Heat Wave (Riders Up) (2 page)

Maggie shivered against
the chill, never wanting to find herself in the position of Sara Ames. She’d
sacrifice everything but her children to avoid having her neighbors come and
grimly pick over her things. Auctions had the feel of funerals, and she didn’t
like going to either.

She let the skill
saw go for fifteen dollars and moved toward the canteen tent sponsored by the
community church Women’s Society. She badly needed a cup of coffee to warm up
her insides. Maggie hadn’t taken a half dozen steps before Ben Templeton fell in
step beside her.

“You locate
Harrington yet?”

Without breaking
stride, Maggie nodded.

“Was he sober?”

“He could still
talk. Thanks for giving me a bead on him.” Maggie stuffed her gloved hands
inside the large pockets of her coat. “Don’t know if he’ll dry out enough to
help or not. It’ll take some time, I guess. It’s already been three weeks.”

Ben nodded, smiling
benevolently. “And you don’t like to wait any more than your dad did. Colt
Magee was often in a rush. Reckless, some would say.”

Maggie didn’t see
any need to respond to the obvious. Many folks thought she was too much like
her father. That was their problem, not hers.

As they neared the
canteen, Ben reached out and pulled her to a halt. Maggie saw that mixture of
admiration, love and concern she often recognized in the old man’s eyes. She
told herself to be patient. Ben meant well, and he could still help her in a
lot of ways.

“Maggie, I know you
loved your folks dearly and all those who came before them, but do you really
think they’d want you to risk losing everything with this hair-brained horse
racing scheme? If you sell now, Con-Ex Farms will pay you handsomely. If you
force them to squeeze you out, you’ll be lucky to keep yourself and the kids in
clothes.”

Maggie’s eyes
narrowed. “I’m not a Sara Ames, Ben. She and Ted may have made the best
decision for their family. It’s not the best decision for my family. I won’t be
squeezed. My great, great grandparents were the first to plow that land. It won’t
be taken over by some hog corporation executives who couldn’t tell a boar from
a sow.”

Ben chuckled as he
held the tent flap open for Maggie. “They may be able to figure that out, given
enough time.”

Ignoring Ben’s
attempt at humor, Maggie stepped to the counter and ordered black coffee and a
doughnut. She handed Flo Zimmerman the money and returned the gangly woman’s
soft grin. She and Flo had been good friends since grade school. Flo had been
timid then and still was. She’d been married and divorced and had no children. Maggie
couldn’t imagine her own life without kids. “When are you going to come out and
see me, Flo? It’s been too long.”

“Oh, I’d love to
come out,” the tall woman responded, brushing back mousy brown hair. “You just
seem so busy of late. I thought I’d be in the way.”

“That’s nonsense,
Flo. Stop by any Sunday after church—it’ll be so good to catch up with you.”

Maggie turned and
walked toward a card table covered in blue and white plastic. Ben followed and
pulled out a chair.

After sipping his
coffee, Ben said, “I’m glad you bought that extra crop insurance, Maggie. This
winter’s been so dry we’d better get a lot of rain pretty soon, or farmers are
gonna be in a lot of trouble.”

Maggie nodded. “There’s
no snow left in the fields, frost is almost out, and flies are already
hatching. It’s an early spring, all right, though you can’t tell it today with
that raw wind out of the northwest.”

“So with Harrington
out of the picture, what will you do now?”

“I didn’t say he
was out of the picture. He just hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

Ben shook his head.
“Why don’t you try something else? You’re as stubborn as your father ever was. I
seldom could talk sense to him either.”

“Thanks for the
compliment.” Maggie took a bite of her doughnut. “I know there are a lot of
risks. But whatever I do involves risks. The stock market has risks. Moving to
the city is not without danger. I can learn about horse racing, and I’m willing
to work hard.”

“There’s no doubt
about that. You’re a bright young woman. Always thought you should have done
college.” Ben stroked his chin. “You know, it’s not too late for college. Lots
of folks are going back.”

The combined smells
of canvas, grilled onions, and human sweat made Maggie’s stomach roll. And if
that wasn’t enough, Ben Templeton was becoming more than a little irritating. “I’ve
got two kids to raise—I’m not going to college. I need someone to teach me
about raising race horses. I always loved working with horses when I was a kid.”

“But this is
different,” Ben countered. “Thoroughbreds are finicky. Trainers are often at
work by five in the morning, and who knows when their day is done. Where do
your children fit into that schedule?

Maggie glanced away
from Ben’s piercing stare. “I don’t know. I don’t have many of the details
worked out, but I can’t afford to wait much longer.” She paused and looked back
at her friend. “It’s been two years since Mason’s death. I’ve got to get on
with my life. And I have to find a way for the farm to pay for itself. I won’t
risk everything I have, but I am going to find out if horseracing is do-able. With
or without your help.”

“Now there’s no
need to get huffy, young lady. I could still take you over my knee.”

“I’m sorry.” Maggie’s
cheeks burned. “I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

He laughed and
nodded. “What about your brother? Have you asked him for help?”

“Brad? You’ve got
to be kidding. Last I heard he was still in San Francisco chasing skirts and
partying on a nightly basis. If he got wind of the Con-Ex Farms interest in the
farm, he’d be doing everything in his power to get me to sell out.”

Ben dropped his
gaze to his plate before looking up and continuing, “Hoped maybe he’d
straightened out by now.”

Maggie closed her
eyes and shook her head.

Ben coughed. “Maybe
I can come up with a couple more trainer possibilities for you. They’ll be much
more expensive than Harrington, though.”

“I’m not
impoverished, but I can’t behave like a big spender, either.” Maggie rubbed her
shoulders. “I need an expert for cheap. That’s where Harrington filled the bill
quite nicely. But he may be more down and out than I had hoped.” Maggie
shuddered, remembering the lanky man with trembling hands. The man’s pain still
gnawed at her heart.

Ben glanced up at
her, then back down at his plate. “Your folks were good people, Maggie. My best
friends. It’s been five years, and their death is still one of the biggest
tragedies of my life. They didn’t deserve to die because some guy got himself
loaded up on booze and headed down the highway on the wrong side of the road.”

“I know, Ben. But
nothing can be done about that now.” Maggie tried to keep at bay a twinge of
guilt. What was she doing trying to sober up a drunk to work for her?

“You don’t want a
drunk around the kids.”

Maggie shook her
head. “Of course not. But I know about grief. It took me two years of pain and
tears to get to this point. And Ed Harrington is grieving. Maybe he needs some
honest work and a decent place to live.”

At that moment,
Maggie noticed Flo Zimmerman cocking her head toward the CD player. It was an
old cue between the two of them. Maggie winked in response. Flo was always
listening to country western classics and looking for hidden messages in the
old songs. Some people would let the Bible fall randomly open in search of
inspiration—Flo tuned randomly to country western. She heard the familiar deep
baritone of Johnny Cash singing
Ring of Fire.
Maybe Flo was onto
something this time. Maggie knew she was stepping into an adventure. Her veins
were running hot like a radiator in danger of boiling over.

She turned toward
the hand tugging on her coat. Maggie looked up into the dead-fish eyes of Sara
Ames and flinched.

“Don’t get up,”
Sara said. “I just want to tell you how much I appreciate what you did today.”

Maggie narrowed her
eyes.

Sara shook her
head. “Don’t try to deny it. You pushed the bidding on just about everything we
had up for sale. I don’t know how much more we earned because of your efforts.”
The older woman squeezed Maggie’s arm. “Thanks. I just hope you never have to
hold your own auction.”

Nodding her head,
Maggie watched her former neighbor hurry out from the canteen tent holding back
sobs. Ben patted her hand. Through a haze Maggie heard his words: “You’re so
much like your dad; you just might make it, yet.”

Maggie set the
thermos back down in the shade of the oak and walked toward the tractor. It had
been nearly a month and she still hadn’t heard a thing from that Harrington
guy. She shuddered at the memory of him. The man reminded her of her childhood
image of Ichabod Crane: all arms and legs, baggy eyes, thin lips and bony
fingers.

Sitting on the
tractor, Maggie admired the neatly plowed furrows of the forty acre field. An
unspeakable pride filled her lungs. The land had always done that for her—it
filled her in ways nothing else could.

Oh, there were
times when she wondered what lay beyond these familiar surroundings. The land
had given her a rare kind of freedom, yet it also held her captive.

So why was
she holding out for him? She knew a little about drinking problems from
watching her brother fight back from binge drinking. Not hearing from him yet
meant little. Probably it would take the man several weeks to pull himself
together. She just hoped he would—but why?

She mulled
that thought for a moment. Maybe it was that she hoped he was as good at
working with horses as Templeton had told her.

Who was
she kidding? It was his eyes—she could see them clearly even now, the pain and
anguish and the fleeting spark of life that had reached though his haze and
tugged at her. A remnant of who he used to be? How had such a successful horse
trainer wound up at the Resting Arms? She shook her head. Maybe she didn’t want
to know.

If he wasn’t sober,
he wouldn’t last long on her farm. She wasn’t about to take on a charity case. If
he stayed, he’d have to earn his keep.

She’d give him two
months and not a day longer. Four more weeks. She engaged the clutch and began
to turn over more ground. She groaned. Waiting was not a skill that Maggie
Anderson had come close to perfecting.

CHAPTER TWO

Ed Harrington
glanced down at the truck seat again to read the tattered slip of paper he’d
carried in his pocket for six weeks. North for twenty more miles, and then left
on a gravel country road another eight, and he should be there. Another half
hour, at least. Still plenty of time to turn around. Maybe he should have
called. But then he might lose his nerve.

He glanced in the
rearview mirror. Not much other traffic out for the middle of a warm April
Sunday.

She’d thrown him a
lifeline, all right. He still couldn’t decide exactly why the spunky blonde
with blue eyes had shaken him up so much. He’d like to think he could have quit
drinking at any point; he’d always told himself he would someday. It just
always seemed like tomorrow would be a better day to start.

Why had he needed
her? Once he made up his mind, it was all up to him anyway. He hadn’t had a
drop since he stumbled down the sidewalk with her thirty dollars in his fist.

Thirty dollars. He
hadn’t spent it on a shave or on dinner—he didn’t have to. Wouldn’t that shake
her up, to know he still had some savings stashed away, that he wasn’t totally
destitute?

Nope, he’d probably
never tell her what he did with it: every day since he met her, he’d found a
twelve-step meeting, and when they passed around the hat at the end of the
meeting to pay for their meeting space and support the organization, each day
for thirty days he’d put in one of her dollars. He smiled to himself—he liked
that. He’d given her money away.

His hand drifted to
his pocket where he felt the thirty day chip he’d carried for two weeks now. Sort
of silly, that a tiny piece of plastic could mean so much. And be so hard to
get.

So if he didn’t
need this job, why was he driving to her farm like a lemming to the sea? He
could get other work. Hell, if he stayed at the Resting Arms, his savings alone
would see him through for a long time, without a job. If he didn’t start
drinking again.

But she’d seen him
staggering away from her. Somehow he just didn’t want that to be her last
picture of him. Ed the drunk. He had to set her straight.

Why in hell did
that matter? Maybe he wasn’t Ed the drunk anymore, but he was still Ed the
washed up trainer, Ed the disaster, Ed the failure. She’d probably see right
through him. He should just keep on driving.

Who was he kidding?
What he really needed, more than money, more than odd jobs, was to be training
horses again. To do the one thing he knew how to do really well. And that was
what this Maggie Anderson was holding out to him—a way back to working with
horses.

- o -

Sunday on
the farm was different from any other day of the week. Maggie slept late,
getting up in time to take the kids to the community church two miles down the
road. Then it was lunch at Sarah’s Diner, or occasionally she would take her
family into Des Moines and splurge at a fancy restaurant. They would usually be
back home by mid-afternoon to finish reading the paper, to curl up with a book,
or to work on homework.

The same routine
was followed this Sunday: church, Sarah’s Diner, and now reading the comics. Sitting
in an old but comfortable couch on the screened-in porch, Maggie thought back
to a piece she’d finished reading earlier about preparations for the coming
summer racing season at Prairie Meadows. The track didn’t operate year around. In
the off season, trainers typically vanned their horses from track to track in
places like Minnesota, Illinois, Oklahoma or Arkansas. She hadn’t thought about
that—how much more money would it take to really be in the horseracing
business?

“Mom?”

“Yes, dear.” Maggie
glanced over at Carolyn, who was working the crossword puzzle. She was turning
into a beautiful young woman right before Maggie’s eyes. Fifteen in September. Where
did the time go?

“What’s another
word for ebullient? Six letters. With a v as the third letter.”

“Try…lively.”

“That’s it! How do
you do it, Mom?”

Maggie smiled. Her
daughter never could quite overcome the shock of discovering that her mom was
smart. She’d go to college and study to be a veterinarian. Carolyn had often
talked about building a large animal clinic near the barn and helping her
mother keep the farm.

Maggie watched her teenager
brush a wave of long blond hair from her face. It had become such a habit she
imagined Carolyn never even knew when she lifted her hand.

She stared out the
screen porch toward the nearly empty barn. Would it ever be the home for mares
and foals, for horses with a burning desire to win races?

Her brow furrowed. So
much change had already occurred. The place didn’t seem as alive as it had when
she was a kid. Then, hogs and beef cattle overflowed from outlying sheds as
well as from the barn. And, of course, the riding horses. Her brother had never
liked to ride. She had, though. And she did well showing the horses in 4-H.

But her husband,
Mason, had thought the horses were merely a waste of money and time. They got
rid of them shortly after their marriage. She’d always regretted that decision.
Now she wished she’d battled harder to keep them, but with a baby coming, it
hadn’t seemed like she’d have much time for them then.

And Mason wasn’t about to help out. He
was a good man. She’d loved him very much, but he never wanted to be a farmer. Though
Mason enjoyed tinkering with machines, he was always timid around animals of
any kind. Looking back, Maggie suspected he’d often been frustrated that the
land was her heritage and her wealth, not his.

Now there were
hardly any animals on the farm: just a few beef cattle and several cats. The
bulk of the corn and hay she raised was sold as cash crops. She missed the
activity of that earlier time when so much of her life had been centered on the
needs of animals.

Maggie blinked as
if to close off the past. Glancing back at her comics, she couldn’t focus. Her
thoughts continued to tumble. She hadn’t thought about the shaggy man leaning against
the Resting Arms Hotel for some time. How long had it been since she’d talked
to him? Close to six weeks. No doubt he’d drunk up all her money by now. She
chastised herself for having waited so long to make contact with other possible
trainers, though she nearly broke out in a sweat imagining their fees. Maybe
she was getting cold feet.

With one foot
tucked under her, she tried again to concentrate on the comics, but she couldn’t
shake her melancholy mood. She wasn’t desperate, yet.”

 “Mom. Mom!” shouted
the smallish tow-headed boy dashing up the porch steps.

“What is it,
Johnny? You’d think the devil was chasing you.” She’d never understand why boys
always rushed around so.

Johnny skidded to a
halt before her while the screen door banged loudly behind him.

“Somebody’s coming,
Mom.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know. The
truck ain’t familiar,” the boy drawled.

“Isn’t,” both
mother and sister corrected.

Johnny rolled his
eyes. “There he comes now.”

Everyone on the
porch looked toward the driveway as an old faded green pick-up lumbered toward
the gravel patch where Maggie’s car and truck were parked. She didn’t recognize
the man getting out of the truck.

The man stood tall
in western boots, clean Levis, and a white dress shirt with an ancient feed
mill cap dipped low over his eyes. Unable to make out his features clearly,
Maggie rose to welcome the stranger.

As he rapped on the
screen door, he said dryly, “Afternoon, Mrs. Anderson. It took a while for me
and Mabel to figure out your directions.”

With those few
words, Ed Harrington doffed his cap. A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. His
gray eyes remained cool and guarded.

Maggie’s mouth fell
wide open and her heart skipped a beat or two. He was standing there like an
apparition. Was this really the malnourished man she’d last seen stumbling down
a Des Moines sidewalk?

“Who is he?” Johnny
demanded, tugging at his mom’s elbow.

“Yeah, Mom,
introduce us,” Carolyn said.

“Well, of course.” Maggie
heard her disembodied voice sound more in control than any other part of her body.
Where had the shaking drunk gone? This man looked much more alive—earthy, and dangerous.
“This is Mr. Harrington, children. Mr. Harrington, this is Johnny and Carolyn.

Harrington pursed
his lips and nodded at them. “Hi. How are you? You can call me Ed.”

Carolyn looked
stunned.

Johnny crossed his
arms and widened his stance. “The land’s not for sale, mister. No matter how
much money you got.”

“Johnny,” Maggie scolded.
“Mr. Harrington isn’t here to buy the farm. He’s here because I wanted to talk
to him about working for us.” Glancing awkwardly at Harrington, she said, “But
that seems like a long time ago.”

Why did she have to
sound so accusing? She flexed her fingers and continued evenly, “Mr.
Harrington, would you like something to drink? We have tea, coffee and pop. I
don’t have anything stronger.”

He smiled. “Coffee will do. Black
will be fine. Haven’t touched a drop of that other stuff in a long time now. Not
since some do-gooder woman confronted me on the sidewalk. By the way, call me
Ed.”

Relieved, Maggie
felt her pulse quicken. Her vision cleared. He might be her man after all. “Carolyn,
would you run and get Mr. Harrington…” He cocked his head at her. “Ed,” she
corrected herself, “a cup of coffee. Bring me one, too. Then you and Johnny can
pick out a drink and go upstairs to finish your homework while Ed and I discuss
some business.”

“Aw, Mom,” Johnny grumbled.
“We don’t have to do that until after supper.”

Smiling, Maggie
said, “Today’s a little different than usual, young man. Now run along and do
what I say.”

“Nice kids,” Harrington
commented, watching them leave the porch. “Well behaved.”

“Yeah, well, most
of the time.”

“Here you go, Ed,” Carolyn
said, returning with coffee.

“Thank you, young
lady.”

“Mom.”

Maggie reached for
the drink. “Thanks, dear. I’ll let you know when we’re finished.”

Maggie stared
thoughtfully at the curious man while her daughter climbed the stairs to her
room. Her stomach muscles tightened. She needed his help desperately. But she
hadn’t counted on her body acting like that of some giddy teenager.

She feared her
heart was doing more whispering than her bones. Ed Harrington was still thin,
but there was a blurring of pain and challenge and mystery in his face that
pulled and scared her at the same time. His hair was still shaggy, but it had
been washed. His face, with its distinctive roman nose, reminded her of a
shattered mirror. Was
haggard handsome
a decent way to describe a man? And
his hands. He had long fingers. And they were steady.

- o -

“Well, I’m here. What
about the job you wanted me to do? Didn’t see any horses when I drove in,” Ed
said gruffly.

“You get right to
the point, don’t you?”

“That’s why I’m
here.” Ed tried not to be too obvious, but the woman looked even better than
the one he vaguely remembered from their first encounter. He’d recalled that
she was a tiny thing, hardly five feet. And as he remembered, she filled out a
blouse nicely. But how could he forget her face?

Her straw-yellow
hair was styled in a functional short pixie that would not get in the way of
doing farm work. Short, stubby fingernails also attested that she was no
stranger to manual labor. Most stunning, though, were her round eyes. He’d
remembered they were the blue of robin’s eggs, but he had forgotten how round
and expressive they were. An impish nose and small naturally puckered lips looked
perfect in her heart-shaped face.

She projected an
air of innocence. Counterbalancing that chaste look was the toughness apparent
in the pinpoints of those round eyes. He expected she could be as smooth as rye
whisky and as harsh as straight tequila. She exuded a kind of class that came
from confidence and roots.

Although she was
fetching and could easily become bewitching, he quickly decided he had no
designs on getting to know her body better. As far as he was concerned, Maggie
Anderson might as well wear an
off limits
sign around her neck. All he
wanted was an opportunity to work with horses, get his career back, and build
up his reserves some.

He owed this sassy
looking blonde for getting his attention back on living. They might be able to
help each other out for a while, but that was all. He wasn’t about to sit
around the Iowa countryside with third string horses. Damn, he missed Chicago.

Right now, though,
Ed didn’t like Ms. Anderson’s perplexed look. Surprisingly, she seemed unsure
of herself. “Well, what is it? Do I have a job or don’t I?”