When Hank draws even with Maggie, he stops and rolls down his window. “You have my number in case of trouble?”
She snorts. “What—you’re going to leave your girlfriend and prospective in-laws to come to my rescue?”
He clenches his jaw. “You’re a single woman, stranded in Wyoming. And you’re good-looking. You’re a hot commodity.”
“I have pepper spray, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“I should have brought you a handgun instead of a rifle.”
“Relax, Hank. You’re not responsible for me.”
“I know. But this is my fault.”
“That Bess broke down?”
“That you’re in Wyoming.”
Maggie looks away quickly. “You and a killer estate sale.” She points at Patrick. “My date’s waiting. So is yours.”
“Maggie, I’m sorry.”
She can read the tea leaves. “About what? Earlier? Don’t worry about it. It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. But it can’t be anything.”
“Drop it.” She summons false bravado and winks. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
“Just take care of yourself.” He rolls his window up and drives on.
All the charge drains from her like an old battery. Maggie has an uncharacteristic longing to run after him, beg him to bag Sheila and whisk her away. But she’d never. A girl has her pride—or what’s left of it after she’s stranded in Wyoming.
So, instead, she trudges toward the main house. Patrick’s truck backs up, then turns around. He pulls up next to her.
She opens the passenger door. “Hey.”
His eyes light up. “Damn, you get better looking every time I see you.”
“It’s the great Wyoming lighting. You clean up good, too.” Which is true. He does. He can’t help it that he’s not Hank.
He eases the truck out the gate and turns toward the town of Story. “So, Maggie Killian, what brought you to Wyoming?”
“I buy old stuff, restore it, and sell it.”
“Don’t they have old stuff in Texas?”
“Sure. I was looking for different old stuff than what everybody there has.” It’s not untrue.
“I’m trying to picture this business.”
“It’s like that show Junk Gypsies.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“Have you seen Fixer Upper?”
“Is that the show with the goofy husband?”
“Um, maybe.” Probably. Although Chip Gaines is ratings gold. “And my business is sort of like that. But without the goofy husband and television crew.”
“Okay.” His face says now he thinks I’m the goofy one. “When are you headed back?”
“Yesterday. Until my truck broke down. Now, whenever it’s ready.”
“It’s a nice time of year to visit.”
“If you like all four seasons in one day.”
“More for your money around here, for sure.”
He’s right, though. It’s a gorgeous time of year to visit. Maggie’s eyes drink in the scenery. On her left, two sandhill cranes pose like giant feathered praying mantes. The mountains are a dark silhouette against the edge of a brilliant sunset over their peaks. The truck descends around a curve to the creek bottom in the little town of Story. Lodgepole pines close in around them. They cross Little Piney Creek, which is mostly a bed of rocks, on a narrow bridge. White-tailed deer forage near the stream.
Patrick points at a brick building, one story, with a fenced playground. “That’s the elementary school.” They rumble over a one-lane bridge. “There’s the fire station. They’re busy this time of year. The humidity is so low, the fire risk is way up.”
“There was lots of smoke last week. And I noticed the creek is dry.”
“Yeah. At least we got a little rain. Down there’s the library. The post office. The Story Store.”
“Someone didn’t overthink that name.” Maggie holds up a hand. “Wait. Could we make an emergency supply stop? The larder is bare in my cabin.”
Patrick throws the truck into a U-turn. “Sure. We’re a little early for the reservation.”
Inside, a grizzled cashier greets Patrick. “Tonight’s shot is Tequila Sunset.”
Maggie is half listening, half musing over a counter crowded with lottery tickets, fishing flies, and local crafts.
“Tequila Sunrise, you mean?”
“Nope.” He grins. “It’s my special concoction.”
Patrick pulls out his wallet. “Want one, Maggie?”
“Why not?”
The cashier hands them two plastic shot glasses. Patrick holds his up, and Maggie touches hers to it. It’s like cough syrup, thick, sweet, and mediciney. Maggie controls her gag reflex, just barely.
She sets the cup back on the checkout counter. “Be right back.”
The interior of the store is jam-packed. While a good part of the store is groceries and household goods, the largest share of the floor and cooler space is for beer, wine, and liquor. Maggie grabs pricey bananas, coffee, bread, squeeze Miracle Whip, Swiss cheese, turkey, tortilla chips and salsa, and a bottle of Koltiska Original Liqueur. Now she can avoid the torture of meals at the main house.
Back in the truck, Patrick turns onto a road that looks enchanted and a little spooky.
“I’ll throw bread crumbs unless you promise me you aren’t taking me to visit an old witch who eats little children.”
“Huh?”
Hank would have gotten her sense of humor. Gary, too, for that matter. “Never mind. I was just being silly.”
Maggie doesn’t volunteer any other witticisms. They pass cabins on one side and a dated drive-up motel on the other with larger-than-life painted wooden forest animals. Three does bound across the road in front of them and disappear into the sky-high pines. Maggie tilts her head back, staring up into their tops, which blend into the fading light.
The truck turns, reclaiming her attention from the sky. An authentic wagon box is mounted on a tall pole at the entrance to the parking lot. A sign reads WAGON BOX INN. The inn itself is a rambling affair built of huge logs and set against another idyllic stream. Majestic pines and a deep lawn surround a wooden deck.
Patrick escorts Maggie into a vestibule, up a broad carpeted staircase, and through another set of doors. “The restaurant here is pretty good. The bar is even better.”
“My kind of place.”
An orange-haired woman in a pink paisley top is needlepointing what looks like a bear with a fish in its mouth. She doesn’t put her project down. “Hi, Patrick. Your table’s ready.”
“Donna.” He touches his hat.
She stays inside the reception booth, making no bones about giving Maggie the once-over.
Patrick leads Maggie to a table for two. Maggie looks back and sees a woman with a gray beehive whispering with Donna, their eyes on Maggie. She gives them a broad smile, which appears to startle them, and they break apart.
Maggie orders Koltiska over ice.
“Original or KO ninety?” The waitress makes eye contact, but with only one eye. The other’s off doing its own thing.
“Hmm. Ninety proof?”
“Yes.”
“Make it ninety. Over ice.” Just one, she thinks. Because there’s no way I’m ending up Patrick’s angel of the morning.
“And your usual, Pat?”
He nods at her. She scurries away.
“Excuse me for a moment.”
“Of course.”
Instead of going to the bathroom as she expects, Patrick makes a lap of the packed room. His hat and spurs are perfectly in tune with his environment. He takes his time, shaking hands and holding court, sans Maggie. That’s okay. The last thing Maggie wants is for people to know her name, especially as Patrick’s date. She connects to Wi-Fi and fiddles with her phone. There’s another message from Gary, but hours earlier.
I’m in town. Coming by to see if you’re decent. Hope you’re not.
She has to wr
ite back to him soon, but by now he’s figured out she’s not in town.
When Patrick returns, their drinks have arrived—something amber in a whiskey glass for him. She puts her phone away. They order their dinners, and Maggie takes a big swig of KO 90. She savors the heat. Instant recharge of her tired battery.
A crusty old-timer with two percent body fat and wrinkles like the Grand Canyon ambles in, making straight for their table. He and Patrick greet each other with gusto. Patrick doesn’t introduce Maggie. Within seconds, the newcomer brings up Chet, his barely audible voice whistling through a missing front tooth.
“I hear he took up with a woman Thursday night. Not from around here.” He wiggles bushy white eyebrows.
Maggie pushes her hair behind her ear. This is news she needs to hear, even if it’s bad.
“Where from?”
“No one knows. She’s a mystery.”
Patrick looks amused. “Are you suggesting a mysterious black widow brained Chet?”
The old-timer wheezes and coughs. “It could happen. ’Cept you’re thinking about when a woman marries a feller then kills him for his money. Chet was working at Crazy Woman Exploration. Not exactly rich.”
“He had the ranch, too.”
“But no wife to kill him for it.”
“There’s always his mother.”
The old-timer swells up. “I dated Beth Ann’s big sister in high school, I’ll thank you to know, and I won’t stand for those types of insinuations about her.”
Patrick laughs. “Sorry, pardner. I didn’t mean anything by it. So, who do the police think did it, if it wasn’t this black widow?”
“If they know, they ain’t saying.”
Patrick sneers. “Well, if we’re waiting on local police to crack the case, we may never find out whodunnit.”
Their ribeye steaks arrive, still sizzling on the plates, melted butter running down their sides, with layered potato casserole on the side. The old-timer leaves. Maggie eats like one of the Double S hands. Patrick doesn’t speak during dinner, and she’s glad. Her mind is preoccupied with the news that Chet’s hookup has been labeled as an out-of-towner. That’s a step in the wrong direction as far as her anonymity is concerned.
A familiar figure passes their table. A thirty-something man with a patchy beard that makes him seem a decade younger than his skin and smile wrinkles. When he passes back by, he nods to her. She nods back. His identity hits her. The Occidental bartender. She watches him return to the receptionist, who hands him a takeout bag. He shoots her one more glance, this time giving her a two-fingered salute at forehead level. And a smile. Then he walks out of the vestibule.
Small towns. You can’t go anywhere without seeing everyone you know.
When they finish their meals, Maggie turns down another drink, dessert, and coffee. “So, what’s the story with you and Hank?”
Patrick slips a credit card into the check holder. “What do you mean?”
“The bad blood. The dirty looks and snide comments.”
The waitress shows up quicker for the card than she has with any of their drinks and food all night. “I’ll be right back, Pat.”
“We’re competitors.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like me.”
“But you seem like a popular guy, if tonight’s any indication.”
“Maybe I just don’t like him.”
“All right. You don’t have to answer.”
He smiles, but it isn’t a happy face. “We go back. Way back. And if you want any more of the story, you’ll have to charm it out of me on a second date.”
Maggie is confused. He’s barely interacted with her, now he wants a second date? Maybe he’s unusual, or maybe this is how men date in Wyoming. Either way, she doesn’t do pressure. She spent too many years yielding to it in the early days of her music career, with bruises on her knees indelibly burned in her memory, tainting record contracts and Nashville gigs.
There’ll be no charm for him.
The waitress presses the folder into his hand. “Thanks for coming in, Pat. See you soon.”
Patrick signs the check. Conversation over. In fact, conversation doesn’t resume until Patrick walks her to the door of her cabin. Maggie scurries ahead of him, trying to avoid what’s coming, because it’s not going to be him.
He catches her arm. “You’re not in a hurry, are you?”
Louise comes out of the shadows to Maggie’s side, almost invisible with her black fur against the night sky. She’s growling, and the ruff on her neck is high.
Patrick jumps back. “Goddamn dog scared the shit out of me.”
The bag of groceries bangs against her leg as Maggie escapes behind the screen door with Louise. She drops the safety latch as surreptitiously as she can and pats the dog’s head. Another protector. Maybe Hank put her up to it. “Rough day. I need some shut-eye.”
“Rain check?”
“I’ll call.” She won’t. “Thanks again.”
Still, Patrick doesn’t leave. “Say, didn’t I see you with Chet that night at the Ox?”
His words knock the wind out of Maggie. She rushes her answer into the space left by her uncomfortable pause. “The man who was murdered? That Chet?”
“The only one from around here. Speaking of which, you’re not.”
Maggie scrambles for mental footing. Sadly upset, that’s how I play it. Just like before. “He bought me a drink. Such a nice man. So sad.”
“I bought you a drink tonight. Guess I’ll have to watch my back.” Patrick puts two fingers to his hat and disappears into the dark.
Maggie closes the door and leans back against it, waiting until she hears his engine noise receding. Had he been accusing her of something? Threatening her? Her head swims and she sees spots in her side vision. Monday. She had planned to call the Buffalo police if she wasn’t out of here by Monday. Now, Monday is impossible for Bess. Maggie’s going to have to reveal herself to the police soon, or someone else is going to beat her to it.
But first she has to figure out a way to tell Hank, one where she doesn’t seem like a total slut.
Fifteen
Maggie pours herself a Koltiska over ice and sips. She has a reprieve on her confession tonight—Hank is with young Sheila and her family. She’ll tell him first chance tomorrow. The thought makes her sag like her grandmother’s pantyhose. It was already a lost cause for her with Hank. So why is she so terrified to tell him about Chet? It’s not like it will change things.
A cold, wet nose presses into her palm.
“Hey, Fucker. Help me secure the perimeter?”
Louise rewards her with the disgusting, stabby licks.
“Not okay.” Maggie jerks her hand away.
The dog is certainly a mixed bag. Sweet but disgusting, protective but annoying, cute but disobedient. And she certainly seems to have adopted Maggie.
Maggie locks the front door and searches for signs of intruders. In the cabin, the reconnaissance operation takes less than two minutes. Maggie doesn’t see any signs of disturbance. More important, Louise is calm. Maggie loads the rifle anyway—safety on. As she’s doing it, she sees HANK SIBLEY engraved on a plate screwed to the stock. She rubs her thumb across the plate, then slides the rifle on the ground under the bed, within easy reach. Then she unpacks her groceries and puts them away.
“What now, girl?”
Louise sits by Maggie’s guitar case and wags her tail.
“You like music?”
The tail wags faster, whether because Maggie is sweet-talking her or because Louise is a guitar aficionado, Maggie doesn’t know.
Maggie looks at her phone. It’s only eight thirty. Why not? Some old habits die hard, like some old loves, and she’s neglected this habit far too much lately. She sets her drink down and kneels, her knees cracking. She opens the case. After her belt buckle, she loves this Martin more than any other material thing in the world, and she takes good care of it. On the road, other musicians had
made fun of her for obsessing over it, but she’d always believed her music would only be as good as her instruments. No bashing guitars onstage for her. She became known for her natural virtuosity, her ability to play better than any of the musicians hired to back her.
But that was a long time ago.
As always, the first thing she does is check the ambient temperature and humidity on a portable monitor. The weather is far drier and colder here than Texas. She’s been careful not to leave her baby near any heaters, and she hasn’t opened the case in Wyoming, so conditions have remained fairly constant for the guitar inside. Fifty percent humidity and seventy-five degrees is ideal for it. Too much humidity is especially bad, which is a challenge in her old Texas house in the summer.
Conditions in the cabin are actually quite good. The humidity is right at fifty percent, the temperature at sixty-eight. It will be cooler on the porch, but with the heat from her body, it will be perfect. She wipes the instrument with a warm, damp cloth. Then, without taking off her jacket, she puts the strap over her neck. It’s like a hug. She holds the Martin close, hugging it back. She runs her hand across the embroidered peace signs on the strap, a homemade gift from her mom when she was in middle school, pre-Martin. She’d played a cheap Kmart instrument back in the day.
She greases her fingering hand with Vaseline, grabs her pick, and walks out to the porch with Louise and her drink. She settles on the porch swing and puts her drink on a patio end table beside it. Silvery moonlight spills over the strings on the instrument in her lap. It’s like a celestial blessing. Her stress eases. This was the right decision.
“Thank you, mother moon.” She strums the guitar and tunes it. Louise cocks her head from side to side and whines. “Are you singing or complaining?”
The dog doesn’t answer.
When Maggie has the guitar ready, she pauses, waiting for inspiration. In the silence, she hears an odd cry, like a rattling bugle. Her fingers begin moving on the strings. She exhales and closes her eyes. A song takes shape, and she smiles. A confidence-building opener—her muse knows what she needs. It’s the introduction to the first song off her multiplatinum Buckle Bunny album. “I Hate Cowboys” was also her first country number one, and it hit the top spot on several other charts as well. The album and song should have been the beginning of a long, award- and reward-filled career. Instead, they were the beginning of her end as a professional musician.
Live Wire (Maggie #1) Page 11