It soon became apparent that the hooks Maggie carried were for lifting hay bales. She climbed into the bed of the truck, stuck them into a bale, and then, little thing that she was, she heaved the bale over the side of the truck near the corrals. The horses had all gathered at the gate. She hopped down, clipped the wire on the bale with the pliers, and broke off several flakes of hay, tossing them into the corrals. When one bale was distributed she climbed up into the truck bed for the other bale. Then she pulled the pickup over to the lean-to and dragged four bales of hay up into the bed. Must be for weight to steady the truck when it pulled her trailer.
It killed Tris to see her working so hard. If he’d been the man he was five days ago, he could have bucked that hay without breaking a sweat. He squirmed in his seat, fretting. The sobbing from the house turned to snoring. Maggie shoved two more bales up into the pickup bed, along with a trunk she dragged from the lean-to. Then she took two empty pails and headed for the windmill. He watched her pull up a wooden cover at the base and lower another pail with a rope tied to its handle. She pulled the rope up hand over hand, filled her two buckets, and trekked back to the barrels in the corral, sloshing. She heaved up the buckets, poured, and started back.
“Hey, what’s wrong with the windmill?” he called. “Pump not working?”
“Motor’s burnt out or something.”
He ran his teeth over his bottom lip. She didn’t have any money to call someone to fix it. So she hauled water for the horses, probably twice a day. For the house, too. A big barrel sat by the side of the porch. And the outhouse must be in current use.
Tris pushed himself out of the chair, arranged his crutch, and hobbled out across the dirt, ignoring the pain in his leg. She had her back toward him, pulling up another bucket of water.
Catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye, she said, “You promised not to loom.”
“I’m pretty good with motors. Maybe I could take a look.”
She pushed some hair escaping from her rubber band back over her ear. “Needs a new one. I came out one morning and it was sorta smoking.”
“No harm in looking.”
She shrugged and pointed to the motor housing at the base of the windmill. “If you got time to waste.” She heaved the bucket up and poured it into one of her empties.
“Your faith is touching.”
“Let’s just say I won’t quit hauling.” The bucket fell into the well with a distant slap.
Tris gazed up to the windmill blades, twirling in the wind. There was a gearbox way up there. Hope it isn’t a broken gear. Nothin’ I can do about that right now. He leaned over on his crutch and flipped the latch to the motor housing. “Who hauls it while you’re gone?” He couldn’t imagine Elroy hauling water or bucking hay.
“If I gotta be gone overnight when I got stock here, I hire a high school kid to come by twice a day. Cuts into my earnings, but dead horses don’t sell.” She hauled hand over hand.
He peered into the housing. Light was bad here.
“I’ll bring a flashlight.” She didn’t miss much.
In the meantime Tris put his hand inside and felt around. Pump was dry as a bone. He turned around and watched her dump her pails and trudge over to the truck for a flashlight. She detoured by the porch and slung the two folding chairs over her shoulder, juggling the flashlight under her arm and the two empty pails in that hand. She set down the chairs for him in front of the motor and handed him the flashlight, then returned to filling buckets.
Tris sat gratefully and laid his crutch on the sandy soil, then lifted his bad leg onto the other chair. He flicked on the flashlight and peered in. Just as he thought. “How long since this thing was lubed up?” He pulled on the belt. Worn, but it would do for now.
“A while.” She set her lips. He recognized the gesture. “Guy who comes out from over by Battle Mountain died. Pretty steep to have someone out from Elko or Ely. I let it go too long.”
“You got any grease around here?”
She turned to him, a question in her eyes. It looked like hope. That made something expand in his chest that hadn’t gotten to do that in a while. “Maybe over in the tool shed.” Her eyes shifted to somewhere behind him.
“Tool shed. That’s good.” He eased his leg down and shoved himself up.
“I’ll go look. You stay here.”
“Hell, no,” Tris grinned. “Tool shed for me is like a sale at Nordstrom’s for a woman.”
She looked nonplussed.
Uh-oh. Wrong analogy for Maggie O’Brian. “I’m gonna need tools to take it apart,” he amended hastily. He limped over to the shed, surprised that she followed him. The rickety wooden door creaked open when he shoved it with his crutch. Slats of light from between the weathered boards slanted across a dim interior, making it swirl with glowing dust motes. The smell of oil and metal and rust assaulted his nostrils. Tools were scattered on a scarred workbench. Socket wrenches, vise, pliers. An old motor half-disassembled, corroded spark plugs. A disaster. But it felt like coming home.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“Careful you don’t fall,” she said gruffly from behind him.
“No danger,” he murmured, looking around. He put a socket wrench set in the toolbox that once had been painted red. He took a screwdriver, and … there it was, a can of heavy-duty engine grease. She’d had the means of saving her pump motor right here all along and just didn’t know how to use it. Well, he did. He gathered up a crescent wrench, some Allen wrenches, a screwdriver, and handed her the toolbox. Back at the windmill, he sat in the chair and she handed him the toolbox. Good thing his right hand was not the one in the sling. Now, if only.…
“I’ll hold the flashlight,” she said, sounding disgusted.
“Thanks.” Just what he needed. He smiled up at her. She blinked several times. Then he turned his attention to the ailing motor.
*****
That man had a smile that was just … devastating. She’d seen it twice in the space of twenty minutes, the first time as she mentioned the tool shed. She felt a little stunned as she grabbed the flashlight. The only way she could shine it where he indicated was to lean over his back. What had she gotten herself into? She could see the muscles move under his shirt as he took one of the socket wrenches and leaned into the engine. His biceps bulged under the cloth. His forearms, bared by his rolled-up sleeves, were so strong looking.…
He had to ask her to adjust the light several times. She was having trouble concentrating. He was lost in his task. It seemed no time at all before he had the housing taken apart and the pump motor out where he could see it. She was fascinated. His body felt so ... present it made her want to scream. But his sureness, his skill, was a marvel too. He deftly disassembled the intricate mass of metal and bolts and gears, holding it on his lap. He was fast, even with one hand, his big fingers almost graceful as he worked. A lock of his hair fell over his forehead, making him look about twelve. Dangerous. He’s definitely not twelve.
“Okay,” he said, sitting back. “Can you hand me that grease?” He pried open the can with a screwdriver and took out three fingers’ full of the thick gold-brown, shiny stuff. He began greasing the gears and parts, almost caressing them. He was sweating in the sun, and when he ran the back of his forearm across his forehead, he left some grease there. Cute.
Oh, boy. You’re in deep, girl.
The lines of pain around his eyes had smoothed. His focus was totally on the metal. Her focus was on him. Screw hauling water. Before she knew it the motor was coming back together. He turned it over, examining it, grunting in satisfaction then bolting it down, stretching the belt over the flywheels.
“Let’s crank her up and see what we got,” he growled in that baritone that added insult to injury, attractiveness-wise. Maggie held her breath. Tris flipped the switch. Nothing.
“I hope that doesn’t mean the gearbox up there is out of commission,” he mumbled. She looked up. A long way up. He sure wasn’t going to use her ladder. She
could climb, but how would she would she know what to do when she got there?
Disappointment shot through her. For a minute she’d thought that maybe.… But no. Her life wasn’t the kind where things worked out just fine.
Tris peered at the switch, leaned in to look at something inside the housing, fiddled.
The engine sputtered, grunted, and began to chug, then settled into a contented hum. That engine had never sounded that good. The gears, now greased and connected to the spinning windmill through the gearbox, turned the pump.
Tris nodded, closing the housing. “Needed grease. Might want to get a new belt soon.”
Maggie swallowed over a lump in her throat. Her eyes filled. She just nodded.
“Goodbye outhouse, hello, running water.”
“Yeah,” she managed.
Tris glanced up at her, eyes crinkling. He was proud. Must have been hard to just sit there with his foot up. He was used to being strong, in charge. “I have my uses.”
Oh, he should so not have said that. Got her imagination going again. She cleared her throat. “I’ll just drag the hose over and fill the water barrels.” She turned somehow and managed not to look back at him as she hauled the hose.
It was dusk when the horses were watered and she finally backed the truck up to the trailer and fastened it to the hitch. Temperature was dropping fast. She couldn’t help but wonder why a man with such a gift for mechanical things wasn’t doing something like designing airplanes or tuning race cars. He’d given up restoring old cars apparently. That was like throwing a gift at the giver. Obviously, working with machines was what he was born to do. She found it incredibly attractive that he had a calling and a skill. Even if he took it for granted.
She got out of the cab and slammed the door. “That’s it. I feed and water tomorrow morning. Then we load the horses and we’re good to go.” Maggie wasn’t sure whether she was eager to spend that much time with this guy or was dreading it.
Actually, she wasn’t sure of anything right now.
“I can hardly wait,” he said. He said it bitterly. But it wasn’t sarcastic. This guy really didn’t want to go home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kemble Tremaine sat at the computer in his office at the Tremaine estate. He stared out the French doors. At any other time the sight of Catalina Island under a sky streaked with magenta would be soothing.
“Damn you, Tris,” he muttered.
“What are you swearing about now, Kemble?”
Kemble turned toward the aura of power behind him. His father wandered into the room, looking over some reports. “Hospital in Reno just submitted a claim to our insurance for Tris.”
His father jerked his head up, a worried frown on his face. He went to shut the door to the office quietly. Smart man. It would do no good to worry his wife. “Serious?” he asked.
“There’s a charge for a surgical suite. Admitting diagnosis is multiple fractures.”
“I’ll send the helicopter for him,” his father said, throwing the reports onto the table. “Call Cedars Sinai.”
“He’s been discharged,” Kemble added hastily. “Looks like it was an auto accident.”
His father sighed, whether in relief or disgust Kemble wasn’t sure. “Driving drunk, no doubt,” he said, wiping a hand over his face wearily.
“No doubt. You want me to…?”’
“If he wanted us he would have called.” His father bit the words out. “I’m sure he’s got a woman to see to his needs. Unless.....”
Kemble knew what his father was thinking. “First Victor, now this,” he muttered. Victor Heinemann, the lawyer for Tremaine Enterprises since Kemble could remember, had been found in an abandoned warehouse in Las Vegas with his throat cut. He’d been there several days. Victor had been like an uncle to the Brood. The whole family had been devastated by his death.
His father looked up, his face drawn. “Do the Las Vegas police have any leads?”
Kemble sighed. “Whoever did it seems to have disappeared into thin air.”
“There’s something wrong,” his father said, frowning. “Who would do that to Victor?”
Kemble turned back to the computer screen. “Well, hello,” he said dryly. “Tris must not be hurt that badly. He just made a charge at Wilson’s Fine Pre-owned Vehicles in Fallon, Nevada. Looks like he put the new bike on his Amex.”
His father sighed, relieved. “I must be imagining things. But after what happened to Victor....” His father shook his head. “Those bikes are twenty K. We’ll end up paying for it.”
“We’ve never had to pay off his cards,” Kemble noted. Fair was fair. What his father paid that photographer, well, that wasn’t a credit card bill. It was another kind of bill come due. Then Kemble too frowned and peered at the screen. “Actually, Tris bought a 1981 Ford F350 pickup truck for twenty-six hundred dollars. He wouldn’t care about restoring anything that recent,” Kemble mused. “But he wouldn’t drive a thirty-year-old truck either.”
“Well, he got an hour away from the hospital and felt well enough to go car shopping.” His father collected the scattered reports. “I don’t think we need tell your mother.”
“Where is she?”
“Reading the tarot.” That closed the subject, Kemble knew. He pointed to a stack of documents on the conference table. “The messenger dropped off the agreements.” They’d have to do the review themselves. It felt wrong without Victor and his sound advice to guide them. But replacing Victor would be damn near impossible, literally, or emotionally.
“Let’s get to it.” His father sat at the table and drew the binders closer.
*****
That was one independent woman, Tris thought. Guess she had to be. Killed her not to know how to take care of her motor. Well, that’s what I’m for.
But he wasn’t. He was outta here tomorrow morning and never coming back. He sucked in a breath and tried to feel good about that. His scratchy discontent surfaced again. Probably just the pain in his leg and his shoulder, which had been ramping up for a while. At least he had ten hours in the truck with her. Minimum. Yeah. He felt good about that.
She glanced up at him. “Want some dinner?”
Like she needed more work. “I’m good. Big lunch.”
She snorted. “Man as big as you are needs three squares. I think I got some steaks frozen. You probably need some of those pretty white pills too.”
He surely did. Tris pushed himself up and hobbled after her into the house, reassured by the continued snoring. He’d like it just fine if Elroy slept through dinner.
“You want a drink?” she asked. “That’s one thing I’m sure we’ve got. Somewhere.”
A drink. Tris hadn’t had a drink in what—six days? Hadn’t even missed it. “I’m good.”
“Well, I could use a shot of whiskey before Elroy wakes up. Have to hide it after that.”
That made him smile. “Guess I could join you for just one.”
“Well, then.” She turned on her heel.
She flipped a switch just inside the back door and the lights went on. “You rigged up propane to run a generator?” The propane tank wasn’t a big one. The windmill would provide enough power to pump water but probably not enough for electricity, too.
“Elroy doesn’t like propane. I have to sneak in a delivery now and then just to run the stove. So I put in a solar panel. I got a real good deal on it used. We get about three, four hours of power. Depending on how long Elroy’s been watching TV today.”
Tris looked around. Bare wooden floor hadn’t been refinished, probably ever. Incongruous lace curtains, kinda gray, hung at the windows out to the porch. Hadn’t been washed in a while. The room held an old-fashioned kitchen in one corner open to the room at large and an old, claw-foot oak table for eating. On the other side a ratty brown couch sagged between two doors in front of a worn braided rug. Snores were coming from one door. Maggie shut that one. A small square was walled off in the back corner of the cabin. Must be the bathroom. There
was an old-fashioned TV in one corner. Elroy’s babysitter.
She gestured to the dining room table. He sat and she pushed up another chair for his leg. “But we got plenty of candles and a lantern for when the power goes out.” She pulled a couple of Vicodin from the bottle she’d snagged from his hospital kit, slapped them on the table, and turned on the tap. After some sputtering, some rusty water came out. She let it run until it was clear and filled a glass. Turning to him, she grinned. “How sweet it is.”
He’d made her smile. He’d made her life easier. That felt … good. He let that feeling play around his mouth a little. “Solar, huh? Panel on the roof?” He hadn’t seen it.
“Think I’d put an expensive panel on this shack? Roof is going to go any minute.” She dug around in an old, rounded refrigerator and found a package of frosty steaks.
“So, where is it?”
“Behind the Palo Verde trees, facing south. I didn’t want anybody to be able to see it from the road. I might have to kill any kids who used it for target practice.” She turned the burner on under a teakettle, pulled out a big pan, and half filled it with water.
“Okay, let’s get to the important stuff.” She started looking in cupboards. “He’s usually not too original. Buys pretty good whiskey though, not rotgut. Technically, I buy it. He puts it on my tab at the general store.” She finished with the cupboards, checked the fridge. “He had time to make it into Austin today for more while I was gone.”
The mere thought of Elroy driving made Tris want to stay off the roads.
She pulled aside a faded print curtain across some shelves below the sink. “Jackpot. Literally.” She held up the bottle. Jack Daniels.
“My drink of choice.”
01 Do You Believe in Magic - The Children of Merlin Page 9