Dead Pile (Maggie #3)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “But he likes you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I do. Do you like him?”

  “He’s cute. But kind of religious. Mary’s husband is religious like that—he’s Mormon, though—and he was all, ‘I’m going to kill that Paco’ and going on and on to Mary about how she’s going to hell for committing adultery and breaking the Ten Commandments.”

  Hank’s eyebrows shoot up, mashing his forehead like a hand organ.

  Behind her, Gene whispers, “WTF?”

  “Wait a second, what about Mary’s husband?”

  “He thought she was going to hell.”

  “No, he said he was going to kill Paco?”

  “I think so. That’s what Paco told me.”

  “What did Deputy Travis think about that?”

  “He didn’t ask me about Mary.”

  Another wind gust hits the trailer. If Maggie were piloting a sailboat, she’d be a contender for the America’s Cup with this kind of velocity. Each creek valley is the same, but less terrifying as she becomes accustomed to cheating her steering left against the wind.

  “Sounds like something he’d want to know.”

  “Paco didn’t necessarily believe her. He said Mary had a higher-than-average need for drama.”

  “But the deputy could figure it out.”

  “Yeah.”

  A long, tense silence fills the truck cab. Hank rolls his hand at Maggie, like Get on with it. Ahead of them to the west, the silhouette of the sloping shoulder of the Bighorn Mountains appears. The rolling landscape becomes even more dramatic, with crazy tilts and drop-offs punched out of the grassland like the footprints of giants. Overhead, black and gray clouds roil. No, Maggie thinks. No weather while I’m driving.

  When Penny doesn’t offer anything more, Maggie looks a question at both men. Gene shakes his head. Hank shrugs.

  “All right, then, Penny. I’ll let Andy know you’re good.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye, then.”

  Maggie hears dead air through the phone. Her first reaction is happiness. Another suspect for the deputy: Mary’s husband. Or even Mary herself. The more suspects there are, the less need they have to go after Andy. Or worse, Hank.

  Gene says, “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Paco and a Mormon wife girlfriend.”

  Thirty

  Maggie wakes from the sleep of the dead before dawn Monday morning, still hungover from the drive and some nightmares she can’t remember. Hank is stretching beside her, looking rested and happy.

  “No, it’s too early for today,” she moans.

  “Says someone who didn’t grow up on a ranch. I let you sleep in.”

  “Stop being logical.”

  “I thought you’d be up with the sun this morning. It’s a big day. You’re my new hand. I’ve agreed to let you be there while I call my doctor. Light a fire under it, girlie.”

  Maggie huddles under the warm covers. “Who you calling girlie, boy?”

  Hank spoons her and kisses her neck. Before she can snuggle into him, he’s up. Cold air rushes her body as he rips the covers from the bed.

  “Hank!”

  “Better not be late on your first day. I hear the Double S boss is a real hard-ass.”

  She mumbles something about jackass, then races into the bathroom ahead of him and locks the door.

  He laughs as he pounds on it. “Let me in. You’re going to miss the middle of your back without me.”

  “You wish. You’re just afraid I’m going to use all the hot water up. Which I am.” She turns on the shower. “But I’ll let you in if you tell me the magic word.”

  “What’s the magic word?”

  She shucks her nightgown. “If you don’t know, you’re not getting in.”

  “Please?”

  “Unimaginative. Strike one.”

  “You need some of that Mare Magic you bought for Lily.”

  “Strike two.”

  “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  She opens the door. “Was that so hard?”

  “No, but this is.”

  She looks at his midsection, only a little lower. “It’s so much easier to get clean that way. Come on.”

  He follows her in, and just as she predicted, they both end up with a cold shower, but neither one of them complains. When they’re dressed and ready, Maggie straps on her new scabbard and knife.

  “You can have your knife back now,” she tells him.

  “Hey, that looks nice.” He picks up the black Double S knife. “I’ll put this back in the barn.”

  “I can take it for you.”

  He hands it to her. She straps it on, too, then notices for the first time that Louise isn’t in the room with them.

  “Where’s my dog?”

  “She was whining to go out in the middle of the night.”

  “You let her?”

  He dimples. “She didn’t jump out the window.”

  Maggie bites her lip. She’s been keeping the dog in so she won’t leave dead animals on the front porch. Cute, dead baby animals. Oh, Louise, please have been good. “Buy me breakfast.”

  “Done.” Hank sneezes, then looks traumatized. “I’m getting sick.”

  She pats him. “Take some vitamin C.”

  Together they walk downstairs, with Hank sniffling and clearing his throat.

  Maggie says, “I’ll meet you in there. I just want to check on Louise first.”

  She pokes her head out the door. At first she thinks she’s in the clear, then she sees an adorable little lump on the landing. On closer examination, the lump is a baby porcupine. Dead, of course.

  “Dammit, Louise!”

  The wiggly dog comes running, pleased at Maggie’s reaction to the tribute. Maggie’s not sure if anyone will care about the death of the little porcupine—Louise still hasn’t gone after any ranch animals—but it’s painful to see it. Coatless, she wraps her arms around herself and pushes the animal off the steps with a toe. Then keeps pushing it, until it reaches the side of the house and is out of sight.

  Shaking her head, Maggie walks into the dining room. “Good morning, all.”

  “Your cheeks are red. Been out for a morning jog?” Laura asks, straight-faced. She’s pushing her mother away from the table. “Or in a knife fight?” She points at the two knives on Maggie’s hips.

  Maggie doesn’t dignify her jibes with an answer.

  Mrs. Sibley sniffs. “Decent folk have finished eating. Gene and that new hand have already left.”

  Maggie notices that Mrs. Sibley is mentally sharp, if as unpleasant as usual.

  Hank pours Maggie a cup of coffee. “Mom, have a good day. And be nice.”

  “I’m always nice.”

  Laura mouths, “Oh my God,” and she and her mother make their exit.

  Maggie takes the coffee. “Thanks, Hank.” She makes herself a plate and eats quickly while Hank talks her through morning chores.

  “Sounds like I should have gotten started before breakfast.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She laughs. “What have I signed up for?”

  Trudy puts out a second basket of apple muffins. “Muffin? I’m trying a new recipe.”

  Maggie and Hank stand.

  Maggie pats her tummy. No more apples. “You’re bulking me up. Gotta say no. Thanks. That egg soufflé was delicious.”

  Trudy buses Maggie’s plate. “I’ve got to master soufflés.” She looks down at the toes of her boots. “Since I’ve been accepted to the CIA.”

  “The CIA?” Maggie halts at the door.

  “Culinary Institute of America.”

  Beside her, Hank covers an anemic cough. “You’re going to do great. But we’re going to starve to death.”

  Trudy laughs. “Hardly. I’m working on finding you someone to replace me.” She disappears into the kitchen.

  “You knew?” Maggie asks as she and Hank walk to the front door.

  “She told Gene and me last week. W
anted to keep it quiet, what with Paco and all. Gene’s pretty torn up about it.”

  “Why?”

  “You haven’t noticed? He’s sweet on her.”

  Maggie grins. “Maybe now that she won’t work here he’ll do something about it.”

  “Nah. He thinks she’s too young.” Hank sneezes.

  “Age is just a number. Or so they say. Are you going to get a doctor’s appointment today?”

  “I emailed them about it last night. I have an appointment at noon.”

  “I’ll meet you at eleven fifteen to ride together.” She dons her jacket from the hook by the door.

  He gives her a miserable look. “Can we leave early to stop at Walgreens? I need cold medicine.”

  She wonders how he went so fast from a few sneezes to this level of pitifulness. “If you don’t die from the flu before then.” She ducks out before he can formulate a comeback.

  The snow has melted, leaving electric golden aspen and bright red and orange buckbrush behind. The wind is calm today. She’s struck by the stunning beauty of the mountains. How did she get lucky enough to end up in this amazing place, with her amazing man? She’s elated—relieved—to be needed, to be helping today. As she walks toward the barn, she checks her phone. There’s a slew of voicemails. Several contractors wanting to talk estimates. And somehow she has another missed call from Franklin.

  This voicemail has content, though. “I have your claim finished. Call me so we can talk through it.”

  She calls him immediately and trades voicemail. “Keep trying. I need numbers so I can get contractors started.”

  Disappointed, she resumes her walk to the barn. First, she unstraps her extra knife—Hank’s—and hangs the scabbard from his saddle horn in the tack room. Then she starts filling dog food bowls, then water tubs.

  Lily nickers, low and deep.

  Maggie can’t see her, but she knows her voice. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  She hustles into the barn to fill feed buckets, feeling like a badass for slicing open a bag of feed with her knife. She stacks the buckets in a box on the back of a four-wheeler. She’ll do hay later.

  She feeds Lily first. The mare eats like she’s starving and doesn’t say thank you. Maggie places her hand on the enormous belly, hoping for a kick from the foal. She gets one, and it’s powerful.

  “Whoa, Crazy Woman better watch out. This one is a little buckaroo.”

  She distributes the feed to the rest of the penned horses, then goes back for bags of cubes, which she slides across the open tailgate of a ranch truck, into the bed. One bag for each pasture, different types for bovines and equines. And a special bag of alfalfa pellets for a pasture of retired champions, the revered senior citizens of the ranch.

  She pats the phone in her pocket. Should she call the contractors back about the estimates while she still has some cell signal? It should make her agitated that she has all this Double S duty today when she’s getting all the calls about her life in Texas. But it doesn’t. Instead, she feels a strange but very welcome inner peace. She decides to hold off on the calls.

  Thirty-One

  She’s smiling as she gets into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. She’s going to relish this. The beautiful day. The gorgeous scenery. The wonderful last twenty-four hours with Hank. Feeding the amazing ranch animals, so full of life. She fires up the engine.

  A knock on the truck window startles her. Michael is staring in at her. Her stomach knots. Just when everything was looking rosy. All the information Gene dumped on them yesterday about Michael—she can’t help but be impacted by it. She pastes on a smile to cover it up.

  She rolls the window down. “Hey, Michael, what’s up?”

  “You’re going to want some help with the gates.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the livestock will meet you at each one and try to push through to you.”

  “Oh.”

  “They like their chow.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I’ll come with you. I have an hour before the transport is due to arrive from Duncan.”

  Again, unease twists inside. Is he just using them, and her? But she wants to give him a chance. Needs to, after she advocated for it to Hank and Gene. “Thanks. Hop in.”

  When he’s seated, Maggie guns the truck to the first gate. Michael was right. She’s met by a herd of horses. He opens the gate and waves them off long enough for her to drive through and him to close up. Then he walks behind her, doing visual checks on animals while she drives slowly to the feeding area. They reach it nearly simultaneously.

  “I got it,” he says. “This will go really fast together.” He vaults into the truck bed and opens a bag of the horse cubes, then pours them in a U on the ground around the truck bed.

  Horses jostle into position. There’s some kicking, biting, and squealing, but enough space for everyone once Maggie moves the truck forward, emptying the center of the U. A herd of deer vault the fence and move cautiously closer, although Maggie isn’t sure whether it’s the truck, the people, or the horses they’re afraid of.

  “Keep going. I’ll meet you at the gate,” Michael calls.

  They repeat the process in the next few enclosures, moving in a large circle around the property. At a pasture of bulls, a big fellow with hide like a patchwork quilt refuses to budge for the truck. He paws and faces down a waving, yah-ing Michael.

  “What do you want me to do?” Maggie asks through her open window.

  Michael shrugs. “Push him. Just remember he’s worth more than he looks. I don’t want to get fired.”

  “Great,” Maggie mutters.

  She puts the truck in gear and eases off the brake. The truck moves faster than she wants, so she pushes it partway again and rides it. The truck nudges the bull. He bellows and throws his head, his horn clanging against the front hood. The nudge turns into a heave-ho and he gives way. His tail twitches angrily as he trots off to join his brethren, looking no worse for the encounter with a two-ton dualie. Maggie exhales.

  Michael joins Maggie in the cab for a longer stretch of driving. The truck bounces so hard on a rock hidden in a mud puddle that Michael catches himself with a hand on the ceiling. They both laugh.

  Michael points behind them. “Your dog followed us.”

  “Shit. That damn dog.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  Maggie sighs and stops the truck. “She’s a stone-cold killer.”

  Michael opens his door, blocking muddy Louise from getting in the cab. He hoists her into the bed. Maggie resumes driving.

  “What does she kill?” he asks.

  “Moles. Mice. Rabbits. Today, a baby porcupine.”

  “Dogs will be dogs.”

  “Yeah. But that baby owl was so cute.”

  “Baby owl? What kind?”

  “The adorable, innocent kind. I don’t know the type. I gave it a decent burial.”

  “Burial? Where?”

  “Out near the dead pile.”

  “We have to dig it up.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t bury an owl. That’s mixing the above world with the underworld, and it’s bad medicine. You leave it out, so that the spirit can return to the sky.”

  “Bad how?”

  “Bad like bad things will happen. Maybe to you. Maybe to someone you care about. I just hope it isn’t too late.”

  “Shit, Michael. You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m sorry. But it’s important. As soon as we finish with the animals, we’ll go get it.”

  Her mind offers up an unexpected use for her new knife. Digging up a dead baby owl from hard, cold ground. “Then what do we do with it?”

  “We find a nice rock. Or build a stack of sticks. Something respectful, but open to the sky.”

  “Okay.”

  He purses his lips, staring out the window. When he turns to her, he’s deadly serious. “Maybe your dog has special powers and saved you from a shapeshifter.” />
  Somehow Maggie has not only missed owl burial but shapeshifting in her research on her heritage. God, she’s a shitty Crow. “I’m not following you. Again.”

  “Witches and bad medicine men sometimes transform into owls. If it was a screech owl or great horned owl, that’s what I would think.”

  “Maybe.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A few nights ago. I found it in the morning.”

  “Has your dog ever done anything like that before?”

  “Well, she’s killed those other animals.”

  “No, I mean saving people.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. She tried to pull a man out of a burning house. And she chased down an arsonist and pinned her to the ground so she couldn’t get to Hank and me.”

  “Hmm. I’d take care of her if I were you.”

  Buried owls, bad medicine men and witches, and threats to her and her loved ones? A chill rips through Maggie. Somehow the thought of Louise with special powers to protect her is meager comfort.

  She says, “How about we go ahead and move the owl now?”

  Thirty-Two

  God spare me the man-cold. Maggie is in Hank’s passenger seat, and he’s behind the wheel outside Walgreens, downing cold medicine. They’d driven to town separately, her with Andy, him alone. She left Bess in the Home Depot parking lot, where Hank will drop her when they’re done with his doctor. Andy has a ranch shopping list for Home Depot and will wait for her there.

  Maggie’s still feeling a little anxious after what Michael said about the owl, but at least they’d moved it, so she won’t worry about Hank’s illness being her fault. Now she just has to worry about every other threat in the world to everyone she cares about.

  She hands Hank lozenges and tissues. “Are we good?”

  He moans. “Is it feed a fever, starve a cold? I’m really hungry.”

  “It’s feed a cold, starve a fever. Lucky for you, we don’t have time to stop for food.”

  “So I have a fever?”

  She stares at him.

  “Feel my forehead.”