“Including your wife and son?” she asked cautiously.
He looked rueful. “Yeah,” he said. “Including my wife and son. Murphy—my partner—used to lecture me about that all the time.” J.T. assumed another personality, another voice, imitating his late friend. “‘You think you’ve got forever,’ he’d say. ‘You know what’s important in this life, Cowboy? Family, that’s what.’” He paused, sighed. “When it came to relationships, Murphy knew what he was talking about. He and Doreen were truly happy together.”
She couldn’t speak for a moment; her throat had closed, drawn tight by some indefinable, bittersweet emotion. She busied herself with the salad tongs, serving J.T. and then herself. During that brief interval, the only sounds were those of the last birds of the day, and the crickets.
J.T. assessed her with warm, discerning eyes. Took a sip of his wine, still regarding her over the rim. “I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he said.
She swallowed. Smiled. “I was just thinking that I’ve been fortunate,” she said, “where family is concerned. I had the usual fights with my brothers, but we’re all close, even now. Mom and Dad made sure of that.”
He nodded. “It was a little different for me, as you know. The irony is, I wanted to give Quinn everything I never had. I sure screwed up there.”
She said nothing, just ate slowly and listened.
“Why did you come back here?” he asked, finally.
She speared a bite of salad. She hoped her slight, one-shoulder shrug seemed nonchalant. “I guess I’m just a small-town girl at heart,” she said. “I didn’t always know that about myself, of course.” Without warning, the old image sprang into her mind, vivid as ever, of J.T. vaulting over her parents’ back fence and interrupting her wedding. She could have strangled him at the time, but there had been other emotions, too, conflicting ones. Even after all these years, she still felt a perverse little thrill at the memory.
“Maybe you needed the time you spent away from Springwater. Maybe we both did,” he said.
As simple as that observation was, it touched a nerve. Or maybe it was the recollection of her wedding day. “How’s your mother?” Maggie asked.
J.T.’s expression was rueful, though his eyes danced. Obviously, the abrupt change of subject wasn’t lost on him. “Same as ever,” he said. “She still lives in Las Vegas. Divorced another husband last year.”
Maggie watched as he refilled both their wineglasses. Reminded of her own parents’ problems, she had to avert her eyes and blink a couple of times. The last thing she dared do was cry—J.T. would most likely try to comfort her if she did, and it was no mystery where that might lead. She wasn’t ready—with all she was trying to do, start a business, make some kind of life for herself, she simply didn’t have the personal resources to go through some grand, ill-fated passion with her childhood sweetheart. Her heart was still too bruised.
“I can’t imagine growing up in Las Vegas,” she mused, thinking of J.T.’s childhood again.
He flashed one of those lethal grins, the type Maggie had always thought should be registered as a threat to women everywhere. “It was interesting, to say the least,” he said. “Having a showgirl for a mother, I mean. Poor Becky. I made her life miserable after she left my dad and dragged me to Nevada; she’s probably glad I’m grown up and gone.”
“Were you really so bad?” She couldn’t think why she’d asked the question; she knew he had been hard to handle as a kid, especially after his father was killed. When he visited Springwater he invariably got into trouble with his uncle, who probably would rather not have had to deal with him at all.
His eyes glowed liquid brown. “Yes,” he said. “Don’t you remember?”
Another veiled reference to their lovemaking. Maggie felt her face go hot. “No fair,” she said. “We just met. We have no history.”
“I forgot,” he said.
She laughed.
He got up from his chair, went into the arbor, came out with a pink rosebud, barely open. Drawing Maggie to her feet, he brushed the underside of her chin with the flower, and she caught its scent, felt its velvety beginnings. “I’ve missed you,” he said, and this time he spoke seriously.
She let her forehead rest against his shoulder, just for a moment. “And I’ve missed you,” she admitted.
He tipped her chin upward and kissed her.
A shudder of desire went through her, and he must have felt it, because his embrace tightened a little, just before he let her go and stepped back.
“Sorry,” he said. “Let’s talk about something—well—normal.”
She was at once grateful and disappointed. She began clearing the table, and he helped, and as they carried things inside she gave him an account of her day, ending with the scene between Cindy and Travis DuPres.
“Travis is basically no good,” J.T. said when she’d finished. They were both in the kitchen then, Maggie folding the tablecloth, J.T. setting the copper lantern on the mantel, the candle still alight. “He and Billy were raised the way I was, pretty much, except neither one of them had a father like mine. Doris isn’t a bad woman—that’s their mother—but she’s led a rough life. Couple of loser husbands, one of them in the pen. Drives around town in an old Pontiac, held together mostly by duct tape and four-letter words, plays bingo five nights a week, that kind of thing.”
“Cindy wants her approval in the worst way,” Maggie said, putting on an apron.
“She told you that?”
“Not in so many words, but I can tell.”
He sighed. “Far as I’m concerned, Billy Raynor ought to be a candidate for sainthood. He works twice as hard as any other man I could have hired for a trailer and starvation wages, and he’s determined to give Cindy what she’s never had, a real home and a family.”
“The whole situation breaks my heart,” Maggie admitted. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“There is,” J.T. said, his gaze warm and solemn, both at once. “Be a friend to her. Try to steer her in the right direction.”
“She’s signed up for counseling over at mental health,” Maggie replied. “Her first appointment is Monday afternoon. I said I’d take her, to get the ball rolling, and after that, she can use the Pathfinder whenever she has an appointment.”
J.T.’s smile was slow and it permeated Maggie’s system like a shot of warm brandy. “That,” he said, “was more than decent.”
“Maybe Billy should be encouraged to go with her.”
J.T. sighed. “Billy’s probably sounder, emotionally speaking, than the average shrink. He knows the whole situation, and he’s prepared to deal with it.”
“He must love Cindy very much.”
“He does,” J.T. replied. “I just hope she realizes what she’s got. Billy will make one hell of a husband and father. Travis, on the other hand, will probably be in the big house, sharing a cell with dear old dad before he’s thirty.”
“You seem pretty sure of that.”
“I was a detective. Before that, I walked a beat and dealt with every kind of sewer rat there is. Travis is the type probation officers describe as incorrigible.”
A shudder moved down Maggie’s spine. “Is he dangerous?”
“He could be,” J.T. said. He ought to know, she figured, given his experience in law enforcement.
“My God,” Maggie breathed. “You don’t suppose he’s involved in the trouble the ranchers have been having lately?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he answered, offhand. “Time will tell.” In the next moment he went from casual to completely focused. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward slightly; she felt the impact of his intellect full force. “Did he threaten you in any way?”
She was flustered. “No—oh, no—it wasn’t—I didn’t even meet him.”
J.T. eased off. “Sorry,” he said, and thrust a hand through his hair, leaving it delectably rumpled. “I guess I overreacted a little.”
“Instinct, I suppose,” she replied, with
a smile. “You must have been a very good detective.” J.T. had always been good at everything he tried, with the apparent exception of falling in love.
He said nothing, but simply gazed out the window at June-bug’s garden, where they’d taken their supper, a place awash in purple shadows and magic, his wineglass in hand.
“What made you give up law enforcement?” she heard herself ask. “Was it the shooting?”
He turned his head, met her eyes. His expression was unreadable, especially in the fading light. “That helped,” he said.
Maggie crossed the room, reached out, closed her hand around his, and he set aside his glass, his expression solemn. She started to speak, then stopped.
“My partner was killed,” he told her, though she hadn’t asked, and he was well aware that she already knew. He seemed to be looking past her, through her, into another time and place. No doubt he was doing just that. “We were heading into a warehouse—we’d trailed a suspect there—and Murphy was in front. It was dark, and before my eyes adjusted, there were shots. Three of them. Murphy took two and went down. I don’t think I even felt the one that hit me.”
Maggie waited, stricken. Mesmerized, as though she were actually witnessing the scene, not just hearing about it.
“It was Murphy’s twentieth wedding anniversary. There was a big party scheduled for that night, at his all-time favorite restaurant, a funky pizza place in Queens.” He paused, and she saw his lips twitch, trying for a smile and falling short. “He and his wife were leaving on a cruise the next day. Four days and three nights. Bahamas. They got a deal on the tickets—two for one.”
Maggie felt tears prickle the backs of her eyes. Still, she didn’t speak.
J.T. ran his tongue over his lips. “Murphy was more than my partner. He was my best friend. After Annie and I were divorced, I spent a couple of Thanksgivings and Christmases at his place, with his family. Hell, he and Doreen and their daughter, Katie, they were my family.”
“They sound like wonderful people.”
J.T. nodded grimly. “Even after what happened, Doreen came to the hospital and tried to cheer me up. I missed the funeral. One of the guys brought me a video, but it wasn’t the same as paying my respects in person.”
Maggie realized she was still touching his hand, and squeezed lightly.
He pulled away then, stood, went to find the nearest light switch. An electric glow spilled through the room, scattering ghosts and shadows. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
She welcomed the light, but she also missed the special intimacy the gathering darkness had afforded. She turned, headed toward the kitchen, where the dirty dishes waited. “We’ve had our moments, you and I,” she said quietly, “but I’d like to think we’re friends. Friends listen to each other.”
Once inside, he edged her aside from the sink, pushed up his sleeves, turned on the tap. At her glance, he grinned wanly. “I was a busboy in college,” he said. “For about a week, anyway. I left to park cars for one of the casinos.” He chuckled, shook his head. “I had to take a big cut in pay when I became a cop.”
She laughed. “I’m impressed. That you do dishes, I mean.”
“I’m a man of infinite talent and scope.”
“Good,” she replied. “You wash, and I’ll dry.”
He looked around even as he squirted soap into the sink. “No big commercial machine?”
“This is a restored stagecoach station,” Maggie pointed out sweetly. “No big commercial machine.”
He smiled. “Know what, McCaffrey?” he asked. “This is nice.”
Maggie smiled back. “It is,” she agreed.
Purvis was wearing his new Walmart duds again. He was even thinking about getting his hair cut. Watching with a smile as Nelly came out of Springwater High School, carrying her textbook and looking like a teenager, he opened the passenger door of the police car and waited for her to climb in.
“We’re going to the movies in this?” she asked.
“My mom’s using her Escort tonight,” he answered.
Nelly sat down and automatically fastened her seat belt. When Purvis was behind the wheel and starting the engine, she ventured, “Isn’t this some kind of violation?”
Purvis checked the rearview mirror, flipped on the headlights, and pulled out onto Springwater’s main street. “Nope,” he said. “Technically, I’m always on duty. That means I can drive this car anytime.”
“What if something happens?” she asked, and she sounded a little titillated at the thought. “Suppose you have to chase a speeder or apprehend a bank robber?”
He grinned. “Well, there’s no bank in Springwater, so we can probably rule out the probability of a heist. In the case of a speeder, I guess I’d just ask you to hold on and put your head down if any shooting broke out.”
“Do you like this job, Purvis?”
He glanced her way. The lights of Springwater’s few neon-equipped businesses passed over her face as they progressed down the street toward the drive-in at the other end of town, and Purvis got a strangely reverent feeling, as though both of them were bathed in the glow of stained-glass windows.
“It’s all I know,” he said. “Do you enjoy working at the library?”
She nodded. “I’d like to get my degree in library science,” she said.
“You could do that,” he said, wanting to be supportive. Of course, she’d have to leave Springwater, and he hated that idea.
“Purvis, there isn’t a four-year college within a hundred miles of here.”
“I’ve taken a couple of courses in criminology by correspondence.”
She looked at him with new interest. “That’s impressive,” she said.
He shrugged, feeling wildly humble. “Are you looking to advance?” she asked. He laughed. “I’m as high as I’m ever going to go, in a one-man police department,” he said. “I just figured the more I knew about my job, the better. Do you want to get something to eat before we go to the movies?”
“I was going to serve you supper, remember?” she asked, smiling. “I made a great spaghetti sauce. It’s waiting in my refrigerator—all we need is the pasta.”
Just then, the radio crackled. “Purvis, you there? Over.”
He reached for the microphone with a sigh, and pressed the button with his thumb. “Yo, Rosie. How’s tricks? Over.”
“I’m doin’ real good, Purvis, now that I’m on that new medicine for my palpitations. How about you? Over.”
“I’m good. Over.”
“Your mother? How’s she? Over.”
“Mom’s fine. What can I do for you, Rosie? Over.”
“Well, I just had a phone call from Pete Doubletree, out at Stonecreek Ranch. He said somebody poisoned a bunch of his cattle. Not fifty feet from his windmill. Can you believe it, Purvis? I don’t know what this world is coming to. Over.”
Purvis felt his jawline harden, and consciously relaxed it again.
Nelly sat up a little straighter in the seat, eyes wide.
“I’ll head out there right now,” he said. “Call J.T. for me, will you? Tell him to meet me at Pete’s place. He’s at the stagecoach station having dinner. Over.”
“I already did that, Purvis,” Rosie said, apparently unfazed by the note of benign irritation in his tone. “Saw him head to the Station a little while back. He and Maggie McCaffrey ate dinner right out in the side yard, next to the rose arbor. They used to neck there. Over.”
Purvis rolled his eyes and expelled a breath. “Thanks,” he said, flipping on the flashing lights and the siren. “Over and out, Rosie.” The squad car shot from a moderate pace to a streak, and he flung a sidelong glance in Nelly’s direction. They were already a considerable distance from the high school, and she’d ridden to class that night with a friend, because of their date. “You mind coming along? I don’t have time to take you back to Maple Creek.”
Nelly raised her voice to be heard over the screaming siren. “I’d rather go with you
,” she said, even though she looked nervous. “I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.”
Purvis floored the accelerator, and Nelly gripped the edges of the seat and held on for dear life.
The dead cattle were scattered hulks in the headlights of the various vehicles gathered around the scene. J.T. walked from one to another, feeling sick to his stomach. Right then, he’d have given just about anything to be back at the Station again, washing dishes with Maggie and sneaking scraps to the dog, but from his current perspective, the earlier part of the evening didn’t even seem real. He might have imagined it all.
Purvis arrived with a screech and bounded out of the car before the engine stopped ticking. There was someone with him, a woman, but whoever she was, she stayed put. “What the hell—?”
Pete Doubletree was beside himself, and understandably so. He met Purvis halfway and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. “When’s this going to stop, Purvis?” he shouted. “When?”
“Take it easy,” Purvis said, with gruff gentleness, and removed the rancher’s hands from his clothing. “We’ll find whoever did this. I give you my word on that.”
“This is the third time something like this has happened in the last year!” Pete yelled. “You know what your word is worth to me?”
J.T. stepped in. “Better get somebody from the sheriff’s office out here,” he told Purvis grimly. “We’re going to need some technical help.”
Purvis managed to shake Pete off and strode over to the nearest cow carcass. “Sweet God,” he breathed. At the same time, he pulled a cell phone from the inside pocket of his fringed jacket and punched in a number. “Purvis Digg, over at Springwater,” he barked, when someone answered. “Put me through to the sheriff.” He paused, and J.T. saw a vein stand out in the other man’s neck. “I don’t care what he’s doing. I expect him to call me back within five minutes!” He rattled off a number and disconnected, dropping the phone back in his pocket.
“How many are there?” he asked, running one hand over his face, as if trying to wake up from a bad dream.
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