“Which is where?”
He doesn’t ease off the gas, just steers the truck from lane to lane around other vehicles. “North of us.”
“In the state of Wyoming?”
“Yes.”
“In the United States of America?”
He shoots her an amused look. “Yes, which all of Wyoming is, by the way.”
“And we’ll get there when?”
“Half an hour.”
“So that gives you time to tell me why you were all fired up to get out of Dodge.”
There’s a flicker in his expression, like it’s shuttering something away from her view. “The faster I get you fed, the sooner you’ll let me kiss you.”
She busts out laughing. “Smooth talker.”
Now his eyes flit to the rearview mirror again. He doesn’t react to anything he sees. “No, ma’am, I’m just a simple cowboy, smitten with a beautiful lady.”
Maggie double-checks the road behind him. A strange sensation crawls up the side of her neck. Someone is following them. That must be what has Hank distracted, too. She feels it in her skin—she just doesn’t know what she’s looking for. But she shrugs it off in favor of the moment and the better feeling, which is the one he’s giving her. “So you’re smitten with me?”
“Smote clean through.”
His words are delectable. She rolls all the replies that come to mind through her mouth, but none taste right. So instead of speaking, she props her boots on his leg. His eyes fan shut, then open, and splotches of color appear in his cheeks. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes slide her way. Smoky. Her breath hitches. They ride in silence for long minutes, pheromones pulsing through the air between them.
Finally, Hank clears his throat. “See that?” He points out her window into the green expanse flying past them.
“Grass?”
“Look closer, do it fast.” Maggie rotates her shoulders for a better look. A herd of pronghorn antelope are grazing fifteen yards from the interstate. “Wow, they’re close. And so many of them.” There were at least four or five of the graceful animals.
“That’s nothing. Up near Sheridan, I see herds of fifty, sixty, seventy this time of year, right on our family ranch.”
“They’re beautiful.” She twists further, pressing her nose against the window. She sees more of the creatures.
“We also have white-tailed and mule deer.”
She turns back to Hank. “And predators?”
“Yep.”
She lets her heel lift and drop on his thigh, like a foot punch. “I meant which predators?”
“Black bear, coyote, mountain lion.”
Maggie shudders. “Bears and cougars.”
“They leave people alone, mostly, if people leave them alone.”
They pass through a small town on a river. A white rock bluff overlooks the town and Maggie takes it in through Hank’s window. It gives her a chance to study him. He catches her and smiles. He slides the hem of her jeans up to massage her calf. Shockwaves rock her from his touch. She’s used to aggressive men, demanding men, men who disrespect her and take, take, take. Hank’s touch is nothing like theirs, and her throat is thick with no words.
“Is this okay?” Hank asks, pulling his hand away.
That kickstarts her vocal motor. “It’s only not okay if you stop.”
He resumes, his fingers cool against her skin, which is feeling hotter by the second.
She tries to rein in her hormones and return to rational conversation. “You still haven’t told me why we were in such a hurry.”
His massage is too firm for a few beats, and she flinches. “Sorry, did I hurt you?” he asks.
“Strong hands.”
“When that grip is all that’s keeping you on a bull that wants to gore you and stomp you to death, you do develop some hand and finger strength.”
“But you were about to answer my question.”
He sighs. “Sometimes people don’t like a winner.”
“You expect me to believe that’s it? Jealous cowboys?”
He cocks his head toward her. “Ye-es?”
“No.” She shakes a finger at him. Suddenly she gets it, having been in his shoes a time or two herself. “Who do you owe money to?”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. You won a big check, and you skedaddled.” She nods. “You owe someone money.”
“Look, here’s the exit for Wheatland.”
“Hank . . .” Again, the strange feeling that someone is on their tail grabs hold of her. She searches for likely suspects on the ribbon of blacktop behind them, but doesn’t see anything suspicious. Maybe she’s just being paranoid.
He exits the interstate, holding up a finger. “I know it’s near here.”
“What’s near here?”
“Western Skies Family Diner.”
“You’ve driven me an hour north to go to a family diner?”
He shrugs and flashes his dimples again. Did he know what they did to her? “Far away from the madding crowd.”
“And your creditors.”
He strokes his chin. “Something like that.” He pulls into the parking lot at a nondescript building that looks like a converted fast food restaurant.
“This is it? You said you could buy me the best steak dinner in Wyoming, and this is where you brought me? You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
She laughs. “You’ve never been here before, have you?”
“Never.”
Maggie ponders a large red-and-white sign that reads WESTERN SKY’S FAMILY DINER. “Ohh, I thought you said Western Skies Family Diner.”
“I did.”
“No, that says Western Sky’s.”
“Right.”
“Like the sky owns the family restaurant. Not like ‘more than one sky.’”
His brow furrows.
She catches another laugh with her hand. “Never mind.”
They get out, slamming the truck doors behind them.
Tires screech as a vehicle turns into the parking lot going too fast.
“What the hell?” Maggie wheels toward the sound but can’t see the source.
Hank moves faster than Big Sky out of the bucking chute, pushing her back and down behind the truck.
“Hank, what’s going on?”
The vehicle makes a sliding gravel stop, with a squeal of brakes inches away from the back end of the truck, blocking them in.
“Stay down, no matter what,” Hank whispers.
Maggie’s voice is urgent. “I don’t understand.”
A door opens, and footsteps crunch the gravel. “Maggie?” a familiar voice calls.
She groans. “Davo. Shit.” She escapes Hank’s hulking protection and stands. It’s then that she sees that large white van she knows all too well. “And the band.”
“They followed us all this way?”
The prickles on her neck now make sense. “Well, the next gig is up north in Billings, so it’s not out of their way, maybe. But yeah. They followed us. I’m so sorry.”
Davo walks straight up to Hank with bravado that is veneer thin. “This is none of your business, and I need to talk to Maggie. Are we going to have a problem?”
Hank drapes an arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “Not unless you’re an asshole. Maggie, tell me if he’s an asshole?”
“I’d be happy to. Right after I knee him in the balls.”
Davo gestures behind them. “Can we talk by the van?”
“We can talk here.”
Hank squeezes her, like he’s proud of her. Suddenly, Fawn barrels out of the van.
Behind her, Chris hollers, “Where ya goin?”
Hank is still gazing down at Maggie, his back toward Fawn.
“Um, Hank.” Maggie tries to warn him.
He has eyes only for her. “Yes?”
Fawn doesn’t stop until her fist connects with the blind side of Hank’s jaw.
Part IV
Wheatland, Wyoming
Sunday night
* * *
Hank
* * *
Hank rubs his jaw. “Nice one, Fawn.”
She hops up and down and rubs her hand. “You’re an asshole.”
Chris clambers out of the van. “C’mon, Fawn.”
She leans toward Hank, bristling with outrage, ignoring Chris. When Hank doesn’t react, she wheels on Maggie. “And you’re a skanky bitch.” She hauls back her fist.
Hank’s hand strikes like a rattler, catching her wrist. “Hey, now. Enough.”
Fawn squeals, and she flails to no avail.
“She’s never done nothing to you. For that matter, neither have I.” When Fawn doesn’t acknowledge him, he turns to Chris and notices the hickeys on his neck. “I’m going to let go of her wrist. You brought her. She’s your problem. Are you ready to take over?”
“Okay.”
“I want her back in that van where she won’t hurt Maggie.”
Maggie snorts. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Celinda goes after Fawn in the van next. It’s going to be a cat fight in there. What’s wrong with you, Chris? Thinking with your little head?”
Fawn spits at Maggie, but the saliva lands short of Maggie’s boots.
Chris sneers. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?”
His words roll off Maggie like BBs down a Hot Wheels track. He’s watching her when suddenly she bellows like a bull and charges at the van.
“What is it?” Hank says.
“My fucking guitar!”
Hank looks at Davo, and the guitarist looks queasy. “What’s she talking about?”
“Um, uh—”
Maggie pushes past Celinda. From outside, Hank can see the top of a guitar case sticking up. Maggie grabs it and another bag and backs out.
She hollers into the front seat. “I’d have thought better of you, Brent.”
Hank sees Brent turn and hears his voice.
“I didn’t take your damn guitar.”
“But you saw it.”
“Davo said we were bringing it to you.”
Maggie’s face goes red, and beside Hank, Davo backs up. She marches right up to his face. Chris and Fawn scuttle back to the van.
“Bringing it to me? What if I hadn’t seen it?”
“You were supposed to come with us.”
“But I wasn’t, so you were stealing.”
“No.”
“Yes. To the tune of two thousand bucks and my livelihood. Plus all my stuff. You fucking suck, Davo.” She walks over and loads it all into Hank’s truck. Maggie turns to the guitarist. “You have thirty seconds.”
His voice sounds deflated, unlike the man he was only a few minutes ago. “I don’t guess you’re dying to get in that van and come on down the road with us, are you?”
“Not that I would have anyway, but now? Hell no.”
“You’re really fucking us over, Maggie.”
She puts a hand on her hip. “I don’t owe you anything, Davo. Not a thing. Quit trying to guilt me into this, because it won’t work.”
Hank can see Davo forcibly change strategies like grinding gears in an old standard transmission Ford truck.
“And I mean nothing to you?”
Maggie screws her face up like she’s thinking hard, then shakes her head. “No, nothing. Just like I mean to you.” She slides her arm through Hank’s elbow.
“You’ll be finished with the label after this stunt.”
“Maybe. But I won’t be a sellout.”
“Whatever.” Davo heads back to the van, his stiff-legged gait at odds with his slumped shoulders. The door slam is swallowed by the Wyoming wind.
As the band drives away, Maggie says, “Well, that was fun.” She glances at Hank. “Your buckle bunny packs a mean punch.” She touches his jaw.
“Ouch. Not my buckle bunny.”
“I could use a Jack and Coke.”
“They don’t serve hard liquor at the family diner.”
“I didn’t figure.”
The two walk to the liquor store next door. In the parking lot after a successful purchase, Maggie pours half the Coke out of a can and refills it with Jack, swishing it around to mix it. She does the same with another for Hank, then stashes the bottle and extra cans in her voluminous shoulder bag.
When they’re each holding a drink, Hank takes her hand, and he’s surprised at how soft it is, remembering touching calluses before. “Your hand.” He holds up Maggie’s right hand. “Um, I remembered it as . . .”
“Rougher? That’s my other hand.” Maggie brandishes her left, holding her Jack and Coke. “My left hand is my string hand. My right hand is my pick hand. I use Vaseline on the left, but I still get calluses.”
He nods. “My right is my callus hand.”
“I know.” She smiles. “I’ve watched you work that rope and rigging when you’re in the chute. Why do you do”—she makes a motion like a hand job—“this thing with the rope before you wrap it through your hand?”
“Because it feels good.” He winks.
“No, really, why?”
“To heat up the glove. A hot hand is a better grip. More friction.”
“What are you holding onto?”
“A cinch strap.”
“Is it buckled?”
“Not with anything but my grip.”
Maggie shakes her head.
“What?”
She glances at his face. “I’m out with a bull rider. I’ve made fun of Jewel for years now for dating Ty Murray. And here I am.”
“I rode with him on the PBR circuit these last few years. He’s all right, even if he dates a musician.” He sees Maggie’s lips tighten as she tries to hide a smile. When she loses the battle, she takes a swig of Jack and Coke.
They enter the diner with shoulders touching. The host seats them at a table by the window, and after they order, they begin to talk. Leaning in. Listening hard. Hank is interested in what Maggie has to say like he’s never been interested in another human before. Her music. Her childhood. Her future plans. And she shows the same interest in his. The family ranch. His riding career. Gene and their planned partnership.
Between topics, Maggie pours them fresh drinks under the table. Hank savors his buzz and the perfect date with his goddess.
“How old were you when you started?” she asks him.
“Four. On the back of a sheep. They call it mutton bustin’. I was the grand champion of the Central Wyoming Fair and Rodeo, and from then on, I was hooked. By the time I was in high school, I was on the bulls. And had graduated to muffin bustin’ instead.”
“If that’s what it sounds like, you’re a bad boy.”
He laughs. “I was a bad boy. I’m reformed now.”
Just as he’s patting himself on the back for pulling this off, the date and slipping away from the Brazilians, he gets a bad feeling. Maggie’s razzing him about muttons and muffins, but he looks away from her, out the window.
He sees an immense old sedan like a prairie schooner has sailed past, just on the other side of the brick wall from them. Hank recognizes the men in it. Valdez’s thugs, Scarface and Gap Teeth. As he watches, the sedan parks on the far side of the lot where a streetlight is on the fritz.
Just like that, his bubble bursts. Hank grips the table. How had they found him in a strange truck, in a strange town? They weren’t on the road behind him from Cheyenne, he was sure of it. Well, no matter how they found him, now he has to lure them away from Maggie. He can’t put her in danger.
He takes her hand. “I’ll explain later, but I have to go. If I’m not back in half an hour, take the truck and go back to Cheyenne.”
The disappointment on Maggie’s face gouges at his heart like a hoof pick. “What are you talking about?”
“I have the wrong people mad at me.”
“Wait, the people who you owe money?”
“I don’t owe anyone money. I’m sorry I let you think that.”
Her n
ose wrinkles. “But they’re still the ones we ran off from at Frontier Park?”
“Yes, them.”
Her dark-chocolate eyes look confused. “That’s it, that’s all you can tell me?”
“That’s all there’s time for. I can’t put you in the middle of it.” He puts a hundred-dollar bill on the table. He leans over and kisses her forehead, gently, with all the regret in his world. “Thank you for going out with me.”
And then he turns away from her hurt eyes and makes haste out the back entrance of the restaurant.
Maggie
* * *
Maggie pockets the hundred. She takes a bite of her prime rib and chews woodenly. What the hell just happened? She was sure Hank was into her—really into her—and then he just ran off with no explanation. It doesn’t make sense.
She grabs a fry from his plate, swirls it in ketchup, shovels it in her mouth. She can either worry about Hank’s odd behavior, or eat the food while it’s hot and see what happens in half an hour. Because if he shows back up, this still has the makings of a helluva night. So she’s gonna let it roll, and carb-load for comfort. Around her, the restaurant buzzes with sound. Silverware clanking on plates. Mothers hushing children. The whoosh of doors opening and closing. She continues eating, feeling hypnotized. When she finishes Hank’s fries, she tucks in her mashed potatoes and gravy, thinking about the evening and trying to unravel her tangle of emotions. She’d made some rash decisions. Yes, the band, the tour. But running halfway across Wyoming—at least that’s what it felt like—with a man she hardly knows ranks right up there. Especially now that she’s sitting by herself in a family diner in a town no one has ever heard of.
Why in the hell had she done it? She freezes with a bite of potatoes in midair. The answer makes even less sense. Because she’s crazy about Hank. This isn’t a joke or a stunt or a free meal. She is scary into this man. And he’s just disappeared and has the wrong people mad at him. She drops her fork. Eating is ridiculous. She should have run after him. Insisted on going with him. Tackled him and kept him here. Anything but waiting on him like the obedient little woman, no matter what he’d asked her to do.
Calling on the God she mostly ignores, she prays Hank walks back into Family Sky’s any moment, unscathed. In her head, she hears her dad’s voice. “Prayer is for praise. Give thanks to the Lord as his will is done.” All her life, she’d listened to him thank God and praise Him for bad weather, bad times, and bad luck. She couldn’t bring herself to praise God for any grand design He might have to let something happen to Hank, but she tacks on a quick, whispered “Thy will be done” at the end of her plea.
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