“What about Billy? Is he sick? Did he get hurt?”
J.T. shut his eyes again, and when he opened them, Maggie was coming toward him, an angel in blue jeans and a lightweight navy sweater. She came immediately to his side and he automatically put an arm around her.
“Dad?” Quinn pressed, his voice shaky. “Tell me about Billy.”
He was making an effort to be brave. It hurt J.T. to know that, even as it stirred a flicker of pride. He squeezed McCaffrey against his side, took comfort in the simple warmth and nearness of her. “Billy was shot,” he said, knowing the buttons that would push in Quinn, the traumatic memories it would bring up.
“I want to see you,” Quinn said.
“Bud—”
“I need to see you, Dad.”
“I told you, Q., I’m all right.. Can you trust me on this?”
Maggie made an inquiring gesture, and J.T. handed her the receiver. “Quinn?” The sound of her voice was reassuring to J.T., and he hoped it was having the same effect on his son. “This is Maggie. I’m here at the hospital. Yep, I’m standing right next to him. Suppose I come out to the Kildares’, pick you up, and bring you here so you can see for yourself that your dad is just fine? Then you and I could go back to the Station and hang out. What do you say?” She looked up at J.T. as she listened to Quinn’s reply, then smiled. “Sure,” she finished. “Assuming all this is O.K. with the head office, I’ll be there in forty-five minutes or so.” She waited, raising her eyebrows, and J.T. nodded his assent. “Here he is,” she finished, handing back the receiver.
J.T. reassured Quinn as best he could, said good-bye, and hung up.
“How bad is it with Billy?” Maggie asked. Her eyes, so bright and confident while she was speaking to his son, were wide now, and haunted.
He drew her against his chest and held her loosely for a few moments before replying. “He’s hanging on. That’s about all.”
She slipped her arms around his waist, tilted her head back to look into his eyes. “Are they going to perform surgery?”
J.T. sighed. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said, his voice a rasp. “If he makes it that far. Right now he’s not strong enough to stand an operation.”
“And Cindy?”
“Hanging in there. She’s a tough kid, but a kid all the same.”
“Has her father been called?”
“You’d have to ask Purvis about that. Odell hasn’t turned up around here, but that’s not surprising. He lost a son last night. Maybe that’s as much as he can deal with right now.”
“Maybe,” McCaffrey agreed, but she was frowning, and she pulled out of his arms. “I’d like to see Cindy before I go back to Springwater to get Quinn.”
He nodded. “I’m staying here as long as I can, but I’ll need to go home sooner or later to feed the livestock.” He thrust a hand through his hair, sighed again. “God, McCaffrey, I hate this. I hate knowing that some bastard shot Billy down in cold blood, I hate that my kid is scared—”
She brushed the backs of her fingers along his jawline. J.T. was used to handling things on his own, and the tenderness of the gesture was almost more than he could bear. “Me, too,” she said. “Me, too. You were telling Quinn the truth, weren’t you? You really are O.K.?”
He kissed her forehead. “I was beginning to wonder until you showed up, McCaffrey. Thanks.”
She smiled sadly. It was all the acknowledgment he needed. “Where’s Cindy?” she asked.
“She can only spend five minutes out of every hour in with Billy,” he said. “She’s probably in the waiting room.”
Maggie nodded, turned, walked away.
J.T. watched until she disappeared through the doorway. Then he turned back to the telephone and dialed another number. “Purvis,” he said. “Have you come up with anything yet?”
Maggie watched through the broad window framing the ICU where Billy lay, hooked up to tubes and wires. He was on a respirator, and the very slight up-and-down motion of his chest was painful to watch. Cindy bent over him, smoothed his hair, kissed him lightly, tenderly on top of the head. When she straightened, her gaze locked with Maggie’s. She pressed her hands to the small of her back and stretched, her physical discomfort showing in every line of her body.
Maggie waggled her fingers in greeting and tried hard to smile, and Cindy nodded in response, then shuffled slowly out into the hallway. She held out her arms, and Cindy came into them without hesitation. A sob wrenched itself from Cindy’s throat, and she clung to Maggie, trembling in her arms.
“Oh, God, Maggie,” she said. “He doesn’t move. He can’t breathe on his own. And his chest—”
“Shhh,” Maggie whispered. “What about you, Cindy? How are you feeling—physically, I mean? You look positively worn out—”
“The baby’s been kicking a lot—” Again, that fragile, fall-away attempt at a smile. “It’s as if he knows something terrible has happened.”
Maggie gripped the girl’s shoulders. “I know you don’t want to leave Billy,” she said, “but you need to have something to eat and get some rest.”
“There’s no one else to stay with him—”
“J.T. is here,” Maggie pointed out. She frowned as a thought struck her. “What about Billy’s mother? Have you seen or heard from Doris yet?”
“She’ll be making arrangements for Travis, I suppose,” Cindy said, in a dull, disassociated voice. “I suppose my dad is busy doing the same for Randy.” Her eyes grew very round, and a dry, strangled sob escaped her. “Do—do you believe in God, Maggie?”
Maggie nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Will you pray for Billy? For all of us?”
She thought of Daphne and Ben, of little Tiffany and her mother, Susan. Of Travis DuPres and Randy Hough, and those they had left behind. Of her parents, and their shaky marriage, of her brother, Wes, and sister-in-law, Franny, and the baby they were expecting. Of J.T. and Quinn, and Purvis, poor beleaguered Purvis, a lame-duck marshal with a job termination hanging over his head, still in there doing his best. There was a lot of praying to be done. “Yes,” she said, squeezing Cindy’s hands in her own. “If you won’t go home, will you at least lie down and rest a while? For Billy’s sake as well as your own and the baby’s? When—” her throat caught, “when he wakes up, it’s important that both of you are safe and well.”
Cindy laid her hands on her stomach in a tender, protective gesture. She bit her lower lip, nodded again.
“I’ll ask the nurses if there’s a place I can stretch out.”
“I’ll ask,” Maggie said, taking Cindy’s arm gently and ushering her in the direction of the nurses’ station. “When was the last time you had anything to eat?”
“I guess last night—I can’t really remember—” “I’ll send J.T. for something. Eat what you can and rest, Cindy. It’s important—very important—that you take good care of yourself, especially now.”
Cindy nodded and, after a brief conversation with a sympathetic nurse, allowed herself to be led to an empty room where she could lie down for a while. After dispatching J.T. to the cafeteria for a cup of soup and some tea for Cindy, and something for himself as well, Maggie hurried back to her car.
She ran into Wes and Franny in the parking lot.
“Looks like you’re about to become an aunt again,” Wes said. Franny, clinging to her husband’s arm, smiled wanly.
“It won’t be long,” she said.
“The neighbor is watching Jodi and Loren,” Wes said. “We tried to drop them off at Mom and Dad’s, but nobody answered the bell.”
“My mother is having a root canal,” Franny explained. “She waited six weeks for the appointment.” She winced as a labor pain struck her with visible force. “Mrs. Taggart is a very nice woman,” she added, at no small cost, “but she’s really too old to look after small children.”
Maggie smiled, feeling a little dizzy, what with all that was happening. Truly, when it rained, it poured. “I’ll stop by home on my way through Sprin
gwater and see if Mom and Dad are around. If not, I’ll pick up Jodi and Loren myself and look after them as long as necessary. Don’t worry, either of you. Just concentrate on bringing that new baby into the world.”
Wes grinned a nervous, grateful grin, and urged Franny on toward the hospital entrance. “Thanks, Sis,” he called back.
Maggie sprinted to the Pathfinder.
*
Odell stared at the body of his son, lying gray-blue on a metal table at the county morgue in the basement of Maple Creek Memorial, and felt a sick rage rising up inside him. Until this moment, when he’d actually laid eyes on what was left of his boy, he’d fooled himself into believing that there was some mistake. Now there was no denying the truth: Randy was dead.
Purvis stood beside him. “I’m sorry, Odell,” he said.
Odell didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even look away from Randy’s cold, rigid face.
“The DuPres kid is dead, too. And your son-in-law is close to it. He’s upstairs, in the ICU. I reckon your girl would be mighty glad to see you about now.”
Odell cared about his daughter, in his way, but Randy had been his only son. His boy. A red haze blurred his vision.
“I know you’re in bad shape right now,” Purvis went on quietly, “and I sure don’t blame you for that. We’re going to nail whoever did this, Odell. But if there’s any way you can help, if you know anything at all—”
He knew all right. He knew. But he would be damned if he’d let the liberal courts handle the matter, damned to hellfire forever if he’d see the son-of-a-bitch who’d done this sent to some cushy country-club prison, if he went to jail at all, where he could play tennis, write books, and earn himself an advanced degree. No, sir, Odell Hough would make sure that justice was done. He’d see to it personally. For Randy, for his lost Mary Lee, for all of them.
He wasn’t fool enough to say all that to Purvis, though. He shook his head once, and Purvis let it go at that.
A woman’s shriek of grief came from a nearby room.
Purvis heaved a sigh. “That’ll be Doris,” he said sadly. “I’d better see if she’s got anything to tell me.”
Odell didn’t answer. He didn’t give a damn, at the moment, about anybody else’s sorrows. He was consumed by his own.
Purvis slapped him on the back. “If you think of something,” he said, “you know where to find me.”
All Odell could come up with was a hoarse grunt. Purvis could take it anyway he wanted, Odell didn’t care. He stood there by Randy until they made him go away. The pain was beyond bearing; he went outside, crossed the lot, and got into his old truck. Then he headed for the nearest liquor store.
Billy saw the man with the rifle standing over him, and even though he felt as if he were lying crushed beneath two tons of jagged stone, he still had the strength to be afraid. He wasn’t sure where he was—one moment, it seemed like he was safe in a hospital someplace, the next, he was on the ground beside his truck, bleeding to death. Either way, he was hurting more than he ever had before.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please—don’t—”
He heard a sweet voice, an angel’s voice. Felt a whisper-soft kiss brush his forehead. “Billy, don’t leave us. Don’t leave the baby and me. We need you. We love you.”
He felt a flutter of recognition, but it was quickly gone. He thought the angel touched him again, just as he slipped under the surface of light, into the darkness.
Maggie and Quinn arrived with a bag of what smelled like hamburgers, a fresh set of clothes, and his shaving kit. J.T. dropped to one knee and opened his arms, and Quinn ran into his embrace, clinging. Maggie smiled over the boy’s head, and J.T. thought there was a glaze of tears in her eyes. Or were they in his own?
He kissed his son on the cheek and stood, still holding the boy.
“Thanks, McCaffrey,” he said.
She merely nodded. Held out the bag of burgers. He took it; he’d gone down to the cafeteria and brought back some food for Cindy, as instructed, but he’d forgotten to get anything for himself. He carried Quinn into the nearby waiting room and sat, opening the bag with one hand, taking out a burger, unwrapping it.
“How did you know I wanted pure lard?” he asked, grinning at Maggie.
She chuckled. “Just a hunch,” she said. “I’m sorry about the delay—I planned to be back sooner. Franny—Wes’s wife—is here, in the maternity ward.”
J.T. finished one burger and reached for another. Quinn didn’t slacken his hold, and his face was buried in J.T.’s neck. “Wow,” he said. “Sounds like you’ve had your hands full.”
Maggie sat down, helped herself to an artery-buster from the burger bag, and began to eat. “How’s Billy?”
“No change,” J.T. said.
She sighed. “Cindy?”
“Sleeping. Dr. Parrish stopped by, checked her over, and gave her a light sedative.”
“This is awful.”
J.T. managed a semblance of a smile. “As burgers go—”
She shook her head. “Lame joke, Wainwright,” she said.
He shrugged. “Best I could do on short notice,” he replied.
Quinn began to relax. “We stopped at Maggie’s mom and dad’s house,” he said, eyeing the bag of food with encouraging interest.
“Wes and Franny wanted them to take care of the kids,” Maggie explained.
“They were with a neighbor,” Quinn added importantly, rifling the grub. “But she’s old and would probably let them play in the street or light matches.”
J.T. raised his brows and widened his eyes at this.
Maggie smiled. “He’s quoting my mother. She was a bit agitated.” She paused. “And in her glory at being needed.”
“We all like to be needed,” J.T. observed.
Quinn took a hamburger, unwrapped it from its greasy paper, and chowed down.
Maggie studied J.T. solemnly. “Yes,” she said slowly. “We do.”
He was quiet after that, digesting more than the hamburgers.
15
T hat evening the reporters came back to town in a horde, drawn by the latest rash of murders. Headlines flashed across the wire services. “Small Community Erupts in Violence,” one trumpeted. “Crime Rampant in Historic Frontier Town,” another blared.
Maggie, standing in line at the supermarket with Quinn beside her and a cart full of groceries to feed the newly arrived lodgers, felt an almost overwhelming sadness. What, she wondered, was happening to Springwater? What was happening to America?
Quinn looked up at her. “Can we call the hospital when we get back to the Station and talk to my dad?”
Maggie ruffled his hair. “Sure,” she said gently. Just then, someone called her name. She looked up and saw Daphne standing nearby, pushing Tiffany in a stroller.
“Hi,” Maggie said, leaving the cart in Quinn’s care to approach her friend.
“Any news about Billy?” Daphne asked quietly.
Maggie shook her head. “J.T. and Cindy are with him. They’ll call if there’s any change.” She smiled down at Tiffany, who was trying to stuff her doll’s head into her mouth. Given that the toy was nearly as big as she was, this represented a challenge.
“Tiffany will be staying on with us for a while,” Daphne announced. “We’re here to pick up some necessities.” A smile quirked her mouth. “Like pizza.”
“It’s nice to be reminded that life goes on,” Maggie said, with a rather wan smile. “Franny checked into the maternity ward earlier today. She’s been in labor all this time, poor thing.”
Daphne nodded toward Quinn and the cart he was guarding so dutifully. “That’s a lot of food,” she said, “and there have been cars pulling up to the Station all day. It seems safe to assume that the fourth estate has returned.”
Maggie nodded. She was glad to have the business, of course, but the framework of her good fortune left a lot to be desired. “Quinn is staying with me for the time being. J.T. is spending most of his time at the hospita
l.”
Daphne shook her head, her eyes luminous with sympathy. “Keep me posted,” she said,
“You do the same,” Maggie replied, deciding that Daphne’s conversation with Ben regarding the new addition to their family must have gone well. No doubt she and Daphne would have a chance to catch up on things later.
Within a few minutes, Maggie and Quinn were back at the Station being greeted by an exuberant Sadie. The six reporters who had taken up residence in the various guest rooms were gathered at one table, playing cards. Waiting, just as everybody in Springwater was waiting, one way or another.
Quinn went into the office to call J.T., only to join Maggie in the kitchen a few minutes later, looking glum. She’d fed Sadie and was busy putting away groceries, but she went still when she saw the expression on the little boy’s face. “I got a recording,” he said. “Dad’s out of range.”
“Hmmm,” she said. She was about to place a call herself, to the nurses’ station in the ICU, when the phone rang. She answered the cordless unit resting on the end of the counter, employing a cheerful, professional tone, even though her insides seemed to be colliding with one another. The news could be so very good—or so very bad. “Springwater Station,” she chimed. “This is Maggie.”
“It’s Wes,” her brother replied, sounding weary but buoyant as well. “I’m a father again. Franny had a boy an hour ago. We’re naming him Jacob Reece.”
“Oh, Wes,” she answered, “that’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Mother and baby are doing fine,” Wes added. “Dad, however, is something the worse for wear.”
She laughed, her eyes brimming with happy tears. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”
“I could eat everything in Mom’s refrigerator and sleep for a month of Sundays.”
“You’ll be spending the night with Mom and Dad, then?”
“Yeah,” Wes answered. “The kids are there, and the folks are spoiling them rotten.” He paused. “What happened, Mags? Mom and Dad are—well—they’re presenting a united front all of the sudden, if you know what I mean.”
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