“I’m interviewing for an assistant principal’s job here, not that it’s any of your business.”
Young, pretty, and ambitious. God, how Maggie hates this woman. “Do they need a character reference? I’d be happy to talk to them.”
Sheila flips her hair, with her middle finger raised. “Where’s Hank?”
Maggie gives her a dirty look.
“You don’t know where he is, do you?” Sheila’s smile is wide.
Maggie doesn’t answer.
“I’ll bet you were wondering if he was with me.”
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“Go ahead, ask me.”
“Eff off, Sheila.”
Sheila’s boot heels grind salt as she walks into the c-store. Maggie swears she can hear her laughing. The nozzle clicks off. She returns it to the gas pump and puts the cap back on the tank, seething at Hank for going AWOL, at Sheila for general bitchiness, and at herself for letting Sheila manipulate her. Suddenly Maggie remembers that when Hank was sort of engaged to Sheila, he’d disappeared and ended up tied up in Maggie’s bed. Never mind that Maggie wasn’t the one who tied him up and that he nearly died, the fact remained that Hank had gotten cold feet and come after an ex.
No. That was different. He hasn’t been with Sheila. Maggie and Hank are meant to be together. They both know it. It’s why she’s in Wyoming and sticking by a man with traumatic brain injury and unexplainable behavior. Shit. It doesn’t sound good when she thinks about it that way. Is she being a fool? Even if Hank hasn’t done anything worse than act erratically, is she crazy to hitch her wagon to him? She doesn’t have to sign on for a life of helping him through the ups and downs from his old injury.
Does she?
A text notification comes in from the receptionist at the police station. Andy is ready for her. She pushes her worries about Hank to the back of her mind for now.
Less than five minutes later, Andy is in the truck, wringing his hands. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry about Penny. And Michael, although I know the two of you didn’t get along that well.”
His eyes are vacant. “She was in a family way.”
Maggie doesn’t understand. “What?”
“Penny. She was going to have a baby.”
“Oh my God.” Whose baby? She can’t ask Andy.
“She was going to let me be the father, too. Until Michael messed it up.”
Panic laps at Maggie. Did Andy kill Penny and Michael? “What are you saying?”
“I have to go home.”
Even if he killed them, he’s not a danger to her. This is Andy, after all. What was done in the heat of passion is not the core of who he is. “I’ll get you back to Piney Bottoms as fast as I can.”
“No, I mean I need to go to my home. In Montana.”
She knows he’s devastated. He’s also even more exhausted than she is. But she doesn’t get it. If anything, the Andy she knows would feel an even greater sense of responsibility to the ranch with Michael gone. “What’s going on, Andy? Why home now?”
He wipes tears from his eyes, a furtive gesture. “I have to talk to my mother. I’ve brought shame on my family. She has to know from me I ain’t done this, before she hears it from anyone else. I should have done it before, after Paco died, but it didn’t seem real. Now it does. And I have to get to her.”
Maybe he didn’t kill anyone. God, she hopes not. “Okay. Do you want me to make a call for you to find a ride?”
He stares at his hands. “Could you maybe take me?”
“Um, no problem.” She gets her phone out. “I need a minute, then we can be on our way.”
His voice is strangled. “Thank you.”
She texts Hank. WHERE ARE YOU? I’m taking Andy home to Montana. I need your help. She stares at the phone. I need YOU. She sends it, willing Hank’s text bubble to appear. Willing a response to come in from him.
She gets nothing.
She gallops her fingernails on the steering wheel. Who is she kidding? Trusting Hank was a huge mistake. She needs to kick the rest of her life into gear. What was the name of that real estate agent who offered to list her place? She scans through her emails until she finds what she’s looking for: an email from Trish Jasper. The woman’s number is in it. Her finger hovers over it. She has to move forward. She can’t stand still. She pushes it.
“This is Trish Jasper. May I help you find your dream home today?”
“Maybe. This is Maggie Killian.”
“Maggie! Are you calling to list your property? That ranch you had your eye on is still for sale, too.”
“I want to list my place. Ten acres and a damaged barn—the house and shop are a total loss and I’m bulldozing what’s left of them. Then I need you to find me a new place, less land, with a house and barn already in place. Not the ranch. I’ll be using the sale proceeds to pay for the new place, and not a cent more.” She doesn’t mention the insurance payout. She’ll need that to finish out a new store and restock inventory.
“How exciting. Are we in agreement on a listing price for your place?” She names the number from their last conversation.
They’re not, but what choice does she have? “That’s fine.”
“Great! I’ll get the listing up within the hour and have someone out to take pictures later today. But honestly, I think one of my clients will have an offer in to you by tomorrow. And watch for an email from me tonight with some properties for you to preview.”
The answer should make her feel good, but it does the opposite. “Thanks.”
Maggie hangs up and puts the truck in gear. Her skin prickles with the sensation of Andy’s eyes on her face. “What?”
“If I had someone who loved me I’d choose that over any place. Much less some new place that means nothing to you.”
She thinks about Hank. How much does he really love her if he keeps hiding from her? Not enough. Not nearly enough. A sob threatens, but she swallows it down and presses Bess’s accelerator.
Fifty-Six
A little more than two hours later as the sun is setting, Bess bounces onto the rutted road into the Amish community. It’s surprising to Maggie. As hardworking and conscientious as Andy is, she’d expected it to be clean and orderly. Instead, it’s broken-down farm implements, cobbled-together fencing, and a hodgepodge of buildings that don’t look sturdy enough for Montana winters. The muddy snow doesn’t improve the picture, even though the community is set before a beautiful mountain ridge overlooking the Tongue River.
There are horses everywhere, pulling carts, carrying kids of all ages, milling in corrals. She sees a few women, all in drab dresses down to their ankles and with white scarves on their heads. They’re standing in front of houses with babies in their arms. Men converge on the houses, looking like they’re coming home from work.
“That’s my house.” Andy has been perking up ever since they left the Cheyenne reservation fifteen minutes before. He points at a large, boxy structure that boasts a roof, covered windows, and a door, but doesn’t have much else to recommend it as a place to live.
“We’ve made it.”
He smiles, eyes soft, and waves at some children who are hanging off a wooden fence.
Maggie pulls to a stop in front of the Yoder home. “I’m glad you’re going to get some time with your family. Will you need a ride back to Piney Bottoms?”
“I’ll hitch with someone tomorrow afternoon.”
Stern-faced Reggie approaches the vehicle.
Andy gets out to greet him, leaving the door open, so Maggie can hear their exchange. “Father.”
“Why are you here?”
“A weekend visit. There was a tragedy today. My friend—” His voice breaks and he tries again. “Penny is dead. So is Michael. He worked with me.”
Reggie grunts. “Well, there’s plenty of work to go around,” he says, as if he didn’t hear the last of Andy’s words.
“Yes, sir.”
A short,
round woman with friendly eyes joins Reggie. She whispers in Andy’s ear. The two have a brief conversation.
He turns to Maggie. “Can you stay for dinner before you drive back?”
“I can’t impose.”
Again, the woman whispers.
“It’s no imposition.”
“Thank you, then. That’s very kind.” Maggie follows them into the house, conscious of curious eyes on her back.
The conditions of the house are worse inside than outside. The walls are partially Sheetrocked. The floor is bare plywood. Black tar paper is tacked up over the insides of the windows. There are children everywhere, but they grow silent when they see her. Gene had mentioned before that Andy has nine siblings. Ten kids. Two parents. Twelve people in this house, plus her makes thirteen. It hardly seems big or strong enough to contain them all.
A large table is already set, and a teenage girl ushers her to a seat. The trapped feeling from earlier returns, the one she had when she was driving home from Buffalo. It was a mistake to accept the dinner invitation. She feels suddenly desperate to get out of the house. To get out of the state of Montana, then Wyoming, and all the way back to the safety of Texas. But Maggie sits and steels herself with a deep breath. She doesn’t have that choice right now.
After the rest of the family has filed in and sits down, Reggie begins the meal with a lengthy prayer. Maggie sneaks a glance around the dining and cooking area while he’s still at it. She sees a mortar and pestle on the kitchen counter. At first, she thinks it looks a lot like the Sibley’s family heirloom. Then she grows suspicious. Is it the same one? Did Andy take it and give it to his family? She can’t believe she’s having doubts about him. His moral code doesn’t allow for stealing, so it can’t be the same one. Mortar and pestle sets can’t be all that different anyway.
After grace, they eat quietly. The food is simple but good. She takes homemade bread and butter, then serves herself stew with carrots, potatoes, onions, and some kind of meat she can’t identify. Andy’s mother and oldest sisters clear the table when they finish and bring out dessert, a rhubarb crisp. Maggie takes a no-thank-you bite and starts the countdown until she can leave. She’ll be out of here in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.
Andy unfolds some printed pages from his wallet. “I was in this article. It’s about Ms. Killian. She’s a music star.”
His family passes it around, rubbing their hands over it and his picture in it.
When it reaches the head of the table, Reggie wads it up and throws it to the floor. “Pride, Andrew. You’re indulging in pride. That’s a sin. I hope now that the Indian whore is out of your life, you will sin no more.”
Everyone looks down. Andy’s neck flushes. The silence is sharp as razors.
Maggie bites back a comment. This is not the environment for it. Instead, she puts down her spoon. “Thank you for the delicious dinner. I hate to be rude, but I have a long drive back on dark roads.”
“And the snow.” It’s the first time Mrs. Yoder has spoken to her directly.
Maggie smiles at the woman. “Exactly. You have a lovely family. Andy, I’ll see you later.”
He stands, fists clenched. “She wasn’t a whore, Father. And Michael may not have been a good brother to her, but he was a good person who tried to protect her. It’s terrible that they died.”
Brother. Michael was Penny’s brother. Things begin to make more sense to Maggie. The baby had to have been Paco’s.
Mrs. Yoder speaks with her eyes down, cutting off Maggie’s line of thought. “Of course it is, son. Please sit back down.”
He does. Maggie doesn’t. She feels twenty-four eyes watching as she hurries out.
Fifty-Seven
Maggie opens the door to her truck. This has been one of the weirdest days of her life. Time to get the hell out of here and back to the ranch.
She smells cheap booze, then a male voice close behind her says, “Drive me back to Sheridan with you.”
She jumps, startled. In the dark, she can’t make out a face, but she knows it’s Reggie, and that he’s a secret drinker. “Mr. Yoder?”
“I need to pick up Andy’s things. He won’t be coming back.”
“I can’t let you do that without hearing it from him.”
“I am the head of this household, and my word is final.”
“But you’re not head of household at Piney Bottoms, Mr. Yoder.”
“Fine. I have to work in Sheridan tomorrow. I can stay out at the ranch in his cabin.”
Internally Maggie resists, but manners win out. “Not my call. You can certainly ask.” She knows he’s still going to try to take Andy’s belongings, but Gene and Hank can deal with that when the time comes.
The two of them pile into her cold truck. She checks her phone. No signal, so of course no new messages, from Hank or anyone. Despite her earlier dip about him, he’s the one she wants to talk to now. She types him a text. Heading home from Montana with Reggie Yoder. He wants to stay in Andy’s cabin. Yes or no? He’s giving me the creeps. So much to tell you. She’ll send it when she’s in range.
As she drives out of the gate, she says, “Thank you for dinner with your family, Mr. Yoder.”
He doesn’t respond.
Maggie fiddles with the heat, trying to get more of it flowing. “Do you have a ride into work tomorrow?”
He nods.
Her mind returns to the Yoder’s home, her disquietude there. “The mortar and pestle in your kitchen. Where did you get them?”
“Them’s women’s things.”
“So you don’t know if they came from Double S?”
He grunts noncommittally.
So this is how it’s going to go, then. Maggie finds a staticky station on the radio and fills the silence with country music for the rest of the two-and-a-half-hour drive, with the occasional grumble about heathen music from Reggie. It’s dark as pitch when they arrive at the ranch gate.
“You’ve been to Andy’s cabin, before, right?” she asks. Her voice cracks from lack of recent use.
He nods.
Maggie realizes she forgot to call and ask permission for Reggie to stay, but she’s too tired to take him back to Sheridan anyway. It will just have to be okay. In front of the bunkhouse, she takes her foot off the gas. Something hard jabs her in the side.
“Ouch.” She turns toward the pain and Reggie.
“Keep driving.”
“But we’re here. What is that?”
“A gun. I don’t prefer to use it.”
“I—”
He pummels her with his words. “Drive. Now. Or I shoot.”
Maggie’s brain feels like it’s stuck in quicksand. This doesn’t make sense. Reggie is unstable. He’s upset. He has a gun. She needs to do what he says and calm him down, even if she doesn’t understand why yet. “Fine. Fine. Where am I going?”
“Where I say. Turn here. And throw your phone out the window.”
She hesitates, hand on the window crank. They’re heading into the south pastures. Her phone is the only way she can summon help, but she won’t have signal much further anyway. She glances at the screen. Her message to Hank is still in a text box, unsent. She hits send.
His voice is edgy, cracking to let a higher pitch through. He jabs her again. “Do it now.”
“Okay, okay.” She opens the window and tosses it out. They reach the first gate and she stops. “Are you going to get the gates?”
“No. You are.”
“I’m not strong enough for some of them.”
“I suggest you will be.”
“What’s going on, Mr. Yoder?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What do you want from me?”
He doesn’t even look at her.
Maggie’s adrenaline spikes, making her light-headed. She’s still close enough to make a run for the house. She gets out of the truck. Instead of walking to the gate, she bends low and takes off at top speed, which isn’t very fast over the rough, slippery ground, in cowboy boots. T
he ground wins. She goes down.
Reggie’s door opens. “I’m a good shot. If you make me shoot you, I’ll still have a mostly full magazine left. Who do you think I’ll go for next? Your boyfriend? His partner? Your dog?”
The snow on her sore hands is wet and cold. She pushes to her feet. Now she’s really scared, but she does her best not to show it. Without looking at Reggie, she goes to the gate and opens it, returns to the truck and pulls it through, then closes the gate and returns once more.
The road through the next pasture is rough. Maggie barely notices. All of her energy is going toward a plan to get away from Reggie. Her brain cycles through one useless idea after another. Jump on him and wrestle the gun away? Wreck the truck? But into what? And what would she do then, without wheels, alone with him and his gun?
She sees a horde of eyes shining in the headlights. Expensive, mean rodeo-bull eyes. She slows down.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying not to hit a bull.”
“They will get out of your way. Keep driving.”
“You’d think that.” But she speeds up, and, luckily, the eyes in front of her shift to the side and soon are behind them. Her mind churns again, and she decides her only option is to figure out what’s wrong with Reggie and try to talk sense into him. “I know you’re upset. I’m sorry about everything that has happened. If you want to pick up Andy’s things, I’d be happy to help you.”
“Open the gate and turn.”
It’s too far back to the compound to make a run for it, plus he still has his gun, so Maggie does as he asks. As she struggles with the wire loop, she hears a bovine snort and a heavy hoof pawing the snow. “Whatever you’re thinking, no. He’s got a gun, you big dummy.”
He doesn’t back away. What if this is one of the star bulls? And he charges, and Reggie kills him?
She waves her arms in a crisscross over her head. “Shoo. Go away.” She gets the gate open, then drives the truck through. The bull barrels through the gate and past them. Great. This one is going to have a sexcation with the cows, because that’s what’s in the pasture.
Dead Pile (Maggie #3) Page 25