Maggie Box Set

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Please. Your hand said he doesn’t have technology. He wants you to show it to him.”

  “Fine.” She puts him on speaker and switches to her texts, where she clicks the link he sent.

  The first thing she notices—"Black Widow Steals Other Woman’s Fiancé”—is a box quote from Sheila. Maggie stole Hank from me. We were engaged to be married. And then a picture of Maggie with Lily, Louise, and the goats, captioned Country star to country girl. Sneaky bastard taking pictures like some paparazzo with a telephoto lens.

  Hank reads over her shoulder, squeezes her, and kisses her neck. “Want me to talk to him again?”

  “I hear you, you Neanderthal,” Amos says.

  From downstairs, a woman’s scream rings out.

  Hank says, “Shit, that’s Mom. You okay?”

  Maggie points at the door. “I’m fine. Go.”

  Hank runs out.

  “Maggie?”

  “You’re a jackal.”

  “The interest in you is huge after these murders you were involved in.”

  “I wasn’t involved in any murders. Murderers were involved.”

  “Add all the rest to it, and you’re great reading. You’re dating a real cowboy, your superstar ex died, your old bandmate burned down your house, your father’s running for president, and your new bestie is Ava Butler.”

  President? Oh, Boyd. That won’t keep the scavenging press away. “I wouldn’t call us besties.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “We’re . . . friends of friends.”

  “Well, people are interested. You can let me write about you, or someone else will.”

  “You have a grudge against me. No thanks.”

  “My articles are creating renewed interest in your music.”

  “Good—the record label that owns my tracks thanks you for helping line their pockets.”

  “Seriously, you should do something with it.”

  She doesn’t tell him that Goliad Records had the same idea. “I don’t want to do anything with it. I just want to be left alone.”

  “I’ll be here a few more days if you change your mind.”

  “Digging up more dirt like you did with Sheila?”

  “Satisfying public interest.”

  “That you create. Potato, potahto, shock jock.”

  “Have it your way.”

  After the call, she finishes dressing. While she’s blow-drying her hair, another call comes in. It’s not totally unexpected. Michele had warned her. Aaron had too, in his own way.

  Maggie turns off the blow-dryer. “Hello, Ava.”

  Ava’s island patois lilts over the line. “Maggie, you still up there freezing your backside off in Wyoming?”

  “It’s lovely here. And, yes, I’m in Wyoming.”

  “Girl, you need to do something with your music.”

  “It’s not mine anymore.”

  Ava drops her accent. “I saw a video clip of you playing with some rednecks. You still got it—comes through even on a shitty cellphone video.”

  “Great.”

  “And that article. Some reporter asshole sent it to me. Amos. He said you referred him to me.”

  “I most certainly did not.”

  “He had my personal number.”

  “Not from me, he didn’t. Please don’t speak to him.”

  “I didn’t. But listen, you’re too talented and hot right now to let this go. And I have an idea.”

  “Why do I think I’m going to hate this?”

  The accent returns. “Because you always been a sourpuss.”

  “Just tell me what it is.”

  A baby cries in the background. “I gotta make this quick. Collin is hungry. Collin Junior, that is. Well, probably his dad, too, but not that kind of hungry.”

  “Spare me.”

  “Let’s do a mash-up.”

  “What?”

  “Let me remix one of your old songs.”

  “I don’t own the recordings anymore.”

  “But you own the songs. Like if someone records them, you get paid, right?”

  “No. But I have lifetime rights to re-record them myself without paying royalties.”

  “That will work.”

  “Work for what?”

  “We’re going to record together. My producer is a genius. You’ll make a mint, and I’ll get tons of crossover fans from whatever it is you call what you do.”

  “I do antiques.”

  “Musically. Western shit.”

  “Texana. Or alt-country. Americana. Folk. Alt-rock. Any of those. But not Western.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what I want us to do together. Your shtick and mine. Your songs.”

  Ava is running her own show. Maggie wonders how much different her dead musical career would have been without an agent or manager calling all the shots and a label making demands. She has new respect for Ava. Not enough to cave, though. “Sounds fun. No.”

  “What do I have to do to get a yes?” She names a number. It’s higher—three times higher—than the insurance payout. “Plus ongoing royalties, of course.”

  Maggie’s breath hitches. It’s more tempting than she’ll admit. “Ava, I’m not part of that world anymore. I’m in Wyoming. Hell, you don’t even like me.”

  “You’ve grown on me. But sleep with my man, and I’ll cut you.”

  Maggie can’t help it. She laughs. “Back at ya, sister.”

  The baby’s cries escalate to earsplitting screeches. “Think on it. I’ll be in touch again soon.”

  The call ends, and Maggie stares out the window, calculating whether Ava’s offer would be enough to cover the delta between the chickenshit insurance payout and the cost of her Texas rebuild.

  Forty-One

  Maggie sips a cup of light and sweet coffee on the back porch after morning feeding and breakfast. She’s in a red long-john top with her boots, jeans, and Hank’s Frontier Days belt buckle. The clouds tumble like petals from a dandelion in the sky, and the breeze in her hair is mild and pleasant. On the mountain, the old summer cabin looks mysterious but inviting and close enough to touch. Louise is rolling in the grass—in something dead, from the smell of it—but even that can’t spoil the glory of a perfect day. Last night she’d told Hank about Andy, Penny, and Michael and updated him on the status of her nightmare in Texas. It had felt good to share the burden, and Hank had been steady and helpful.

  Things may not be perfect, but they’re damn good.

  The wooden floor creaks under Hank’s boot treads. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Admiring the view.”

  “Are those elk coming down the mountain?”

  “What?” She squints. “Maybe. But I was admiring the summer cabin.”

  He drops a kiss on her neck. “I need to run up there to check on the old girl. Want a tour?”

  Maggie adores old things, and she’s dying to see the cabin. “I’d love it!”

  “Grab a jacket. It’s windier up there.”

  Half an hour later, the two are driving up a narrow, single-lane road in Hank’s truck with Louise in the back seat. Maggie grips the armrest. It’s one dead-man’s curve after another, and she’s on the uphill side, so all she sees is blue sky on the driver’s side. The big cabin looms over them, straight up the road.

  “It’s crazy steep.” She looks up at the cabin to take her mind away from the drop-off.

  Hank grins at her. “It is. It took Dad and Grandpa two years to build this place. And half of that time was spent just hauling materials up this road.”

  “Does anyone come up here in the winter?” This road would be a ski jump with ice and snow.

  “Sure. We used to a lot, but mostly on snowmobiles. There’s a snowplow in the barn, and an old Snow Cat.” Hank spins the truck around a nearly one-hundred-eighty-degree switchback for the final approach to the house.

  “Wow.” Maggie can’t find any other words that won’t get stuck in her throat.

  Somehow, the cabi
n site is just flat enough to accommodate a small parking area and the footprint of the cabin. It’s as tall as it looks from down below, too—four stories built into the face of the mountain. The walls are hand-hewn logs encircled by a deck balancing over the drop-off below it. The green metal roof blends into the tops of towering ponderosa pines.

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Amazing.” Maggie jumps out and slams her door, then lets Louise out. The dog sniffs the ground like it’s crack for an addict. After huffing for a few seconds, she takes off after a chipmunk that disappears into a woodpile. The air is thinner, crisper than at the ranch. “This is what Pine-Sol wishes it smelled like.”

  Hank laughs.

  “And the view. Oh my God. This view.” She points toward a ridge that juts eastward from the mountain range.

  “It’s special. Usually in this part of the state you’re either looking at the mountains or you’re in the mountains and see nothing but trees and rocks. Here you get both because of that ridge, plus the view of the buttes to the east, the foothills below, and the valley along Piney and Little Piney creeks.”

  “I didn’t even know that gulch was there.” She points at a fold lined with gray-and-red rock cliffs. “It looks like heaven for mountain lions.”

  “Oh, it is.” Hank walks back and forth, staring at the dirt driveway, his lips pursed.

  “What is it?”

  “Someone’s been up here.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Well, usually I’m the only one who comes all the way up to the cabin, at least unsupervised. I come up every week or two for maintenance. It’s totally off the grid, so I make sure everything is working, keep the rodent population down, and arrange workers and deliveries.” He points at several big propane tanks.

  “Even in the winter?”

  “Even more so in the winter. Can’t afford to let it freeze or the pipes will burst.”

  “I didn’t know you were up here so much.”

  “I have a strong sentimental attachment. And she requires a lot of care.” He pats the edge of a log. “Come on in. I’ll show you around.”

  They enter into a cozy kitchen with an old-fashioned wood-burning stove. The interior walls are simply the other side of the external logs. The effect is rustic and everything a mountain cabin should be.

  “It’s beautiful. Perfect.”

  Hank steps into a three-story great room with a black iron stove and tall chimney. “You should see it lit up with a giant Christmas tree and fires in all the stoves.”

  Maggie peers upward. The top floors overlook the lower ones with log railings instead of interior walls. She has a flash of inspiration. The Wyoming pieces she bought last summer, the ones that survived the fire, anyway, would look wonderful here. Music plays in her head, music she can picture making in this space. “The acoustics must be amazing. Why don’t you live here? This place is magical.”

  “It’s too big for a bachelor pad. And not convenient with Mom’s condition. All these stairs and levels. Plus at the ranch house we’re half an hour closer to help and have onsite cooking to share with the hands.” He squats and examines the carpet.

  “It’s huge. How many bedrooms?”

  “Six.”

  She’s getting tingly, and she’s not sure why. “And bathrooms?”

  “Um, six and a half.”

  “It’s big enough to be a bed-and-breakfast. A lodge. A guest ranch.”

  Hank frowns at the floor. “This boot print wasn’t here last time I was.”

  “Maybe Laura came up?”

  He traces the print with his finger. “Too big. And these are work boots, not cowboy boots like we wear around the ranch.” He stands. “Damn, I wish I’d put up a game camera.”

  “Or you could use some of those Wi-Fi cameras you can check on the internet.”

  He nods slowly. “Maybe so.” His phone rings.

  “You have cell service up here?”

  “Line-of-sight internet and 4G signal. It’s better than down at the ranch.” He looks at the screen. “I’d better take it. Laura and Mom were headed into town.”

  Maggie wanders off to explore on her own. She’ll come up here and install the cameras herself, she decides. She is a ranch hand, after all, and it would give her another excuse to visit. In the dining room, wooden-framed windows show off the view. Deer wander down the slope, grazing. A mature buck, two does, a yearling spike, and some summer fawns that have lost their spots. Tears prick the corners of her eyes. How can physical beauty have this emotional impact on her? It’s like this is the place she’s been waiting to find her whole life.

  Hank’s voice booms with authority in the other room. “I’m leaving now. Hang on.”

  Maggie hurries back to the mezzanine and stands beside an old piano. “What is it?”

  Hank’s face is pale. “They’re at the hospital. Mom collapsed. Laura thinks she’s had a stroke.”

  Forty-Two

  Louise hunkers down outside the cabin and refuses to load in the truck. The dog’s no fool. She’s found heaven.

  “We don’t have time for this.” Hank revs the engine.

  Maggie grabs Louise around her torso. “She’s heavier than she looks.” She hefts the dog into the back seat. Once in her own seat, she buckles up. “Ready.”

  The trip down the mountain is far faster than the one up, and Maggie presses her feet into the floorboard like it will help with the brakes. She closes her eyes on the scariest parts. Once they reach the relatively flatter road back to the ranch proper, Hank speeds up. The truck goes airborne between potholes. He stops so hard at the main house that Maggie’s seat belt arrests her.

  He puts it in park and turns to her. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Then go.”

  “Aren’t you getting out?”

  “Not unless you want me to.”

  He throws it back in gear. “Thank you.” His words are clipped, his face is stony, his eyes dark and sunken.

  She reaches across the seat and touches his knee. “Of course.”

  He drives left-handed and holds her hand in a crushing grip the entire drive to Sheridan. Maggie texts Laura for him when they’re five minutes out. When they park, Louise whines. Maggie had forgotten she was there. Hank doesn’t seem to notice, so Maggie cracks her window.

  “I’ll come check on you in a little while with some water.”

  Louise wags her tail. Life is always an adventure to her.

  Inside the hospital, Laura meets Maggie and Hank in the front lobby.

  “No one is telling me anything.” Laura collapses into Hank.

  He bends down, and her head slides up to his shoulder. Maggie feels out of place. Until she acquired her two stepsiblings, she’d never had a brother or sister. She can’t relate to Hank and Laura’s reliance on each other. But she does understand they love each other, and that they love their mother. That they share the pain of the loss far too young of a father they adored. That once upon a time, their grouchy, confused, wheelchair-bound mother was a vital, loving spouse and parent.

  Like her own father had been. A sob burbles up in Maggie’s throat. She chokes it back. She rarely thinks about him. Feels sad about him even less often. But being here, remembering the change in her father and his death, knowing he had Alzheimer’s like Mrs. Sibley, it all crashes down on her.

  Hank hears her. His eyes find hers over Laura’s head. His face is slick with tears, his eyes red-rimmed, and his lips tight and trembling. If Laura didn’t have her arms around him, Maggie would scoop him up. His pain is her pain, and she aches to touch him. He reaches out to her, but they’re interrupted.

  “Are you the family of Evangeline Sibley?” A woman with white pin curls and a smock over her gabardine pants and polka-dotted blouse walks up on squeaky shoes.

  Laura releases Hank and mops her face with her hands. “We are.”

  “The doctor would like to speak to you.”

  Maggie moves beside Hank. She slips her hand into his.
<
br />   Laura holds up her hand. “Family.”

  Hank’s face darkens.

  “Please, Hank.”

  Maggie puts a hand on his elbow. “I’ll be waiting for you here in the lobby.”

  His tight lips open, but Maggie interrupts before he says anything that makes the moment even harder.

  “I’m good, Hank. I promise.”

  “Are you coming, Hank?” Laura says, avoiding Maggie’s eyes.

  Hank moves toward Laura, leaving a gap between him and Maggie. Every step he takes widens it. It’s painful and surprising. Maggie wants to run after him. Instead, she settles into an uncomfortable seat in the lobby.

  After a few minutes, Maggie’s thoughts wander to her financial predicament. She doesn’t have the money to rebuild her shop and her house. It’s one or the other, unless she liquidates her inheritance: the Andy Warhol and the Jaguar have immediate value. She can put Gidget’s little ranch on the market, but who knows how long it would take for it to sell? Or, she could take either Goliad Records or Ava up on their offers. Capitalize on her current resurgence of fame. In other words, sell out. She hates the idea of Goliad, but Ava . . . well, she’s not completely opposed.

  It might be fun.

  But she hates Ava.

  Or maybe she doesn’t.

  She’s no closer to a decision when Hank pulls her to her feet.

  Maggie moves to him, keeping their conversation private from Laura and her censure. “How is she?”

  Hank looks like he’s losing weight before her eyes, drawing in, winnowing out. “It’s a massive stroke. They don’t think she’ll recover, even if she lives.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She throws herself into his arms and squeezes him tight.

  His lips move in her hair and his words are muffled. “Thank you.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Love me forever.”

  She digs her fingers into his back. She already does. A flash in her mind foretells her future. Alone, in a hospital waiting room, losing Hank. A cry of pain escapes her lips.

  “What is it?” Hank holds her away from him.

  Everyone dies. One of them—her or Hank—will go first. Suddenly she hopes it’s him. She doesn’t want him to endure the pain she just felt at the thought of living without him. She doesn’t admit to her terrors. “I hate this for you.”