Maggie's Way (Montana Bound Series Book 1)

by Bradley, Linda

  Table of Contents

  MAGGIE’S WAY

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  MAGGIE’S WAY

  Montana Bound Series Book 1

  LINDA BRADLEY

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  MAGGIE’S WAY

  Copyright©2015

  LINDA BRADLEY

  Cover Design by Syneca Featherstone

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-61935-836-2

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Praise for Maggie’s Way

  Maggie’s Way is a heart-warming tale of love and loss, fear and friendship. With charming characters and a moving plot, Linda Bradley’s lovely debut gently reminds us that it’s never too late for second chances.”

  –Lori Nelson Spielman, International Best Seller, Author of The Life List and Sweet Forgiveness

  For my mom, Marjorie Jean,

  and in loving memory of my dad,

  Byron Thomas.

  Acknowledgements

  When Maggie and Chloe came to life, so did I. It was the year I found my voice, determined to share their story. It was the year I battled cancer, began a new marriage, and discovered that with a little faith dreams can come true. Thank you to my excellent team at the Van Elslander Cancer Center in Grosse Pointe Woods, Michigan. Your care and dedication gave me the gift of time thus allowing me to pursue this endeavor that called to me.

  Thank you to Debby Gilbert for connecting with my pitch and recognizing that Maggie’s Way would speak to readers. I am grateful for your support and guidance in this new adventure.

  Thank you to Jane Porter and Lori Nelson Spielman for reading the unedited version of this story. You are true inspirations. Jane, I’ve followed you since The Frog Prince and knew then you’d be a driving force not only in my world, but the literary world, too. Lori, when dear friend, Annette Shauver told me about The Life List, who knew that our paths would cross that very day. You are both such dedicated and talented women with big hearts and open arms. Thank you for embracing me.

  Thank you to the Greater Detroit Chapter of RWA for inspiring me to work hard, write often, and hone my craft. I will forever miss our beloved Patti Shenberger, as she was a strong voice in my head telling me to just write the damn book.

  Thank you to my LOFT ladies and my colleagues at school. Your encouragement and friendship means the world. Liz Parthum, thank you for telling me that I could take something so vanilla, turn it into a sundae with whipped cream, and a cherry on top. Pam McCarthy, I love you for reading every word, discussing story lines, encouraging me to write the next book, and the next, and cheering me on every step of the way. Kimberly Pachy, your love for reading and gentle nudging pushed me to believe in myself. Kristie O’Callaghan, your bright eyes and excitement for the next book let me know I was on the right track.

  And last, but not least, thank you to my family. To my husband, Scott Hammond, thank you for being by my side, having my back, supporting my dreams, and understanding the need to live life creatively. To my sons, Trevor and Griffin, you keep me on my toes, make me laugh, love me unconditionally, and inspire me. For that, I am forever thankful. To my mom, Jean Bradley, thank you for reading all my work. Mommas are sacred, and your love has been constant and strong. You’re the first person I share good news with and the last person on my mind before I close my eyes under the silvery moon, no matter where I am.

  I love you all!

  Linda

  Chapter 1

  Time burrowed its way into the tiny cracks of my existence, wedging into the nooks and crannies like sand between my toes on a hot summer day at the beach. Taunted by the past, I knew I would have married Beckett Littleton anyway. Being middle-aged brought unexpected changes, but in my book, middle-aged didn’t mean middle of the road even if I did feel like a confused squirrel darting across four lanes of oncoming traffic.

  A lock of strawberry-blond hair grazed my cheek as I sighed with exasperation. I twirled and slid my wedding band over my bony knuckle to finger the metal as if it could turn back time, back to the day when I gazed into Beckett’s eyes, when we vowed to stay by each other’s side, for better, for worse, for richer or poorer.

  I snickered at the thought of irreconcilable differences. My ring clanked against the tempered glass tabletop next to my chaise lounge. It was time to give up the charade. We hadn’t been together for months. I quit counting the days since my diagnosis of breast cancer.

  Ribbons of sunlight washed over the backyard. Glad for summer, I relished the school break and time alone to heal, even if I had been instructed to stay in the shade per doctor’s orders. Gentle breezes tickled my nose with the scent of fresh-clipped grass. My mind wandered, mulling over our division, to relive Beckett’s truth. Why didn’t I see it? How? When? Maybe this was Beckett’s weird, midlife crisis. If not, it was surely the beginning of my own.

  Supported by the pillow on my patio chaise lounge, the cool fabric against my neck in the midday Michigan heat brought relief. I breathed deeply, contemplating the future.

  Time morphed my life even if I didn’t drag my feet. Ticking hands beat steady, keeping a calm pace even on hectic days. My grandmother’s grandfather clock reminded me of this on sleepless nights now that I slept alone. Time pushed me forward like that impatient person behind me in grocery store checkout, their cart nipping at my heels. I didn’t have the energy for forward. I opened my eyes, took my wedding ring from the table, thought abou
t putting it back on, but then decided not to.

  Purple petunias cascaded over the edges of oversized clay pots lining my patio. Hanging baskets of red geraniums reminded me of last spring when Beckett and I spent hours landscaping after purchasing an abundance of flowers at Eastern Market, so many, the hatch to my Equinox barely shut. Thankful for the privacy fence that hides me, I am captivated by the little garden of tomatoes, parsley, beans, and strawberries. The tall fence keeps out cats that hunt in the vacant yard next door along with nosy neighbors.

  When the Murphy family lost their home a year ago, I thanked God for our two incomes. Worry scraped the bottom of my stomach now that I was living on a teacher’s salary in an upscale neighborhood, thanks to Beckett. He assured me I wouldn’t lose the house, but without him or Bradley it didn’t seem much like home anymore.

  The gate to the privacy fence creaked.

  Sitting up, I glanced around to see who was there. The quick movement tugged at my left breast. “Hello?” I wasn’t expecting anyone today. Rays of sun peeked out from behind the clouds and I shaded my eyes trying to recognize the visitor. “Who’s there?”

  “Can you play? Anybody here that can play?” a youthful voice rang out.

  I leaned closer to see the girl’s face. She was short and resembled one of the students from my classroom. My eye twitched. “Excuse me?”

  “Hi! I’m Chloe McIntyre. I live next door. Do you live here, lady?”

  Chloe shoved her hands into her pockets. She squinted to see me better. The corner of my mouth twitched at the sight of her tussled pixie haircut and freckled face. “Yes, I do.” Perplexed, I twiddled my thumbs. Again, I’d missed something. When was there a SOLD sign in front of the Murphy house? I didn’t see anyone move in, but then again, I’d been so self-centered lately, I probably would have missed a parade of elephants parading down the street.

  “Nice to meet you, Chloe. My name is Maggie Littleton,” I heard myself say and decided I should go back to my maiden name, Abernathy. “Maggie Abernathy,” I mumbled, liking the way it sounded. I focused my attention back to the little girl standing before me. She chewed at her thumb.

  “You got any kids here?” she asked as she ripped off a hangnail on her left hand. “Ouch, that kind of hurt.”

  My smile grew as Chloe peeked around the stone column at the edge of my patio. She waltzed by and my gaze followed her. I repositioned myself in my chaise lounge as she made herself comfortable next to me. She touched the cover of my Jane Porter novel.

  “Personally, I think reading’s overrated.”

  Quietly I watched Chloe pick up the book while I secretly wished the author would write me into one of her stories with a happy ending. Cowboy or surfer, I fantasized. Maybe both. Again, middle-aged didn’t signify middle of the road and my state-of-mind needed an overhaul.

  “There aren’t any pictures,” Chloe noted, sounding disappointed.

  The skin on the bridge of her nose wrinkled, and I smiled. “No, no there aren’t.”

  “I prefer books with lots of pictures. The less words, the better. You don’t need a whole lot of hard words to get your point across. A few easy words will do just fine.” Chloe exhaled and crossed her dangling feet.

  I grinned at the knots in the shoelaces of her Converse pink high-tops. Bradley’d had black high-tops at that age.

  “You got any kids here?” she chirped as she wiggled in the chair, picking at her knee.

  I shifted my chaise so I could see her better. “I have a son, but he’s not here right now.” I wondered who cut her choppy dirty-blond hair, evidently someone with an unsteady hand or a drinking problem.

  “What’s your son’s name?” she asked, crossing her legs.

  “Bradley. He’s twenty-two.” As the words left my mouth, the corners of her lips drooped. “Sorry, no one your age.” I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes to the sun peeking over the umbrella’s edge, and took a deep breath knowing that my chest was fully covered, doctor’s orders. Bradley was our miracle. Beckett and I were told we couldn’t conceive, but by some phenomenon, Bradley was our gift, the one thing that’d held us together.

  The scraping of chair legs across the cement pierced my ears.

  “Where’s he at?” Chloe continued.

  I turned my head in her direction, scrutinizing her proximity to me, her breath now warm on my cheek.

  “My dad makes that face, too.” Chloe paused. “Dad says, I shouldn’t use a preposition at the end of a sentence.” She smiled. “Not sure what that is, but whatever.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. “He’s right, you shouldn’t,” I mumbled. “Smart man.”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  My toes curled at the question. I sat quietly thinking she just might go away if I ignored her. Another warm breath brushed my earlobe. I opened one eye and peered in her direction then jerked away from the back of the chaise lounge cushion. “Jesus,” I yelped. I was nose-to-nose with my uninvited guest, so close I could count her freckles, the number of missing teeth, and see her blue tongue as she cackled with glee. I caught my breath then leaned back, keeping both eyes open. “Did your dad also tell you it’s not polite to ask a person their age?”

  “Yeah, but I like to know. It lets me know what I am up against.” Chloe shifted her weight and leaned on one elbow. “This is a nice backyard. I like the flowers and the garden.” She sighed. “I’m seven. It’s different when you’re a kid. Kids are proud of their age. Grown-ups don’t think that way.”

  “You got that right.” I smiled at her. Chloe was on to something. With her front tooth gone, her smile reminded me of a jack-o-lantern. The only thing missing was the glowing candle. How I missed the days of playing Tooth Fairy and carving pumpkins with Bradley.

  Chloe stood, whirled around, and plopped down at the end of my chair. “Come on,” she begged. “Just tell me.”

  I swung my legs off the chaise lounge. The cement was hot against the soles of my feet. “Maybe another day.” I secretly scolded myself for opening the door to another visit. This was summer and I was supposed to be home recuperating from a year of seven-year-olds and breast cancer. I did not sign up for summer school. The regular school year was taxing enough after twenty-six years. “I think I hear your dad calling you.”

  “He’s not home,” she chirped.

  “Listen again.” I pointed toward the Murphy home. “You live over there, right?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Yup.”

  “Maybe it’s your mom calling your name,” I said.

  “Not possible,” she purred with a shake of her head.

  “Why not?” I asked as I slid my feet into my flip-flops.

  Chloe crossed her legs then her arms. “Because I don’t have a mom.”

  A strand of hair fell over my cheekbone and stuck to my lip. I blew it away then inspected the scowl on Chloe’s face. “Oh,” I mouthed as her eyes flickered with disgust.

  “My mom lives in California,” she informed me.

  “That’s tough,” I said, thinking that I wasn’t the only one with problems. I should remember that. I glanced toward the gate. There was no sign of Charlie Brown’s friend Lucy sitting behind a stand saying that the psychologist was in. After calculating inflation, I considered asking Chloe for a dollar. I heard Lucy’s gruff voice in my head. It was hard to distinguish who had the more sarcastic attitude.

  Chloe picked at her ear and sighed.

  “Sure, you don’t have any kids my age?” she inquired with doubting eyes.

  “Nope.”

  “Know any?”

  “Not around here,” I answered in a short breath.

  “Too bad for me,” she mumbled. “This is gonna be a long summer!”

  “You’re telling me,” I added.

  Chloe’s shoulders slumped forward and she proceeded to tell me knock-knock jokes.

  Chapter 2

  With my hands pressed against the massive door, gawking, I stood on my
tiptoes spying through the peephole. Beckett twiddled his fingers with nervous expression as he waited on the porch for me. He seemed slimmer in his tennis clothes. His hair cut shorter than normal, I wondered if it was because there was someone special he was trying to impress. I knew it wasn’t me. I was the wrong gender. My heart tore open just a little bit knowing he struggled, too, in many ways I didn’t understand.

  I turned the brass knob, the shining surface cool against my clammy palm. The door stuck, and I yanked hard to jar it loose.

  “Hey there,” I said, trying to act cool and collected.

  Beckett opened the creaky wooden screen door and took three steps over the threshold then kissed me on the cheek. The overly kind gesture made me uncomfortable. My chest tightened and I stuttered at the simplest of greetings. I hoped he wasn’t in the mood for probing into my personal life, in his usual way. Part of me wanted to yell at him, be dramatic tell him that my heart was shattered into a million pieces, although the pain had lessened to a dull throb quite some time ago. What lingered between us was a truth we both were getting used to.

  “I packed your books. They’re right there.” I pointed to a cardboard box at the bottom of the stairs. “I can do a lot with all the shelf room now that you’re taking them to your place,” I stammered not caring one way or another. I had bigger questions on my mind. My stomach flipped as I held the doorknob to steady myself. “Why did you tell me in a restaurant that you were leaving me?” This inquiry probably too late, but I had been too chicken to ask before. It wasn’t his style. “That wasn’t fair.”