“Nothing. There is no boy, Dad,” she lied, then decided it wasn’t really a fabrication. Not really. Thane wasn’t a boy. She ran her finger nervously along the window ledge.
“What about Mary Theresa?”
Her throat closed, and she had to force the words out as her father slowed for a red light. The car idled, and Maggie wished she could disappear. “I, uh, I don’t know. She was going with Brad a while ago.”
“Your mother said they broke up.”
Oh, great. For the first time in three years it seemed her mother had been paying attention. “I, I don’t know.” Her palms began to sweat and itch.
“She doesn’t talk to you?”
“Not all the time.” Maggie lifted a shoulder as if to deny the topic, but she knew her father wasn’t buying it.
“It’s the damnedest thing.” Disgusted, he slapped on the blinker and cruised through an intersection as the light turned amber.
“What?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Just a feeling I’ve got. That little fiasco with the booze and the hot tub a few weeks back was just part of it; there’s something going on, I can feel it and”—he slid her a determined glance—“I want to know what it is.”
“There’s nothing, Dad.”
“Fine.” He pressed on the garage-door opener clipped to the Mercedes’ visor. “I guess I’ll just have to talk to Mitch. Maybe he’ll give me a straight answer.”
Maggie bit her tongue and slid into her shoes. She was out of the car before her father had set the emergency brake. Quickly she walked into the house. Through the kitchen and past the family room where her mother was seated, drink in hand and watching the Tonight Show. The host was interviewing some superthin model Maggie didn’t recognize.
”’Night, Mom,” she said.
“Good night, honey.” No slurred speech. “See ya in the morning.”
“Okay.” Before her father followed her inside, Maggie hightailed it to the bedroom, where she stripped off her apron and matching tie, tossing them both on her unmade bed. She didn’t want to deal with her parents and their suspicions or anything else. She was bone tired and was intent on taking a shower, throwing herself into bed, and falling immediately asleep.
She closed the door behind her, stacked the curled dollars and handful of change that constituted her tips for the evening on a corner of the bureau, and opened the door of the bathroom. Mary Theresa was waiting, sitting on the counter, her eyes wide and round, the smell of smoke hanging in the air.
“Did Dad talk to you?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Maggie unzipped her skirt. “Oh, yeah.” The black mini fell in a pool onto the tile floor.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.” Mary Theresa hopped off the counter and plowed the fingers of both hands through her hair. “This is such a mess. He suspects something is going on.”
“I know,” Maggie whispered, glancing at the door to her room. What if her father followed her? She turned on the spray of the shower, as much to mute their voices as let the water heat. She flipped on the radio that sat on the counter and turned up the volume. Over a DJ’s voice spouting a news update about an accident on the freeway, she said, “He’s going to talk to Mitch.”
“Oh, God.” Mary Theresa sat on the edge of the toilet and buried her face in her hands. “It looks so bad. Even though nothing happened between me and Mitch.”
“Don’t say anything.” Shedding bra and underpants, Maggie stepped into the shower, felt the needles of hot water against her skin, and closed her eyes. All her muscles seemed to melt as she lathered slowly. Mary Theresa hadn’t taken her advice and was babbling on, but Maggie couldn’t make out her words, didn’t care. She just wanted a few minutes of peace.
It wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight. The second she twisted off the spray, grabbed a towel, and stepped out of the tub/shower, Mary Theresa started in again. “You could tell Mom and Dad about Thane,” she suggested.
Maggie nearly fell through the floor. Her hair dripping, the towel half-wrapped around her torso, she stared at her twin as if Mary Theresa had lost her mind. “Are you crazy?”
“It would be easier to explain.”
“No.” Maggie had, in the past, gone along with her sister on most of Mary Theresa’s harebrained plans, but she wasn’t going to sacrifice herself this way.
“What does it matter?” Mary Theresa was warming to her plan; didn’t seem to think that exposing the fact that Maggie was seeing Thane on the sly was anything close to a problem.
“It matters.”
“He’s just a cowboy.”
“That’s not the point.” Maggie ran a comb through her hair and winced as the teeth caught in a tangle. With a hand towel, she rubbed a clear spot in the steaming mirror and tried to see her reflection as a current pop artist’s voice filled the room.
“Come on, Mag—”
“No!” Maggie worked on her hair, dragging the comb through her wet, wavy tresses. “Ouch.”
“Just listen—”
Knuckles rapped soundly on the door to Maggie’s room. “Girls?” Bernice’s voice was loud enough to be heard over the radio. “When you’re dressed come into the family room. Your father and I want to talk to you.”
“Shit!” Mary Theresa whispered, her face draining of all color.
“Girls? Did you hear me?”
“In a minute,” Maggie yelled.
“Well, hurry up. It’s late.”
“Oh, God, what will we do?” Mary Theresa asked, her hand to her mouth. “If they figure out—”
Maggie was sick inside. The images of the hot tub rolled through her mind. “You and Mitch, you didn’t—”
“No!” Mary was shaking her head furiously. “Okay, it got close, but we didn’t.” Her face wrinkled. “It was stupid, I know. Just messin’ around, drinking too much, and…oh, God, Maggie, you’ve got to believe me.” Tears were running down her cheeks, and she swiped them away with the back of her hand. Mascara smudged on her cheeks, and her eyes appeared sunken. In a matter of seconds she seemed to have aged ten years. “Please,” she begged.
Maggie’s fingers tightened around the rattail of the comb.
“I’ll do anything for you, if you just tell Mom and Dad that it was you. That you and Thane—”
The plastic comb broke. Maggie knew she was being a fool, manipulated by the master, but she had no choice. If her folks had any inkling, any idea that there was even the tiniest hint of incest…Her stomach clenched as the word burned through her brain. “Okay. Okay.” She walked into her room, found a pair of panties in her top drawer, stepped into them, and let the towel drop onto the floor. She scrounged around on the foot of the bed until she found her bathrobe and slid her arms through the sleeves. Cinching the belt tight around her waist, she looked at Mary Theresa, who stood in the doorway to the bathroom working at scrubbing off the evidence that she’d been crying. “Let’s go.”
Together, their silent evil pact hanging between them, they headed toward the family room. Maggie braced herself, steeling her shoulders, determined to take her parents’ wrath rather than have the family torn apart because Mitch and Mary Theresa were morons with the morals of alley cats.
She thought fleetingly of her own actions, of lying about what she was doing at the ranch, of the times she’d been with Thane in the woods, the fields, or the hayloft of the stables. Her skin tingled, and she flushed a little. Her parents would grill her and her father would probably threaten Thane, order him to stay away from Maggie. Forever.
Pain split her heart. How could she do it? How could she sacrifice something so wonderful as the love she felt for this man? Her throat tight, her feet feeling like lead weights, she followed Mary Theresa into the family room and saw the censure in their father’s eyes as he stood near the fireplace, his shoulders stiff, his spine rigid, his face the mask of a drill sergeant. “I want answers, girls. Straight ones.” He motioned to the leather couch.
“Sit.”
“Frank,” their mother said. She was seated in her favorite wing-backed chair, one foot resting on an ottoman. “There’s no reason to be hostile.”
“They’re lying and Mitch—” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and nodded as if he were slowly counting off the seconds. “Where in tarnation is that boy?”
“Who knows?”
“It’s well after midnight.”
“He’s nineteen, Frank.”
“Well.” Taking a deep breath, Frank Reilly lowered his head and skewered his two daughters with one frightening, determined gaze. “Maggie. Mary Theresa. Would one of you tell me what’s going on here? Who’s the boy?”
Maggie sank onto one leather-bound cushion. Inside she was shaking and quivering and her lips were suddenly so dry they felt as if they would crack. Mary Theresa perched on the edge of the couch and stared at Maggie, silently encouraging her.
“Well?” Their father’s face was florid, his eyes shining black beads that didn’t show a glimmer of empathy.
Maggie swallowed hard. She opened her mouth and forced the hated words over her lips. “It’s…It’s me, Dad. I have a boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Was there a twinge of relief in his voice?
“You?” Their mother took a sip from the glass that had been sweating on the table and Maggie realized that she’d been above suspicion—the plainer tomboy of a daughter who was more interested in swimming laps and riding horses than being involved with boys.
“Y…yes. I have a boyfriend.”
“Who?” Frank demanded.
“No one you know.”
“Someone from the restaurant?”
“No.” Maggie’s guts churned painfully. “He’s—”
Brring! The phone jangled loudly. Their mother physically jumped. Frank glared at the instrument. “Who would be calling at this time of night?” Impatient and irritated, he crossed the room and snagged the receiver, cutting off the second ring. “Hello?” he nearly shouted, then paused. “Yes, yes. Frank Reilly.” All eyes in the room turned to him and witnessed the instant deterioration of a strong man. “You must be mistaken,” he whispered, his face crumpling, his broad shoulders sagging as if suddenly burdened with an incredible weight.
“Frank?” Bernice asked, her voice shaking.
Frank Reilly slumped against the wall. “No,” he whispered loudly, then more vehemently. “No! No! No!” His fist pounded on the wall.
“Frank? What is it?” Terror laced their mother’s voice. “Frank, you’re scaring me and the girls and…what? What is it?”
Maggie’s skin prickled and a dull, muted roar, the sound of waves crashing on a distant beach, caused a headache to build behind her eyes. “Dad?”
“Oh, God.” Mary Theresa began to shake.
“I’ll be right there,” he said, his voice cracking as he hung up the phone and stared at his family through eyes that shone with tears, eyes that Maggie was certain couldn’t see. “That was the police.” His voice was gruff with emotion. “It’s Mitch…they found him on the beach.” He took in a deep breath, crossed the brown sea of carpet, and wrapped his arms around Bernice. “He’s gone.”
“What?”
“He’s…oh, God, he’s dead.”
“No!” She started fighting then. “You’re wrong, they’re wrong, Frank, no. Not Mitch—”
“Shh.”
Bernice gave out a sharp keening wail that screamed through the house, bouncing off the walls, echoing in the rafters.
“No!” Maggie shook her head violently side to side. Tears filled her eyes. “I…I don’t believe it.”
“Honey, it’s true.”
Bernice, sobbing and screaming, began pounding with small, impotent fists on her husband’s chest. “Mitchell,” she cried, tears rolling down her face. “No, not Mitchell. He…he was a son to me. It didn’t matter that…that I didn’t give him birth…oh God, oh God…”
Mary Theresa sat stunned, her eyes dry and round, her face as white as death.
“There’s some mistake!” Maggie was on her feet. “Call them back, call them! Whoever called.” She reached for the phone, grabbed the receiver and, with tears streaking down her cheeks, shook the mouthpiece at her father. “Call them, Dad!”
It’s true. I feel it. Oh, God, Mitch is dead.
“What?” Maggie whirled on her sister who hadn’t moved, still sat like a statue on the couch. “How do you know?” Mary Theresa blinked and didn’t say a word.
“How does she know what?” their father asked, his lips beneath his mustache beginning to quiver slightly. Those once beady, suspicion-filled eyes had begun to glisten.
“She just said that…” Maggie let her voice fall away.
“She didn’t say a word! Christ, what’s got into you?”
Maggie’s stomach clenched. “But—”
It’s no mistake, Maggie. Mitch said he was gonna do it. Mary Theresa’s body began to shake. Her eyes held her sister’s, and without so much as a sound, she said, I think he killed himself.
PART III
Cheyenne, Wyoming
November 1998
Chapter Nine
Thane felt no sense of homecoming, just a cold, dark certainty that his life had changed forever. With Maggie asleep in the passenger seat beside him and the gauge of the gas tank nearly on empty, he cranked the steering wheel and turned the truck into the lane leading to the heart of his ranch. Home, if you could call it that. Dawn was just cracking—spreading weak light over the flat, snow-laden acres.
Against Maggie’s protests, they’d spent five hours of the past night in a fleabag of a motel on the sagging mattresses of twin beds only a few feet from each other. Thane hadn’t slept a wink. Just knowing she was an arm’s length away had kept him awake, an erection so intense it was nearly painful, reminding him how much he wanted her. That he’d once loved her.
Hell.
It had been a long, long time ago.
A lifetime.
Now, as the blizzard chased them down and the beleaguered windshield wipers slapped time to a fading country ballad, he shoved any lingering tender thoughts of her aside. He didn’t have time for the pain of nostalgia. He’d leave that to lovesick fools who didn’t know better.
Bone tired, his bladder feeling as if it would burst from half a dozen cups of coffee, he wheeled the rig down the lane where ten inches of snow smoothed out the ruts that ran parallel to the fence posts that were his guide. No tire marks were visible, no weeds poking above the smooth white surface.
Four-wheel drive kept the wheels moving, snow packing and churning under the tires as the ranch house came into view. This little piece of land had become his sanctuary as it had once in a while been Mary Theresa’s.
Christ, what a mess. Damn Mary Theresa. His fingers tightened over the wheel, his knuckles showing white. As if he were choking his beautiful, self-centered and destructive ex-wife.
“Damn it all to hell.”
And still the snow fell.
The outbuildings of the ranch appeared through the flurries and the house, two compact stories of stone and cedar, stood dark, not a lamp lit. It didn’t matter; he was relieved to have made it this far.
But for how long? What is all this crap with Mary Theresa? Where the hell is she? For the past few days, ever since he’d come to the conclusion that she really was missing, the same questions had been racing like a brush fire through his mind, powered by caffeine and the slow-burning anger he’d always felt for that woman—the one woman who had been his wife. If it was possible, he’d love to grab hold of her narcissistic shoulders and shake some sense into that calculating, beautiful head of hers.
Whoa, pardner, she could already be dead for all you know.
Again his jaw clenched to the point of breaking and he eased off on the gas as he parked as close to the house as possible.
“Where…where are we?” Maggie asked, yawning and opening one eye. She’d been half-asleep, dozing on and off for hours. Now, with he
r auburn hair resting against her cheek, her eyes blinking off any lingering bit of slumber, she straightened, squinting through the foggy glass.
He’d hoped she’d aged over the years—put on weight, or shown signs of wear, but the few little lines around her eyes only added a depth to her—a maturity that he hadn’t been aware was lacking all those years ago.
God, he’d had it bad for her then. No woman, and he’d had more than a few by that time, had touched him as she had. It wasn’t so much her beauty, but her spirit that had reached him. Her razor-sharp tongue hadn’t hidden the complexity of her soul, and her sense of humor, even in those tense days, had been his undoing. He’d sensed that she’d been frightened of him, but fascinated, and though he’d told himself to forget her, to leave her alone, to keep his goddamned fantasies buttoned up and his pants on, he hadn’t been able to resist.
And it had cost him.
More than he could ever imagine.
She roused and yawned. “You said something?”
“We’re here.”
Squinting, she looked out the window. “Where exactly is ‘here?’”
“My place.”
“Your place?” She was starting to awaken, her mind clicking into gear—he saw it in the change of her expression, an adjustment from slumberous acceptance to clarified understanding. “You mean in Wyoming?”
“It’s as close as we can get right now.”
“But—”
“Look, Maggie, one of us has got to sleep and piss—not necessarily in that order.” He cut the engine and shoved on the door. Wind, as cold as an arctic blast, filled the interior. He didn’t have time for arguments and had to escape the warm confines of the truck.
“I thought we had to get to Denver. ASAP.”
“We are.” He yanked out some of his gear, and she, shooting him a glance that called him all sorts of foul things from a liar to a murdering bastard, grabbed a small bag and her purse. Together they trudged through the knee-deep snow to the porch. “Make yourself at home.” He unlocked the door, then held it open for her. “There’s a bathroom and extra bedroom upstairs, where you can crash if ya want.” He tossed her a look, and she saw the weary lines around his eyes. “I need a few hours, that’s all. Then we’re outta here.” He walked to the hallway and fiddled with the thermostat.