, her breath trapped in her lungs.

  A whimper. A scuffling sound. A sniffle. Abigail wanted to put her hands over her ears. Why was Mr. Kelley acting this way?

  “Pick ’em up before your mom gets home! And stop that sniffling!”

  She should go in. Say something. But what if Mr. Kelley hit her too? What if he told her she couldn’t see Julia anymore?

  Maybe she was imagining things. Mom said her imagination ran wild. Maybe she wasn’t really here. Maybe she was at home, in bed, having a nightmare.

  “Not like that!” Mr. Kelley screamed. “Worthless girl!” There was a loud ruckus, like metal cans falling.

  Julia cried out.

  Abigail slapped her hand over her mouth to keep the scream in. Her heart felt like a drum in her chest. Too big for her body. Why was he being so mean?

  How could he hurt her? Mr. Kelley loved Julia. Hadn’t he bought her the Slip ’n Slide she wanted for her birthday? Hadn’t he set up the swing set in the backyard?

  She had to do something. But for the first time ever, she was afraid of Julia’s father.

  Tomorrow at recess Julia would tell her about this, and they’d come up with a plan. Together they’d tell her mom or go to the police. Abigail backed quietly away, hating the feeling that swelled inside her.

  When she felt the hedge against her back, she ignored the sharp pokes and darted through it. She didn’t feel the scratchy shrubs or think about Mrs. Burk’s lawn as she put distance between herself and the man she didn’t know anymore. As she put distance between herself and her best friend.

  Now Abigail shivered in bed and pulled the quilt tight around her shoulders. Her heart raced as if she’d just witnessed the awful scene.

  The next day at recess Julia hadn’t said a word. There’d been no marks on her face or arms. Abigail had told herself she’d imagined it, had almost convinced herself of it because Julia acted so normally that day and every day after.

  But Abigail could still hear the thud of Mr. Kelley’s fist hitting Julia’s body, feel the horror of somehow knowing it wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. Still feel the horror of knowing the truth and being too afraid to tell.

  If only she could go back and change things. If only she’d been older and braver. If only she’d told. Then her best friend wouldn’t have lived the nightmare of an abusive childhood.

  When Abigail was thirteen, Julia’s family moved out of state. The two girls wrote each other for a while, then they lost contact. Abigail was sure the abuse had continued, and the seed of guilt that started that day grew and spread until sometimes she thought it would strangle her.

  13

  Outside the barn Wade heard Maddy and Abigail struggling with the manual tiller. Abigail had asked if they could start a small garden, and she’d chosen a plot of ground between the barn and the old well pump.

  Maddy’s loud laughter drew him, and he peeked out the barn door. Abigail was fighting the tiller and losing. She looked awkward against the ancient farm equipment, all arms and legs. But to her credit, she laughed along with Maddy.

  He leaned against the door frame. Abigail was different from the other nannies. It hadn’t taken long to see that. She wasn’t just present and accounted for; she clearly enjoyed the child. She made plans with Maddy, taught her, talked to her, and his daughter was blossoming under her care.

  Wade hated the prickle of jealousy that stung him.

  I’m obliged, God. Really I am. She’s just what Maddy needed.

  He wanted Maddy to blossom, and God knew she’d needed a female figure in her life for a long time.

  Another burst of laughter caught his attention. He felt like the odd man out, peeking around the corner, then reminded himself he was doing what was best for his daughter. His own feelings didn’t matter. As long as Maddy had what she needed, that was all that counted.

  Abigail turned off her phone. Her mom was keeping something from her. Something about Viewpoint. With so much news being read online, the magazine’s circulation had been on a steady decline. But there was something more. She wondered if her sister would spill the beans.

  Only one way to find out. Abigail punched in Reagan’s number. Saturday was a good day to reach her.

  “Hey, sis.” Reagan’s tone was chipper.

  “Aren’t we in a good mood.”

  “I have a date.”

  “Well, ring the bells of heaven.” Abigail dropped onto the bed.

  “Shut up.”

  She heard the sound of clothing hangers screeching down the rod. “So, tell all. Who is it? Where’d you meet?”

  “A doctor, and I met him at Mercy.”

  “You always said you wouldn’t date another doctor.”

  “Well, he’s in pediatrics.”

  “Good father material, possibly Mr. Right . . .”

  “Exactly.” Her sister growled into the phone. “I’m having a clothing crisis. I have business clothes and slop-wear, with nothing in between.”

  “Where’s he taking you?”

  “Dinner and the theater.”

  “You don’t like the theater.”

  “Well, he’s cute.”

  More hanger screeching.

  “I so need to go shopping!”

  “I’m thinking there’s no time for that,” Abigail said. “Wear your newish black slacks with your red Anne Klein blouse. Definitely the Kate Spade sandals. Dress it up with your layered silver necklace and dangly earrings.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “It’s a gift.” Abigail flopped back against her pillow.

  “That’s great, thanks. Now I can have a bath, relax, and stop stressing about my clothes. Oh, please don’t let me get an emergency tonight.”

  “At least he’d understand.”

  “What if he gets an emergency? Oh, why am I going out with another doctor?”

  “Because he’s cute?”

  “Oh, yeah. Speaking of cute, how’s your cowboy?”

  “I never said he was cute.”

  “Didn’t have to. I’m your sister, I heard the nuances in your voice.”

  “Wade’s fine, and so is Maddy. I didn’t call about them though. I’m calling to get the scoop on Mom. Or more precisely, on the magazine. I just got off the phone with her, and I could tell something’s up.”

  The sudden whoosh of water sounded. “Sorry, didn’t hear.”

  “Nice try. What’s going on?” If their mom wa
s in trouble and Abigail could help . . . “Reagan?”

  “Viewpoint’s going through a rough spot, Abs. She’s just worried.”

  “The new format isn’t helping?”

  Mom had worked with a designer to change the magazine’s look. The overhaul was fabulous, and Abigail had been sure it was exactly what Viewpoint needed.

  “There’s been great feedback from your current readers, but I guess a new format isn’t enough to persuade new readers to give it a try, and . . .” Her sister’s words trailed off.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Mom wants you to relax out there, Abs. And as your doctor, I second that—”

  “Viewpoint is more than just my place of employment. It means everything to Mom, and if there’s something going on, I need to know.”

  The sound of water grew fainter, and the click of the door sounded in Abigail’s ear.

  “Mom would kill me if she knew I told you.”

  “I won’t say anything.”

  Reagan sighed into the phone. “BlueFly Publications is giving her three months to increase circulation by 30 percent. If she doesn’t, they’re shutting it down.”

  “Thirty percent in three months? That’s impossible!” Abigail knew things were rocky, but it never occurred to her BlueFly would take such a hard line. “Mom’s put thirty years into that magazine! Don’t they know how many people that would put out of work?”

  “I know. But supposedly they aren’t turning enough of a profit to justify the magazine’s existence.”

  Abigail popped upright. “I have to come home.”

  “No! You can’t. Let Mom handle this. She’s run the thing for all these years, she can figure it out.”

  “I can help. I can write a major exposé or something and—”

  Wade’s story flashed into her mind. If she found answers, if she could figure out what had really happened to Wade’s wife, it would be a major story. With Wade’s image splashed across the cover, thousands of readers would buy it. And once they sampled the new and improved magazine, she was sure circulation would increase dramatically. They only needed a story big enough to make people try it. And she had just the story to do it.