“It’s okay.” And it is. She wants him, no matter the cost.
Their mouths find each other again for long seconds.
Hank’s breath shudders when he pulls back. “We have to get away from where they expect to find us. They’re going to get loose and come after us again, maybe even call for reinforcements.”
Maggie’s lips are swollen, and she licks them, loving the sensation almost as much as she loves kissing him. “Do you have a plan?”
“The start of one. We need new wheels.”
Hank
* * *
The truck lurches to a stop behind a gas station down the street from Western Sky’s. Hank’s motor skills are shot after the soul-searing kiss with Maggie. She’s pressed up against his thigh with her hand on his knee. God, he wants her. Right here, right now, he wants her. He’s strangling on desire. But he’s put her in danger, and his primal urge to protect her is greater than his lust. Just barely.
“Did you bring me here to make out again?” Her hand slides up his thigh.
Her breath on his face is intoxicating. Her fingers on his leg the best of distractions. He shakes his head, trying to keep his wits about him. “I wish. No. We’re here for wheels, baby. That old beater out front. Let’s see if we can strike a deal.”
They both slide out on the driver’s side. Holding hands, they pick their way over broken concrete and humps of grass until they reach the smoothness of the sidewalk hugging the side of the store. Hank speeds up to a trot and Maggie keeps up. When they reach the front of the building, he opens the door for her to go first, which sets off a bell. He doesn’t let go of Maggie as she enters. Together, they approach a clerk reading a magazine and smacking gum.
“Can I help you?” she says. If she notices his punching-bag face, she doesn’t show it.
Hank wonders if it’s a normal Sunday night thing for customers here to look like they lost a fight with a Mack truck. “I’m hoping to rent a car for the night. I’d bring it back tomorrow.”
She squints. “You should be in Cheyenne, then. This is Wheatland.”
He pulls out a smile. He’s not proud of it, but he knows they help him with females, and he’s not above using what the good Lord gave him when he has to. “I’m aware of that. But I saw an old truck out front.”
She frowns, seeming impervious to his grin and dimples. Damn. “Uh-uh. That one’s mine.”
When the smile fails, try money. Hank pulls out his wallet and flips through the contents. The check for today’s win won’t work. And he’d stashed most of his dirty payoff cash in an old pair of boots back in Gene’s trailer, along with his check for winning on Saturday. He holds up a wad of bills. “How about $500 cash, and I leave you my truck as collateral.”
“I don’t see no truck.”
“It’s out back.”
She tilts her head. “Wait. Are you the cowboy the foreign guys are looking for?”
Hank and Maggie share a quick look. His stomach clenches. Gene was right, dammit. He should never have gotten himself into this mess. “Someone’s looking for me?”
“Yeah. They gave me five hundred dollars to call them if you showed up.”
Hank peers in his wallet at the last of his cash. The birthday money from his parents. Between his payoffs and winnings, he had just enough for his stake in the deal to buy Sassafrass. If he parts with five hundred dollars of it and the five hundred in birthday money, he’s short with no time to replenish his funds before the down payment on the mare is due. He hesitates. But keeping Maggie safe is the most important thing. Hank pulls out the rest of the cash. “I’ll match that for you not to call them.” He holds the money up shoulder height as she reaches for it. “Call me instead if they find my truck.”
“I’m not putting myself at risk.”
“I’m not asking you to. Tell them I stole your truck. Whatever you want. Just call me and warn me.”
“I can do that.”
Maggie tugs on his sleeve, talking softly. “But the broodmare. Your stock contracting business.”
Like a warm wave, his attraction to Maggie is amplified by her tenderness. Yes, he still wants to sleep with her. But even more he wants to whisk her away to a preacher and bind her to him for the rest of their lives. This challenging, feisty woman is tender for him. She cares about his future. She is sticking by him, even though he’s screwed everything up and nearly got her kidnapped and killed. His heart cracks open at her feet, and he wonders if she and the clerk see that Maggie has completely broken him, in the best possible way.
“I’ll be fine.” He kisses her forehead, letting his lips cling to her soft skin.
Maggie melts against him, sighing.
“Ahem.” The clerk sticks her hand out.
Maggie whispers in Hank’s ear. “I have the label’s credit card.”
The cashier doesn’t pretend she wasn’t listening. “No credit cards.”
Hank hands her the thousand dollars in hundreds and twenties. She counts them. Twice.
“And you’ll call me?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head. “Except I don’t have a phone. Shit.”
“I do.” Maggie gives the girl her number.
When the cashier glances up, she’s smiling. “Let me see your truck.”
Five minutes later, Hank points the muddy green truck south. “They’ll never expect us to head back toward Cheyenne. They’ll be thinking we’ll run for my own territory, north to Sheridan. So, our next stop is Chugwater.”
“Wherever that is.”
“We passed through it on the way here. Home of the best chili in the state of Wyoming.”
“I must have blinked.” Maggie points at a vehicle driving the other way down the street, toward them. “There, that’s the sedan that goon tried to dump me in.”
Hank remembers the vehicle. “Duck.” He pushes Maggie down on the seat to emphasize his point.
“But they’ll recognize you.” She hands him a dirty ball cap from the floor.
He tosses her his black felt hat and replaces it with the greasy University of Wyoming cap. With his face averted from oncoming traffic, he leans over and pretends to fiddle with something on the dash.
“Did we pass them?”
He throws her the cap. “Damn straight.”
She drops the cap back on the floor, pops up, and puts his Stetson on her head. “Ride on, cowboy.”
Maggie
* * *
Sun streams through the window onto a black-and-white quilt whose right angles are rumpled into zigzags. Maggie stretches and the coverlet falls off the bed, leaving her under only a crumpled sheet. For a split second she can’t remember where she is. All she knows is she feels tingly good, better than good. Her body feels like a ballad, her skin like sweet notes strummed on a mandolin. There’s already a smile on her lips, and she hasn’t even had coffee yet. As she wriggles, the whisper of sheet across skin tells her she’s naked, and the whole night comes back in a maddening rush that heightens the tingles in her best places. Hank winning at Frontier Days. Chugwater, Wyoming. The Buffalo Lodge. Wheatland. Western Sky’s Family Diner. Dumping her band and the tour. Running from the bad guys. Hank confessing he’d screwed them and walked away from the guarantee of big money for a chance with her.
Their lovemaking.
Her smile widens. “Hank?” Maggie’s voice is raspy from too little sleep.
No answer.
She walks nude to the bathroom, hoping to surprise him, but it’s empty. A flicker of panic starts in her gut. Had the Brazilians gotten to Hank? Or had he left her here? She goes to the window, peeks through heavy maroon blackout drapes that she holds in front of her body. The truck she and Hank had rented last night is still out there. And an ocean liner–sized sedan is not. Her panic eases some. She turns, thinking, thinking, then sees a notepad propped against a beer can on the nightstand.
Best night of my life, music girl. Between you & Big Sky, I’m walking off the stiff & sore. Back in an ho
ur w/coffee & breakfast. Don’t get dressed, gorgeous.
Hank
A flock of butterflies take wing in her stomach. She drops back onto the bed and kicks her legs in the air. A chortling noise escapes her. She’s in an ugly hotel in a map-dot town in the middle of northern nowhere, and she’s ecstatic. Is this what love feels like? To feel like a beam of light is shining out of your chest? To not give a damn that the object of your affection is a broke-ass cowboy who just spent the money for his future to rent you a beat-up getaway truck for the night?
She rolls onto her stomach and shivers. It is. She’s in love. For the first time in her life, she’s in love, and it feels fucking . . . terrifying. The butterflies turn into pterodactyls, and last night’s prime rib doesn’t like it. She’s never been able to trust a man other than her dad before, and she’d messed up that relationship, broken his and her mother’s hearts. Can she do this love thing?
A phone rings, the only one in the room. Hers.
She doesn’t want to answer, but it could be Hank calling from a pay phone. “Hello?” Too late, she realizes it can’t be him. Hank doesn’t have her number.
“Maggie? What the hell?” Her agent’s voice is a crashing chord with a wrong note in her ears.
“Um, hey, Larry.”
“I just got off the phone, again, with Davo. He said you ditched the band.”
“I warned you. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t play covers for drunk cowboys. I’m a musician with an identity. I believe in my music, even if nobody else does.”
“I believe in your music, but something’s gotta pay the bills.”
“Not this. If I’m going to succeed, it’s going to be on my terms. If not, I can live with that. I’d rather play solo for tips in dive bars in . . .” She remembers where Hank is from and blurts out, “Sheridan, Wyoming than this.”
He barks a laugh. “Fine. Have it your way.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“You’ll have it your way, Maggie. Davo took this over my head to the label. I just got my ass chewed out by an executive who said to bring you back to Nashville.”
“To slap my hands.” Or to make her do awful things. Things she’s never willing to do again.
“No, to pair you up with Patty Griffin for songwriting sessions.”
Maggie’s mouth goes suddenly, painfully dry. The hit songs Patty had written are a core part of Maggie’s iPod playlist.
“Are you there?”
She tries to speak, fails, then tries again. “Yes, yes, I’m here. That, um, that sounds good.”
“Good? It’s goddamn incredible. You’re a lucky girl. A talented, lucky girl.”
Woman. But she’s not bothering to correct him right now. Not when this incredible offer is on the table. “But the moneymaking thing?”
“They’re fine with you playing acoustic gigs in Nashville until you can get the songs together to cut an album.”
A horrible thought hits her. The band. Davo, Brent, Chris, Celinda. What will happen to them? “What about the other musicians?”
“You didn’t seem to care much last night.”
His words sting like salt and tequila in an open wound. “It was self-preservation. Artistic survival.”
“They’re attached to the label, which means they’re not your problem or mine. But I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
Maggie pinches herself. It hurts. Her skin is white under the thumb and finger print. It slowly refills with color. This is real. “I don’t know what to say. I didn’t expect this.”
“Me either. But I’ve booked you out of Cheyenne. Can you be at the airport in an hour?”
Maggie starts to pace the room like a caged tiger. She can make it to the airport if she leaves right this second. She returns to the window, looks out again. No Hank.
“Are you there?”
“Um, can I have a day to think about it?”
Larry’s voice explodes into her ear. “This is bullshit. You want me to pay a change fee on an airline ticket while you think and rack up a hotel and room service bill.” His laugh is cutting. “A booze bill. You’ve just been offered everything you were asking for. You are a talented musician, but it’s make-or-break time for you. This album is your last chance. Honestly, I don’t even know why they’re giving it to you. You are a giant pain in the ass. Either this album breaks out, or they’ll cut you loose. You’re somebody to the label right now, just barely. You damn well better take advantage of this, or you’ll regret this moment for the rest of your life.”
Maggie cringes like the spittle in his words is pelting her in the ear. She wants this. She does. But she also wants Hank. Which does she want more? Her head whirls, her heart hurts. The same. She wants them the same. So, she’ll just have to make sure she gets them both. She’ll make him understand. He’ll come visit her. She can visit him. Yes, she decides. If this thing between them is real, he’ll come.
Fear flickers in her. She really wants what’s between them to be real. She could call him and ask him, if the cheap cowboy had a phone. But he doesn’t. She sinks to the bed. Teetering on the edge, she makes the decision. “Yes, I can make it.”
“Smart girl. Get to the ticket agent. It’s pre-paid. They’ll look up your reservation by your name. And Maggie?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t screw this up.”
She shoots him a bird, with no one to see it. “I won’t.”
He hangs up.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Maggie scrambles into action. She brushes her teeth with her finger and water, throws on her clothes from the day before, and twists her hair into a knot that she clips to the back of her head. She stalls the best she can, hoping Hank and his sexy dimples will fill the doorway any second, but finally she can’t wait any longer. She scribbles a note and props it in place of the one Hank left her. That one she tucks into her wallet after reading it again and pressing it against her heart.
Best night of my life, cowboy. I hate missing breakfast, but Nashville called and I have to go. The truck will be at the airport. Come get your belt buckle.
She draws a big heart, an xxox, her name, and her phone number. She puts on lipstick and kisses the note for good measure. Reverently, she hefts Hank’s belt buckle with its long leather tail. She remembers the things they’d done with it in this room, and she laughs as she fastens it around her hips. The heavy oval buckle is sterling silver and gorgeous, with a steer wrestler diving from his horse onto the neck of a steer, two flowers with petals in a star pattern, and a ruby-colored stone in place of the flower heads. She tilts it and reads it upside down. DADDY OF ’EM ALL. 106TH ANNUAL CHEYENNE FRONTIER DAYS.
Wearing Hank’s buckle, she all but skips out the door into the warmth of a sun nearing midday. From the parking lot in daylight, the Buffalo Lodge—a cross between a concrete-block bunker and a barn—and Chugwater in general look worse than she remembers them from a few hours before in darkness. But to her, they’re beautiful. Everything is beautiful. She turns in a three-sixty, searching one last time for Hank, but doesn’t see him. For a split second, she worries about the Brazilians. About Hank. But then she makes a leap she’s never made before, to trust that everything will be all right. Hank is resourceful and strong, and he’ll be fine.
She loves her life and she loves this cowboy. He’ll come for her and his buckle. She’s dead certain. Jumping into the old truck, beside her satchel and guitar case, she roars off, wind in her hair, fingers testing lips still swollen from her bull rider’s kiss.
* * *
THE END
Shock Jock (Maggie Prequel 2)
Maggie's star is on the rise but she's down in the dumps. The cowboy she loves, the one who inspired her blockbuster album, is out of her life. When she lands a guest spot on the hottest radio show in the country, a DJ with the squeaky clean image shows her he's anything but. And after she's sexually harassed on air, a heartbroken girl can't be held respon
sible for her actions, can she?
* * *
"Hutchins’ Maggie is an irresistible train wreck—you can’t help but turn the page to see what trouble she’ll get herself into next." Robert Dugoni, #1 Amazon Bestselling Author of My Sister's Grave
* * *
Buy Shock Jock (Maggie Prequel 2) to join the adventures with Maggie today!
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Acknowledgments
The Maggie books are set one foot in Texas and the other in Wyoming, while Maggie’s life is a little bit junker and a little bit rock and roll. My own love own affair with Wyoming started at an early age when my family moved to Buffalo. Then my parents “ruined my life forever” by moving us back to Texas a few years later. I didn’t return to Wyoming until 2014, and then only because I took Eric for his first visit in July, as opposed to January. My mama didn’t raise no fool.
Two cabins later, my Virgin Islands native husband drives a snowplow and owns more coats than his famous sandals. I wrote all the Maggie stories from our Snowheresville, Wyoming in a big, beautiful, remote, off-the-grid, and, above all, rustic cabin on the eastern face of the Bighorn Mountains. It’s not easy shuttling between two homes in Texas and one in Wyoming, but Eric does it with a smile on his face and adventure in his heart. I am beginning to think he loves me.
The animals in this book are based on Pippin, one of our granddogs, and Katniss, my Percheron cross mare. The truck, Bess, and store, Flown the Coop, are rooted in the lives of Tiffany and Jeff who live near our Nowheresville, Texas. I am grateful to a colorful cast of Wyoming characters (Jeff, Christina, Brenton, Colter, Mandy, Travis, Ron, Eric, and many others) for endless anecdotes. Thanks for the inspiration, all of you!
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