“Sir, he’s in an interview. You’re welcome to take a seat.”
“How long will he be?”
“There’s no way to know at this point.”
“But he will be free to leave with me when the deputies are through with him?”
“That’s my understanding, sir. Subject to change if they find a reason to hold him over.”
“Such as?”
“Well, if they arrest him.”
Anger hangs over Reggie like a dark cloud. He wheels and stalks stiff-legged to a chair several feet away from where Maggie sits.
“Sir?” Maggie says.
At first he doesn’t register she’s addressing him.
“Mr. Yoder?”
His head jerks in her direction. “You speaking to me?”
Reggie has a medicinal odor to him. She wonders if it’s cough syrup, but he’s not coughing. “Yes, sir. My name is Maggie Killian. I understand you’re Andy’s father?”
“That conversation was not for your ears.”
Maggie grinds her teeth. “Andy asked me to be on the lookout for you.”
“Who are you to my son?”
How to explain this? “My boyfriend, Hank, is one of the owners of Double S, where Andy works. I gave Andy a ride to town today.”
“This is a family matter. Your services are no longer needed. He’ll be coming with me.”
Heat consumes her ears. She’d expected politeness, if not gratitude. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Maggie hears the door from the interior of the station open. She looks up to see a visibly distressed Andy. He notices his father immediately, and she sees a mask of self-control slip over his features.
“Ms. Killian. Father.”
Reggie snatches his hat from his knees and stands. “Old Mr. Gregory is waiting with the truck. I’ll meet you out there.”
“For what?”
“Our ride back to the community.”
“Father, I can’t go with you. I have a job. They need me at Double S.”
“This is not a discussion.”
As they’re leaving, the receptionist calls out, “Need a shovel?”
Maggie stops. “What?”
Andy says, “No, we’ve got one.”
To Andy, Maggie says, “What was that about?”
“Digging out.”
The three of them move outside. In the parking lot, Maggie sees why the receptionist offered them the shovel. The snow has piled up even higher while they’ve been inside. Plows are out clearing the roads, but not the parking lot.
Andy stands taller, his wool scarf flapping, his back like a flagpole. “Thank you for coming, Father. I sure am sorry to shame you like this, although I ain’t done nothing wrong. But I’ve got livestock to tend to, and this weather puts them at risk. You always taught me about responsibility and hard work. Those animals and that ranch are my responsibility as top hand, and I can’t just leave them.”
Reggie stomps away, seeming not to even notice Andy’s mention of his promotion, however subtle. Maggie’s eyes follow him and she watches the profile of his beard and hat in a beat-up Chevy truck parked just a few feet away. The truck backs up. The wheels spin, then grip. It reverses course, fishtails for a moment, then disappears within seconds.
Andy’s voice is strangled. “Let’s go.”
He pulls a snow shovel out of the truck bed.
Maggie asks, “Where did that come from?”
“I threw it in before we left. Due to the weather. There’s an ice scraper in the glove box.” He shovels, clearing a path.
“Oh.”
She feels worthless—and worse, naïve—as she scrapes snow from the windshields. It hadn’t occurred to her to check for snow tools before driving to town. Being stuck in a parking lot is one thing—a minor irritant. But if they go off a road, there could be no help for hours. Or days. She ticks off things it would be a good idea to have in the future. Not just a shovel and ice scraper, but a satellite phone. Blankets. A bag of kitty litter or sand for traction. Chains. Water. Nutrition bars. Flares. Taking things for granted here could be deadly.
She and Andy get in the truck. He doesn’t look at her.
She exits the parking lot. “Are you okay?”
“It’s humiliating to accept help from a woman in front of my father.”
Maggie tries to stifle the offense that rises in her. Now is not the time to fight a gender battle. “Don’t be ridiculous. We all need help sometimes. No shame in taking it.”
They ride in silence through town. Maggie hopes he’ll open up, but he doesn’t.
Finally, she can’t hold back any longer. “How did it go in there?”
“Fine.”
“Did you learn anything new?”
“My knife killed Paco.”
“Andy, I’m so sorry.”
“They’ll be contacting everyone at the ranch about the knife and my alibi.”
“They have a time of death?”
“Not exactly. But I gave them my whereabouts ever since Paco left.”
“Did they fingerprint you?”
“Yes. And I gave them hair for a DNA sample, too.”
Maggie bites her tongue. She wants so badly to chastise him for giving law enforcement things they have no right to yet, but it won’t change anything now. And she understands Andy’s reasons, even if they’re different from her own.
The worst of the storm has passed, so the visibility is far better than on the way into town. Maggie lets the ride pass in silence. When they reach the ranch, she drops Andy at the barn—per his request to go make sure Michael took care of things right—then parks at the ranch house. The snow is soft and powdery under her feet as she walks to the front door. Just as she touches the knob, her phone starts issuing notifications rapid-fire. Messages, voicemails, emails. Just inside the door, she stops to check them. Apparently her signal hadn’t been good enough to receive anything while she was driving back from Sheridan. Everyone she’d contacted had reached back out to her, although a fat lot of good it did Andy now. She even had a return call from Franklin.
Before she has time to read or listen to a word of them, she sees headlights creeping toward the ranch house. The battered truck she’d seen earlier stops by the front door, and Reggie Yoder covers the ground in a few long strides, a large satchel in his hand. His knock is forceful and continues until she opens the door.
“You again,” he says.
“Mr. Yoder.” She nods.
“I want to speak to Andy’s employer.”
Maggie steps back, once again getting a whiff of something astringent. She ushers him into the common room.
Hank calls to her from upstairs, his voice a raised whisper. “Bring Mr. Yoder to my sitting room up here, please. I’d like to keep it quiet downstairs so Mom and Laura can get some rest.”
“After you, sir.” Maggie beckons Reggie ahead of her on the stairs. In the second-floor sitting room, Hank is nowhere to be seen. “Please, have a seat. I’m sure Mr. Sibley will be with you any moment.”
Reggie sets his satchel down and stands at attention.
Maggie goes back downstairs to shuck her boots and outerwear at the rack and pegs by the door. When she returns, Reggie is holding the Sibley mortar and pestle.
“Family heirloom,” Maggie tells him.
He doesn’t reply or make eye contact, so she continues on to the room she shares with Hank. Louise meets her at the door.
Maggie goes inside and closes the door with a soft click. “You let the dog in. Thanks.”
Hank’s buttoning a flannel shirt. “I was just getting in the shower. How come you never called me back?” His voice is stiff, and he doesn’t make a move toward her.
She approaches him and kisses the cheek he doesn’t offer. What’s he doing mad at her when he was the one having a drink with Sheila when he was supposedly at the doctor with his mother? She backs away, her temper starting to flare, but she holds it in, for now. There’s a visitor on the other side
of the wall. “My phone wasn’t working for incoming calls. I just got a ton of voicemails and stuff when I came inside the house. I haven’t had a chance to listen to them yet.”
His eyes flick to hers. “Is Andy okay?”
“As much as he can be. They didn’t arrest him, anyway.”
“What’s up with Reggie?”
“Andy left word for him about what was going on, and Reggie showed up at the sheriff’s department. He demanded Andy go back to Montana with him, and Andy refused. Told him he had work to do here. Reggie followed us home. That’s about it.”
“Anything else I need to know before I talk to him?”
Before she consciously thinks it, Maggie says, “That he smells like rotgut.”
“Booze?”
“To my nose.”
“The Amish don’t drink.”
“Maybe it’s bad cough syrup. Or something.”
“Has to be.”
Hank leaves the room. Maggie’s slow burn turns into a boil. It’s been a shitty day, and Hank doesn’t have to make it worse. For a moment she wonders if he’s having a head episode. Or if maybe things went badly with Laura and his mother. But that just makes her angrier. Tough times are for working out with her, not with his ex over drinks. Otherwise, there’s no future for Hank and her. And if there’s no future for the two of them, then that just makes it even more important that she figure out what to do about her ruined home and business. She balls her fists and closes her eyes. To think she’d been searching for a ranch for him in Texas earlier. Louise sidles up to her and nuzzles her hand. Maggie strokes the dog’s long, furry ears.
Raised voices from the sitting room draw her closer to the door. She can’t make out what they’re saying. Hank had shut the door on his way out, but Maggie turns the knob silently and creates a crack of several inches. Immediately she’s able to hear their words.
“—English corruption. It’s the wrong place for my son. If he was home, none of this would be happening.”
Hank sounds placating. “This is a safe place. We’ve done nothing to corrupt him.”
“I disagree. He’s a suspect in a murder because of you.”
“Andy’s innocent. He was only in for questioning.”
“You’re exposing him to murder and immoral relationships.”
Maggie puts her hand over her mouth.
Hank’s voice hardens. “We didn’t cause Paco’s death. And what do you mean about immoral relationships?”
Louise whines.
“You, and that . . . woman . . . that drove him to town.”
He’s talking about her. She’s the immoral relationship. Her blood boils.
“You’re out of line, Mr. Yoder.”
“And you’re a heathen. I want my son released immediately.”
Hank’s laugh is a snort. “He’s not our prisoner.”
“Then send him home with me.”
“If he wants to go, he’ll go. I won’t be assisting you in kidnapping a grown man.”
Downstairs, the front door opens and closes.
Andy’s voice calls out so softly that Maggie barely hears it. “Hank?”
“Up here, Andy. With your father.”
Booted feet ascend the stairs with a soft clomp-clomp-clomping. The sounds grow more distinct, then stop. “Father.”
“Pack your things, Andrew. We’re leaving tonight.”
“I already told you, I’m staying here.”
“You’re risking your eternal soul.”
“Father—”
“And shunning by our community.”
“I ain’t broken no church rules. I’m not even baptized, Father.”
“Come and confess your sins, and all will be forgiven.”
Andy’s voice is firm. “You’re embarrassing me. I work here. You need to leave.”
Maggie feels her lips turn up with a smile she hadn’t expected. Andy’s standing up for himself.
Hank chimes in, and she hears the smile in his voice, too. “You heard the man, Mr. Yoder. Time for you to go.”
The boots on the stairs recede. These clomps are far louder. At the bottom, they stop, but the door doesn’t open. Maggie steps out into the hall, curious, and Louise bolts ahead of her to sniff Hank, giving him a thorough going-over. Andy and Hank are both inspecting their feet. After a few more long seconds, the door slams, and moments later, she hears a truck drive away.
Twelve
Maggie trips over a dead mole on the front steps as she’s leaving the house the next morning. “Gross, Louise!”
Hearing her name, the dog bounds toward Maggie. Maggie kicks the mole off the porch with her hard-toed cowboy boots, as far as she can. It lands ten feet away, partially hidden in the snow.
“This one is going over the fence. I’m pretty sure you won’t get in trouble for killing a pasture nuisance.”
And Maggie sure doesn’t want any more trouble. Mrs. Sibley is on the warpath this morning, irrational and angry. After two nights without sleep, Laura didn’t show up for breakfast, which was probably for the best. Mrs. Sibley is convinced Hank is her husband. Nothing he says or does persuades her otherwise. That makes Maggie her rival, out to steal her husband from her, so she threw a biscuit that missed Maggie’s head by inches. Trudy covertly made Maggie a to-go plate, and Maggie snuck out the back door with it, then around front to eat alone in the great room.
Trouble isn’t limited to Mrs. Sibley, either. Maggie and Hank went to bed without talking. Not about the handful of ibuprofen he dry-swallowed for his broken man parts, the migraine meds she saw him take, Paco, Andy, or Maggie’s lack of progress in Texas. And especially not about his drink with Sheila. Hank tossed and turned in his sleep, muttering and occasionally flailing and crying out, which means Maggie is exhausted and on the ragged edge this morning.
Now she’s got a bloody varmint to deal with, too.
Sighing, she opens the door to go back for a garbage bag to cart it off in. The door gives too easily, and she falls forward into Gene on the other side.
“Whoa there.” He catches her and boosts her back upright.
“Hey, Gene. I thought you were on the road?”
“I was. But I was headed south, where it’s even worse than here, on my way to Oklahoma. So instead, I’m on my way north, to fly out of Billings.” He grins. “And decided to drop in here for a few things. What has you exploding into the house?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I heard I missed some excitement.”
“Yeah, poor Andy. I don’t know which is worse—his father or the deputies. Andy really doesn’t like Michael, by the way.”
Gene shakes his head. “They need to get over it. The Cheyenne don’t like the Amish, the Amish don’t like the Indians. They’re Double S employees now.”
“Did you get a chance to look into Michael’s background? Andy is convinced he’s from a family of drug-abusing drunkards on the federal dole.”
“No, but I’ll call around from the road.”
Hank clomps down the stairs. “Ready, Gene?”
For the first time, Maggie notices the overnight bag at Gene’s feet.
He throws it over his shoulder. “Off to Billings.”
Maggie’s brow creases as she looks at Hank. “Both of you?”
Gene grins. “He’s my chauffeur.”
Hank doesn’t smile at her. “I’ll be back tonight.”
Maggie chafes at his lack of communication. She hates the coldness between them. “Is that extra tank of gas really cheaper than parking?”
Hank shrugs. “Gives me a chance to pick up a few things, meet with a few people.”
Under her breath, Maggie’s voice is seething. “And you were going to tell me about this when?”
He looks past her and doesn’t stop. “All in a day’s work. Here for breakfast, here before bed. What does it matter where in between?”
Gene raises his eyebrows at her. “What’s up your ass, Sibley?”
Hank hops in th
e truck. “Ask her.” He slams the door.
Maggie growls. “Ask him why I had to hear it from Sheila that he had a drink with her yesterday.”
“Oh shit.” Gene puts his hand on the truck door. “I think I’ll leave this to the two of you. Other than to warn you that trust is a big deal to Hank.”
“Then he should be trustworthy.”
Gene steps back to get closer to her and drops his voice. “No. Being trusted. He considers himself an honorable guy.”
“He shouldn’t have gone out with her.”
“Who’s to say he did?”
“What?” Maggie is confused for a moment, then it hits her. She doesn’t know who asked who or if there was any asking at all. She’s so accustomed to the man-whoring ways of her old boyfriend Gary, she’d just assumed. Still, hearing it from Sheila instead of Hank? Although, her phone wasn’t working yesterday. And she still hasn’t listened to all her messages.
Gene nudges her with a shoulder. “Listen, I’ll talk to him, but consider asking him when he gets back.”
Her face prickles, a sure sign she’s blushing. “Thanks.”
Maggie salutes him and waves to Hank, who lifts his hand. A dead fish has more life than him. Gene has a point, but Hank needs to quit acting like an oversensitive teenage girl and just talk to her. The truck pulls away, and immediately she feels a ferocious tug on her heart. She runs after them, wanting another chance to get goodbye right. But she’s too late, and the truck bounces down the snowy dirt road toward the gate.
“Shit. That didn’t go well.”
Louise licks her fingers. Maggie jerks them away, not wanting dead-mole tongue on her skin. Louise wags her tail.
“Come on, Fucker. Let’s get rid of the evidence of your latest crime.”
Thirteen
After throwing the mole over the fence and then taking an apple to Lily, Maggie returns to the warmth of the house to check her messages. Before she can even access her voicemail, though, her phone rings. It’s Boyd Herrington, her birth father.
“Hey, Boyd.”
“Maggie! How’s the great white north treating my daughter? Have you managed to get up to the Crow reservation to learn about our ancestors?”
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