"Yes, I've got tape. But—"
He shot her a silencing look and moved to get out of the truck. Maggie was at his side before he could tumble out of the cab. She threaded her arm beneath his shoulder. "Look at you. Who did this?"
"Three guesses," he mumbled, allowing Harold to slip his shoulder under his. "And they're all … correct."
"Donnelly himself?" Harold asked.
"Hell," Cain said, swaying on his feet. "He can't … zip his own fly. Not stupid enough to use his own men. Hired thugs. Professionals. From outside."
Maggie didn't care right now who they were. She was more concerned with seeing what kind of damage they'd done. He'd been worked over like a punching bag. It was hard to imagine how anyone could get the jump on Cain MacCallister. But someone had. In the morning she'd call the sheriff. Right now, she had more important things to worry about.
* * *
In spite of Cain's arguments, they'd called Doc Henson, the local family practitioner who was older than God, to come over and look Cain over. He'd been right about the ribs. Doc Henson guessed at least two fractures. He wrapped Cain's ribs tightly with tape and left him resting.
"He should be in the hospital," he said, "but he's not having any of it. He may have a fracture in that cheek and most certainly a concussion. I don't think he's got any internal injuries but you call me should he start having tenderness in his belly. Wake him up every hour or so tonight. He'll be a bear, but ignore that. Don't let him sleep too deeply. I'll come back tomorrow to check on him. Time'll heal the rest."
He left Maggie some painkillers for Cain and promised he'd check back in a day or two.
Maggie drove Harold back to his car around ten then checked on Geronimo. Her other patient was still off his feet, but resting more easily, she thought. She decided to try to roust him up again in the morning.
Maggie walked back to the house in the moonlight, trying to shove down the anger that was clouding her thinking. She had decisions to make. Plans to form. It was over here, she'd realized earlier in the day. She'd lost and Laird had won. He'd managed it all without leaving a single scrap of proof she could pin on him. He'd outmaneuvered her and almost killed Cain in the process. And if Brent Hayden was to be believed, he'd had something to do with Ben's death as well.
The screen door sang on its hinges as Maggie jerked it open. He wasn't going to get away with it, she vowed. She didn't know how, but she'd find a way to stop him.
Cain's eyes were closed when she ducked her head inside the door of his room a few minutes later. She moved back, intending to quietly close his door, but his voice stopped her.
"Don't go." His voice was rough but just the sound of it made her feel infinitely better.
She eased back into the room. "Did you take those pills?"
"I don't do pills," he said, watching her sit down on the edge of his bed.
"Stubborn," she murmured, touching his jaw tenderly with the back of her hand.
His smiled faded. "We need to talk."
"Tomorrow. I'm calling the sheriff in the morning. He won't get away with this, Cain."
He gingerly tongued the cut at the side of his mouth as he shook his head. "Not about that," he said. "About this place."
"Talking won't change anything. It's over. The loan was my last hope. I've lost." She looked at his bruised hand and willed her voice not to crack. "I'm sorry about the land. I wanted you to have it. I'm sorry for all of it, for getting you involved." Her gaze skimmed over the angry purplish bruise on his cheek and the way he was looking at her. "I was angry that you hadn't told me about your past, but the truth is, I was no better. I had no right to drag you into this. I'm so sorry."
His bruised hand closed over hers. "I stayed because I wanted to. I knew you were in over your head. So don't go there."
"It doesn't matter now," she said, trying not to cry. "It's over. Geronimo won't even get up. What am I going to do with him once I lose this place? The other horses I can sell. But I'll have to put him down."
Cain eased up on the pillow, wincing with the effort. "You don't have to sell him. And you don't need that loan."
She gave a teary laugh. "Right. And maybe I can teach Jigger to rob banks."
"I set up an account for you today at the First Federal Bank in Marysville."
She stared at him blankly. "What?"
"It'll take care of everything you need. Put you back on your feet."
Maybe she was going crazy. "An account? You mean … money?"
"Sixty thousand."
She blinked. "Dollars?"
"The paperwork is … in my pocket."
"Where would you get that kind of money? You … you were penniless when I met you. Hungry."
"It doesn't matter," he said, wincing as he looking away from her. "Take it."
She laughed. "No. I can't. I can't possibly take it."
"Sure you can," he said tiredly.
She stared at him, dumbfounded. "Cain, where did you get this money?"
He closed his eyes and mumbled something.
"What?"
"Feeling kinda … punk," he said. "I'm … just gonna rest … now."
She blinked at him in disbelief as his breathing almost instantly fell into the deep rhythm of sleep.
She moved off the bed and stumbled toward the chair where she'd dropped his bloody clothes.
Sixty-thousand dollars!
She searched his pockets until her fingers closed around paper. Pulling the bank statement open, she read it. A long numbered account in the name of Maggie Cortland. And there it was. Sixty-thousand dollars. Three times what she'd asked for in her loan. Where had he gotten that kind of money?
She looked back over at Cain, whose battered face made her want to cry. Whatever this was about, she decided, she'd talk to him again in the morning. He needed sleep and she … well, she wasn't sure what she needed anymore.
* * *
By some miracle, Geronimo had gotten to his feet during the night and was standing with his head hanging over his stall door when Maggie came out the next morning. She sent up a quiet prayer of thanks and patted the animal's velvety nose.
"Good boy," she murmured. "You're a fighter. I knew you were." She scratched him under his chi. "You hungry? I've got some oats with your name on them."
She filled a bucket with a scoop of oats and held it while Geronimo indulged himself. She finished a half-dozen chores and, exhausted, she was leaning against the weathered barn wood of his stall door when the realization that she wasn't alone struck her. She opened her eyes to find Cain filling the doorway, limping toward her.
"What on God's green earth are you doing out of bed?" she asked, moving to intercept him.
"Figured since you were determined to keep waking me up every hour I might as well get up," he said, moving as if he had a bent piece of steel up his spine. And his color, except for the purples and blues of his bruised cheek, looked downright peaked.
"You go right back to bed, Cain. You're no good to me out here today."
"How's Geronimo?" he asked, ignoring her and moving toward the horse.
This man was a stubborn as the day was long. "See for yourself. He got up during the night sometime. I think he's going to make it."
A slow smile tugged at Cain's mouth as he ran a hand down the blaze on Geronimo's nose. "Tough cookie, huh, boy?"
"Must be something in the water around here." She smiled. "How are your ribs?"
"Sore. But it looks like I'll live."
Joining him at Geronimo's side, she touched his arm. "You want to tell me what happened?"
He summarized the encounter on the road last night and about what had happened at Donnelly's before. "It was an ambush. Premeditated. And it didn't happen on the back road. I was on the main road. Somehow, I ended up on the old mill road."
Maggie frowned. "They moved you? Maybe you're confused."
He turned to look at her. "They fixed the tire and then they moved me. I suppose they didn't want anybody findi
ng me right away." He moved away from Geronimo and walked toward the morning sunshine spilling through the door. "But there's something I'm missing. Something off."
"Aside from the fact that they nearly beat you to death?" she asked.
The sound of a car coming down her drive made Cain look up. What he saw made a line form between his eyes.
"Who is it?" she asked, moving toward the doorway.
"Did you call the sheriff?"
"Not yet. I was going to when I went inside."
"Well," he said. "Looks like he saved you the trouble."
Sheriff Joe Winston pulled his patrol car up beside the barn and got slowly out of his car. In his fifties, and already in the third term of his office, Winston moved with the slow deliberateness of authority. He was barrel-chested and beginning to gray around the temples and Maggie had never cared for him. Laird Donnelly had supported him through all three elections and the two were thick as molasses in December.
Right behind him was Ken Chemoff, his deputy, who lacked Winston's authority, but had managed somehow to retain his dignity, despite the fact that he was a mere footnote on Winston's staff. Nobody did anything in the Fishhook sheriff's department without Winston's say-so. The fact that they were here at all made Maggie's already frayed nerves unravel even further.
"Hi, Maggie," Joe said, tipping his hat to her.
"Joe. Did Harold call you?" she asked, moving beside Cain.
"Harold Levi? No. Afraid not." He regarded Cain with a scowl. "You expecting me, Maggie?"
"I was going to call you as soon as I went inside. About what happened last night to Cain."
Winston slid his sunglasses down his nose and squinted at Cain, taking in the damage on his face. "Looks like you had you a little trouble."
"I guess you could call it that."
"Which brings me to why I'm here."
"Why are you here?" Cain asked bluntly. Ken Chemoff walked up beside Joe and glanced at Maggie.
"Well, sir," Winston began, "seems one of Laird Donnelly's men, a young fellow named Brent Hayden, got his head bashed in last night."
Maggie inhaled sharply. Oh, no. She'd just spoken to Brent Hayden days ago. She remembered he'd been afraid of something even then.
"He was found dead out along the old mill road this morning," Joe continued. Maggie looked up at Cain.
"What has that got to do with us?" he asked.
"Funny you should ask," Winston said. "I got an anonymous call at the station this morning about the murder. Seems someone saw your truck out that road last night about the same time the coroner put the time of death for Hayden."
Maggie tightened her mouth. "Cain was jumped last night and beaten nearly to death on the way home last night, Sheriff. He had nothing to do with Brent's death."
"Somebody jumped you, you say?" Winston said. "In your truck?"
"I had a blowout," Cain said. "I was changing the tire when they jumped me."
"Well, maybe you can show me your tools then," Winston said. "You know, jack … tire iron."
"You're welcome to search the truck," Maggie said. "He's telling you the truth."
Joe sent Ken over to Maggie's truck to search for the tools.
Winston hitched up his gun belt. "That's quite a shiner you got, MacCallister."
Cain ignored him, watching Ken. The radio in his car erupted with static and Joe went to answer it as the deputy crawled under the truck. In a moment, he reappeared, carrying the car jack in his hand. "This is it," he said, holding up the jack to Winston, who was ambling back. "Tire iron's missing."
Tightening his jaw, Cain glanced at Maggie, who was looking at him now with a worried expression. He turned to Winston. "Look," he said, "I don't know where the tire iron is because they moved my truck after I passed out. They changed the tire and moved my truck."
Winston sent him an incredulous look. "The boys who beat you up changed your tire for you?"
"I know it sounds—"
"There's a good spare in the wheel well," Ken interrupted, not looking at Maggie.
Cain's expression flattened. "That's impossible. The spare is on the truck. They shot out my other tire."
"Brent Hayden was killed with a tire iron, Mr. MacCallister. You're missin' one. The one we found has blood evidence on it and some clear prints. I called down to Texas where I understand you've had a run in or two with the law and asked them for a match on those prints. They belong to you, Mr. MacCallister."
Maggie grabbed Cain's arm. "Of course his prints are on it. He was changing the tire!"
"Yes, ma'am. But if any of the blood on it matches yours," Winston continued, "well, I have to say things aren't looking in your favor. You see, I have several witnesses who will swear that you made threats against Donnelly's men yesterday."
For one awful instant, Maggie wondered, horrified, if it was possible. Cain chose that moment to look in her eyes. Maggie's lips parted, trying to erase the doubt from her expression but it was too late. He'd seen it. He looked away.
Winston was still talking. "Now, clearly, you were in some kind of a fight last night. Brent fought off his attacker. These could be defensive wounds. And the other facts, well, they just don't add up. Maybe you're telling me the truth, maybe not. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'll have to take you down to the station for questioning."
Winston pulled a set of handcuffs from his back belt and reached for Cain's wrist. Tight-jawed, he submitted, his abject gaze meeting Maggie's.
"You're arresting him?" Maggie watched in horror as Winston clapped the cuffs around Cain's wrists and snapped them shut.
"He's a suspect in a homicide, ma'am."
"Are handcuffs necessary?" she asked, outraged.
Cain winced as Winston tugged him by the arm toward the patrol car. Maggie called his name, but Cain didn't turn around.
"You have the right to remain silent," Ken recited. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you do not have an attorney or cannot afford one…"
The words blurred in Maggie's mind as she watched in disbelief. This couldn't be happening. She was staring at Cain, who had just checked out emotionally and was staring straight ahead, not at her, not at anyone else. Maggie's heart sank.
He couldn't have killed Brent. They'd nearly killed him. Couldn't Winston see that?
"Sheriff, this is crazy," she told him, crowding the three of them. "You know he didn't do this. He had no reason to want to murder—"
Winston used his chest to block her way and he took her by the arm. "I'm really sorry about this, Maggie. I know he's your husband, but he's got a history and he's our prime suspect. Now you just calm yourself down and call your friend Harold Levi. He's gonna need a good lawyer."
Ken was guiding Cain down into the back of the car with one hand on his head. "Don't hurt him—" she shouted at Ken. "His ribs are—" he winced and inhaled sharply as Ken pushed him down into the car "—fractured."
Joe walked around to his side of the car and Maggie moved to Cain's window. "Cain?"
He didn't look at her. He just burned a hole in the floor with his stare. The car began to pull away and she pounded on the window. "Cain! I'm calling Harold. Don't worry. I'll get you out."
His expression had shut down like a slammed door but he looked at her one last time as the patrol car pulled out of her yard. The bleakness in his eyes staggered her.
And then he was gone.
* * *
Maggie was pacing in the postage stamp-sized waiting room when Harold Levi walked out of the interrogation room, looking grim. She'd been rehearsing what she'd say when it was her turn to talk to Cain. But every pathetic justification for the look he'd seen on her face in that moment sounded lamer than the next. She met Harold at the door.
"He doesn't want to see you, Maggie," he told her. "He doesn't want to see anyone right now."
Disappointment and more than that, hurt, rifled through her. "I need to see him, Harold."
; "He doesn't want you to see him behind bars. He's a proud man."
That she knew. "He denied it all, didn't he? You believe him, don't you?"
"He denies it. But beyond that he's not saying much of anything. He's been through all this before. It's his frame of mind I'm concerned about. As far as believing him? I was there last night, Maggie. I saw what they left behind and Cain didn't win that fight. I'll testify to that."
"Can you, as his attorney?"
"I'm not a criminal attorney, Maggie. My specialty is contracts law. But I'll do the preliminaries. The first hurdle will be bail. He's a flight risk. And his bail will be substantial. You don't have that kind of money."
Maggie turned around and paced to the other side of the room, pressing her hands together.
Behind her, Harold set his briefcase down and walked closer. "Is there something you're not telling me, Maggie?"
She stared down at the industrial brown couch shoved against the wall. "Yes. It could be bad for him."
Harold turned her toward him. "Tell me."
Tears started down her cheeks. "He…" she began, then started over when her voice cracked. "He put sixty-thousand dollars in an account for me yesterday. To save my ranch. He just gave it to me. I don't know where it came from. As far as I knew he had no money. Where would he get that kind of money, Harold?"
"Sixty-thousand dollars?" Harold let out a low whistle, then frowned thoughtfully. "That's a helluva lot of cash." Naturally, the same scenarios played across his expression that had run through her mind. "Don't mention that to anyone, Maggie. I'll find out about it."
"I need to see him, Harold. You've got to convince him." The smell of this place, the sterile awfulness of it was beginning to get to her.
"Give him a little time. He's a little raw right now. Go home. Get some rest." He took her elbow and began guiding her out.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"My job," he answered with a grim smile.
Outside, Maggie moved mechanically to her car. The sun was brilliant and the breeze carried with it the scent of every nearby ponderosa pine. The good people of Fishhook were moving about their daily lives as if nothing was wrong. But everything was. Her life was coming undone like a pulled thread on a cardigan. And Cain's…
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