Maggie's Man: A Family Secrets Novel

  “I’ll be back in one hour.”

  “Is that a promise or a threat?” she cried miserably. Her eyes were accusing. He understood that. One hour before, she’d been telling him the stories of her family. He’d even told her some of the stories of his family. For a woman like her, that had probably seemed like something. Friendship, maybe. A mutual understanding. She’d lost her father; he’d lost his mother. Both came from families where they didn’t feel they belonged. When he was still a boy, he used to lie in bed at night and wonder why his father hated him so much. He used to wonder, if he was smarter, a better chess player, a faster shot, would that make the difference. By the time his mother died, he’d come to terms with the fact he and his father would never bridge the gap. He’d even chosen his own path, as a boy must to become a man. But sometimes, he still remembered those nights and the hollowness in his stomach, the rusty taste of despair.

  He’d never told anyone that—that little Cain had once honestly loved his father and wished that his father would love him back.

  He thought if he told that to Maggie now, she would understand. More than anyone, she would understand.

  Stop it, Cain. You’re growing maudlin, and you’re never maudlin. You are exhausted and under incredible stress. You’re not thinking clearly. She is the hostage. You are the escaped felon. Now get out of this room and attend to matters before Ham does it for you.

  “I’ll bring you dinner,” he said quietly and turned away from the image of her sinking down on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched and face forlorn.

  He picked up the baseball cap on his way out and was very careful not to look back. She didn’t make a sound as he closed the door, but he could feel her betrayed gaze on his back anyway.

  • • •

  It was still daylight. Cool, with the wind blowing off the mountains, but the sun was warm on his face and the clear blue sky endless. Cain stopped without really meaning to, standing like an idiot in the middle of the parking lot and simply inhaling deeply. The air tasted better than the finest wine or the sweetest woman. His lungs seemed to expand fully for the first time in six years.

  In the beginning, he’d been allowed out into the prison yard with the general population. In medium security, inmates received both a morning and an afternoon break. But the Aryan Brotherhood agent hadn’t lied to Cain. Prisoners comprised four gangs—the Bloods for the blacks, the Mexican Mafia and Nuestra Familia for Hispanics, and the Aryan Brotherhood for the whites. The invitation process was mandatory. Unless you were deranged, weak or a religious fruitcake, the gangs demanded your participation.

  Once Cain made his rejection clear, life began to quickly unravel. First there were the drugs found in a hole punched in his wall and plastered over with toothpaste. The first guard who’d followed procedure and skimmed the wall with his fingertips had found the stash and disciplined Cain. Then there were the razor blades slipped into his pillowcase. Finally, the antifreeze added to his coffee. Cain hadn’t drunk the whole cup, but he’d consumed enough to spend five days in the infirmary wishing that he had died.

  After that, the prison officials agreed his life was in jeopardy. They moved him to protective custody, where the rapists, child molesters and prison narcs were kept. The “snitches and bitches” section, they called it. Cain got a new room with a roommate serving fifteen years for touching small children.

  Cain didn’t like that arrangement much. After careful analysis of his situation, he’d seen only one option. He became a discipline problem, a true big-D problem. He put razor blades beneath his bunk so that the first guard stupid enough to check the bed rim for drugs with his fingertips and not a mirror got his fingers sliced up. Then he missed roll call and stopped observing lights-out. One day in a stroke of pure genius, he’d added plaster of Paris from the infirmary to the morning pancakes. The prison warden had so loved pancakes.

  Cain got what he wanted—solitary confinement. The Discipline Board reviewed his case and put him in solitary. Cast in the maximum-security wing, he finally had his own cell where no one came in and no one could touch him. He roomed alone, he ate alone, he lived alone, a mountain man reduced to a six-by-eight-foot existence—concrete, concrete, concrete. In the beginning, he thought he might go nuts. His one hour outside came and went so fast, five minutes lost just to the luxury of showering. He had to learn to forget the mountains of Idaho and the waterfront of Portland. He had to learn to forget the misty mornings, lying in the trail, bone cold and hunting-focused, inhaling the grass, inhaling the mist. Sinking into the ground and becoming part of the forest, squeezing down his breathing and heartbeat until he was no more than a blade of grass, lying on the ground, waiting for the deer to appear.

  He gave up all that. He learned to live in his mind. He learned to play chess in the black-and-white spaces of his memory. He learned to be the trapped animal and not gnaw off his own limb to ease the pain.

  So much he’d learned, forced himself to understand. And now he was in the big vast open again, the sky bluer than he’d realized, the dirt redder, the air sweeter. God, it was good and it was overwhelming. He wanted to spread his arms and embrace it. He wanted to wrap his arms around his head and curl up in a ball because outside was so big and suddenly he felt so small.

  Prison did strange things to a man. Made it so he didn’t even know himself anymore.

  Cain shrugged away the sensation, the vague fear. He had to know himself. Certainly no one else ever had.

  He forced his feet to move and willed the agoraphobia away.

  He drove the truck to the cinema a few blocks away from the hotel. There, he parked the big blue machine in the middle of the other vehicles, toward the front. It blended in nicely, as Bend boasted almost more trucks than people. Since it was toward the front, maybe late at night the police would assume it belonged to someone working in the theater.

  That mission accomplished, Cain found a drugstore for supplies. One heavy-duty flashlight, one roll of duct tape and one bungee cord, because those things always came in handy. Next he bought a water canteen, a pack of small chocolate pieces for instant energy, then a backpack for everything to go in. He spent fifteen minutes contemplating hair dyes, had a beautiful young salesclerk offer him blushing advice and then gave up on the whole dyeing concept. He bought disposable razors and shaving cream instead.

  Then he visited a gun and ammunition store.

  Bend saw its fair share of hunters and the rifle selection made him pause. But you had to have a license and a permit to buy a gun, so Cain settled for simply buying more ammunition for the .357 Magnum tucked in the waistband of his jeans. The .357 wouldn’t be enough if Abraham found him, but it was all he had to work with.

  Next, he cashed in five dollars for change at the pharmacy. Then he began plugging the pay phone. His father’s cabin didn’t used to have a phone. But then a cell site was installed in the area. The other hunters started carrying cell phones in case of emergency. Zechariah decided maybe he should have one, too. In case of trouble, in case anyone ever ambushed his place. Lines of communication were important in war.

  The phone started ringing. Was it sitting on the old, hand-carved table? Suddenly Cain could picture the cabin of his childhood too clearly. The receiver trembled in his hands.

  “I knew you would call.”

  Cain paused. For a minute, his knuckles whitened on the phone and his mouth went dry and he felt a little dizzy. Nearly ten years since he’d heard that voice. Ten years of wanting to forget and not quite being able to. Ten years of trying to figure out where that voice ended and Cain began, what beliefs that voice had that Cain could accept, and what beliefs that voice had that Cain must reject.

  “Hello, Zechariah,” Cain said at last to his father. He raised his wrist and glanced at his watch. No more than sixty seconds, for the call might be traced.

  Remain in control, Cain.

  “You brought them here,” Zech accused, his rusty voice low and vehement. “The hills and the valley a
re crawling with state troopers and federal sheriffs like the locusts in Egypt. Years they’ve been waiting for any sort of excuse to invade our land. And you gave it to them. You gave it to them!”

  Cain felt his lips twist in spite of himself. Cool, Cain. Rational, Cain. Don’t get lost in the hatred. He’s never understood your beliefs any more than you’ve understood his hate. Cain said anyway, “Happy to be of service.”

  And his father hissed with outrage in his ear.

  “Has Ham left already?” Cain continued levelly, trying to get the conversation back on line, though the shortened name generally raised his family’s hackles. Ham’s full name was Abraham, but Cain had nicknamed his white supremacist brother Ham after one of Noah’s sons—the one biblical scholars believed was the forefather of the black race.

  “You are a traitor.”

  “And Kathy? What sin had Kathy committed to deserve the slaughter?” He wanted to recall the words the moment they were spoken. He didn’t have time for accusations and emotion. He knew why Abraham had killed Kathy. Dear God, he knew. And found himself stating from someplace deep inside his gut, “I don’t want to kill him . . . Dad. He is my brother. But he murdered her and if it comes down to that . . . if it comes down to that, then I guess I’m no better than either of you after all, because I will pull the trigger.”

  “When God asked Abraham to take his only son, Isaac, to the mountains of Moriah and sacrifice him there as a burnt offering, did Abraham ask why?” Zechariah sermonized in a vibrant baritone. “Did Abraham say, ‘Why should I believe in you, Lord? Why should I accept your command and why should I do as you bid?’ Did Abraham say, ‘But it isn’t logical’? You have no faith, Cain. You have no belief—”

  “I only asked for a reason to hate—” Forty-five seconds.

  “But your brother has faith,” Zechariah continued as if he hadn’t heard his youngest son. “Abraham accepts God’s bidding and the Lord shall guide his hand.”

  Five seconds remaining. Cain said quietly, “Then I hope Mom will guide mine.”

  He hung up the phone, cutting off his father’s outraged gasp. Cain stood there for a moment, his forehead pressed against the cold metal pay phone, the sun hammering down on his back. Somewhere inside himself, he felt like a little kid again, standing on the mountain, being told God had created such beauty, but only for the chosen few to enjoy. By right of birth, Cain was one of those chosen.

  And instead of being grateful, instead of being filled with divine rapture over his Aryan birthright, Cain had turned to his father and asked, “Why?”

  His father hadn’t answered his questions; he’d beaten him instead.

  Cain took a deep breath. He glanced at his watch. Four forty-five. He was tired now. Very tired. He turned, attended to the last errand, then walked back to the hotel.

  She was sleeping soundly, not even stirring as he shut the door quietly behind him. The remote control had been placed on the floor. Now she was curled up into a ball, sleeping in the only position the handcuffs made feasible.

  He placed the pizza on the dresser. She still didn’t stir. He sat on the edge of the bed across from her. She remained sleeping.

  Funny how he’d thought she was meek and invisible when he’d first kidnapped her. He’d glanced over once and seen a wallflower, a red-haired shadow. Now he found his gaze lingering on her full lips, on her unblemished cheek as white as virgin snowfall. Her hair framed her lushly, deep red satin pooling around her face.

  He wanted to touch her. He knew he shouldn’t. He fisted his hand to keep it on his knee.

  She was beautiful; he could see that now. Beautiful in a special way few women could achieve. She was strong; she just didn’t know it. If you put her in a burning building, she wouldn’t scream; she wouldn’t cower. She’d seek out other people and save them. She cared in a way he hadn’t thought people bothered to care anymore. In this day and age, it seemed like everyone was a cynic; everyone was tough enough.

  Except Maggie. She tried, she bruised, and she tried again anyway. And when she asked him questions, her gaze was open and curious, as if she truly did want to understand, as if she truly wanted to see the best in him.

  If a tree falls in the wilderness and there’s no one to hear, does it make a sound?

  If a man says he’s innocent and there’s no one who believes him . . . ?

  He found himself reaching out and brushing a single strand of her hair from her cheek. She stirred in her sleep, murmured a single, soft syllable of nonsense, then snuggled down deeper into the pillow. He touched her cheek, then her lips. His thumb traced her chin.

  And her lips gently parted. Her breath came out with a sigh. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing deep, sleep-soaked pools.

  He was lost. So lost. Control slipped.

  He bent down and kissed her.

  • • •

  The sensation was soft, featherlight, like rose petals tickling her lips. She opened them wider, seeking the heat of something she couldn’t name. And then his tongue slid between her lips, filling her, consuming her, and she groaned low in her throat with the pure delight of it.

  The pressure increased. Her stomach contracted. Dimly she was aware of the assault on her senses. Sandpapery beard rasped her cheek, callused fingers stroked her hair. Soap and pine tingled her nose. He murmured soft noises and angled her head to deepen the kiss.

  Fire exploded in her belly.

  Suddenly it wasn’t soft anymore. She arched back her own neck and she demanded him. She feasted on his tongue, grappled with his shirt with her free hand. He was hot and solid, masculine and overwhelming, and she wanted to consume him. She wanted to draw him so deeply inside her he would become part of her, fill her, hold her, need her.

  She wanted, she wanted, she wanted. The kiss became huge, two tongues dueling and desperate for more. His fingers bracketed her head, pinning her into place so he could gnaw her chin and ravage her lips.

  It still wasn’t enough. She whimpered low in her throat with the frustration.

  And then it was just over.

  Cain spun away. From far away, she could hear his low, vehement curse, then the hard sound of his foot slamming against the floor. She blinked twice and the world slowly came into focus.

  She was still lying on the bed. Her hand was cuffed to the headboard. Her senses were filled with him.

  He’d kissed her. She’d kissed him.

  Oh my! She bolted upright, the bind of the handcuff promptly yanking her off balance. With a little yelp, she fell off the edge of the bed onto the brown carpet, landing in a little puddle with her arm suspended over her head.

  “Are you all right?” Cain inquired, coming over immediately. He didn’t reach a hand down though. He had them both pushed safely into his pockets.

  Belatedly, she realized her skirt was now bunched around her waist and that her lips were still bruised from one highly enthusiastic kiss. Holy smoke, she’d practically rearranged his mouth! Blushing three shades of red, she popped back up, then swayed as the blood left her head too fast and made her dizzy. Instantly, Cain’s hand was beneath her elbow.

  “Easy,” he said. “Just take it one step at a time.”

  He guided her into a sitting position on the edge of her bed, then whisked back his hand as if she’d burned him. The silence stretched out taut and awkward. He shoved his hand back into his pocket. Then he pivoted away from her and began pacing.

  “I didn’t mean to do that,” he said abruptly. “I had no right. I’m sorry.”

  “I . . .” She didn’t know what to say.

  He pivoted sharply and met her gaze. “I want you to know that I would never force you,” he said bluntly. “I want you to know you don’t have to fear that from me. I wouldn’t do that to you, Maggie. I know given the circumstances that’s hard to believe, but for what it’s worth, I give you my word.”

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . I believe you,” she said abruptly. Maybe that made her a fool, but she did believe him. He was stron
g, he was powerful, but to date he hadn’t harmed her and God knew she’d given him a few excuses. She couldn’t imagine him forcing a woman—he didn’t seem that petty or cruel. Of course, she couldn’t imagine him killing anyone either. It just . . . didn’t seem to fit. Not for a man with so much control and so much . . . restraint, she supposed. He had a lot of restraint.

  “Here,” he said. He crossed close enough to produce the key. She was surprised to see that his hand was trembling slightly. He swallowed, then went about unlocking the cuff. He pulled it off gently. Her wrist sported an angry red welt.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “No,” she whispered.

  He massaged her wrist tenderly. It was amazing to her that fingers so strong, so big, could move over her skin like that, soft and smooth. His thumb rubbed small circles and for one moment, she allowed her eyes to drift shut.

  She wasn’t exactly sure when he stopped. Her eyes took longer to open.

  He was standing before her once more and she could see fresh tension in his stance. His jaw was clenched, his fingers fisted. He didn’t move.

  “I . . . uh . . . I brought you a pizza.”

  “A pizza?” Sure enough, she inhaled deeply and the scent of sizzling cheese pervaded her senses. Pizza, hot pizza. Her stomach rumbled on cue. “That’s perfect!”

  “I’ll get you a slice.” He crossed the room quickly. “I had them put mushrooms and green peppers on it. Vegetables don’t make you sad, do they?”

  “I like vegetables.” She looked at him speculatively, her head cocked to the side. A vegetarian pizza after she’d told him that hamburger made her cry. “You’re very considerate for a kidnapper,” she pointed out softly.

  His lips simply twisted, his composure obviously returning. “Dinner is served.” He delivered one generously cut slice, then tossed a pile of napkins at her. “There are no plates or silverware, but plenty of extra napkins.”