“I’m serious. Not Patrick.”
“You’re pathetic. Go home.”
“I am.”
“Good.” Maggie slams the cabin door and leans against it, shaking with something. Rage? Maybe. She wipes away a tear.
Or maybe not.
She hears an engine fire up. She’d expected him to be walking back to his house. Is he taking the Tahoe? She flips on the porch light and pulls the curtain back from the front window. Hank fishtails his truck around from the side of the cabin. Well, that accounts for why she didn’t see it when she drove up. Instead of turning toward the main house, though, he careens into the darkness, toward pastures, high prairie, and big animals.
She watches his taillights recede, then drops the curtain. “Dumbass.”
But with his absence, she feels completely alone. Scary alone. She’ll sleep with the rifle beside her tonight. Or she would if she had it. But she won’t. Can’t. Because when she turns to get it, the rifle isn’t there.
Thirty-Five
The next morning, Maggie skips the group breakfast, instead taking Louise and the driveshaft to Sheridan. She second-guesses herself hard the whole way about the night before. She’d decided not to call the sheriff about the missing rifle, since Deputy Travis was already scheduled for the morning. In fact, she’ll have to hustle to get back from town in time to meet him. But worrying about the rifle and who’d taken it from her cabin—her locked cabin—kept her up all night, without a bottle of Balcones or Koltiska to help her through.
She’d gotten so sleepy, she’d started hallucinating. Twice, she’d been sure she’d seen an Indian woman standing over her bed. Once, wafting a burning sage smudge stick over her bed. The other, chanting in a singsong voice, using a language she didn’t understand. Both times, Maggie had closed her eyes to shut out the image. The first time, it worked. The second time, when she opened them, the woman was still there. She’d closed them again and screamed bloody murder, and the woman had disappeared.
Maybe if she’d called Travis, she wouldn’t be questioning her sanity this morning. Or maybe it wouldn’t have helped. Either way, she can’t go back and change her decision now.
Her first stop in town is the dealership, where she sucks down burned coffee from their lounge while the service tech retrieves the hunk of metal from the Tahoe.
He’s the same one she’s been talking to on her calls. His red Roll Tide T-shirt stands out in a sea of Cowboy brown and gold. He returns carrying the driveshaft like it’s a six-pack of beer. “Your dog gave me a good barking-to.”
“She’s awesome like that.”
“Funny looking, too. What is she?”
“Half border collie.”
“Like a dwarf collie?”
“Corgi mix, maybe. Or a terrible accident with a table saw.”
He laughs. “I’ll try to get you going today. Tomorrow at the latest.”
His words are like a spark plug. Maybe things will go her way today, which would be great for when she talks to Hank. She’s definitely talking to Hank.
She has time for a green smoothie from the Golden Rule. But when she sees their cinnamon rolls, she caves. Driving back to Piney Bottoms with the wind in her hair, she alternates sips from an extra-large dark coffee, light and sweet, with bites of warm cinnamon roll, stopping only for gas and a four-pack of KO 90. Because the gas station is also a liquor store. And a wine bar. Things to love about Wyoming.
Before leaving the pump, she holds up the last bite of cinnamon roll. “Don’t tell anyone what a softie I am.”
Louise gobbles it and wags her tail. Hair swirls in the cab from her tail storm. Her eyes beg for more.
“That’s all I’ve got. Besides, you ate your dog food this morning anyway, little piggy.”
Maggie makes it back to the ranch with half an hour to spare before she expects Deputy Travis. But a white Sheridan County truck pulls through the Piney Bottoms gate just ahead of her. Maggie waves to the deputy. A hand rises. When the truck reaches the split in the entrance road, it veers toward the main house instead of continuing to her cabin. Maggie follows. She assumes he’s planning on checking in with the owner before talking to her.
Then she takes her foot off the accelerator. Louise cocks her head. The Tahoe slows to a crawl. Is she ready for the Sibleys yet? Poised with her foot over the pedal in indecision, she suddenly mashes it down. She hopes Hank’s there, hungover and squirming with his shiner, busted lip, and chewed-on ear. Time for him to face the music, she thinks.
Two deputies are already walking to the door when she gets out behind their vehicle. One has a unique, skipping limp, the other a three-inch-long beard like half the other men in the state.
She calls after them. “Hello! I’m Maggie Killian.”
They turn and stop.
The unique deputy frowns. “Yes?”
“Aren’t you here to see me, about my intruder and the things that have been stolen?”
He puts his hand on his gun. “No, ma’am. Do you live here?”
Maggie stops, eying his gun hand. What the hell? “No. I’m in the guest cabin.”
“I need you to head back there, then. This doesn’t concern you.”
“But I don’t understand. We had an appointment.”
“Ma’am, get back in your vehicle and leave, please.”
Hank opens the front door and steps onto the porch. Even after an ass-whupping, he sets off electric butterflies in her belly. Framed in the doorway is his mother in her wheelchair, Laura behind her with a hand on each handle and a frown on her face.
“Can I help you?” Hank says.
“Are you Hank Sibley?” the limping deputy asks.
Hank’s battered, swollen face folds like a squeeze box. “George, that’s a stupid-ass question. You know I am.”
The other deputy approaches Hank and halts a few feet away.
George holds up a hand. “Gotta do this by the book. Hank Sibley, you’re under arrest for the murder of Patrick Rhodes.”
Maggie gasps, earning her a glare from George. Patrick is dead? Hank is being arrested for his murder? Her heart drops to her knees, and the rest of her almost goes with it.
George shakes his head at her. “I told you to get along.”
No way in hell is Maggie leaving. Hank searches her face through his one good eye. For what, she isn’t sure. She reaches toward him, and his hand rises as if to touch hers, but ten feet separates them.
“Hank, Ernie’s going to snap the cuffs on you now while I read you your Miranda rights.”
“Is that really necessary in front of my mom?” Hank lowers his voice. “She has Alzheimer’s. Can’t I just agree to come along with you and sort this out in town?”
“I’m sorry. Procedure. Put your hands behind your back.”
Hank holds his wrists in front of his waist. “Come on. At least do it where she can’t see. And could you keep your voices down, please?”
The two deputies share a long look, Ernie questioning, George giving a grudging nod. Ernie snaps cuffs over Hank’s wrists, then puts a hand on Hank’s elbow as George recites the Miranda warning in a low monotone.
From the doorway, Mrs. Sibley’s voice is screechy. “You boys. What do you think you’re doing? Mr. Sibley has work to do. You go on, now, and let him be.”
“It will be fine, Mom. Let’s go inside.” Laura pulls back on the wheelchair. To Hank, she says, “I’ll be half an hour behind you.”
Maggie suddenly loves Laura for the anguish in her voice.
Mrs. Sibley pushes her feet to the floor and drags them. “No. I’m not going.” Her eagle talon fingers grip the armrests. The veins in her neck pop like a weightlifter on a world-record dead lift. The flesh around her eyes suddenly sinks and darkens. “Goddammit, I said no!”
The deputies walk Hank toward the white truck.
“Hank,” Maggie calls. She’s choking on something. She can barely get his name out. “Hank.”
Mrs. Sibley has fought Laura to a stands
till. She points at Maggie. “That woman. That woman is trouble. Take her. She’s the one you want.”
Maggie can’t disagree. If she hadn’t gone to Winchesters with Patrick, if she had remembered to get the driveshaft from his truck before she drove to the ranch, then Hank and Patrick wouldn’t have fought. If she hadn’t told Hank what Patrick had said, then Hank wouldn’t have torn off into the wild blue last night, to do God knows what, God knows where.
She puts the mental brakes on. She has no idea why they’re arresting Hank, but nothing she knows proves he killed Patrick. So he drove off. So he was mad. It proves nothing.
Nothing.
She follows the men to the Sheridan County truck.
“Stay back, ma’am. If I have to tell you again, you’re coming in, too.” George opens the back door.
Ernie assists Hank inside.
Hank stops half in, half out. “Maggie, have Gene send our lawyer.”
“Of course.”
He shakes his head. “This is all a big misunderstanding. You know that, right?”
“Yes.” Maybe. “Do you need anything else?” Sheila?
“No. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“Come on, Hank. You can talk to your girlfriend later.”
Maggie almost says, “I’m not his girlfriend.” Instead, she blows Hank a kiss.
His lips form a kiss back, then he climbs the rest of the way in the vehicle, and George shuts the door behind him.
Thirty-Six
Maggie runs to the barn. No Gene. Andy and Paco are unloading bags of feed.
Out of breath, her words burst out between gasps for air. “Have. You. Seen. Gene?”
Paco tips his hat back. “He went out to doctor an injured horse. He should be back soon. Can I help?”
Maggie hears an ORV coming toward them. “No. I need Gene.”
“Lily misses you. Do you want to take her some sweet feed while you wait?”
She can’t think about Lily right now. Or anything but Hank. “Later.”
Andy tosses a fifty-pound bag onto a stack as high as his head, making it look no heavier than a pillow. “Hey, Maggie, do you think I could maybe have another guitar lesson tonight?”
Gene steers the ORV into the barnyard. Maggie doesn’t answer Andy. She charges out the door, meeting Gene before the engine stops running.
“Hank needs you.”
Gene puts an empty Cheetos bag in the ashtray and grabs a big leather veterinarian bag from the seat beside him. He climbs out. “What’s new?”
“I’m serious.” She lowers her voice. “Patrick Rhodes is dead. Some Sheridan County deputies arrested Hank. He asked me to have you send the attorney.”
The vet bag lands in the dirt. “Paco, you’re in charge,” Gene calls out. “Thank you, Maggie.” Then he jumps back in the ORV without another word and roars off.
The sound of a vehicle rattling over the cattle guard comes from the direction of the front gate.
Paco joins Maggie. “What’s going on?”
Another white county truck approaches the barn. Adrenaline courses through her. Maggie pulls her jacket tighter. Now what? Are they here to arrest her, too?
A lone occupant idles the truck outside the barnyard. He rolls down his window. “Deputy Travis, Sheridan Sheriff’s Department. I’m looking for Maggie Killian.”
Maggie raises her hand like a student who has to tell the teacher she forgot her homework. “I’m Maggie.”
“Where were these break-ins Hank called about?”
Fight or flight fades, leaving Maggie weak. The deputy isn’t here about Patrick Rhodes. Thank God. “I called, too.”
“You going to show me or not?”
Maggie points. “The last cabin. That way.”
“Want a ride?”
A walk will give her time to pull herself together. “No. I’ll meet you there.”
“Suit yourself.” Travis rolls up his window and drives ahead.
Maggie sees nothing but the toes of her boots on the walk to the cabin. She rubs her arms and chants aloud to herself, “Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right.” When that doesn’t work she switches to “Not about Hank. Not about Hank.” Gene passes her, driving like a bat out of hell toward the gate. Toward Sheridan and the sheriff’s department. They raise hands at each other, salutes rather than waves.
Maggie’s almost to the torn-down tape gate when she remembers the missing rifle. She’d been planning to tell the deputy about it, but now she isn’t sure. Hank could have taken it when he was waiting on her. It belongs to him, after all, and he has a key to her cabin. She needs to ask him about it. She can’t bring it up to Travis. That or anything related to Hank and Patrick’s altercation. Too risky.
She pastes on a smile—she goes for relaxed and welcoming—and steps over the tape on the ground. “Deputy Travis, thank you for coming.”
On terra firma instead of in his truck, the deputy reminds her of a grizzly bear. Big, hunched, lumbering, with dark hair and a sizeable belly. He’s marking in a spiral notebook and looks up at her. But when he speaks, it isn’t to her.
“Sheila. How are you?”
Maggie stiffens and glances in the direction of Travis’s gaze. Her blonde nemesis is walking up, right behind her.
“Travis, hello.” Sheila gives Maggie a wide berth.
To Maggie, Travis says, “Pardon me for a minute. Sheila and I grew up together from the time we were in kindergarten.”
“Seems like yesterday.” Sheila stands on tiptoe to hug him.
“How is little Phoebe? She still the spitting image of your mother?”
Sheila smiles up at him. “Yes, and my parents spoil her rotten. Got her another pony for her ninth birthday.”
The two keep chatting, but Maggie tunes them out. She’s staring at Sheila. Remembering her staring at Chet and whispering to Gene’s date, June, the week before at the Occidental. Wondering how many little Phoebes there can possibly be in the Sheridan area. Realizing Sheila has to be Chet’s baby mama, the one he was fighting for custody of their daughter.
The one with a compelling motive to see Chet dead.
Sheila’s voice slices into her thoughts like a hot knife through Jell-O. “Maggie, did you hear me?”
“Sorry. What?”
“I said I came by to see Hank on my way back from a school thing in Sheridan. I can’t find anyone. Do you know where he is?”
Maggie’s blood boils with hatred for this woman who has sat by and let the police hound Maggie about Chet, when she has vital information for them that she’s kept to herself.
Well, two can play hide-and-seek. “I haven’t the foggiest.” And she gives Sheila a sweet, wide-eyed smile.
Thirty-Seven
Several hours later, Gene knocks on Maggie’s door. His olive skin is pasty, his eyes hollow.
Maggie pulls Gene into the cabin. “How is he?”
“Subdued. Exhausted after his interview.”
“What makes them think he did it?”
Gene shakes his head, sighing. “Hank went over to Patrick’s last night. They had a noisy fight. Several of Patrick’s hands were there. They’re saying Hank was drunk and promised to kill Patrick. Multiple times.”
“It’s just an expression. Lots of people say it.”
“But not right before the person they say it to is murdered.”
Maggie drops her face into her hands. Beside her, Louise whines.
Gene takes Maggie’s shoulders. “Look at me.” She lifts her head partway and lowers her hands. “Hank swears he didn’t do it.”
“I know.”
“Patrick was shot with a rifle. And everyone in Wyoming has a rifle.”
Maggie turns from Gene, walks into the kitchen area, leans on the counter palms-first. “Last night, though . . .”
“What about last night?”
Maggie shakes her head.
Gene urges her again. “What is it, Maggie?”
She straightens and takes two gl
asses from the cabinet. “Want a drink?”
Gene scrubs his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Sure.”
She puts ice cubes from a freezer tray into the glasses, then pours each of them roughly two shots of KO 90.
She hands Gene his drink. “Hank lent me one of his rifles. For my protection.”
“Yes?”
“When I got home from Buffalo last night, it was gone.”
Gene’s face furrows. “And?”
“And Hank was here. On my porch.”
“Hmm. Do you think he took it?”
“I have no idea. Right after you left this morning, Deputy Travis came, about the thefts and break-ins. I told him about the belt buckle and the guitar strap. About the person running out and under the fence. But I didn’t tell him about the rifle. I don’t know why. I was just . . . afraid to.”
“Maggie—”
“Gene, what if it’s the rifle that killed Patrick?”
Gene’s expression is grim. “There are some things you need to know.” He motions for Maggie to follow him, and they go out to the porch.
Louise flops inside the door. An afternoon storm has rolled in. Lightning flashes. A few seconds later, thunder shakes the roof over the porch. The air is greenish black and heavy. Maggie smells the sweet odor of ozone, like someone has dumped a bucket of chlorine into the clouds. Hail strikes the roof, small and high-pitched at first, then bigger chunks fall with deeper and deeper tonality. Rain joins in. Maggie remembers her piano lessons as a child. Adagio speeds up to allegro, until the sound is continuous, like a snare roll with a bass drum backbeat. Overspray mists the porch. Maggie wipes moisture from her cheek.
Water beads on Gene’s forehead as he stands, hat in hand, at the railing. “Hank killed a man once.”
Maggie sinks into the porch swing. She’s surprised, but she’s not shocked.
“It was self-defense. He was never charged with anything.”
Maggie blinks away spots in her vision. She concentrates on her breath. “Tell me.”
“Hank owed some people money once. Back in Cheyenne.”
Maggie Box Set Page 23